Grading the draft

By Murphy Kramer
Punters win championships

Like everyone else, I get excited about the NFL Draft, handing out my grades each year to the teams I felt did best. I’ve been ranking players since 1982 using the Murphy Oliver Kramer System for Intelligent Engineering (MOKSIE), so I get awful irritated when those punks on TV tell me how hard it is to grade out players right now, that we have to wait a few years to really know. Screw that.

The best part of the NFL Draft is the grading process. My particular favorite grading handouts come from Mel Kiper, Todd McShay, CNNSI, The Dallas Morning-News, CBS Sportsline, the USA Today, the Chicago Sun-Times, the Los Angeles Times, Pro Football Weekly, Dave Finn’s Football Bloggy, The Boston Globe, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Drudge Report and Vanity Fair. As an American, my heart swells when I have the privilege of analyzing a longterm investment the second I make my first deposit.

For example, I dusted off my previously-unpublished 2004 draft rundown, and as you can see, the MOKSIE works pretty well. Check out some of my observations:

Buffalo: B-. I think Lee Evans will become a quality big-play receiver, but I have serious questions about J.P. Losman down the road. He’s the type of guy who gets thrown into the mix and gets replaced by some no-name free agent a few years later.

Miami: F. There is just something anonymous about first-round pick Vernon Carey, Will Poole, Tony Bua, Rex Hadnot, Tony Pape and Derrick Pope. I predict that the Dolphins will struggle in the future. They’ll be so bad in a few years that one of their best players will become more well known for a reality television appearance than actual football.

Baltimore: D-. Dwan Edwards and Devon Darling. Too many D’s. They just got another one.

Cincinnati: C. Call me crazy, but I have a bad feeling about running back Chris Perry in the first round. I’m no doctor, but I have concerns about his health. I also am very fond of fourth-round choice Robert Geathers. When they took him, it made me jump out of my seat. From here on out, I will call him Jumpy Geathers, and hope it catches on.

Cleveland: C+. Kellen Winslow is a solid first-round choice, but his fiery demeanor makes me worry that he’s going to do something stupid, like get into a motorcycle accident or something ridiculous. Also, I think Luke McCown is going to be the league’s next big thing.

Pittsburgh: B+. Never a bad thing when you get a guy who has the potential to be your franchise quarterback, like Ben Roethlisberger. I like him and think he can take the team all the way to the Super Bowl. Bold prediction, I realize. Every now and then, you have to applaud a team for their work signing undrafted free agents, as well. There’s this little guy out of North Carolina named Willie Parker, and the Steelers took a good gamble on him.

Houston. Incomplete. When did Houston get a football team?

Indianapolis: C. I know Bob Sanders gets a lot of criticism for being undersized, but I love his heart and motor. I think he might be a player who succeeds surely on willpower and dreadlocks alone.

Kansas City: C. I can’t get inspired by second-round choices Junior Siavii and Kris Wilson, but my pure football instincts tell me that Sammie Parker and Jared Allen will make very nice mid-round selections.

Oakland: D. Robert Gallery will not be all that great for the second overall pick in the draft, mark my words.

San Diego: A. Look, I’m not crazy about the Eli Manning for Philip Rivers trade. In fact, I think Manning’s charisma and spunky charm is evidence that he’s going to lead the Giants to the Super Bowl someday. But it’s not like Rivers is terrible, and even though they were crazy and drafted a kicker (Nate Kaeding) in the third round, I like that pick. I also think Igor Olshansky, Nick Hardwick and Michael Turner were good picks. I have a really good feeling about this draft for the Chargers.

Dallas: C. Julius Jones might amount to something, but the real steal was the seventh round receiver Patrick Crayton out of NW Oklahoma State. I think Jones will be the type of guy that gets hyped for a few years, but ultimately shucked aside in favor of a running back with balls.

Chicago: A. Two words: CRAIG KRENZEL. Genius selection. Otherwise, Tommie Harris, Bernard Berrian and Nathan Vasher will add very nice roster depth.

New Orleans: B-. Devery Henderson has the potential to serve as a team’s No. 2 or three receiver, and first pick Will Smith is named after the Fresh Prince.

Arizona: A. I really like what Larry Fitzgerald brings to the table, and I think Karlos Dansby was a smart second-rounder. I also think tackle Darnell Dockett will make the Pro Bowl someday. Great draft, but eventually, the team is going to have to pay Fitzgerald and risk alienating their other players. They should trade him a couple years down the line.

St. Louis: B. Even though he was the 24th overall choice, I think Steven Jackson is going to be a fantasy football must-have in a couple years. Oregon State produced a gem.

Seattle: B-. I think Michael Boulware, Sean Locklear and DJ Hackett will all have better careers than first round pick Marcus Tubbs. Just one of those hunches I get it my bones.

San Francisco: F. Failures. Punter Andy Lee is the best player in this class.

An affair to remember

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Perhaps the worst part about the Roger Clemens saga is the sheer volume of information. First, the American media insisted on telling us what he was doing with his ass. And now, we are forced to learn what he's been doing with his penis.

Whether or not Roger Clemens was a dirty, naughty, spank-worthy cheater probably has nothing to do with him being dirty, naughty and spank-worthy with a country music singer whose major contribution to the pop culture lexicon was a frightening ditty called "Guys Do It All the Time," in which she outlines gross behaviors often exhibited by men and laments the double standard to which women are held.

The first time I heard that song, I killed a man in fixated agony.

I won't deny flirting from time to time with the dark side -- country music, if you must call it that. During a particularly epic week in the Catskills with Richard VanLandingham, I granted his request to use Lynrd Skynrd as our soundtrack for a steamy Tuesday night. It was a moment of weakness, I suppose, as I had previously vowed only to make love to Slayer or other bands embraced by a committee of gothic gentlemen running the web site hellssoundtrack.com.

But for Roger to spend 10 years with country music makes me seriously question his candidacy for the Hall of Fame.

It also compels me to present my annual Wildly Speculative Sports Affairs, pairing A-List celebrities with A-List sports stars in lusty congress.

1. Joba Chamberlain and Paris Hilton. He is a johnny-come-lately who has been glorified by the media despite a limited base of accomplishments. She is a johnny-come-sleep-with-me who has been glorified by the media despite a limited base of accomplishments. They're like twins. Speaking of twins...


2. Tom Brady and the Olsen Twins. He is a pretty boy superstar quarterback who has already accomplished bedding the best in singular women. Time to up the ante.



3. Tony Romo and Cameron Diaz. He is a heartthrob quarterback with a list of blonds on his bucket list.




4. Ozzie Guillen and J.K. Rowling. He is the major league manager closest to sheer madness, and she is the author of a series of fantastical novels featuring wizards and various other unreal creatures. I feel the attraction should be immediate.


5. Michael Strahan and Heidi Klum. He is a goofy looking black man, and she obviously has a thing for that sort of substance. I wonder if Strahan can sing "Kiss From a Rose" with any level of harmony.



