Wasif's World

After another manager exited the Cubs clubhouse, it got me thinking about one of the great quandaries in sports – would you rather come close to winning or never have any shot at victory? In other words, would you rather be of the Gene Mauch Angels or the 1896 Providence Grays? (Who the heck are the Providence Grays? My point exactly.) To simplify the question, would you rather be the 2003 Cubs or all the other Cubs?

There are few constants in sports – a Norv Turner coached team won’t win, Mark Cuban will piss someone off at some point, fans in the U.S. will only show real interest in soccer once the country makes the World Cup finals, and the Cubs are destined to failure, most times never even putting up much of a fight, save for 1969, 1984, and most recently 2003.

On the other hand, a team like the Boston Red Sox, would regularly bring their teams to the brink of victory only to have their dreams crushed in the most ritualistically diabolical manner possible.

And if you’ve ever had your hopes dashed so historically at the last second, you’ll know it’s like winning a race around the globe where the winner gets a full week locked inside a hotel room with Megan Fox, only to have Megan replaced with Snooki from “Jersey Shore” at the last second. [Ugh. I threw up in my mouth just writing that sentence.]

There is actually an equation that explains this phenomenon:

t + p = x,

where t is time and p is persistence. x represents an undetermined contentment quotient upon the ultimate outcome of your team’s season.

For instance, the more time you put in and the more persistence you show over time, the greater your happiness will be when your team wins. This, of course, assumes that the team will someday win.

Though an assumption that a team will win can be foolish as it is possible the team will never win. [See: Chicago Cubs; any Cleveland team] Still the damage to your psyche is negligible as long as you don’t add the one element that ruins everything – expectation (h).

Then the equation changes to e + t + p = x/2 + ktb

so your ultimate happiness is halved relative to all that you’ve put in since nothing could live up to what you’ve built up in your mind as the end-all, be-all, plus ktb which is a kick to the balls, the emotional feeling you get when you are, in fact, kicked in the balls.

Look at the Tampa Bay Rays in 2008. They beat arch nemesis Boston in a thrilling seven games only to have their hearts handed to them by the Philadelphia Phillies. Wouldn’t it have been better for them to lose much earlier, particularly since their fan base goes to bed at 8 p.m.? They weren’t expected to do anything, until they started to do something.

To reach the ring, to hold the crown, to feel the golden ticket only to have it wrenched from your hands leaving a golden paper cut is a horrible feeling; though it doesn’t hurt as much if you’re used to it.

If your team has never won, you don’t know what you’re missing, though you’ve heard stories and seen celebrations. But like Cinderella herself, until you go to the ball, you don’t know that it’s an open bar with nothing but top shelf libations. You just know you’re sick of cleaning rat turd off your stepmother’s floor.

And it doesn’t hurt that much if you’ve experienced victory. You understand that the downs contained some ups and could potentially have some again. You can’t win them all (as much as Yankees fans will have you believe they can).

Once you refrain from using the “e” word, your frustrations will be more moderate. By now, Cubs fans have begun to wonder, “Maybe this is how it will always be, destined to fail.” And that’s fine. Expect that. Go, enjoy the games, and get ready for football season. If, by the (Mark) Grace of God, the team should happen to win, excellent – Enjoy it!

Oh, you can still get the tattoo of the team’s logo or name your kids after the team’s equipment manager or play-by-play announcer, but don’t expect too much, especially as the team progresses into the playoffs. That’s just what the evil powers pulling the strings would have you do. (Hm, did anyone else’s lights just flicker along with a boom of thunder?)

I quote the great Sam “Mayday” Malone when I say, “Have you ever had a pressure cooker fly by you at 100 m.p.h.? ... Don’t.”

Such is the feeling of losing in historically dramatic fashion at the end of a season instead of early on.

But don’t let me sway you. What about you, Mr. Orioles fan, are you content gearing up for Ravens’ season in May once you realize team owner Peter Angelos has not put a winning squad on the field? Or would you rather keep to the schedule of watching baseball through the pennant race in September then transitioning seamlessly into football just in time to watch Ray Lewis and the gang chasing a division title?

It’s up to you. I expect you to make the right decision ... Oh, dammit, there’s that word again. Now I’m vested. Don’t let me down; this could be very traumatic for me.

Testosterone through the roof. Must ... punch ... someone ... then make their home explode for no good reason.

I know this is a sports blog, but guys love sports. Guys also love fight scenes and explosions. So what better platform to review a true guy’s movie than SportsFanLive?

Warning: I’m going to spoil the movie “The Expendables” for you. This is not to say that you shouldn’t see it. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t go see it ... unless you’re a little girly man. That said, you shouldn’t go see it for any sort of revolutionary storytelling, which is why I can ruin the movie for you.

However, if you truly want to be “surprised,” fine, stop reading. Otherwise, light up a stogie, display that tattoo of your favorite bird of prey, and enjoy.

What we have in “The Expendables,” the latest from Academy-Award winning director Sylvester Stallone (Really? ... Is that right? ... Well, which academy? ... The one that does the movies? ... Seriously? ... That doesn’t sound right at all) is a fun movie whose action scenes make “MI:3” look like “The Notebook.”

Stallone put together a who’s who of every action hero from movies past. If Errol Flynn were still alive, he would have appeared in it too.

So we have Stallone, Jason Statham, Jet Li as the main leads, and then lesser characters on the team of mercenaries Terry Crews (who possesses the biggest guns, both literally and figuratively), Randy Couture, and Dolph Lundgren. A former member of the team is Mickey Rourke, who is given the only real chance to act in the movie.

Steve Austin, formerly both stone and cold, is the bad guy’s head henchman. And of course, Bruce Willis and the Gubernator, Arnold Schwarzenegger have cameos in one scene.

Jean Claude Van Damme was also offered a role but turned it down. He wanted a role with some juice to it. Uh, yeah, JCVD, if we wanted “acting,” we would’ve asked Sean Penn.

And Steven Seagal was asked too. He really had no excuse for not taking it.

Here’s the plot: A team of mercenaries cooler than "The A-Team” is hired to take out a general/dictator of a small South American island nation, but really, they’re there to take out the former CIA operative who’s controlling the general.

Here’s what happens:
Gun battle
Statham finds his girl with another man
Stallone gets contacted to do the job (Willis, Stallone and Schwarzenegger reunite in a church, sadly, and not in a Planet Hollywood)
Statham and Stallone go down to the island for reconnaissance work
Gun battle
Gun battle in an airplane
Dolph Lundgren turns rogue
Mickey Rourke showcases his acting chops
Statham takes on five weekend warriors playing hoops and stabs a basketball to death
Car chase with gun battle
Fight scene (Jet Li versus Dolph Lundgren)
Stallone shoots Lundgren from about 100 feet away, making sure to hit two inches above his heart, only mortally wounding him
Team mobilizes around general’s palace on island
Continuous gun battle mixed in with fight scenes
Fight scene (Stallone versus Austin)
Fight scene (Austin versus Couture who kills him -- hey, Couture needed something to do, right?)
Explosive destruction of island
Good guys save the day
Lundgren apologizes for his behavior and they all share a laugh about it

It does have a “Team America” feel to it. At the end, Stallone tells the daughter of the general, the damsel in distress, whose father was shot in the back by the CIA guy, “Take care of yourself” as he and his team leave the island.

The subtext is, “Your father’s dead and we’ve destroyed much of your beautiful island including anything of any historical significance ... You’re welcome.”

Are there plot discrepancies? That depends. What does "discrepancy" mean? (If you can answer that, you’re way too smart for this movie.)

First off, be warned, there are subtitles. The filmmakers chose to subtitle some of the Spanish spoken by the general and his army. However, they didn’t choose to subtitle most of the main actors. So much of the time, you’re wondering what the heck the Swedish Lundgren, the British Statham, the Chinese Li, the Austrian Schwarzenegger and the slurring Stallone are saying. Not that it matters much.

Steve Austin and Terry Crews were the most intelligible of the bunch (Willis and Rourke aside). Austin, if only because he says his lines deliberately and in a drill sergeant’s cadence – “DO ... YOU ... UNDERSTAND ... ME?!” The Southern drawl is your only obstacle for understanding him, but it’s not that bad.

(For the record, if I ever run into any of these guys, I thought they were the most brilliant actors I’ve ever seen and you can’t prove I said otherwise, ya hear me?!)

A friend remarked to me during the post-mortem held in the lobby after every movie seen in a Hollywood theatre that Stallone looked like he was in between steroid cycles or just coming down from one that’s lasted about 30 years. Unfortunately, his body may still look like that of a 40-year-old, but it runs like someone in his mid-60s. Having him pulling the girl to freedom while she’s actually pulling him was humorous.

STALLONE: “Quick, come with me!”

DAMSEL IN DISTRESS: “Uh, I’m in front of you.”

The funniest moment (and there were several of them) was when Terry Crews unleashes his gun. Though it’s more like a mini-rocket launcher that can fire at a machine gun clip. Just when you get sick of hearing high-pitched machine gun fire, he starts unloading low-pitched machine gun fire.

Then Crews finds Stallone trying to lift some big, combustible metal tank. He offers to help, “What do you want me to do with it?”

“Just throw it as high in the air as you can over that thing over there that we want to explode. I’m gonna shoot it!” And with a mighty grunt, Crews chucks it in the air, and in his best skeet shooting maneuver, Stallone shoots it causing whatever wasn’t already exploded to explode.

One thing that may get overlooked in the shuffle is Stallone’s ability to reload a pistol. It truly is legendary and underused. Apparently he can reload while still firing. Impressive.

Overall, this movie will win the Oscar for “Most Explosions.” And if there isn’t an award for that, there should be. Also, it should have taken over the title of “highest body count.” It’s up there with previous record holder “Hot Shots: Part Deux.”

You don’t always know who’s punching whom, but you can be sure, when someone goes down, it’s going to be the bad guys.

In conclusion, the next time you face an army of hundreds and only have enough money to hire six people, look no further than “The Expendables.”

