Wasif's World

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.)

They say there are no jobs out there and they are right, at least in relation to the number of applicants there are. But that doesn’t stop employers from some industries from holding job fairs to find young upstarts that may be able to fill a need and perhaps someday become an indispensable worker -- companies from the airline industry (N.Y. Jets), companies dealing with industrials (Pittsburgh Steelers), the banking industry (San Diego Chargers) and Big Oil (the Raiders).

For you see, this is no ordinary job fair. This is the NFL, and it holds combines and visits recruits during their "Pro Days" to witness college players eligible for the draft perform their job skills and strut their stuff in front of anyone and everyone that matters.

Typical job fairs just include interviews and the face-to-face time. Bright-eyed, green rookies hand over their resumes as introductions. Their reputations do not precede them. There’s no game film to study. “Can you break this down for us?”

“Well, my job was to rewind the videotape and bring it from the tape vault to the producer in the studio.”

Guys don’t huddle around the tape afterward mumbling about how you had trouble finding the rewind button, how you had it fast-forwarding for a brief moment.

But the NFL is not your typical employer. They try to recreate the environment under which you'll perform and observe you as you do your job.

Imagine having a Pro Day for your future bosses or a combine where you have to perform all your daily duties in random succession. They should have this for every profession. Gauging words typed per minute, measuring your speed in changing the jug for the water cooler, observing collating skills, etc.

Throw some cone drills in there because you never know when you may have to fax something only to find obstacles strewn along the path to the machine.

Hundreds of people with digital timepieces watching you make a sale on an imaginary client. After you hang up the phone, they all check their times and confer with one another in awe.

Did he really file all those folders so quickly? We gave him all M’s -- McDonald, McDougall, McManus, Macgyver -- no small task. And he didn’t miss one. Remarkable!

But how does he perform when the stakes are high? Like when the boss is in the building or the efficiency expert is taking notes or the Japanese client is in town. Then what will happen?

Sure, he’s got all the tools, but what’s his mental capacity? How was his home life? Are his parents still married? Does he love kids? What kind of representative will he be for the company? For as we all know, the entire community looks up to our bottling plant for moral guidance.

“So tell us, do you love accounting or are you just looking for a paycheck? Because we here at Suckum, Filth and Mange are only looking for people that live, breathe and sleep numbers.”

This is where things fall apart. All the interviews, the school transcripts, the physical tests (how many reps can he lift the carton filled with reams of copier paper?) might not amount to anything if your candidate can’t do the job on a work day. For all the hoops through which he must jump and measurables you toss his way, it still just amounts to guesswork.

He might be addicted to solitaire, a water cooler talker, an office nomad constantly wandering, looking for chatter, hooked on office pools, addicted to long smoke breaks, or he may not be able to drag himself from his beds when that alarm sounds.

You want someone who’s there 100 percent when the whistle blows in the morning, not a second-half performer who needs his lunch to spike his energy levels before he hunkers down in the trenches; someone who never “takes meetings off;” someone who stays just as fresh in overtime as he was during breakfast; you want a “powerpoint changer.”

On this, the week of the NFL Draft, 31 major players in the corporate world of the NFL (and the Detroit Lions) take the results of all the tests and all their notes and choose a new employee to replace some of the employees who have been doing the job for years.

Did having a guy drop back and throw a football without a defender in his face to an uncovered receiver help them get a good feeling of his future passer rating? Was his ability to squat a lot of weight on a bar indicative of his aptitude for rushing the quarterback? Does the size of his hands really translate into his knack for catching the ball in traffic? (You know what they say about a size of a man’s hands.)

The answers to these may not become immediately obvious, but one thing is for sure, if there ever was a skills test that included playing Free Cell while stuffing Pringles in my mouth and singing harmony to Fleetwood Mac’s “Silver Springs” in my boxer shorts, well, then I may have been drafted first overall. But alas, I ended up going the free agent route. (Which reminds me, could you please pass my resume along to anyone you know that needs someone with these talents? Thank you ... Oh, and I don’t do mornings.)