6. Pete Incaviglia and Agatha Moonfry. Come back to me Pete. I admit to my mistakes in my youth, latching on only because I thought you were going to be a superior baseball player with the Montreal Expos, then leaving you because I was stupid and petty as it turned out you were really not very good. Remember when we learned naughty French Canadian expressions together? Remember when you won the World Series in 1993 and we bathed in champagne before you swept me up in your wooly arms and carried me to your bedroom? Even if these things never happened, they nonethless fill my heart with joy.

So, how was the Draft?

Mel Kiper
Regular Guy

So how did the NFL Draft go?

Normally, as many of you know, I'm on it like Sonic. It's how I made my name. But not this year. Nope, you'll never guess what happened this year: My daughter decided to schedule her wedding for the weekend of the NFL Draft.

Can you believe that?

Out of all the weekends of the year, she decided this weekend was when she wanted to get hitched to that boyfriend of hers. Well, I guess he's her husband now. Whatever.

After everything I've done in my career, working my tail off to get scoops and watch thousands of hours of film, all to make a name for myself, just so I can put food on the table for my family -- this is how she repays me? By setting a wedding date for the NFL Draft? Did she do this to rebel against me?

I bet most of you woke up Saturday and lounged on the couch, eating delicious junk food and watching all the relevant analysis of each player selected. You groaned at certain picks. You ooh'd at others. Oh I bet those crazy Jets did something wacky again.

Well, I didn't get to watch like you did. I spent Saturday morning getting final alterations made on my tuxedo, and running around to make sure that there were enough prawn wontons for the reception. Then I zoomed over to the church and helped lug around flowers to get things in place for the ceremony.

After I gave my daughter away (a bittersweet moment!), I had to get to the reception and mingle with the 300-plus guests in attendance. There was so much talking, I barely had time to eat hors d'oeuvres. I managed to get in the dance with my daughter, pay the DJ and then see the happy couple off on their honeymoon. Finally, I collapsed into bed.

Sunday, we still had dozens of family members left in town, so we had to endure a brunch in the morning, then go for a drive around town so they could see what was new. By the time that was over, it was time for dinner at Fuddruckers. Then I had to drive the grandparents to the airport so they could catch their flight back to Boca Raton.

By the time I got back to the house, the Draft was already over and I had missed everything.

So, what happened? Did Glen Dorsey go to the Rams like I predicted? How far did Brian Brohm fall? Where did Limas Sweed wind up? San Francisco? Philadelphia?

Damn this empty feeling in my stomach. I feel so incomplete and so without purpose. Will my career recover from this? I hope people missed me on Draft Day. I missed you, after all.

Well ... I guess now that the draft is over, I'll just retire to the basement for a while. I've been meaning to catch up on some films. I hear "Juno" was pretty funny.

If you'll still have me, I'd like to talk about the 2009 Draft. I think George Selvie will be a surprise top pick. And watch out for Michael Oher. He's a good one.

Well. I guess I'll catch you guys later. Have a good year.

Bye.

I want to be a reverend, too

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I like David Vobora, even though he is from Idaho. I don't like potatoes, and they are from there. I bet David Vobora eats a lot of them.

David Vobora is a linebacker, and he was the very last pick in the NFL Draft yesterday. He is Mr. A-Reverend! I think that means he gives lots of speeches about Jesus and doing unto others.

Not only is he Mr. A-Reverend, but he also gets to to go California for a week, all because he was the last pick in the draft! MICKEY MOUSE LIVES THERE! And also, there are earthquakes, which are really scary! The Mr. Reverend at our church says they are caused by men who like other men. I wonder what Mr. A-Reverend thinks about that.

Last week, when we played kickball, I was picked last and that made me sad. I am really good at kickball the other kids don't like me, and nobody wants me on their team because I try to kick home runs all the time and always end up kicking it back to the pitcher. I also kick kids in the privates when I am playing first base and they run by me on their way to second base. I cried. Then I told them some things that I heard my daddy say to the neighbor once, and they called mommy.

But David Vobora was picked last and people love him! He has to play for the Rams, which is stinky, but I think it is nice that people want him to be happy. Sometimes when you are young, things are different than when you are old. Maybe being last in kickball is bad now. But in the future, people will like me because I am last! Mr. A-Reverend says the last shall be first and the first shall be last! Yay.

I don't know if David Vobora is any good at football, but someday I hope he comes to talk at our school about how cool it is to be Mr. A-Reverend, and he can play kickball with us. And then I won't be the last one anymore.

Let the Madden Curse reign supreme

Pigskinius
Football God

I am Pigskinius, Football God! Ye shall feel my wrath!

For years, one of my duties has been to properly administer punishment against horrendous football commentator John Madden by smiting he who is bestowed with cover honors on the annual Madden video game. I have fulfilled my duties with precision and great success. But now! Now comes an attempt to thwart my authority. And I am angry.

This year, the creators of the video game have adorned Brett Favre on the cover, even though Favre recently proclaimed his intent to retire. How can I ensure the Madden Curse if the man has already promised to never play again? It's a conundrum that defies the Cosmos, and for this, there will be consequences.

The world is not in balance as long as John Madden is allowed to speak into a microphone, where he insults the game of football with exasperated expressions and meaningless mumbo jumbo. The Football Gods are most displeased that he is allowed to desecrate our favorite game.

The subversion shown by the video game community will not be tolerated. Each year, I expect a sacrifice to be made on the Madden cover, but this year is a significant skimming of penance. And so my vengeful wrath shall be felt in totality.

You do not want to isolate a single player to feel the Madden Curse? Then I shall find a way to bring suffering to each of the league's 25 best players, as I deem them to be. Pay heed, league executives, for you will need to address your future needs in this weekend's NFL draft. The following players will be stricken with season-damaging ailments:

LaDainian Tomlinson (broken ankle), Petyon Manning (concussion), Champ Bailey (broken fibula), Ed Reed (pulled hamstring), Shawne Merriman (drug suspension), Brian Urlacher (wounded in Lance Briggs dragracing fundraiser), Antonio Gates (stabbed by Philip Rivers), Troy Polamalu (hair fracture), Julius Peppers (achy back), Tom Brady (remarkably persistent case of syphilis), Jason Taylor (teninitis caused by dancing), Walter Jones (ACL), Larry Fitzgerald (broken kneecap suffered in attack by Anquan Boldin), Orlando Pace (foot fracture), Osi Umenyiora (torn knee cartilage), Carson Palmer (Chad Johnson), Reggie Wayne (broken hand), Brian Westbrook (broken ankle), Terrell Owens (head explosion), Kevin Williams (broken arm), Patrick Kerney (fractured sternum), Mike Vrabel (ingrown toenail), Randy Moss (arrested for murder), Reggie Bush (broken ribs suffered during hit by Mario Williams) and Steven Jackson (playing for Rams).

You will learn from your misdeeds. I am Pigskinius!

