10 Feet High

I woke up the other day and found I had more YouTube in me, which probably isn't a good thing for you, my poor readers, so I'm terribly sorry for that. Now, I'm normally not a YouTube junkie, but some of my best childhood memories can be relived via random people's YouTube posts. It got me thinking, maybe I should become a member and make my own posts? Probably taking it way too far there. Anyways, I'm hoping you all can relate to at least a couple of these vids.



My Memory:

I literally spent 45 minutes practicing this shot with a teammate and still couldn’t emulate Hoffarber. Seriously, try it yourself, not just sitting there attempting shots, but having a ball passed to you laying down. The tricky part – the thing that is just so tough – is getting the ball off quickly, like beat-the-buzzer quick. Under the circumstances – high school state title game at the Target Center – this is one of the better shots I’ve ever seen.



My Memory:

I know, I know, why tennis? But I was there in London during this epic match, and even though I’ve witnessed some pretty special moments in sports, this one is right at the top.

When the tournament started, Andy Roddick was just another obnoxious American to the British. In truth, his career hadn’t gone the way we envisioned it would when he won the U.S. Open in 2003 and became the youngest American ever to be ranked world No. 1. But this was Wimbledon, an event so prestigious and precious that even the most casual tennis fan can appreciate its grandeur.

In the semifinal against Great Britain’s own Andy Murray, Roddick wheeled and dealed his way to a rather stunning upset. I attended this match, and even sitting in the grandstands far off center court, I could hear the bowels of the home crowd rooting for its favorite son.

When Roddick won, it appeared impossible that any Brit could ever root for this guy.

Sitting in a local bar watching the final featuring Roddick and the seemingly unbeatable Roger Federer, I was shocked to see the tide turn as the match progressed. At first, the crowded bar rooted hard for Federer, simply dismissing the challenger as an unworthy opponent who defeated their own. But in the final three sets and remarkably through the gut wrenching tiebreakers, the British faithful shifted dramatically toward Roddick, cheering loudly for every ace and gasping with every missed opportunity. In the end, Federer took home the hardware, but Roddick - with his hard play and grit - earned something just as meaningful: Respect. This is why we love sports.



My Memory:

I’ll be the first to tell you the importance of a good night’s sleep – seriously you just can’t put a price on it. If I’d slept just another hour per night in college, I’m convinced I’d have graduated magna cum laude. (OK, fine. Cum laude. OK, maybe that’s a stretch, but you get the point, sort of. I'm confused, sorry.) Up until the 2002 World Cup, soccer to me may as well have been professional bowling. I didn’t understand it, and I didn’t want to understand it.

But after the Americans advanced past the initial group stages, I couldn’t help but notice. What I did next, though, was completely unprecedented for me, even when it came to watching basketball. Given the time difference from Korea, the second-round U.S.-Mexico match started at 4 in the morning. Keep in mind, this was during the time when I still had sleepovers with friends. (Yes, I just went there.)

In an act of humility and tremendous courage, my roommate for the night and I decided to wake up at 4, during the weekend mind you, and watch this game. I still can’t believe it. What we witnessed was an American squad full of flair and an overwhelming desire to win. This brilliant upset forever instilled in my mind, my love of soccer began.



My Memory:

I’ll never forget this one. We had a tourney bracket at school, and every chance we got to sneak away from class and watch games we would. Since I had already exhausted my stay-at-home days, my parents wouldn’t let me skip school again. But at 16, I was a crafty veteran, more than capable of weaseling my way into a room with a television.

Realistically, I had at least four or five years of experience working and honing my craft (I started really caring about the Dance in 1998 when my beloved Huskies made a Sweet 16 run). Anyways, this was the 12-5 upset I picked (one happens almost every year), so when this bench player named Taylor rattled off 30-plus points and the game-winning dagger, I – along with the rest of the Creighton faithful – went nuts, thus forcing the vice principal to enter the room thinking a fight had broken out. How I miss high school. Also, how great is it to see Billy Donovan panicking like that? Is there a more annoying coach in the college game today? Okay, you’re right. Sorry, Coach K, John Calipari (any chance I get with him I take) and Bruce Pearl.