I went to a Raiders game recently – no, not in Oakland, obviously, as I’m still alive to write about it. Ha! I kid.

I know that the knock on the fans is that they’re all a bunch of criminals and social miscreants that make the Sons of Anarchy look like a church a cappella group. It’s not true. I found just the opposite, that Raiders fans really are adorable ... and loyal. They are there through rain, sleet, interminable owner, unintelligent drafts, anger-driven coaches and snow. They bring it! (Though “it,” evidently is an unrealistic view of their situation. The black hole seems to be the place where logic goes to die.)

During this game against San Diego, I couldn’t help but remark to my nosebleed seats neighbor, “JaMarcus Russell is horrible,” after the draft bust threw yet another uncontested pass ten yards past anyone in silver and black. It was simply a factual statement devoid of any partisan bias. (Quite frankly, I wouldn’t have cared if the Chargers and Raiders were sucked into a black hole, literally, to show how unbiased I was.)

The observation caused the Raiders fan in front of me, an almost normal-looking woman with short, blond hair and the requisite all-black attire, to turn around and smugly say, “At least our coach isn’t Norv Turner,” a comment I’m sure she heard someone else say once.

Typically, if that phrase were uttered, it would be met with the usual shrug and nodding of understanding of the accurate statement from all fans including Bolts lovers, but the only fans that can’t take that approach, the only fans ... are Raiders fans.

Their coach, Tom Cable, is always on the verge of being either incarcerated, suspended or just plain given the stink eye, for cryin’ out loud. Their team’s coach, black holees, makes their team’s coach look like Vince Lombardi. And that’s regardless of which team they’re playing.

(Your players are supposed to take on the personality of the head coach, not the other way around.)

Then the game ended, predictably in a Raiders loss, and Raiders fans walked down the concourse to the parking lot cheering, “Raiders! Raiders! Raiders!” As if they had won. Or as if they had put forth a good showing. Or as if they were not being mocked around the league.

They were bragging about three championships their team earned three decades ago while Chargers fans were encouraging them to check the scoreboard.

(Y’know, as a Red Sox fan, I felt a twinge of pride as it reminded me of the battles between Red Sox fans and Yankees fans (“27 championships!” versus “More championships since 2004,” etc.) I’m glad other fan bases are taking a page of inconsequential boastful jibber-jabber from our book as imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.)

But what makes Raiders fans so blind to what’s happening? Is it simply denial? Have they been attending self-improvement seminars on thinking optimistically?

Then again, there’s optimism and there’s foolishness. I used to think the Raiders would start to turn things around. Every time you think they’ve hit rock bottom, a trap door opens. This may be the black hole of which is spoken.

Their fans rationalize their recent failures. They say they would have won the Super Bowl in 2002 had it not been for a little clause in the rule book called the “Tuck Rule.” They say the rule was stupid. And stupid as it may have been, it was still a rule and I remember it being referred to on at least one other occasion earlier that season with Peyton Manning.

Raiders fans also blame their Super Bowl loss to the Buccaneers to the previous year's “Tuck Rule.” Go figure.

There are Raiders fans who say I’ve got an axe to grind. There are Raiders fans who have to watch the games with their parole officers. There will be Raiders fans who won’t be reading this column again ... or at all. (Please fight illiteracy.)

But it’s not me, it’s you, Oakland Raiders. I’m not making any of this stuff up. What more can you do?

Raiders fans have to understand that their team is bad and isn’t going to get good anytime soon. It’s not the combination of outside influences. It’s the internal machinations of a broken machine (and crazy owner, but that’s a rant for another post.)

Poor Richard Seymour. You spend your whole career overachieving and then you get sent to your room without being able to watch “So You Think You Can Dance?” That’s what Oakland has become -- an empty room with no Tivo and a punishment for players.

Oh, sure they gave a lot of money to JaMarcus Russell who probably is having a blast spending it. But he’s not winning. Bruce Gradkowski enjoys the chance to play, though even he must be thinking, “Crap, what’s this going to do to my free agency value?” But in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you take, or in this case, the bad you make is equal to the bad you take.