I'd rather be young than beautiful

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I remember when beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and I was the beholder. You didn't have to have a smoking body and nice hair to win an automobile race.

But times have changed on Harvey McGuffin. Man invented awful things like the Inerweb, satellite radio, Starbucks coffee and televised poker. People like Harvey -- purists who love this great land -- were forgotten and pushed aside simply because they favored "old school" arrangements, like no women outside a 20-foot radius of the kitchen. How can that be closed minded? It's science, dammit.

Along comes Danica Patrick. Now, to be an important racecar driver, you have to look like this:

Wow that's kind of better looking than I was imagining. Still, how I long for the days of Emerson Fittipaldi.
Look at that man. That winning smile. What Emerson didn't have in good looks, he had in desire and heart and determination. You hear me, Danica? Just because you have a tremendous, angular body and happen to drive fast enough to win a race (back in my day, we called that "unladylike") doesn't mean you can win my heart away from Emerson, a two-time winner of the Indy 500 and legitimate Brazilian.

I'm so sick of these teary post-race exchange of feelings. Quit crying, you're a racecar driver! You're supposed to be tough and covered in gooey, slippery grease, talking about how some gidget worked better than expected and some crewman made a great call not to gas up until after a certain mile marker. You're not doing any of that. You're looking like this:

Jesus Mary and Joseph. That's not possible, is it? I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'll be a racecar fan no matter how pretty the faces ... I don't need to be swayed by that sexy, gorgeous hot mama and her really fast ride. ... I don't have to listen to you .... siren.

What would Emerson Fittipaldi do if he were here today? He would be outraged, of course! Outraged that the great American sport of racing overseas has been tarnished by whatever it is that's going on in the above picture. And also, in this one:I wouldn't have to ... I can't even stand to think of ... open wheel racing ... go vroom ... Forgive me, Emerson Fittipaldi.

I invented mock drafts

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

The NFL Draft is this weekend, which means you've probably spent much of your week wading through the various mock drafts all over this Internet. Well, if you love them, you can thank me. If you hate them, you can go frost my ballsack.

See, back in 1973, when I worked at the Dallas Morning News -- before being fired for conducting a 14-person orgy in the newsroom -- I got the idea to try and predict how the picks would fall in the NFL Draft. This was before Mel Kiper made his pathetic living from forecasting draft picks. I paved the way.

It was just a flippant column, but I did a little research and ended up nailing 22 of the 26 picks that year, including the surprise pick of that Mormon, Burgess Owens, to the Jets. It was a big hit with people, and the concept caught on.

That was the last mock draft I wrote. But this year, my head filled with remembrances of orgies in newsrooms, I decided to forecast the top 10 picks. Here they are, hombres.

1. Dolphins: Glen Dorsey (DT, LSU). All this blithering talk about Jake Long, blah blah blah, contract details announced, blah blah blah. Bill Parcells is an enigma, so go ahead and put me in the camp of believing it when I see Long's name escape the thinly-parsed lips of Roger Goodell. I know the Dolphins like the Long brothers here, but I think they're going to go with the black guy because they'll value "talent" over "work ethic."

2. Rams: Jake Long (OT, Michigan). He's a big motherfucker, and I hear he trains by dragging tractors around by his johnson. He'll anchor that line for a decade. Only a 5.17 40 time though? Weak.

3. Atlanta: Matt Ryan (QB, Boston College). In 1983, while with the Tacoma Tribune, I wrote a feature story about a 6th grade boy with cerebral palsy who was allowed to play quarterback for one series for his Pee Wee football team. It was heartwarming and inspiring, and the boy was a better quarterback than Joey Harrington. Ryan is the pick here.

4. Raiders: Chris Long (DE, Virginia). Howie Long always seemed like one of those guys who, if I were a woman, I'd really enjoy getting to know. Great smile, big hands. He really seems like he'd know how to take care of you.

5. Chiefs: Ryan Clady (T, Boise State). Gotta be an offensive lineman here. Carl Peterson is a dummy, but he ain't dumb enough to not fix his offensive line.

Scratch that. They'll probably draft Darren McFadden to back up Larry Johnson. Please note that this is my second giggle-inspiring reference to "johnson" in this column.

6. Jets: Vernon Gholston (DE, Ohio State).



7. Patriots: Keith Rivers (LB, USC). Oh my God, what a steal, the Patriots are so much smarter than everyone else by absolutely snowing the rest of the goddamn NFL with their great pick of Keith Rivers! They could draft Maria Sharapova and people would splooge all over New England's outside-the-box thinking. There is so much to work with in that last sentence, especially when Bill Belichick's video camera is introduced into the equation.

8. Ravens: Darren McFadden (RB, Baltimore). Same thing that happened to the Vikings last year, with McFadden being too good to pass up despite already having a strong running back in-house. Except McFadden's no Adrian Peterson. He's like Reggie Bush, only not quite as fast, and with more attitude problems, and a less-powerful running style and some other bullshit. Not as sweet a ride.

9. Bengals: Sedrick Ellis (DT, USC). Jesus Christ, mock drafts are boring to write. I can't imagine having to read this shit. What are you people still doing here?

10. Saints: Mike Jenkins (CB, South Florida). Who the hell are you?

Oh my God, I can't take it anymore. You people who update mock drafts every week from November on need to be shot. You can't find anything better to do with your time?

I'm exhausted just from the 10 minutes it took to guess on these picks. I'm dehydrated (which might be because of the alcoholism) and I can't stop sweating (which is surely because of the mescaline). But damn you people for this journalistic trend. It was so innocent when I started it, so long ago.

Power rankings, mock drafts, various lists. What happened to journalism? What happened to searching out for stories? Penning prose? Spinning similes? Writing words? Is this what we've come to?!

God help us all.

I'm drunk.

Fuck this. I'm eating a cheeseburger.

By Prince Fielder
Hungry

All right, fine. I get it. Being a vegetarian was a bad idea.

I remember last year, when I'd fly-out to the warning track, I'd come back to the dugout and my teammates would say, "Should have had one more hot dog before the game, Prince." And we'd all laugh. And then I'd eat a hot dog and hit a homer in my next at-bat.

Now, when I hit it to the warning track and just miss a home run, there is awkward silence when I return to the dugout.

I don't blame my teammates. What are they supposed to say? "Should have had another scoop of hummus, Prince"? Or, "Well, chew on a few more spinach leaves next time, buddy"?

Fuck this. I'm eating a cheeseburger.

That's right. After I finish writing this article, I'm going down to Sobelman's and I'm going to have a big-ass double cheeseburger with a side of buffalo wings. I might even have some chicken strips, too, if I have time.

Then, on my way to the ballpark, I'm going to stop by the drive-through at Culver's and grab a butterburger to tide me over until after the game. I bet I rock the party to the tune of 3-for-4 with two homers and a greasy gapper double.