I’m going to go chew on some metal now.

They say the sun rises in the East ... unless he’s on the West Coast.

It’s not every night you get to meet “The Most Interesting Man In The World.” Township maybe, city perhaps, tri-county region unlikely, but the most interesting man in the world? No. So when you do, you stop what you’re doing and you take notice, for you know it’s not just any occasion. It must be the most interesting event in the world. And on Thursday August 12, at the Century Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles, it was.

I mean, we’re not talking about dime story sports figures at the 10th Annual Harold Pump Foundation dinner. Harold Pump -- though falsely recognized as the inventor of the “pump” fake where he would fake the shot, and then when you jumped to contest it, he’d kick you in the balls -- was actually the father of foundation founders Dana and David. He succumbed to cancer in 1999 and the foundation helps raise money for the Northridge Hospital’s cancer center.

This was not your run-of-the-mill, haul-out-the-retread celebrities (“Hey, is that Floyd Landis over there?”) dinner. No, this was le crème de la soul and I got to attend. Yep, me, myself and I. Definitely an interesting guest list.

Yes, he’s "the most interesting man in the world," but I set out to see if he was even the most interesting man in the room. Yes, sir, "the most interesting man in the world" had some competition.

“His blood smells like cologne”

Gale Sayers, among the top five running backs of all-time, was an early arrival, slowly making his way down the carpet, but not too focused that he wouldn’t spend a moment with this admirer. “Mr. Sayers, I once wrote a book report about you, and I remember that it was the first time I read the term ‘intestinal fortitude.’ Tell me, how did you get so much fortitude into your intestines?”

He looked at me for a moment like I had three heads, a most interesting thought, and then laughed as he moved in closer. “Listen, I did what I could with my God-given abilities.”

He went on to say that Barry Sanders was the running back he admired the most because they shared lots of the same abilities.

It’s interesting to think that Emmitt Smith, the leading rusher of all-time, who just got enshrined into the Hall of Fame, is not generally regarded with the same reverence as these two, though certainly still one of the greatest of all-time, just a rung below.

Say, with whom did Emmitt get elected into the Hall of Fame? Oh, yeah, that guy over there.

“His legend precedes him, the way lightning precedes thunder.”

Jerry Rice walked by, and was more than gracious to give each member of the press his time. He’d conducted upwards of two million interviews during his time in the league and since, but the last few weeks had to feel like Super Bowl Media Day all over again, for he was the star.

“Jerry ... may I call you Jerry?” He had soft eyes just like his hands, all the better for looking another touchdown straight into his gloves and running for daylight. He looked me right in the eye.

“Jerry, who, in your opinion, is the best receiver playing today?” I asked, almost repulsed by the

hackneyed nature of the question.

“Aw, c’mon, man, there are so many – Larry Fitzgerald, Randy Moss, Terrell Owens (watch out, he’s going to have a big year this year), Ochocinco, Andre Johnson.”

“Thanks, Jerry.” Hmm. He was humble and polite, quite interesting given that lots of receivers now just want the damn ball.

Though there’s not always something wrong with a football player with an oversized personality.

“His personality is so magnetic, he is unable to carry credit cards.”

Speaking of which, here comes Deion Sanders! DEION Sanders!!! He’s the only player in history to hit a home run and score a touchdown in the same week (in two different sports, not in the failed endeavor "Basefootball").

But this night is much more interesting to him than his achievements. “To be among my heroes,” he started, naming the list of attendees. “I even called Denzel ‘Dad’ at one point.”

Hmm, that’s very interesting. Perhaps if we had more time and a leather couch, you could elaborate

more on that.

But though you are a Hall of Fame personality, you’re not officially in the Hall of Fame like this guy coming down the carpet now.

“His beard alone has experienced more than a lesser man’s entire body.”

In this case, it was his moustache. It’s recognized before he is. It’s hypnotic; you can’t look away as much as you may try. I even noticed the “Entertainment Tonight” crew interviewed his mustache and ignored the man.

It’s Rollie Fingers, one of only four players to have his number retired by the Oakland A’s. Let’s see if he can name the other three.

“Well, there’s Reggie ... I gotta say Rickey ... and ‘Catfish’ Hunter.”

Is he right? How many readers say, “Yes?” If you agree with Rollie, you’re ...

[This trivia moment has been brought to you by Old Spice. Smell like a man, man.]

Back to the trivia contest to reveal that Rollie Fingers, one of the greatest closers in baseball history, got two out of three. Rickey Henderson has not had his number retired by the Oakland A’s (probably

because the A's don't want to reward a man who's mainly known as a thief), but Dennis Eckersley has. Thanks for playing, Rollie.

He definitely has the most interesting mustache in baseball history. And he’s been an MVP before. Who else here has been an MVP?

“He is the only person to ever ace a Rorschach Test.”

Steve Garvey was there. He’s one of only four people to win multiple All-Star Game MVPs. (Can you name the other three? If so, you get a cookie ... assuming you can find a cookie.) But he’s more impressed with the fact that he’s 10-0 in All-Star Games. Hmm, that's perfect ... and very interesting.

The other three, by the way, are Willie Mays, Gary Carter and Cal Ripken Jr. Now Cal, he’s another classy guy, right Steve? Say, who was that Hall of Famer he played with?

“If he were to punch you in the face, you’d have to fight off the urge to thank him.” Never mind. Here comes Eddie Murray now. I can ask him in person.

You know, I never noticed it before, but Eddie Murray has a good mustache as well. Interesting.

“Eddie, you’re the second most successful switch hitter of all-time (after Mickey Mantle), you’ve won a World Series, driven in the winning run in Game 3 of another World Series (1995), multiple All-Star appearances ... do you ever sit back in your living room, an iced tea in your hand, and think about all your accolades, saying to yourself, “Wow, I did all that?”

Eddie stared at me. He seems less amenable to questioning than Jim Rice earned a reputation for. He took a breath and started, “You know, people were always pushing me to look at my accomplishments while I was playing and I didn’t want any part of it.”

Uh oh, I thought this was going to get messy. Not that Eddie Murray was known for fits of temper, but it could’ve gone downhill in a hurry.

“But now that I’ve been out of the game for a while, yeah, I am proud about what I did.”

Phew! That ended well. Crisis averted.

“Y’know, Eddie, I grew up as a Red Sox fan ...”

He rolled his eyes.

D’oh! I’ve done it again. Quick, cower! No one would dare hit a man while he cowers. "I was an Eddie Murray fan and always enjoyed watching you play.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

And with that, he was gone. That was an interesting exchange and did nothing to harm my opinion of Eddie Murray. In fact, it only enhanced it, though I did forget to ask him if he was related to Anne. Hmm, that would make for an interesting family reunion.

Oooo, I can’t spend too much time thinking about that now as “Big Shot Rob” Horry was nearing. His ability to connect in the clutch is most interesting, but I was caught up in a conversation with an interesting subject already and missed my shot.

“He has amassed an amazingly large DVD collection, and has never once alphabetized it.”

I was speaking with Don Newcombe, the only player in baseball history to have won a Cy Young, Most Valuable Player andRookie of the Year award. And since they’re really not giving MVPs to pitchers anymore, it’s probably not going to change. Is Strasburg eligible for the Rookie of the Year next year? He won’t be. That’s interesting.

“He once punched a magician. That’s right, you heard me.”

Now things got really interesting as Sugar Ray Leonard stopped over. With all these synthetically created sweetners out there like saccharin and sucralose, it’s darn nice to see someone all-natural like Sugar.

“Sugar Ray, I grew to know you from the Hagler fight. We know that you came out on top there, but tell me, who’s the better actor?

“Well,” Sugar Ray positioned his feet as a fighter would to square off, for this question was no easy opponent. He put his hands out like we were going to play “slapsies,” and tried to indicate the level of acting ability each fighter had. “See, Marvin, he’s up here, but I’m ...” Sugar couldn’t allow the five-fingered representation of himself to float below the hand standing in for Hagler.

He continued, “... Marvin, he’s a character actor. He’s better looking than me.” So you’re more the leading man, I offered. He laughed and we had that settled. That was muy interesante.

“He lives vicariously . . . through himself.”

Dr. J is that type of person who would live vicariously through himself. Another book report subject, he was my favorite basketball player growing up. I tailored my game as a chubby Jewish kid with glasses and no vertical leap to be like his. And by “tailored my game,” I mean, I pulled my socks up to my knees.

"The first game I ever attended was at the Boston Garden, the game where you got into it with Larry Bird."

“Well, that was an exhibition,” Dr. J said.

“It certainly was an exhibition,” I responded, recalling the spectacle of one legend teaching another one some manners.

“No,” he said, “it was an exhibition game.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. It was October.” It’s interesting that I wouldn’t remember that.

“Sure, anything can happen in an exhibition,” he added, indicating to me that there was nothing more to the fight.

Well, to talk to Dr. J, a man who I said had reinvented the way the game was played, was a treat.

He, by the way, claims “that’s not universally acknowledged” and then modestly described how he just wanted to bring the ABA style to the NBA.

Tomata, tomatoe, I say, Doctor. It worked and generations of players and fans respected what he did for the game.

Sheesh, isn’t there anyone who isn’t among the top professional athletes of all-time?

“He once had an awkward moment, just to see how it feels.”

Hey, here comes Jaleel White! Quite possibly the coolest man to walk the carpet that night made a career out of having awkward moments and cutting them with a nasally, “Did I do that?” The man known as Urkel on “Family Matters” oozed cool in his suit and dress hat.

He sang doo-wop on a recent episode of the USA Network series “Psych.” Though he won’t be releasing a singing album, he’s writing, producing, and starring in his own web series, utilizing all his talents. It’s called, “Fake It Til You Make It.” Check it out on his website. I just watched it and it’s funny and, dare I say, interesting.

Speaking of faking it ...

“Even his enemies list him as their emergency contact number.”