(Sorry, I couldn't embed this, but trust me, it's worth watching: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sd0S0LwhEDU)

My Memory:

Now I know you’re asking why. After all, Mike Jones? What? Well, to me this guy shall never be forgotten, even if he hasn’t made a hit single in five years.

Summer Jam happens to be one of the premier summer events for Seattleites. Held at the Columbia River Gorge – arguably the most stunning concert backdrop in America – it is the gathering of half a dozen or so of the best new and old acts around. In the summer of 2005, Mike Jones was one of those acts. So, a bunch of us, including myself made the trek to Eastern Washington (I don’t know why I went - I don’t like concerts, and I don’t like being around 30,000 drunk people after a three-hour drive.) Beside the point though.

We finagle our way into getting backstage passes (a guy I know from way back guest-raps with Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, who were also playing). An hour before Jones is set to go on stage, we go and meet him. He signs autographs (I immediately gave mine away), says a few words, and we move on to the next room. I will keep kosher and not elaborate too much, but let's just say the "rockstar" lifestyle is very, very real. We had an idea of what to expect, and this expectations were fulfilled.

The memorable part is that the guy proceeds to give one of the worst, most unwatchable performances in music history. The only irrefutable words I heard during his 30 minutes of rapping were, “Who, Mike Jones, Who, Mike Jones, Who?” Still, a valuable impression was made, and I’ll never forget the impact this man had on me. For the rest of the summer, I went around Seattle inexplicably saying “Who, Mike Jones” to poor by standards who probably thought I had a bad case of Turrets.

Side Note: “Back then they didn’t want me, now I’m hot, they all on me.” We used to say this was the life story of a friend of ours who made the NBA and all of a sudden, every girl wanted him. I don't know why these ridiculous lines always catch on, but they do, and oddly enough, they work.



What a movie! Okay, so this came out back in the day, but as an obsessive Husky fan, I quickly adopted "The Sixth Man" as my go-to film from the ages of 12 to dare I say 17? I hesitate to say such an asinine statement, but I imagine I’ve seen this movie upwards of 20 times. It contains everything a quality movie should: Marlon Wayans (a must), the annoying "we going Sizzler's" dude from "White Men Can't Jump," Seattle, UW, and of course, a ghost. Also, current Oklahoma State coach Travis Ford is the starting point guard on this team. Don’t even ask me how I know this. See this movie and you’ll fall in love. Absolutely robbed of an Oscar. Fine, Golden Globe? Fine, Independent Film Critics Sports Movie Featuring The Pacific Northwest Something Award? You won't be disappointed. “Big man for three!”



My Memory:

The classic case of a kid using the NCAA Tournament as a platform to up his draft stock. Ed O’Bannon made himself millions by dominating the Razorbacks “40 minutes of hell” with his ferocious style of play. Great college player, not so great NBA player. I was only 9 at the time, but Dad and I attended the Final Four at the Kingdome (R.I.P.) in Seattle.

(Me beloved Kingdome was the source of many of my best childhood moments, the 1995 Final Four included)

This became my first “wow, basketball is really cool moment.” It inspired me to wake up early before school every morning and work on “my game” – I mean at that point “my game” consisted of very little, but hey, I had to start somewhere right.

Side Note: Speaking of my younger playing days, an old friend and teammate of mine called me this week saying he came across a tape of us playing in the 5th Grade City Title game in Seattle. Apparently, I didn’t get the start, and my best play was a rebound putback that went off the side of the backboard and out of bounds. Like I said, I had very little game.

By the way, how did Jimmy ("I will cheat at all costs") Harrick win a title? Oh yeah, he cheated. Plus, don't forget that staff of Lorenzo Romar, Stevie Lavin and company. Good assistants make all the difference. Quick, conspiracy theory: head coaches in college are some of the biggest frauds around. Okay, maybe not all, but definitely some. Aside from recruiting, what do they really do? From my experience, very little. They're like managers who oversee, but don't actually do anything. Most of the plays are from the assistants, as are the scouting reports. Sure, HC's can bark out orders and look the part come game time (i.e. John Calipari), but what do they really do? How much of a team's success or lack thereof can truly be attributed to a head coach? The staff around him is just as if not more important.