After the game, I'll probably make a quick stop at Fuddrucker's for a breaded tenderloin and a tall glass of Miller Lite.

No more lazy fly balls to the outfield, or weak grounders to second base. The Prince is coming back. No more popping up hanging curveballs. No more taking shit from Gabe Kapler because he has four times as many home runs as I do. I'll just be like, "Hey Gabe, remember that time you did this?"



Then I'll eat a 20-pack of chicken nuggets from Mickey D's.

Aw yeah, the Prince is coming back. Look out National League, because I'm full of protein, and I'm coming after you.

Basketballs are bouncy

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Pau Pau Pau! It's like Batman on TV back before there were computers. POW!

I like Pau Gasol. He is hairy and shaggy and reminds me of that homeless man that we pass every day when mommy walks us to the grocery store. Mommy never lets me go near that man, even though he is really nice and always sings me a song, like "Livin La Vida Loca," "We're An American Band," and "Silver Bells."

I bet Pau Gasol doesn't need spare change like the hobo man, because he gets to play with basketballs and get paid lots of money to drive Kobe Bryant's limousine. The Lakers had a really good day today and beated the Denver Nuggets, who are first place in the league in elevation and thugs.

Remember last year when the Golden Warpeople beat the Dallas Mavericks and Dirk the crazy German was so mad? I think the Golden team will win the whole thing again this year. There are many other exciting things I noticed during the NBA playoffs:

1. Rasheed Wallace is missing hair on the back of his head! That's silly. I hope Richard Hamilton and his scary mask didn't shave Rasheed's head while he was sleeping. I did that to Muffins the Hamster once.

2. Tim Duncan made a 3-pointer! He doesn't make that many, but I don't either, so I think Tim Duncan and I are pretty similar basketball players. The basket is so high up! Daddy says three things need to happen when I try to make a 3-pointer for it to go in. I have to have bending knees, a smooth release off my wrist, and Jesus.

3. LeBron James went boom with a big dunk! I am a witness, but daddy says I will not have to testify, because I am a minor.

4. Lots of coaches were told to go home and never come back. Donnie Walsh did not want Isiah to coach anymore, but Daddy said Donnie Walsh kept Isiah around to be his jester, so he could juggle and sing songs at board meetings. I don't know if Isiah can sing very well, but if he can't, I think the hobo man needs a job. And some blow.

5. It is sad that there will be no more basketballs in Seattle. Mommy says she doesn't care, just as long as there is still Grey's Anatomy in Seattle. All my favorite shows are new again this week! I would have gone super crazy if American Idol wasn't on my TV every week. I am cheering for that little elf named David, who sings a lot about rainbows and hope and ponies!

I can't remember how old I am, either

Doris Tipton
Grandmother

Good heavens, all of you people. The last 24 hours have shown the picky nature of the human race.

Don't tell me you've never forgotten anything before. I know many of you have forgotten where your keys are, or what you had for breakfast, or your daughter's name at Thanksgiving dinner.

So I want you all to lay off that nice, young Dominican boy who says he didn't know how old he was.

You baseball fans are riding his behind like he's some sort of murderer or something!

Good golly, cut the young man some slack. Personally, I have no idea how old I am. And so I have total empathy for Miguel, or Juan, or whatever his name is.

Besides, he was only saying he's 31 when he's 33. That's nothing! That's a fart in the wind for an old biddy like me.

Each day -- as I drag my creaky ass out of my bed and grab my walker so I can spend the next 10 hours shuffling around this goddamn forsaken "retirement home" what's-her-name put me in after my dear Russell died, as I just bide my time until I die, at which point my children can forever be rid of their guilt-riddled obligation to visit me each Sunday afternoon so they can stay on my good side and collect their inheritance, which I imagine what's-her-name's husband will probably blow on some uptown whore -- I forget how old I am.

People tell me different things. I've heard I was born as early as 1902, the year the very first movie theater in the United States opened. That would make me 106 years old, depending on when my birthday is, which I think is sometime in the late spring, possibly May. But then again, maybe my birthday is in August. Sometimes it seems awful humid around my birthday because my hip flares up to the size of a musk melon.

Then again, I was recently told I was born in 1927, the year of the great Mississippi flood, which would only make me 81 years old.

See? I have no idea how old I am. And none of you baseball fans are futzing around and being concerned about my age So why waste your time with Pedro, or Rafael, or whatever his name is?

Age is just a number, children. Don't let it run your life, because you are only as old as you feel. And today, I feel 174 years old. So leave me the hell alone.

Chasing the Dolly Llama

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

I'm pretty sure when those British dudes cloned a mammal for the first time, its name was Dolly Llama. Cool shit, I'm not gonna lie. But dawg, it's not like that had any broader impact on anybody's lives. Ain't no great deep peace and understanding that came from Dolly Llama.

But dude, some of these folks take it all too seriously, cuz they keep talking about the Dolly Llama while chasing the Olympic Torch around the world, protesting and shit. Stupid teenagers. Get a job, hippies!

The Beijing Olympics are upon us this summer, which are not nearly as cool as the Winter Olympics, where there were lots of sexy Italian missies in various forms of undress and plenty of exquisite gateway drugs. Dawg, I'm pretty sure if they catch you with weed in China, you get your foot cut off.

I would be more excited if the summer Olympics had snowboarding. To express my displeasure, I decided to follow around the protesters, hitting up London, Paris and San Francisco. I love it when Marv is too damn pasted on whatever drug is in-season in his garden, that he ends up approving whatever expense account cash I ask for.

I had a really good time. I rapelled down the damn Golden Gate Bridge -- haven't had the pleasure of doing that in at least three years -- and I bedded the fine Victoria Arceneaux at the base of the Arc de Triomphe while traffic whirled around us in the stirring Place d'Etoiles in Paris.

And you thought DeJuan wasn't cultured. Served.

But turns out all these protesters want is some crazy Free Tibet shit. I don't know why Tibet deserves to be free -- I guess he didn't do what he was accused of -- but there sure are a lot of people who want him out. Like that dude Rage Against the Machine wanted out of prison.

But neither Mr. Tibet or the Dolly Llama really inspired me to keep at it. I mean, why hate on the torch? I love fire. Torches, in fact, were an integral part of my epic 1997 Circus of Fire tour, which was the coolest shit on Earth until a minor safety oversight led to the death of two Bengal tigers and seven angry clowns. Thank god the cotton candy machine remained intact.

I did enjoy some of the protester signs, though, including one that showed the Olympic rings as a bunch of handcuffs. Most folks saw that as a statement -- I saw it as inspiration for another magical night with my belle Victoria. Viva La France and shit.

Get your calendars ready

By Sue Snow
Sandusky Rec Dept. Secretary

Folks gathered in front of the Rec Department office window this morning at 8 a.m. when the official Sandusky Monday Night Men's Softball League schedule was released, as mandated by league commissioner Harvey Wilcox, Jr.