All right, let’s get this straight once and for all – for the past few years, I’ve had to put up with Jerry, the Colts fan, claiming that former New England Patriots linebacker Willie McGinest faked an injury at the end of a Colts-Pats contest just to get a breather, only to return to the game and stop Edgerrin James cold on fourth down at the goal line, thus solidifying the win for Belichick's Bruisers.

“First of all, I was out for two plays," McGinest said. "No one would ever tempt fate to fake an injury like that. You just don’t mess with that.”

So there you have it, Colts fan Jerry. In case you still have questions about it, why don’t you ask all 6-foot-5, 270 pounds of him yourself. Or better yet, ask this next guy coming down the carpet.

“He’s a lover, not a fighter ... but he’s also a fighter, so don’t get any ideas.”

Oscar-nominated actor Michael Clarke Duncan ambled down the red rug. I feel a kindred spirit to the “Green Mile” actor and “Two and a Half Men” recurring guest star. For you see, I weigh 170 pounds and so does one of his arms.

“What kind of sports were you into as a little, er, young kid?” I inquired upon the 300-plus pound man.

“Basketball and football. And I loved baseball. Anything Chicago. But I’m taking jiu-jitsu now.”

That’s both interesting and frightening. So now, instead of just crushing someone, you can throw them as well? Here’s my number. Let’s grapple someday. I’ll demonstrate my “figure-four pee-in-my-pants lock.”

“Years ago, he created a city out of blocks. Today, over 600,000 people live and work there.”

But of all those in attendance, each with reason to be honored, it was the man walking through the paparazzi now that deserved the most praise – Hank Aaron, Hall of Famer and Home Run King.*

The evening was to raise money for cancer research and prevention, but also to honor the excellence both on and off the field done by “Hammerin’ Hank” and his fellow honorees, Muhammed Ali and Denzel Washington. Talk about interesting.

It was truly a collection of the greatest, most interesting men in the sports and entertainment world.


But still, in many ways they cannot hold a candle to “the most interesting man in the world.” I spoke with him for about 10 minutes, each minute more interesting than the last.

In real life, Jonathan Goldsmith has appeared on myriad television shows, including a recurring role on “Dallas;” he’s a philanthropist; he lives on a yacht; he’s saved two people from drowning, in separate instances; he’s thrown out the first pitch at Dodger Stadium; he’s met Jim Thorpe; and he doesn’t always drink beer.

“I’m having a martini tonight. But you know, you should try the amber beer. A lot of people are not partial to amber, but I’m here to tell you, it’s quite good. There are many other uses for beer too. You can cook with it; my wife uses it to shampoo her hair.”

That's fascinating. I could've listened to him talk all night, but he had other people to regale with tales of his choosing.

So I had my answer. Among the most interesting, there is no one more interesting than “the most interesting man in the world.”

Stay thirsty, my friends.

*Home Run King among non-steroid users

Growing up the son of a milkman and C.I.A. operative/P.T.A. treasurer mom in suburban Boston, I remember going to Fenway Park and seeing the lettering on the padded wall behind home plate that read, “No Pepper.”

Today, it’s gone, but there’s no truer statement to reflect the current state of what is frequently referred to as “the greatest rivalry in sports” and what is less frequently referred to as “so boring, I would rather watch a bird pick mites out of his feathers than tune in.” But the prevailing mindset may be shifting.

The Red Sox-Yankees rivalry needs spice! There’s no pepper, nor is there paprika, oregano, parsley, sage, rosemary, and there’s definitely no thyme.

But you know what they say, there’s no thyme like the present. [Ahem] You’ll graciously excuse my horrendous pun. Thank you.

There’s no time like the present to fix this. We know of the history and its explosive elements between the two teams, and subsequently their fans, but it quickly morphs into ancient history. And baseball is about entertaining people, correct? Unfortunately, the baseball season is so long, they’ve run out of story lines and we've become nonplussed with much of what we see.

It’s like the news. They’ve got to come up with stuff every day, which is why news bureaus send employees out from time to time to start fires or kidnap a baby or something like that.

Baseball needs to start manufacturing some excitement. Like the WWE (or the NBA) writing its own material, so, too, should baseball. In fact, why not hire their writers for a season or two to get you going?

Imagine a scenario where at one moment during the All-Star game, Derek Jeter and Dustin Pedroia are turning double plays together. They're high-fiving like best pals impressed by their grace and synchronicity.

Then, all of sudden, the next moment, when Pedey suddenly notices that Jeter’s getting more applause than he is, his jealousy takes over. The next time Jeter stands at the bag to turn two, instead of a lightly tossed ball right into his glove, he gets a rocket fired at his head knocking him out. He comes to with the diminutive Red Sox second baseman on top of him unleashing a fury of lefts and rights to his noggin as the crowd counts them out, “... SIX ... SEVEN ... EIGHT ...” as a couple of umpires stand harmlessly by pleading with the him to stop.

That, my friends, would get the rivalry started again.

Oh, and he could have like a signature finishing move where he puts a Yankee in a headlock and holds one of his rank workout T-shirts in his face until the guy turns green. He could call it “The Green Monster.”

The whole issue speaks to the flaws of the unbalanced schedule and interleague play. Back in the old days, the teams met each other a uniformed four times, for three games at a clip (barring the ol’ twi-night doubleheader). Twice at home, twice away; twice before the All-Star game, twice after. That's how it should be.

Either go with 12 games a year or 162 with no in between.

If you have the two teams face each other 162 times a year, they’ll start to hate the way A-Rod adjusts his batting gloves or Papi’s spitting will start to make their stomachs crawl or just Posada’s ears will piss them off. There will be blood.

Brandon Phillips has the right idea. He hates the Cardinals. I mean, really hates the Cardinals. You can just tell he does by the way he tells you he does.

However, it really doesn’t carry much past that. Because it’s the Cardinals. Their fans are so nice, they’ll probably offer to take Phillips out on the town to show him the amenities of their city.

The fans aren’t going to get into it. And Cincinnati doesn’t even have its own airport. It’s in Kentucky. That’s not going to be good for a rivalry. No one wants to fly into a different state just to cross the state line to go torment and harass Reds fans.

Boston fans used to believe that Yankees fans would shut their collective holes if the Red Sox won. Well, they did, and it didn’t happen. Now they’re resigned to living with them like some ingrown toenail that hurts when they walk.

And Yankees fans, well, they really haven’t changed. They’ve just ratcheted up the murder of Red Sox fans in the last decade from zero to two. So don’t mess with them.

But that’s off the field. We need to get that kind of stuff on the field. (Um, not the murder as that is wrong in most circumstances pertaining to sports.)

We need to get back to the old days. Carlton Fisk didn’t need a reason to beat the crap out of

Thurman Munson. He just needed an opportunity. Pedro Martinez probably would’ve thrown Don Zimmer down after the game in the street if he didn’t get a chance on the field.

Remember when Clemens threw a ball up by Manny’s head and Manny shouted some things to him while pointing and approaching the mound? We need that type of emotion; almost an unnatural level of emotion.

I’m just spinning here, but what if we introduced some sort of synthetically-engineered substance that causes flashes of anger along with enhanced athletic performance?

Nah! That’s just crazy talk.

Maybe add one Pakistani player to one team and an Indian player on the other. Those countries hate each other so that might start some hate. Or add a kid. When a sitcom starts to fail, they always add a kid which makes it – er ... fail faster. (OK, forget the kid.)

How about if the Red Sox name former pitcher Bill "Spaceman" Lee their manager and the Yankees can hire Graig Nettles to be their manager? “Spaceman” hates the Yankees. And he reportedly carries a baseball card of Nettles in his back pocket so the former Yankees hot corner attendant is constantly kissing his rear end. Nettles, by the way, wasn’t waiting for any invitation to slam Lee to the ground damaging his pitching shoulder. It’s just the way it was back then.

Sure, it could be cyclical, but do we really want to wait another 20 years to see an on-field battle? What would we tune in for? Baseball? Ha! Get serious.

Dustin Pedroia, what do you think?

“Let me tell you somethin’, Wasif! All the fans in all the bars in all the towns of Red Sox Nation are lookin’ for me to take out the Evil Empire. And that’s what I’ve been thinkin’ about for a long time. And you know what I’m gonna do? DO YOU KNOW WHAT I'M GONNA DO?! I’m gonna unleash a double play combination of rights and lefts on those little pathetic pansies. Whatcha gonna do, New York Yankees, when the Green Monster comes crashing down on you?!”

Now that's some spice.

Baseball enters its final phase – the pennant race. Now that the trading deadline has come and gone marking an end to all trades (except the ones that happen after the trading deadline), we can focus on the matter at hand – watching the Phillies and Yankees make it to the World Series.

I mean, seriously, is there any doubt of that? Oh, right, the Padres are going to “shock the world.” First of all, the local news barely covers that team, how is the world ever going to hear about it? Secondly, the team scores less than Cliff Clavin did (yet still more than the Dodgers).

Oh, but the Braves have some good, young talent.

Oh, but the Braves have some good, young talent. That’s me mocking you in my high-pitched italic font. You’re so naïve, it’s really quite adorable.

We all knew that only six teams had a chance to win entering this year. It’s how you can tell the difference between baseball and basketball; one is built for six teams to have a chance to win and the other only has four potential winners on a yearly basis. (Oh, that and one sport has more black people.)

Even those odds were too great for the big market juggernauts in New York and Philly. They had to narrow the playing field. The Phillies were a mess earlier which is the only reason other teams are still in it. And they got rid of Cliff Lee! If they had him, they’d have sown it up by now, which is why they picked up Roy Harvey Oswalt. (His middle name’s not “Harvey,” but doesn’t it feel like it should be in there?) They didn’t like having to work so hard.

Now they have Cole Hamels, who was the only lefty better than Lee until last year, and is an ace on most other teams; they have Roy Halladay who has already thrown one perfect game this year; and now, they have Oswalt who pitched the Astros into the World Series by himself in 2005. Where’s the challenge in that?