As always, there are several highlights to discuss with this year's schedule, which features 10 teams hungry for a championship. Rec Dept. employee Martha Burgess presented a live blog on www.sanduskyrec.com during this morning's proceedings, and Harvey answered questions online as part of a live two-hour chat.

Unfortunately, we had to share our schedule release with another league, but that didn't dampen our enthusiasm. We went right ahead with the festivities.

Probably the most exciting matchup of the year will pit Bob's Bakery against Fireman's No. 323, in Week 3. As you know, the second week of May is often a rainy one, so there is some concern that this game could get moved to a week after the originally-scheduled regular season. If the Farmer's Almanac is correct and we do get the showers, this would set up one heck of a season finale, against teams that took first and third in last year's standings.

That Battle of David Coulthard will take place in Week 7, when Enetek Systems (having recently fired David after a heavily publicized sexual harassment lawsuit) battles with David's new team, IniPro. David hit .689 last year with 20 home runs in 42 plate appearances, making his offseason move the most significant in the Sandusky Rec Softball League. There's bound to be some bad blood and I, for one, am simply in a tizzy.

Rivers, Johnson and Schlosser and Associates, one year after suffering through several injuries and finishing just 1-9, will return with renewed optimism. They get the featured 9:10 p.m. game next Monday in Week 1, taking on The Watering Hole, which was able to re-assemble a team this year after a series of DUIs cost the team its infield last year, compelling a series of forfeits. Remember that if your team fails to show, you forfeit your 200 dollar deposit, and you also get an angry Sue Snow on the case! Tee-hee-hee.

Sue's Game to Watch: Week 6 -- Bantam Corp vs. Enetek. One week before facing old foe Coulthard, will Enetek look past a Bantam team looking to jump into the league's upper tier? Pitcher Bill Villalobos, who issued only 6 walks last year, returns to Banta.

As always, stay tuned to sanduskyrec.com for updates.

Give away the hardware now!!

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

WHAT AN EXCITING SEASON OF BASEBALL. There have been surprisingly bad seasons (DETROIT ROCK CITY), surprisingly good ones (The BIRDS are back in BALTIMORE) and some amazing feats (Some guy putting a jersey in Yankee Stadium! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? Seriously, if Burt ran the world, that would be grounds for imprisonment. I know murderers and rapists are really bad people, but that’s someone who is SERIOUSLY demented).

Now that 12 games or so are in the books, it’s time for the year-end awards!

NATIONAL LEAGUE

MVP: Pat Burrell, Philadelphia. PAT THE BAT, PAT THE BAT, PAT THE BAT. The former No. 1 pick is FINALLY living up to his billing with four homers, four doubles, 13 RBIs and 12 walks in 39 at-bats, good for a .359 average and .528 on-base percentage. YOU CAN’T STOP PAT BURRELL, YOU CAN ONLY HOPE HE TAPERS OFF. He won’t. Also, is Justin Upton the next Albert Pujols? Yes!

Cy Young: Tie (Jake Peavy, San Diego; Ben Sheets, Milwaukee; Brandon Webb, Arizona; Cole Hamels, Phladelphia). I CAN’T CHOOSE. They all have really low ERAs, they all have lots of strikeouts, and they even have a low WHIP, which should please the hippies of the world. More importantly, they each have two or three wins. Cole Hamels has a loss though, so he’s probably disqualified.

Rookie of the Year: Johnny Cueto, Cincinnati. HELLO, 18 strikeouts in two starts before he gave up a walk. The next Juan Marichel, book it!

Manager of the Year: Tony LaRussa, St. Louis. Everyone thought the Cardinals would be super, super bad, and all they’ve done is DOMINATED THE LEAGUE. They’re going to win 113 games this year, and it’s all because of Tony “.093” LaRussa! A toast to the Cards!

AMERICAN LEAGUE

MVP: Joe Crede, Chicago. FOUR home runs and FIFTEEN RBIs, all while having the third largest OPS in the league. I don’t really know what OPS means, but AJ Pierzynski is No. 2, and he’s AWESOME, so it must be a good stat. I think they tried to fire him before the season, but Joe came back bigger and better and stronger to prove all the haters wrong. NOBODY LIKES A HATER.

Cy Young: Brian Bannister, Kansas City. IS IT EVEN A CONTEST? He’s 3-0 with an 0.86 ERA, and last time he pitched, he was forced to wear POWDER BLUE. That’s seriously overcoming obstacles to succeed. Most people don’t even try when they get to KC – they just go there for the BBQ and the opportunity to play where nobody cares about baseball.

Rookie of the Year: David Murphy, Texas. Who is this guy? I BET IT’S DALE MURPHY’S SON. I loved Dale Murphy growing up. He was ambidextrous! Kind of. Also, he’s in the Hall of Fame, I think!

Manager of the Year: The Orioles guy. The Orioles are awesome, and they don’t even need Erik Bedard and his achy breakiness to get there. Also, Jay Gibbons had his suspension thrown out, which will really help them down the stretch!

A dilly of a pickle

By Michael Beasley
Droopy-Eyed Basketball Wonder

Let’s be honest with ourselves. I’m pretty awesome at basketball.

I’ve been lucky, I guess. Blessed with people who have pushed me in life and blessed with natural gifts. I have a big decision to make: Whether to go pro or stay in college for another year at Kansas State. I gotta tell you, it’s a really tough call.

I know a lot of people think I’m going to be the top pick in the NBA Draft and make millions of dollars, but I have to think about the big picture. Education is really important to me, and it’s something the coaches who recruited me really sold me on. Kansas State has some incredible programs, and you can’t put a price tag on a degree. Not even a really big, eye-popping price tag.

Sure, I’ll be playing with against lesser competition, risking injury and thus a lot of money, and probably not even getting the same TV time I would if I were in the NBA, but there are a lot of intangibles that people don’t understand.

If I stayed in college, I could eat Ramen noodles with my friends at 2:30 a.m. while watching re-runs of The Simpsons. That’s priceless, man, and most people get to enjoy four years of that stuff. For me, it would just be one. Plus there’s getting up at 8 a.m. (sometimes – haha, even I miss a seminar or two) and walking to class. You don’t even need a car to get around, because everything is so close. It’s the perfect life. Man, those communists had it good. I learned about them in Prof. Hillman’s history class.

Water gun fights on the weekends? Playing sandlot baseball in an open field by the dorms? Man, that’s awesome stuff. Sure, playing basketball before thousands of people calling your name in an arena and earning endorsement deals has its appeal. But it doesn’t have the heart, ya know?

I always tell myself I’d never be that guy who should declare for the NBA Draft, but takes forever for no good reason, and then declares anyway. But now that I’m at this crossroads in life, it’s just not that easy of a decision.

Yeah, I had a nice year in college and I’ll probably be OK when I get to the pros. But there will be a learning curve – and maybe I’d just rather spend my formative years learning about philosophy and how to be a good leader and friend, instead of how to slam dunk between three 7-foot-2 guys.

Nah, fuck it. I’m going pro. Who’s ready for the Bease?

I cast spells. Freaky ones.

By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer

Most people -- namely those insidious Cubs or Red Sox fans who bemoan their team's lack of success in the numerous irrelevant years before their own birth -- feel that curses have befallen their teams. But readers of Agatha Moonfry's weekly column in "Spellbinding Spells for the Amateur Witch" know well that the key to any good curse is a buried treasure of sorts.

Take, for example, any good haunting. Almost always related to a series of unmarked graves nearby. Furthermore, every documented satanic possession in American history is conjured in part because someone had the foresight to plant an unseen pentagram in the immediate environment. Objects unseen almost always correlate with the demonic. It's physics.

I've never met this construction worker who secretly planted a Red Sox jersey in the new Yankee Stadium, but I am eagerly pleased to meet him. He's obviously a fan of mine.

Sadly, the Yankees sniffed out his attempt at amateur witchcraft, which speaks to his inability to keep quiet about his flirtations with the dark side. As I mentioned, Red Sox fans like to jabber, and it will ultimately be dear Gino's undoing. But it is a valuable lesson at how seriously the world has begun to take witchcraft. Let's take a brief look at Agatha's history of casting sports curses:

1980: Barely two years old, I discovered an early passion for spell-casting when I took my Russian nesting dolls and buried them near the Olympics hockey arena in Lake Placid, New York. The Russian coach lost his mind, pulled his goaltender, and a "miracle" came thereafter. That was no miracle, Al Michaels. It was the rising star of young sorcery.

1996: After a dynamite Atlantic Ocean sailboat tour with old boyfriend Brad -- featuring several intimate maneuvers deemed illegal on the mainland -- I took it upon myself to capture a small shark nursing in the coastal waters. After killing it, I buried fragments on each of seven holes at nearby Augusta National in Georgia, in an attempt to thwart Greg Norman's six-stroke lead heading into the final day of the Masters. He choked, of course, and fired 78. I had a thing for Nick Faldo at the time.

2003: Even though I spent years of my life and countless black market resources tormenting Brad after he left me for some blond bimbo, I wanted one last sucker punch against his beloved Cubs. I scoured high and low for a primate's ulnar collateral ligament, which I could bury at the Friendly Confines in hopes of damning starting pitchers Kerry Wood and Mark Prior. Unable to find what I wanted, I settled for a Niles Renegades Little League T-Shirt (similar to the one worn by this gentleman), which I buried just outside the outfield wall on Sheffield Avenue. Sadly, my spell had no bearing whatsoever on the outcome.

2007: Experimenting to discover the effects of elevation on the human orgasm, I found myself shackled in the mountains with Dr. Jens Tjaaden, a Dane with remarkable dexterity. He had become a Colorado Rockies fan since his days in Denver, and vowed to continue his research with me as long as the Rockies kept winning -- a circumstance that caused his undying arousal. I scrawled a series of ancient words on a baseball and buried it at the base of the Rocky Mountains, though I decided to let the spell expire after he became "too tired" following the NLCS. Nobody gets too tired for Agatha. Not if they want to keep themselves unharmed. Or ever have children.

Take that money, Billy

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

Bill Self is dumb.

Despite a rumored offer from Oklahoma State that would include a $6 million signing bonus, and many more millions of dollars per year in salary, Self is staying at Kansas.

Sportswriters everywhere are happy about this. Except for me (full disclosure: I was booted from the National Sportswriters Association after I set fire to Bill Plaschke's shoes during a conference in 1981).

Sportswriters always get really upset when players and coaches leave their current locales so they can make more money. As if these writers, fat on free pizza and bad metaphors, wouldn't do the same thing. I know I would.

And you know what? I have.

I totally understand Bill Self's situation; I do not understand his decision. Back in 1973, I was working in Arizona as the sports editor of the Bisbee Union. It was a nice little paper, and I worked my ass off getting all the relevant scores, updates and occasional provocative photo of myself in the newspaper.

Late one night, I was sitting at the local pub, The Mono Borracho, when I was approached by a man in a dark overcoat and bowler hat. He had stinky breath and a thin mustache. I immediately suspected a rapist.

"Marv," he said.

Drunk, and still horny from watching high school girls play volleyball, I growled at him.

"Who are you?"

"Let's just say I'm a representative of the Pima Weekly Press, over in nearby Graham County."

I paused. I thought. I responded.

"What the fuck is that?"

I took a long swig of cheap whiskey. It burned like syphillis.

"It's a weekly newspaper. Circulation of about 2,500 people," he said.

I dismissed him. "My newspaper reaches almost 8,000 people. I'm not interested. It'd be a step down."

He smiled at me. He touched my leg gently, but in a manly way.

"What if I told you we could offer you -- how shall I say it? -- a more comfortable lifestyle?"

I farted loudly. Several bar patrons looked in my direction.

He continued, unfazed. "My sources tell me that you're currently making $8.85 an hour here in Bisbee. Eight days vacation per year."

"Uh huh."

"Well, what if we offered you our sports editor position, along with a salary of $10.15 an hour. And 10 days vacation. That's two full weeks, Marv."

I turned to face him. I looked into his beady, rapist eyes. Thoughts of working for a lesser paper filled my mind. It'd be a step backwards for my career. The paper's operation had fewer resources. It'd be a bigger challenge. I'd have to work even harder just to achieve the same results.

But, that gleaming thought of an extra $50 a week. I couldn't get past it. It offered promise. Security. Hope.

And shortly after, I accepted Pima's offer. I was a journalistic whore. But I made a lot more money. And I was damn good at my job. I turned that newspaper around in three short months. Boosted circulation by 20 percent. That was until my managing editor found out I was using the break room freezer to store my sperm bank donations. I was immediately fired.

But the same principle remains: Always take the money. No one can blame you.

You're no different, Bill Self. If T. Boone Pickens is still interested in giving you all that cash, take it. Take it and don't you ever feel guilty.

Don't you ever feel guilty.

Oh wow, women's basketball is really awesome

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Man, did you all watch that Tennessee-Stanford women's basketball championship last night? It was sooo awesome. I love watching basketball players cut backdoor and to sometimes make layups and also fall down a lot.

Nothing gets me more excited than a team winning the championship game with a blistering .393 field goal percentage. That just glues me to my fuckin' couch. Cancel my plans for tonight. Women's basketball is on, and I've got set-shots from 12 feet to watch.

Brick.

Really though. I'm being too harsh here. Because Candace Parker is probably the Leonardo Di Vinci or Sidney Crosby of women’s basketball. A star like her –- the Tiger Woods and the Barry Bonds of her sport -– can really bring the masses to this incredible, enthralling game. Did you know that she’s dunked the basketball before? You can even find footage online, I’m pretty sure. But unlike footage of Bigfoot, it’s actually real! And you know what, even her dunks are fundamentally sound! If John Wooden liked dunks, he'd like Candace Parker's.