Then we have the Yankees. As if their lineup wasn’t enough to support their pitching staff (they did win the World Series last year, y’know), then they upgraded in centerfield, DH, and added more pitching.

They lost a few games and decided they needed to upgrade even further. So they got Lance Berkman. Naturally. And Kerry Wood. Of course. And Austin Kearns. Why not? The All-Star team didn’t have as many big name players as the Yankees do.

The Yankees hit the deadline like Paris Hilton hits the mall. “I want one of those and get me one of those and I’ll take ten of those ... and I want another dog to have something in my Milan estate when I visit.”

Oh, but their middle relief is “suspect.” Who cares? In October, your middle relief is Andy Pettitte and Javier Vasquez.

The Red Sox are among the six who go into each year with a shot at the crown, but have been so decimated by injury that they only have the fifth best record in the league right now. Imagine if they had more than five regulars among their starting nine and more than two pitchers healthy for the entire season.

Hey, what about the Angels? They added Dan Haren.

Again, that’s adorable. And the Dodgers got Scott Podsednik. Well, at least he can show them his ring, cuz they sure as heck aren’t getting ones of their own.

Can we just cut to the chase here? C’mon, Selig, start the World Series now. The NFL has started training camp and the closer they get to the season (the Hall of Fame game is next week!), the lower your numbers get. It’s downright embarrassing. Save some face and play your ace-in-the-hole now.

You’ll have two major markets with passionate fans driving ratings through the roof while the only talk right now is what Terrell Owens and Chad Ochocinco talk about during their lunch break.

The window is small, Bud, and it’s shrinking fast. Summer playoffs; I like it! That would make you a forward thinker. You came up with the wild card and that seems to be a success (after foolishly expanding to increase the need for the wild card system, but that’s another story); you came up with interleague play; and you implemented steroid testing only ten years too late ... so let’s go for the Grand Salami here!

Right now, Phils and Yanks, best-of-seven (starting in Philly this year thanks to Joe Giraldi’s decision not to pinch run for David Ortiz), let’s give America what they’re waiting for ... well, before football.

Sure, you won’t carry the Baltimore market ... or Cincy ... probably not anywhere west of Cleveland ... oh, that reminds me, Cleveland won’t watch either. But you’ll get New York and Philly ... and Boston (whose only desire will be for both teams to implode by some sort of scientific phenomena caused by the excess gaseous vapor generated by both sets of fanatics).

It’s your only hope. With basketball’s popularity in the ol’ dumper, America wants baseball to do well. Otherwise, we’ll be stuck watching jai alai matches on ESPN Doze to pass the summer months until ... well, until right now.

Did you hear Albert Haynesworth didn’t pass his conditioning test? Or that Darrelle Revis is sitting on his island instead of participating in training camp? Of course you did, because it’s football season!

Did you hear relief pitcher Scott Downs stayed put in Toronto? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

That’s all I’m going to say. Tom Brady’s talking to the press about what it’s like to be a father. I’ve got to watch.

“It was my understanding there would be no math during the debate.” -- President Gerald Ford (Chevy Chase, 1975)

It’s funny. We, as Americans, turn to baseball to get away from the daily chaos of our trying lives and the strife we must endure. Baseball offers us a peaceful calming calm peace with its simplistic rules and slow pacing. (Of course, if you’re a fan of the Cubs, it serves as the main cause of your strife.) But that’s changing now as the sport contains more mathematics than you ever had to deal with in school.

Where we used to consider whether we wanted just peanuts or cracker jacks at the ballpark (why not have them both?!), now we’re forced to spend the down-time (95 percent of a game) understanding calculations with concepts we deliberately ignored in school, if not skipped altogether.

A new motto has been born: Baseball – It’s Math Class, Only with Beer

Baseball has become decidedly more academic. But is that a good thing for the sport? A recent study of 890 baseball fans revealed that just over 146 percent of them didn’t like math and found routine concepts such as percentages tough to grasp.

Instead of “see the ball, hit the ball” – the most famous Pete Rose quote before his now more famous quote, “See the game, bet on the game” – it’s become “How often do they pitch a certain pitch? How will hitting this first ball affect the rest of the balls I might see and, therefore, the game? Where should I hit it? How are they playing me?”

Remember the good old days when you just had to know the basics? Just give me batting average (comma) home runs (comma) runs batted in and we’re done. “How’s he doing?” “He’s hitting .280, 24, 91.” “Good enough for me. Put him in the All-Star game!”

I remember Jim Rice (excuse me, that’s Hall-of-Famer Jim Rice) always considered it a good year when he hit .300, 30, 100. He liked big round numbers. And therefore, we liked him.

But those big round numbers weren’t enough for the powers that be. There’s so much more to baseball than just batting in runs and hitting a ball over a fence. With the escalation of salaries causing stadium parking rates to bankrupt formerly wealthy families, every measurable now must be, well, measured. No player gets through without a thorough stat check.

On-base percentage is the new “golden stat” nowadays. Batting average is so passé, what with its average of batting and all. Yessir, O.B.P. – “You down with OBP? Yeah, you know me ” — is the new darling because it, get this, includes walks. It’s the difference between a chocolate sundae with whipped cream and a chocolate sundae with whipped cream and nuts. (Unless you’re allergic to nuts and then you should stay far away from on-base percentage.)

This calculates the percentage of time that a player reaches base. “Time,” of course, limits the dividend to only consider time spent at-bat and does not include a player’s time in the bathroom, at home, playing with his kids at the beach, sleeping in the clubhouse, or other non-game activities. Otherwise, I’m sure the numbers would be lower considering that someone like Albert Pujols spends a healthy eight hours per night sleeping.

The new breed of general manager loves this stat. If the government were to legalize interpronounal marriages and allow humans to marry stats, many GMs would pick this one to be their lawfully wedded significant other.

But the additional numbers don’t stop there. Seemingly out of nowhere over the past decade, the “basics” have given way to a glut of new stats. A baseball stat sheet reads more like a company’s prospectus, and has more numbers than a drum full of Lotto balls.

You can make a ratio for any two stats, really. BB/K is the number of walks received for every strikeout. 1B/GS is the number of singles for every grand slam slammed. BS/HT is, of course, the number of bats splintered to every holdout threatened by a player. GO/TL measures ground outs per every torn ligament a player has suffered. And TR/IF is the number of tickets requested by a player per the number of members in his immediate family. (That’s an important stat for the traveling secretary.)

Over the past few years alone, we’ve encountered a seismic shift that has led to an integration between simple, wholesome baseball stats and complex, evil calculus.

The man responsible for much of this is Bill James, otherwise known as “Wild Bill” (by no one other than me). He is the chief architect in what is being called “the Nerd Movement” (again, by no one other than me). The Kansas native and baseball writer has turned player evaluation on its ear with formulas that allow anyone to determine what will happen for sure, without a doubt ... unless it doesn’t.

He created Sabermetrics which, of course, is named after former Kansas City Royals star Bret Saberhagen which comes from the Dutch word SABR meaning Society for American Baseball Research and hagendaas, meaning “ice cream.”

These new general managers who never played an inning on the field as youngsters, but “batted clean up” for their middle school’s Math Olympiad squad are now en vogue. (En Vogue, on the other hand, hasn’t come out with a decent R&B song since the early 90s leaving many to wonder what ever happened to them and many more to wonder what the hell I’m talking about.) They subscribe to Sabermetrics religiously, many of them majoring in it at business school.

Instead of just looking at a pitcher and getting a feel for a pitcher’s stuff, James’ guide takes the guesswork out of player acquisition and promotion.

Take the situation of a pitcher jumping from the National League to the American League. The AL is known to have stronger lineups so it stands to reason a pitcher’s Earned Run Average will jump. How do you know if your new player won’t suck it up under the bright lights and loud bats of the new league?

In the old days, you would just sign him and tune in to talk radio to figure out how much he sucked. You don’t have to wait for an actual game anymore. Predicting a player’s performance can be done with this standard metric devised by Bill James's disciple Jim Hassenpfeffer who describes it here:

You add a pitcher's E.R.A. in his home league, walks to strike-out ratio, balls hit out of play, percentage of foul tips that glance off the umpire, and average number of signs shaken off, then divide that by the number of calluses built up on his pitching hand and if you've got a MTZLPLK under 18.76, chances are you've got yourself a winner.

It makes a lot of sense. In 2005, the Red Sox signed Matt Clement away from the Chicago Cubs to a lucrative deal because his MTZLPLK was a glowing 13.90 which meant that he would pitch well until just after the All-Star break when a batted ball would careen off his noggin causing him to suck for the rest of his career.

This type of projection is not unique in the offices of professional clubs. They can even rate you when you don’t play. It’s called VORP and it means “value over replacement player.” It calculates if one player is better than a fictitious guy they could certainly get to replace him.

This logical analysis proposes that most players on the field suck and can be easily replaced by other less sucky players. It was created by “Ron from Queens” who calls in with a trade suggestion every time the Mets lose.

There is still a small portion of baseball aficionados who don’t need these stats. They just need what they see in front of them. Did he make an out or not? Does he look scared stiff or not? It’s olde-timey baseball at its best.

Which reminds me of a story – the first batter hits a fly ball to the center fielder, who makes a nice running catch. A guy sitting in the bleachers writes it down and then turns to the man next to him and says, “Score that play an 8."

The next batter hits it directly to the right fielder who catches it in his tracks. The scorekeeper writes that one down and says, “Score that play a 9,” at which point the man leans over to him and says, “I though the first catch was better.”

This is the problem with baseball today – too much time for these stories. It beats doing math though.

Trying to figure out my next blog to write, I looked at the calendar and realized that this week marks my one-year anniversary here at SportsFanLive. (No, please, I don’t want any gifts; your readership is enough. Besides, what would I do with a second horse’s head to go along with the one a Raiders fan sent me after one of my previous blogs?)