At first, I admit I was skeptical about this women's basketball thing, and didn’t even watch the constant coverage on ESPN or ESPN.com. I didn’t pay attention to all the casual discussion, featuring the long-legged Stacey Dales and some other people. I kept my fandom focused on the men’s tournament. But that was before Stanford’s Angela Wiggins made a believer out of me.

Remember when Diana Taurasi played for UCONN? She was a dude, right? Her face was so aerodynamic.

You know what? I don’t even care that these women aren’t hot. That’s chauvinist thinking, anyway. These women are athletes and put as much blood, sweat and tears into their sport as anyone else. I can’t imagine why people don’t appreciate that. WOW, I just saw highlights of one women’s basketball player FLYING through the lane. Oh, wait ... nope, they switched to NBA highlights when I wasn’t looking. My bad.

Even still, women's basketball. Wow. I can't wait to see what these players do at the next level.

With the NCAA season over, I'll need something to give me my fix until the glorious sounds of missed free throws and torn ACLs return to gyms next fall. You can bet I'll be spending my time playing this:



All hail the splendor of women's basketball!

It's really not that hard, Memphis

By Libby Perkins
Hates Broccoli

This year, I successfully defended my age group championship in the Sandusky Free Throw Challenge, sponsored by the Sandusky Jaycees. I won a big trophy last year when I was 9, and this year I got another one for being the best 10-year-old girl in the competition. I made 84 out of 100 free throws at Walter Church Middle School. Daddy said I'm his special little girl, and he thinks I can play varsity basketball someday.

Free throws are pretty easy though. So how come Memphis couldn't make any in the national championship game last night? Jesus Christ. It's not that hard!

It's only 15 feet. The key is to bend your knees, I think, and to try to do the same thing every single time. It's not like you have to shoot over a defender or dribble-drive. You just set your feet, twirl the ball around, bounce once, and fire. Swoosh!

This year, Dana VanderSchlossen had 80 free throws made, and I was really worried that she was going to catch me. That would have sucked. But I hit all of my last 10 free throws and won the big prize. I got my picture in the paper and everything.

I don't get why it's so hard for Memphis guys to make free throws. They only hit 7-of-16 in the second half, and that basically cost them the game, because it went to overtime. Chris Douglas-Roberts, Derrick Rose, all of you -- what was the problem?

I know Memphis' coach was saying all tournament how free throws weren't important. I don't think they're important either. How can the easiest part of the game be the most important?

You know, there's no shame in just throwing them off the backboard. That's not how I do it, but I've seen it done. Banking is pretty easy. Swallow your pride, Memphis. Or, if you want me to check into the game when you need someone to make free throws, I can do it. By the time I get to college, I'll have a lot of Free Throw Challenge trophies, which I keep in my room next to my Barbies.

NCAA Breakdown

By Guy Ockham
3-2 Zone Proponent

Guy Ockham is the high school boys' basketball coach at Spring Borders High School in Breck, Colo. His teams have compiled a 33-33 record during his two seasons at the school. He's a graduate of Doane College in Nebraska, where he played basketball for two years, averaging 7.3 points and 2.7 rebounds a game for the Tigers. Ockham stresses low dribbling, lateral movement and using the backboard from anywhere on the floor.

Keep those butts low to the ground, sportswatchers, because we have a real barnburner for you tonight! Memphis vs. Kansas. Two speedy teams -- one representing one of the whitest states in America and one representing one of the blackest cities in America. That previous statement is related to nothing.

Here's the matchup, and what you need to know to digest the game.

Guards: Have you heard about a fella by the name of Derrick Rose? Maybe you have. But if not, watch out for this Memphis kid, because he's got some talent. He's got a great base, and a strong dribble that always stays low to the floor. He's a good passer, but I'd like to see him use the chest pass more. Get those thumbs in, kid!

Memphis also has Chris Douglas-Roberts, who is a lanky guard who has developed a jumper. His hyphenated name suggests gender progress. If I were his coach, I wouldn't hesitate to use him in the middle of my 3-2 zone. That's how good he is.

Kansas, by comparison, has a bunch of guards that sort of run together in your mind. Collins or Stewart or Rush or something. I haven't really done my homework on Kansas because I got sidetracked by some Saved By the Bells re-runs on TV the other day. I can't pass up the opportunity to rub one out to Kelly Kapowski. Edge: Memphis

Big men: Kansas is known for its fourteen-headed monster in the paint, led by Darrell Arthur and Russian Sasha Kahn. His name sounds like Sasha Cohen, who I hate, so I don't think Kahn will have much effect in this game.

Memphis' most famous big man is notorious dipshit, Joey Dorsey. He's a great rebounder who has all of the offensive ability of a drunk Ben Wallace. He's an inspiring story because he made it out of a tough situation in Baltimore to become the first kid in his family to graduate high school and blah blah blah doesn't anyone care that I was once run through a clothes dryer at age 9 because I didn't make 80 percent of a my free throws during a local YMCA game? No one ever talks about how I overcame. I don't give two shits about Joey Dorsey. Someone give me some fucking sympathy, all right? Edge: Kansas

Coaching: Kansas is coached by Bill Self, who, I think, wears a toupee. He has a funky-ass looking mouth. I will give him credit for being a great recruiter, but I'm not convinced about his ability to coach. KU has decent team defense, but I still think they'd benefit from implementing the Guy Ockham 3-2 "Assrape Defense." He won't return my calls, but I'm telling you, that defense is the best way to utilize Cole Aldrich.

Memphis is led by John Calipari, NBA failure. He's getting a lot of credit for putting in a dribble-drive offense that is centered on Rose and Douglas-Roberts. Why is he getting credit for this? What was he supposed to do? Institute a Hoosiers-like four passes before every shot rule? Gimme a break. Edge: Guy Ockham

Overall: I'm thinking this will be an affair of high-scoring proportions, like when my wife left me for Tim, my next-door neighbor. In the end, I think Memphis' guards will win out over the depth of Kansas. Too much talent for Memphis, and they're too hard to stop because their style is so free-flowing.

Prediction: Memphis wins, 77-62.

Now, if you'll excuse me, Zack's about to take Kelly to Prom.

Viva la revolucion!

By Jonathan Livingston
Seagull

Did you think I was kidding about the revolution?

After a golfer killed one of our own, and our subsequent lawsuit on behalf of birds everywhere was dismissed as frivolous by a series of circuit courts, we birds have decided to take matters into our own hands.

Yes. We're going to kill you all.

This is merely a warning shot, humans. You can read into the fact that the girl who was attacked on a tour of Fenway Park was named "Alexa Rodriguez" if you want, but I assure you this has nothing to do with our attacker's preference of team. In fact, I explicitly told Corky NOT to attack that particular girl, for fear of a misconstrued message.

Never let a hawk do a seagull's work. I know they're all majestic and what not, but despite those piercing talons and impressive soaring ability, they are dumb as birdshit.

Anyway, the revolution has begun. First, we will flood your American ballparks with our kind, flocking to haunt your sedentary and beer-consuming masses. Then we will enter your homes and eat your pet hamsters. Then, we will unite to fly into your car windshields. For years, you have wondered how we have avoided your motorized vehicles, and it's merely because we have chosen to avoid them, waiting for the time to be right.

The time is now. You will be powerless without functioning windshields. America will be ours!

As a baby bird, I remember how I felt the first time I watched Alfred Hitchcock bring our brilliant plan to the silver screen. I felt pride swelling up in my feathers. I knew that one day I would be at the forefront of a changed landscape. No longer will birds be tormented and slaughtered for trivial purposes.

It's time for a Flying V. We're coming for you, humans.

A blast from my past

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Dawg, I have been divinely inspired to rap about my main man Isiah Thomas, who is really having a rough few weeks. And by few weeks, I mean decade. Because I love Isiah so, I have written a rap to highlight Isiah's soon-to-be extinguished career. The rhymes were a little tough, but I think you'll like it mighty nice.

The baby-faced assassin from old IU
Back before Kelvin Sampson sniffed some glue
Came to the NBA and was a Motor City Miracle
Won some hardware to prop up in his cubicle.

Isiah. He's Isiah.

Mama can't spell, she forgot a letter.
But ain't no thang, cuz your game was stellar.
12-time All-Star, Olympian too.
Coolest shit since they invented Fu Manchu.

Isiah. He's Isiah.

But shit went bad when you hung up the shoes
Raptors, broadcasting and CBA all lose
You got mad game, but you can't manage for shit
And your Hollywood star started taking a hit.

Isiah, dawg. He's so Isiah.

Got your ass inducted into the Hall of Fame
About the time your career went all to shame
Spent a few years in Indy coaching the Pacers
Moved on to New York and turned the Knicks into bitches.

Isiah. Love Isiah.

Made some silly ass trades and the team got worse
Now they hired Donny Walsh to reverse your curse
You'll probably get fired, maybe lay low for a while
If you wanna work again, try the retail aisle.

Isiah. Bye, Isiah.

I feel so different, yet so wonderful

By Dick Vitale
Yeller

I tell you, NCAA Tournament time is my favorite time of the year. It is with so much pleasure each spring that I watch young men hoop it up on the hardwood, giving it their all in pursuit of the ultimate crown: An NCAA title.

While I am a fan of basketball on any level, I prefer the college game to the NBA. The sheer love of the sport, coupled with the passion of the students and pep bands, makes for an experience like no other.

And the players! In the past, I have loved rooting for players like Trajan Langdon, Carlos Boozer, Elton Brand, JJ Redick, Chris Duhon, Grant Hill, Jason Williams, Christian Laettner, Shane Battier, Bobby Hurley, Johnny Dawkins, Corey Maggette, Shelden Williams and Steve Wojciechowski.

All of those guys brought something different to the table, and all of them rank among my favorite basketball players ever. I don't even know if I could choose a favorite. They all inspired a deep, longing love inside of me.

But I must confess, this year I felt something different. One little player gave me a different type of feeling. One sharpshooting young man who seemed different than all of the others. And that young man is Stephen Curry from Davidson.

Stephen wasn't like all of the others that I've loved. This love was fleeting; it was fast. While I had time to dote and dwell on the magnificence of my other loves, Stephen swooped in from nowhere. He was different, and I couldn't figure out why. In my brain, I knew it was love. But my heart did not understand. He was so mysterious and wondrous, like Johnny Depp in Chocolat.

Along with this brief passion, I felt guilt. I did not understand the reason behind this emotion either. No matter how much I tried to suppress this feeling, it still popped up. Why did loving this boy from a school of 1,700, the son of an NBA three-point specialist, make me feel such a rollercoaster of emotions?

I was torn. I knew my love was true, but it felt forbidden.

And then suddenly, as quickly as those feelings came, they were gone. Stephen Curry had left my life and my feelings were gone with it. Was it real? Had it really happened? This new flame, this new desire had been snuffed out nearly as quickly as it had warmed my insides.

While I enjoyed my time with Stephen, watching him nail three-pointers and floaters as well as anyone I've ever seen, I knew it wasn't to last. I knew this was a fling. A tryst. Something that can never be repeated. I felt sadness, but -- at the same time -- satisfaction.

What does this all mean?

Ahh, you know what, who cares!? I'm ready to rub whipped cream on my nipples and watch Tyler Hansbrough's hard-working, passionate desire of gritty fortitude dominate the Final Four! North Carolina, baby! It's the Final Four! It's tremendous! I'm in orgasmic ecstasy, baby! Awww yeahhhhhh!

The world is a terrible place

Bill Plaschke: Named the Associated Press' top sports columnist for the third time in four years.

I'm so proud of my son

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Hi there, this is Lynn DeBerg calling, and I was wondering what your policy is on getting submitted pictures into the paper?

The reason I ask is because my son, Connor, recently took third place in a karate competition up in Cleveland, and we took a picture of him with his trophy and his outfit. It's such a cute outfit, and I just think it would be a great picture. I think a lot of people would buy newspapers if they saw that picture in the sports section.

What's that? Oh, I know there are lots of other sports going on during the course of the day, but I'm not asking for a front page spot or anything. Connor just worked so hard and he had the biggest smile on his face when he took third, and I thought it would be great for him, and for kids like him.

I kind of typed up a little press release to go with it, if you want that. I can e-mail you the picture, or I can send it in the mail. What's easier? Now when is it going to run, exactly? Well, I just want to be able to tell Connor when he can expect to see himself in the paper, and also all his friends and teachers. How about tomorrow? I don't understand why you can't get it in tomorrow. There really isn't that much going on -- I checked the local schedules.

Look, I think tomorrow has to be the day. It's kind of timely since it just happened this weekend. I know you have other pictures you want to get in, but did they feature accomplishments like this one? A lot of those team photos get in for basketball or soccer teams or something like that, and kids get in the paper who ride the bench or don't do a whole lot. But my Connor put in all the work himself and trained under a professional for six weeks at a camp in Akron. I really just think he needs to be recognized. I noticed you put in bowling scores and a feature story about some old guy who used to run the local baseball team -- I really think this photo should get preference over stuff like that.

I'm sorry, but do I need to talk to your boss? I swear to God, I'll cancel my subscription if my son's picture isn't in the goddamned paper tomorrow. All you people care about are the big-name teams in the area -- what about the readers and the things they're interested in? I suppose you don't give a damn about those people. I suppose we don't even matter.

I haven't asked for ONE SHRED of coverage all year, just that you please put Connor's picture in the paper, and you won't even do that for me. I want you to transfer me to your boss or the subscription ladies, so I can cancel. My son deserves recognition! You have no idea how hard he worked and how much driving is involved carrying him to these camps and competitions. I'm never reading your fucking paper again.

(click).