So much has happened in the world of sports over this time that I thought I’d take this opportunity, if you’ll indulge me, to recap the events I’ve blogged about during the past year. (If not, that’s fine too. Just reading to this point has allowed my computer virus enough time to access all your personal files and send them to me. So your readership and all your confidential information is enough.)

In order to remain consistent with engaging content, I’ve been fortunate enough to have a supportive leadership team at the website, a slew of fascinating stories to follow, but mainly, it’s been the fans who have been my rock, my Dwayne Johnson, if you will.

Yes, it is you, the reader, who have been so kind to me over the past year and I am so grateful. Your comments let me know you care. Rest assured, I read them all and please know that the comments about my mother and the female body parts that I resemble have been much appreciated. Sports and the opinions associated with it should never be treated flippantly and demand an overly critical eye toward the subjective.

I cherish our relationship. It’s because I feel so close to you that I’ve trusted you enough to bare my soul. (Or is it bear my soul? What does that even mean? Is that where Brian Urlacher tackles my celestial inner being?) For instance, I came out to you in this, the most public forum, in announcing my love for Peyton Manning, which screamed in opposition to my positive feelings for Bill Belichick. I didn’t care who knew it.

I relived a most painful experience of my being picked off second base by the hidden ball trick in what was actually a balk. So instead of third base, I was forced to sit on the pine, a most heinous crime perpetuated upon me by “the ill-informed.” Even now, it still makes me well up, but I felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable in front of you all.

I shared the tale of my day sitting amongst Raider Nation at San Diego’s Qualcomm Stadium. Instead of finding them dangerous as I had expected, I was surprised to learn that they’re nothing more than really very scary people who you don’t want to look in the eyes.

Yes, we’ve been through quite a 12-month period together, haven’t we? We’ve witnessed some incredible events like an entire tournament of curling, each time alternatively wondering why we were watching and making plans to take up curling with the goal of participating in the 2014 Winter Games in Russia; we watched the World Cup, longing for the excitement of curling; we watched a five-set tennis match that lasted longer than the Orioles season before being mathematically eliminated from playoff contention; we saw the best heavyweight battle we’ve seen in years in the McCourt v. McCourt fight (they’re talking sequel); and we saw a 28-out perfect game, which is most definitely once in a lifetime!

And we laughed together too. Remember when Mercury Morris tried to act relevant, like his 1972 Dolphins team’s 17 consecutive wins still meant something even though teams like the Patriots and Colts surpass it routinely? Or when the Philadelphia Phillies fan outran the guy with the Taser gun ... for a few seconds?

And then there was the time Mark McGwire told us he did steroids, as if it was a big reveal akin to the “Sixth Sense” or “The Usual Suspects.” Instead, it came off with all the suspense of an ESPN special to announce where Brian Scalabrine is going to end up playing next year.

This year was not without life lessons as well, like the fact that men entering Yankee Stadium are forced to check their bags across the street for $7, but then can literally climb into a woman’s purse or duffel bag and be smuggled into the park without even a suspicious glance.

We also learned that Big Papi doesn’t ask what’s in his “protein shakes” and Manny likes to get in touch with his feminine side with a cycle of drugs for women.

Oh, and we also learned that it was Derek Jeter that was leaking the names of those players on the infamous steroid user list. (Disclaimer: I’m the one that started that rumor.) (Disclaimer on the disclaimer: Or did I?)

But one giant lesson that we learned from Tiger Woods was that if you’re going to cheat, don’t text. Remember, texters never win and winners never text.

Though I can’t blame him for his mistake, for I’ve made mistakes too. For instance, I thought there was no way the Lakers and Celtics would’ve been able to “flip a switch” and start playing well through the playoffs after coasting through the end of the season. Well, like Arthur Fonzarelli, I am more than man enough to admit when I was wr--, when I was wrooo--, when I was wrrrrrrrrr--; well, nobody’s perfect.

And speaking of the Lakers, their fans were the focus of most of my attacks this year, but only because – well, they’re still around. I must apologize. I had originally planned for them to get all of my attacks. I promise that I will do better next year.

To all of you who’ve enjoyed a year of blogs, thanks for reading. And to you Lakers fans out there, thanks for finding someone to read this to you, explaining all the big words.

(See, never let it be said that I don’t keep a promise.)

On Tuesday July 13, 2010, George Steinbrenner, the most prolific owner in American sports, passed away at the age of 80. Love him or hate him, or really, really hate him, he turned baseball into what it is today – a sport symbolizing everything that makes America, more specifically, capitalism great to Yankees fans, and the downfall of American society, more specifically, a flaw in the free-market system to fans of other teams, including the Yankees' many Triple A farm clubs, i.e. the Pittsburgh Pirates, the Kansas City Royals, the Washington Nationals, et al.

Though he was typically known as an irrational, reactionary blowhard, the man was undoubtedly a great business man and a huge baseball fan. His desire to win at all costs (reaching more than a billion dollars throughout this past decade) proved to be successful after the 1994 work stoppage and subsequent Collective Bargaining Agreement that we now adhere to came into play.

His oversized personality was on wide display for all to see, yet most people really don’t know the reasonable man beneath the harsh veneer. Here, for your education, is the biography of the one they called Mr. Steinbrenner:

STEINBRENNER: The Unauthorized Biography*
*Number of sources used in research (0)

George Michael Steinbrenner III was born on Independence Day in 1930. Known best as the principal owner of the New York Yankees, he was also known as “The Boss,” “the guy who ruined baseball,” “Steinfuhror,” “Darth Steinbrenner,” “****sucker,” and “Tiny” to his friends at the golf club.

Born in Rocky River, Ohio, young Georgie grew up in a suburb of Cleveland during the Great Depression. During those lean years, he was forced to sell apples off a cart to help his family make ends meet. But other vendors complained when he would steal the best apples off of their carts and put them with his own.

Known as a shrewd kickball captain in grade school, he always found the best players by giving them more cookies than the other captains. His teams set records for best offensive production for a team and consecutive wins (42). Most of the fourth-graders on his team were later found out to be between 12 and 14 years old, thus requiring an asterisk by their records.

As a young man, he matriculated at Williams College where he ran track while majoring in Business Ethics until he flunked out. Given another chance, George changed his major to sports management. After flunking again, he settled on poetry; coming in third in his fraternity’s annual dirty Limerick contest.

After graduation, he joined the United States Air Force and became the first enlisted man to put an offer into the government to buy the Air Force, thereby forcing the government to discharge him dishonorably, burning his records and disavowing any knowledge of his ever participating in the armed forces.

He returned to his home state where he coached high school basketball and football in Columbus before becoming an assistant football coach at Northwestern University. He was relieved of his coaching duties after one morning when he got into a disagreement with the head coach and fired him. When the Athletic Director informed Coach Steinbrenner that he did not have the authority to fire other coaches, George fired him too.

Deciding it best that he focus more on a family at that point, George married Joan Zieg, in a small civil ceremony in 1956. They divorced in 1958, remarried in 1959, divorced again six months later, remarried, divorced again the following spring, and then remarried. The third marriage was not recognized however as he failed to realize that she was married to someone else at the time. Finally, they remained married for almost 50 years consecutively.

With his wife locked up in a long-term deal, he went back to work, this time joining his father’s struggling business, the American Shipbuilding Company, a year later.

Stealing some money from his daughter’s Girl Scout troop’s hedge fund kept for a trip to Disney World, George bought the Cleveland Pipers of the National Industrial Basketball League. The team went bankrupt and he went back to the ship company, eventually buying it.

After failing in his bid to buy the Cleveland Indians (whom he continually referred to as the “Cleveland Whateverthey’recalleds”) he joined a group of investors to buy the Yankees for $10 million in 1973.

After announcing at his press conference, “I won’t be active in the day-to-day operations of the club at all,” he changed his tune quickly. In his first year as owner, he ordered the carpet pattern changed in his office a record 16 times, prompting the facilities department and maintenance staff to go on strike for two months in mid-July.

During games, he would routinely pull vendors aside and criticize their selling technique. This prompted the Concessionaires Union to fine him $20,000 and ban him from the concession stands during games.

At this time, free agency was becoming popular in the major leagues. It proved to be a boon for Steinbrenner for in 1974, he bought Catfish Hunter, then he bought Richard Nixon, then, during a particularly wet spell that summer, he bought the weatherman and ordered him to stop the rain. That latter maneuver got both him and the weatherman suspended for two years.

Upon return from his suspension, his team won the first of seven World Championships under his reign. But the fans’ arrogance and their growing familiarization with winning began to show after losing the ALCS in 1980 and the World Series in 1981 as they became disenchanted with his ownership. After Game Five that year, George got into a scuffle with two Dodger fans in an elevator that left him with a broken hand, a fat lip, and a bruised goiter. The fans, Mildred Schuster, 93, and Catherine Dinovio, 89, were unscathed in the scuffle.

Continuing with his random day-to-day decisions, the team saw a steady stream of stars flee from what had now been tabbed “The Bronx Zoo.” Hall-of-Fame outfielder, Dave Winfield, was one of the few who turned down a trade away from New York to the Mighty California Angels of Los Angeles in Orange County’s Anaheim in exchange for pitcher Mike Witt in May of 1990. Steinbrenner rewarded Winfield’s loyalty by refusing to pay his charity foundation the $300,000 guaranteed in his contract, then trading him anyway.

Later that year, Steinbrenner confessed to also paying Howard Spira, a small-time gambler, $40,000 to dig up dirt on Winfield. This was the final straw for baseball (and for Winfield who claimed he was worth way more than $40,000). Commissioner Fay Vincent suspended Steinbrenner for life. Evidently, Vincent, a huge animal lover, interpreted that to mean the life of his pet hamster, DiMaggio, and reinstated Steinbrenner three years later.

Since then, Steinbrenner put his business savvy to work purchasing a new cable station (The YES Network), five new championships, and a new Yankee Stadium, one that charges $7 ($7!) for bag check.

And shortly after New York blew the three-game lead over nemesis Boston in the 2004 ALCS, “The Stein” went out and purchased fireballers Randy Johnson and Carl Pavano, as well as all present and future residents of Cuba, Puerto Rico and the island of Okinawa. He was also rumored to have put the Dominican Republic on lay-away.

His recent purchases of Mark Teixeira, CC Sabathia, and A.J. Burnett finally earned him the championship he’d been lacking for nine long seasons.

In the days leading up to his death, Mr. Steinbrenner could be heard regularly cursing and randomly firing people on the streets of New York. He leaves behind him some family, a few enemies, and one baseball team that has either ruined or saved baseball, depending on your point of view.

Rest in Peace, King George! Even Red Sox Nation will miss you.

[Excerpted from “How to Talk to a Yankee Fan” (Seven Locks Press, 2006)]

Dear Cleveland,

I know you’re going through a tough time right now. After all the trials and tribulations of being a sports fan in that town, from John Elway’s drive to Earnest Byner’s fumble the next year to Michael Jordan’s shot over Craig Ehlo to Art Modell’s move to the Indians’ title drought, the last thing you needed was for your native son -- your native son-- to shun you.

I mean, Manny left and CC left, but they didn’t have the Erie lake water flowing through their veins. For once, all the stars aligned, i.e. you sucked at the right time, for you to draft not only a local kid, but “the Chosen One,” the greatest player of his generation.

But you had him for seven years. That’s something to be happy about, right? Put the knife down. C’mon, buck up, young Buckeyes. Things could be a whole lot worse.

It’s times like these where you should count your blessings, accentuate the positive. In with the good air, out with the bad. Here, I’ll help you:

First off, hey, as a state, you’ve got a professional football team that doesn’t have a convicted dog killer on the roster.

Sure, the Cleveland Indians haven’t won in a while, but they’re not the Cubs.

The Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame is really very cool. I mean, I’ve never been there, but you’ll never need to add a Steroid Wing to it like Cooperstown will.

Your state has THE Ohio State University! All those other pretender Ohio State Universities can’t compare to THE one that you have. You can take pride in that.

And speaking of Ohio State, imagine if you’d had the No. 1 pick when Greg Oden was available. Ooo-fa! Sucks to be Portland, right?

The Indians went to the World Series twice in the past 15 years! Even Toronto can’t say that!

You won an NFL Championship less than half a century ago. It would be considered a Super Bowl if they were calling them Super Bowls at that time.

You were awarded an NHL franchise. Awarded! That’s quite a prize. Omaha can’t say that! Nor can Billings, Montana or Mound City, Missouri.

What’s that? ... It was Columbus? ... Is there a difference? ... Oh, 142 miles. I see. So, what’s a two-hour drive among die-hard whatever-they’re-called fans?

The Browns won the Super Bowl! Do you hear me? The Browns won the Super Bowl! (Yes, they were playing in Baltimore at the time, but c’mon, they were made up of some Browns, weren’t they?)

Fine, no more Browns talk. I understand it’s still a sore subject.

Well, we all know that Cleveland is still the only place in the country to get that delicacy you guys have. Er, what’s that called? You know, the stuff that’s so good and unique to only you? ... Help me out here. Don’t you have any food that people flock to your city to eat? (Please don’t say it’s the Hard Rock Café.)

And lest we not forget about our other favorite son -- Drew Carey is hosting “The Price is Right!” Hmm? How about that?! Remember what his sitcom taught us -- Cleveland Rocks!

And isn’t Arsenio Hall from Cleveland as well? (Yeah, best not to mention that one.)

But Dean Martin was also from Steubenville, Ohio! The King of Cool, himself.

Oof, this is tough. Are you guys cheered up yet?

In baseball, you’re not Pittsburgh. In football, you’re not the Lions ... (though they do seem to have more promise). In basketball, you’re not Memphis. And in hockey, you’re not Columbus.

Oh, crap! That’s right, you ARE Columbus ... I forgot! Sorry. You’re not the Islanders.

So, you see Cleveland fans, there are so very, very, very many great things to be proud of supporting your fine city, the city that never ... that never ... er, raises its cholesterol. (I sense a bumper sticker there!)

Look at LeBron’s defection this way: The Cavs will probably get to draft No. 1 again real soon. Next time, just pick a guy from Jersey.

The miracle team of the year has been the Boston Red Sox, or should I say, the Boston Red Cross Sox because of their inability to stay off the disabled list. Their manager, Florence Nightengale a.k.a. Terry Francona, continues to piece together the framework of a team from used rags and twine. For much of the season, their outfield has consisted of their utility infielder and two minor leaguers.

Currently, their starting left fielder is out, courtesy of a collision with their third baseman; their backup outfielder is out; their second baseman and the Papi-noted “heart” of the team broke his foot hitting a ball off it; their starting catcher caught a foul tip on his thumb breaking it; their most successful pitcher up until now, after getting his first major league hit, couldn’t decide whether he wanted to break up the double play at second or just cede the out so he pulled up lame instead with a hyper-extended knee; and two more of their starting pitching staff have been on the D.L. most of the season. Oh, and their best middle reliever has a strained right forearm and is now on the D.L. too.

Everyone of the injured who doesn’t pitch has a broken bone. And their starting right fielder, J.D. Drew (or “D.L. Drew” as someone corrected me while I attended the Red Sox-Giants game last week), gets a hamstring pull twice monthly.

In the past week alone, they’ve lost three of these players, including both of their catchers. Even football players are reading this and saying, “Golly, they sure get injured a lot in baseball.” (Because that’s how footballers speak.)

The season, especially this past week, has been like a horror movie where some mysterious entity is killing off everyone, one at a time. OR ... is it being done by someone from within?! [Dun dun duhhhhhh!]

You’ve seen the story before – a group of friends walks into the woods and then one of them has to “drain the weasel,” so he goes off. A few minutes later, when he doesn’t come back, another guy says, “Oh, what a clown. He’s just messing with us. I’ll get him.” Then he doesn’t return. This causes someone else to get suspicious when he realizes something weird is happening.

One of the girls lets out a little whimper and moves closer to the brave leader of the group (also the most handsome), who suggests that everyone stays together right before deciding to split into pairs to look for the missing hikers. (Apparently, staying “together” can be done separately.) So when one pair loses a member (usually due to that person’s clumsiness and perhaps some rudimentary squirrel-catching device), the remaining member runs back to join the other pair, only to find that THE ENTIRE TEAM IS BASICALLY MADE UP OF CAREER MINOR LEAGUERS AND SOME JOURNEYMEN!!!

At the beginning of the year, everyone thought it would be a “bridge” year, a season of futility before their highly-touted prospects (one of whom recently had brain surgery after doctors discovered a cavernous malformation in his brain stem) were ready for the show.

They adopted a philosophy of pitching and defense, which is now coming to fruition, only the inverse of it. They are tenth in the America League in E.R.A. while their hitting and offense puts them first in runs scored. Explain that one, Bill James!

To give the appearance of competition, they signed defensive whiz Adrian Beltre (who leads the team in errors), a 37-year-old centerfielder who began the year by passing a kidney stone and then getting a sports hernia, and a shortstop who had a career year in 2009 at 33 years old (who’s second on the team in errors).

Through all this, with a lineup consisting of only two regulars from last year’s playoffs-reaching team, they are knocking on the door of the Yankees for the best record in the division, let alone the entire major leagues. How is this possible?

These Red Cross Sox never cease to amaze us. They’re constantly writing tales of the incredible, from the 2003 playoffs to the 2004 playoffs to the off-season their general manager Theo Epstein had to leave his office in a gorilla suit, stories that any self-respecting Hollywood producer would quickly say, “No one would believe a word of this! It needs more monkeys and midgets!” (Because that’s how Hollywood producers speak.)

They’re like a beer commercial.

It is said their walk-off home runs can feed an African village for a week.
The sun rises in the East, unless the Sox are on a West Coast swing.
News channels follow them twenty-five/seven.
They can sell out Fenway Park on a travel day.
New born babies are named after the team’s equipment manager.
They are ... the most interesting team in the world.

Voiceover: “I don’t always drink be-ah, my friends, but when I do, I drink Sam Adams ... and a lot of it ... with a cup o’ chowdah.” (Because that’s how Bostonians speak.)

President Obama's health plan seems to have worked. America has been completely vaccinated, protected from that global scourge known as "soccer fever." We're breathing the same air as soccer fans, sometimes high-fiving them without washing our hands afterward, maybe even blowing the same vuvuzela (sounds like something out of the free-spirited 70's, doesn't it?), but we can't seem to catch the disease.

What is it about soccer fever that we're immune to? If it were but one issue, it would be obvious, but there are just so many. The sport has something for everyone to dislike.

For men, soccer is the only sport that, barring overtime and sudden death, plays true to its time. If the clock reads ten minutes left, chances are the game will be over in ten minutes (maybe twelve with the random "stoppage" time). Men need a game where they can tell their spouses or significant betters, (Ladies, I know you're fans of the blog and I'm looking out for you ... wink) "Just five more minutes, sweetheart" knowing they'll be on the couch for at least an hour and a half longer while each coach calls timeout after timeout or has his team foul endlessly.

In soccer, when a guy says "five minutes," he's bound by that. He has no out. It really goes against the guy's code, when you think of it.

Don't think that means that women like it, however. While the men are watching, women are looking for a can of insect killer because they think there's a swarm of bees in the TV room. That sound, that feeling stays with you long after the game's over too. You begin to hear those vuvuzelas in your sleep, and then swat violently in the air, connecting on your husband once or twice.

Advertisers certainly cannot like this game. There are NO commercials during playing time. How can they like this? Sure, they put signs on the walls, but we're too busy dozing off to notice them.

Even basketball, which has decided it'd rather make money than produce a just and decent product, has given us the "TV timeout." This is when a few minutes have gone by without a stoppage of play, they're going to give us one, usually like a sitcom where one character looks at the ref with bug-eyes and says, "Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Joey Crawford?"

Casual fans do not enjoy the soccer for several points. Not knowing all the rules is one major point, but mainly it's the melodramatic flops taken anytime a player's legs are cut out from underneath him. They're like Nancy Kerrigan out there, on their backs clutching their knees crying, "No! No! Why me, Lord? Why? Why?!" (Even Kerrigan sees this and thinks, "C'mon, can the Oscar performance and take your kick.") Then the ref awards them a kick and the injured player suddenly jumps up, ready to go, miraculously healed.

It's an indirect kick, by the way, unless it happened inside the ... ah, forget it.

Even hockey fans don't like soccer. They can't get into it. It's too boring for them. For them!

In all fairness, although the scoring is similarly scarce, hockey mixes in MMA-style fisticuffs to break up the monotony. [Note to FIFA: Hire Chuck Lidell as a consultant.]

Yep, scoring and fighting, that's the part of sports that are contagious to Americans. And damned if we can't get that from soccer because we've been vaccinated. Thanks a lot, President Obama!

Game 7 between Boston and Los Angeles stands to highlight the similarities between the two teams. At alternating times, each has battled, each has struggled, each has looked unstoppable, and each has won three times.

But over the past two weeks, the gap between the two cities has revealed itself to be broad enough to drive “Big Baby” Davis through. And such, glaring differences between the fans spark the realization that they are truly the representatives of their citywide personalities.

Boston is known as a blue-collar town, from its intellectual capacities to its passion, sometimes to the point of obsession, for all things sports, frequently exhibiting encyclopedic knowledge of even the most trivial statistics.

Los Angeles is a sprawling city where the residents are more carefree, laid back. They’re known to maintain a more laissez-faire attitude toward their teams. They show their support when the season begins to wind down, if not later, with a flag or two on their cars. Not that they don’t root like crazy for their Lakers, but you will be less inclined to speak intellectually about the sport with them. Mainly, it’s the factual inconsistencies that spout from their mouths that really make you take notice.

To understand this, you must take note that Los Angeles is a town where everything seems perfect – the weather, the beautiful people, the abundance of outdoor activities, (well, maybe not the traffic), and their basketball team. The city’s main industry, TV and film production, goes to great lengths to make sure everything is perfect. If they need rain, they can make it rain; if they want laughter, they’ll flash a sign and the audience will laugh; if they want the superhero to win, they’ll just write it in the script.

Living there, you begin to ignore items of irrelevance, like facts. Just believe what you want and it will be so.

That statement becomes more palpable over the past few weeks as the Lakers advance through the playoffs. Listening to their announcers, their fans and even their coaches, I’m amazed at the number of times they’ve said something to be blatantly untrue. For example:

One radio host said after Game 5, “The Lakers don’t want to lose the Finals at home two of the last three years.” Impossible, since they were in Boston when they lost in 2008.

Another one praised the ratings as being at their highest since 2004 because “America loves to see the Lakers win.” Uh, they won last year and the ratings weren’t that high. Could it be that America likes the idea of the Boston versus Los Angeles storyline? What was it about 2004 that made America watch? Oh, yeah ... Detroit beat LA. How about it America, do you like to watch the Lakers win or lose?

Even their head coach has been making stuff up. Game 5 famously had him lambasting the Celtics’ inability to hold leads. “This team has blown more fourth-quarter leads than any other team in the league.” Actually, they were 14th in that category.

(Though this is the same man whose team got almost twice as many foul shots as the other team, and he still blamed the refs, so take that with a grain of salt.)

It got so bad, even their color commentator said in respect to the Lakers needing to win one game at a time before Game 6, “Like Steppenwolf said, ‘One is the loneliest number.’” Actually, that was Three Dog Night. Fortunately, he was corrected a minute later, which was a pleasant surprise.

These inaccuracies trickle down to the fans, making it difficult to have a decent basketball conversation with them.

On my May 16 blog titled "Why Lakers Fans Are So Hateable," one Lakers fan commented, “LA is number one in everything, even in the off years in a particular sport, we are the best. From high school sports to the pros ...” Would those pro teams be including the St. Louis Rams and Oakland Raiders?

Bostonians check their facts. They may not like what they have to say, but they use them. Los Angeles fans can’t be bothered. “It’s all good, baby!”

When in LA, things are rosier. It’s contagious. Perhaps the refs start to feel it, thinking, “Hey, that elbow to the face isn’t a foul. It’s just “good, clean basketball.’” It’s a view clouded by happiness (and smog, of course). Though surprisingly, Dodgers fans are not quite the same. Their fans are more reasonable. That’s another blog for another day.

One fascinating point that sums up the disparity lies in the anthems for the two cities. Boston’s prideful song boasts “I love that dirty water, oh, Boston you’re my home.” It speaks of muggers and thieves along the banks of what was once the filthiest waterway in the country. Boston fans embrace this song. They wear the authentic and less than classy lyrics as a badge of honor. Pretty, no. But truthful, yes.

Los Angeles, on the other hand, reveres the great Randy Newman tune, “I Love LA.” It speaks of the sunshine and the greatness every day ... on the outside. But it’s really a song about the excesses and extravagances of life in the 80s, a brilliantly done sarcastic shot at the superficial nature of the culture at that time, especially in Los Angeles. I don’t think the residents and certainly the fans grasp the irony. It gets in the way of their perfect view of their lives.

Boston fans will live with a loss tonight for long time, even though they will still be the most accomplished NBA franchise of all-time. To them, it’s personal. Los Angeles fans will deal with it for a short time and then hit the beach “cuz the sun is shinin’ all the time. Looks like another perfect day. I love LA!” We love it!

With the recent release of “The A-Team” movie, I have been feeling nostalgic for the old TV show, more specifically, for the old B.A. (Bosco Albert) Baracus, played by the incomparable Mr. T.

The man did it all in the 80s. He wrestled, boxed, had a breakfast cereal named after him, starred in one TV show (“The A-Team”), then another (“T and T,” 1988-1990), and did the voice of himself in his own animated TV series titled “Mr. T,” (complete with Mohawk-headed dog). While Bo Jackson impressed us in two sports, Mr. T displayed his multitude of talents on the entertainment side.

But what a lot of people don’t know is, Mr. T certainly could’ve been Bo Jackson if he’d decided to play sports instead of going the Hollywood route, for he was quite the athlete at Dunbar High School in Chicago, active in all extracurriculars. I did some research and here are just some of the things I found out about him (with apologies to Chuck Norris, whom Mr. T pities anyway):

Mr. T made the varsity team early in his school career. He was still only known as Lil’ Mr. T.

Playing for the baseball team, Mr. T once turned a quadruple play.

Mr. T did not like to practice. He derived no “fun” from “fundamentals.”

Mr. T put the “cross” in “lacrosse.” Before he played, it was just called “La.” Then he started knocking out opponents with his right cross. The “e” on the end is just for show.

Mr. T was on the rowing team. Actually, he was the rowing team. Alone, in a boat for eight, he just yelled “Move, fool!” and came in first every time.

When Mr. T was told to take a lap, he put it in a choke hold. That lap was never the same.

Playing golf for the first time, Mr. T got a hole in one. He went over to where his ball landed and punched a hole in the ground, counting it as an ace.

Mr. T didn’t bother climbing the rope in gym class. He just pulled the ceiling down to him.

Mr. T ran track but kept derailing the trains, so he gave it up.

Mr. T never quit on a play; he gave the play a chance to catch its breath.

Any game Mr. T pitched was a “perfect game.”

On the swim team briefly, Mr. T dove into the pool with all his gold around his neck. The gold weighed him down to the pool floor where he ran the 100 meters ... and won!

Mr. T made All-State in all states.

Needless to say, Mr. T rewrote the record books. Actually, he had his high school secretary do it for him. Mr. T doesn’t do clerical stuff.

Mr. T once tied the defending state wrestling champion ... in a knot. They had to suspend the match for 30 minutes while the other team untied him.

Mr. T once dunked a basketball so hard it lodged into the earth’s core causing unprecedented seismic activity. So he gave up the sport.

Mr. T won a debate contest by simply saying, “Cut the jibber jabber!”

Mr. T had a statue erected to him made out of chunks of linebackers that got in his way.

Mr. T played checkers in a study hall once. One opponent said, “Crown me.” That was the last time anyone said that to Mr. T again.

Mr. T would’ve been on the boxing team if he could find a willing opponent. So he shadowboxed and beat it so badly, there are now regulations in place against it.

Yes, he has always been an impressive man.

Ah, Jim Joyce. We shouldn’t know your name, yet we do. You made a mistake. On any other night, there would not have been a problem. Heck, you would’ve had less of a problem had it happened two innings earlier. Your timing was impeccable. (What, were you auditioning to be an NBA ref?)

Most umpires are fixin’ to get out of the park. But not you. You thought to extend the festivities a little longer. Who doesn’t want to leave work early from his job?

If Joe West were the umpire, the game would’ve been over after 20 outs. “Okay, you’re out ... and you in the on-deck circle, you’re out too ... and you three guys in the dugout. We’re pushing an hour and a half here. Gotta pick up the pace. Papa Joe has a SlingBox and my recorded shows aren’t gonna watch themselves.”

You had the perfect opportunity to knock off early and hit Detroit’s famous steak joint, “Slumbo’s” in the Fallujahtown district. You had two choices to make: Out or safe. A-ha! I contend that this was the problem. You only had two choices.

This whole kerfluffle has given us the opportunity to reopen the debate on my favorite hot button topic -- rule changes in Major League Baseball. No, not instant replay, that’s stupid. Not demoting Bud Selig to groundskeeper in Pittsburgh, that’s silly. But adding a third option -- “safe,” “out” or “close enough.”

To install this rule, (indicated by a gesture where the hand is held downward and then rocked slightly clockwise and counterclockwise as if a ship trying to stabilize in choppy sees, similar to the “so-so” motion) you will find most of your problems will be solved.

Most recently, the rule gets Armando Galarraga his perfect game. (He can still keep the Corvette awarded to him by General Motors as part of its program to pay back the government bailout money one Venezuelan pitcher at a time.) Officially, he doesn’t get it because the runner was called safe.

It was such a bang-bang play at first where any number of things could’ve gone wrong, but didn’t. With “close enough,” degree of difficulty is now rewarded. Even if the throw is a split-second late, the fielder gets some bonus points for doing so much just to make it close.

Look, the runner only has to run in a straight line to first base. That’s easy. They shouldn’t have any benefit of the doubt. The fielders are all scrambling, backing up the play, trying to stay out of each other’s way, etc.

And when all that goes right, you come close enough to make the umpire and the fans wonder, “We gotta watch that again.” Well, then, that’s “close enough.” Perfection achieved!

Oh, and let’s not forget the play Austin Jackson made in centerfield two batters earlier. Even Willie Mays stood up and yelled, “No way!” on that one. Do you think Austin was doing it for his health? No, he was trying to help make history. Where’s his Corvette?

This rule may put baseball back on the right track.

You’re telling me that if a ball hits the yellow stripe 400 feet away, yet bounces back in, it’s not a home run? The guy just hit a 95 mile-an-hour slider 400 feet! That’s got my respect. He can touch them all one-flap-down, Jeffrey Leonard-style or not.

Basketball will soon follow suit. Close enough would’ve awarded the 2010 NCAA tournament championship to Butler. Close enough puts Oklahoma City in the Finals against Boston. Close enough forces Joe Crawford to retire due to his getting closer to his AARP card. (Either that or it gets him a handicapped placard for his car because he must be legally blind or something.)

With “close enough,” NFL referee Ed Hochuli probably isn’t hated in San Diego anymore. (Heck, he probably wins the Mr. Universe contest too.) Charles Barkley, Reggie Miller and John Stockton get an NBA ring. Kobayashi shares the Nathan’s Hot Dog-eating crown with Joey Chestnut. The Boston Bruins never have to play Games 4-7 against the Flyers in the NHL playoffs. The Boston Red Sox end their curse in 1986 instead of 2004, which would be the year after the Cubs end their curse. Ben Roethsliberger is thrown in jail for his transgressions in Georgia a few months after the Arizona Cardinals beat him the Super Bowl. And so on and so forth.

I’m not saying Jim Joyce should be condemned for missing the call. He’s been more than magnanimous and we all make mistakes sometime in our lives ... (so I’m told. I haven’t yet. I imagine to have gone this long without making one means the first will be a doozy.) But giving Joyce a third option would promote fewer mistakes and may not have put the umpire in the position he found himself in this past week ... unless he merely was acting upon his desire to stay in the safe confines or Comerica Park, rather than get back to the hotel, which may or may not have been put on cinder blocks by the time the game was over.

Okay, so here it is, the Match Up of the Century! (again) This one is for all the marbles. The Big Three are making one final stand, a last chance to show their dominance. Kobe’s chasing Magic for five championships and the “greatest Laker of all-time” moniker, though playing with Shaq and having the allegations of Tim Donaghy render at least two of those championships iffy make this a moot point. Kobe will never be Magic. (And this from a guy who spent his childhood thinking Magic was overrated.)

The experts are all weighing in and forming their hypotheses based on sight analysis and statistics. And the fans are running with whichever argument best suits their cases.

Fans need to convince themselves of the outcome before it takes place. They call in to talk shows to say, “I’m really worried about the Lakers defensive lapses. Do you think they can beat the Celtics?” And if the talk show host responds in the affirmative, the caller will think, “Phew! I’m glad that’s decided” and they can sleep well at night.

But most of the arguments out there can be eliminated as they have nothing to do with the matter at hand. I’ll go over most of these and tell you who each point sees winning the series, why that is, the counterargument, and why it’s relevant or just a bunch of jibberjabber. (Yes, I said “jibberjabber.” I’m getting jazzed for the “A-Team” movie!)

So let’s begin:

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Revenge
Chatter: The Lakers are upset that the Celtics beat them in 2008, in fact, humiliating them during the clinching game. Now, they want revenge.
Counterargument: Oh, now they want to win? In 2008, they were indifferent to winning? They weren’t sufficiently perturbed before? Why would you need excess motivation to win a championship?
Verdict: I do not wish to degrade my level of education and literary skills by just calling this argument stupid. Therefore, I will say it’s really stupid. When’s the last time you arm wrestled a guy who was stronger than you and actually won the rematch? If the Celtics are better, then no amount of wanting to win is going to help.

One parallel I find interesting is how the run of the last three years is similar to 1985 to1987. You might remember the peak of the Show Time Era when the two teams battled in 1985 leaving the Lakers victorious.

The next year, the Rockets snuck into the Finals, first beating the Lakers only to lose to the Celtics. But in 1987, the Lakers returned and caused a repeat of 1985.

Were the Celtics extra motivated to beat Los Angeles as revenge for 1985? Sure. Did it matter? No.

The Celtics believe the only reason the Lakers won last year was because Garnett was hurt. The Magic beat them and then went on to lose to the Lakers. Sound familiar?

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Team Improvement
Chatter: The Lakers defense is better now with Ron Artest in the fold.
Counterargument: Yes, it’s better. The Celtics just beat the three teams that led the NBA in opponent’s field goal percentage. With or without Artest, the Celtics have already taken down tougher defenses.
Verdict: That same argument could be used to explain why the Celtics are going to win.

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Age
Chatter: The Celtics are old. Garnett doesn’t look the same.
Counterargument: Garnett doesn’t look the same, but you have to figure a Hall of Famer like Garnett still matches up very well against Gasol. But the very claim acts as if the Lakers are composed of all these young pups. Their one superstar has logged almost as many minutes as the Big Three, if not more with his extracurricular play in international tournaments.
Verdict: Age is a push.

Outcome: Celtics
Reason: History
Chatter: This works on two fronts. First of all, this starting five, as currently constituted, has yet to lose a playoff series. Secondly, when the Lakers and Celtics face each other in the late spring, the Celtics win over 85% of the time.
Counterargument: This Lakers team has yet to lose a playoff series as well.
Verdict: If past history declared a winner, then the New York Jets would have almost 20 Super Bowl titles by now.

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Coaching
Chatter: Phil Jackson is the greatest coach of all-time.
Counterargument: That is the dumbest argument of all-time. First off, Phil has already lost a Finals series to Doc Rivers. Wouldn’t that make Doc a better coach? Or perhaps Doc just had the better team, in which case Phil won past championships only because he had the better team. So if it’s the team that made Phil great, then one could reason that given the opportunity, Doc would’ve taken Michael and Scottie to six championships and then Shaq and Kobe to three more had he been there instead of the Zen Master. Counterargument: Michael didn’t win before Phil. Sure, but Scottie Pippen wasn’t his Sundance Kid yet. And you’ll add Shaq and Kobe didn’t win before Phil.
Countercounterargument: Yes, Del Harris is no Phil. But Gregg Popovich (a really valid argument for the actual best coach in the league) could have presumably taken Shaq and Kobe to three titles as well. He did it with less in San Antonio.
Verdict: Both coaches are excellent. Phil may be the most successful coach of all-time, but saying he’s the best is just for empty braggadocio and bar talk.

Outcome: Celtics
Reason: Pedigree
Chatter: The Celtics collectively have three Hall of Famers in their rotation. The Lakers have one, maybe two.
Counterargument: The Lakers can neutralize Pierce with Artest, Ray Allen with Kobe, and Garnett with Gasol.
Alternate counterargument: The Celtics are old. [See above.]
Verdict: The Lakers have been unable to neutralize all three on a consistent basis before. It’s not going to start this week as the Celtics are firing on all cylinders and see the prize put forth before them.

Outcome: Lakers
Reason: Home Cookin’
Chatter: This time, the Lakers have home court advantage.
Counterargument: A. The Celtics have taken home court advantage away from their last two opponents, who, it should be noted, finished with better records than the Lakers. B. The Celtics/Lakers series in 2008 didn’t go seven games because the Celtics won a game in Los Angeles.
Verdict: The Celtics may win in Los Angeles, but may also lose at home. That said, they are not intimidated by being in the visitors locker room.

Outcome: Celtics
Reason: Basketball is about matchups
Chatter: Going down the rosters, we see that Perkins can handle a hobbling Bynum, Kobe is better than Allen (but that’s closer than people think), Pierce is better than Artest, Gasol and Garnett may be a push, and that leaves the one dominating match up in the series – Rondo v. Fisher. If you want to further take it to the bench, Rasheed can handle Odom, Nate Robinson can counter Shannon Brown, and then Tony Allen can play Jordan Farmar, if that’s who it comes down to. That leaves Big Baby as someone off the bench the Lakers don’t have an answer for.
Counterargument: Even a hobbling Bynum is way better than Perkins.
Verdict: This argument makes a lot of sense. Basketball is about matchups (and shoddy refereeing and nonsensical scheduling). The only question is, who is hurt? Will the rest between games be enough for the Celtics? Can the Lakers play more physical than they did two years ago? Will it matter? Will the Big Four continue to alternate having big nights? Which Celtic role player will save the day like Nate Robinson did against the Magic?

(Okay, that’s more than one question.)

So soaking all this in like a Calgon bubble bath complete with rubber duckie, the picture becomes clearer, though still murky.

As I see it, the way the referees have been fix—er, calling the games these days, Perkins will be assessed one half of a double technical at some point this series (I’ll guess that it will be either Artest or Odom that does the honors) and thus, be forced to sit. If the Celtics can win the games Perkins plays, they’ll be the ones celebrating.

And if the Lakers can score more points than the Celtics on no fewer than four of the seven scheduled games, then they will win.

I hope this puts those minds at ease that have been held sleepless the last few nights waiting for the endless NBA Playoffs to continue. Now go tend to more pressing needs, like the electrical fire coming out of your wall socket due to the radio, television, and computer being plugged in at once while seeking as much info about the Finals as you can possibly get.