Oh, they’ll win a game or two each year. (Gotta keep the bookies guessing.) But the place is a mess. Their best coach recently was Art Shell, and he was good in the 90’s.

I picture Al Davis sitting in his office spinning around in his swivel chair blowing bubbles with one of those bubble wands that kids use. You think it’s going to get better soon?

Perhaps it’s time for a timeout, Raiders fans. I know you don’t have any left, but I’ll let you have one of ours. Call it an injury time out. Lord knows, you’ve been listed on the injury report with a swollen what the --? for years now.

Just take a step back and look at things more reasonably. Take off the rose-colored spiked helmet and leather vest. See your team for what it really is.

Look at your bay brother San Francisco. The Niners parlayed their draft picks and a few savvy free agent signings into a tough, talented, potentially successful team. Sure, they can’t win either, but at least they know when there’s a light at the end of the tunnel and not a black hole.

The first step is acceptance. That, and posting bail.

I want to start a rumor. I mean a juicy, prime rumor; something with legs.

Now it’s got to be sensational but believable. It can’t be that LeBron James is an alien. That theoreticallycould be believable if you consider how young he still is and how mature his body is. But his growth is still within the realm of reason considering the extremes that genetics can reach for some people. (Plus, you probably don’t want to align yourself with the weirdos that believe aliens exist and are planning to take over the world through professional sports anyway. They’re the same people that keep backing the Twins to win the World Series.)

It can’t be too obvious like baseball players are still using performance-enhancing drugs.

Or it can’t be too subtle like David Ortiz is actually 40 years old. Most people believe that to be fact so it won’t fly as a rumor.

It can’t be redundant like Terrell Owens has been killing dogs for years. Michael Vick already brought us down that road. First off, people are bored with it. You won’t receive the same reaction Vick got. Secondly, there’s precedent so it won’t be as alarming. And finally, Vick was a rising star, Owens is a plummeting one.

And it can’t be superfluous like Steve Phillips had affairs with a dozen interns. What’s one to a dozen? It’s the first one that’s shocking. Any additional affairs are just piling it on like the Patriots to the NFL bottom-feeders. Plus, Phillips’ infidelity count is already rising as he’s admitted that a second one occurred eleven years ago, so the damage is done.

Although, a good marital hanky-panky rumor can go a long way, (the writer thought to himself as he rubbed his hands together menacingly). And while I’m on the subject, what is it with good-looking, successful men having affairs with less-than-attractive interns? I mean, Phillips used to get paid a lot of money to evaluate talent, correct? Now I’m not saying Brooke Hundley is homely, but ... no, wait. I am saying that; in no uncertain terms. And she’s a Yankees fan. (I had to throw that one in there.)

But, I digress. So what kind of rumor could I start? How about one on how I was lucky enough to be given the opportunity to write for this site? It’s personal, it’s topical and some of you wonder that every time you read me. Am I related to the boss? Did I sleep with him? Am I the boss? There are so many ways I could go with that one. Though I’ve already lost you.

The key to a juicy rumor has it involving someone who you admire so much, who you put so much faith into, almost partaking in idolatry, that you are never more excited when you see this person fail at the hands of his own hubris. “Damn, I used to worship him. How could anyone be so full of themselves?” you wonder aloud without review of your first sentence to find the answer.

Conspiracies are the best. If you can combine a rumor and a conspiracy – woo doggie! – that’s like hitting the five-team parlay! The Patriots only won the Super Bowl in 2002 because, in light of September 11th, the league wanted them to. It was patriotic. (Of course, the New York Yankees lost the World Series a month after the tragedy to the hands of the – wait, lemme check my notes here – the Arizona ... Diamonds? ... Oh, Diamondbacks! Who even knew they had a team there. Well, either way, they must be pretty darned patriotic there in Arizona to be awarded a world championship like that.) So that disproves the validity of that thought.

Or that the Lakers only won the NBA championship in 2009 because all prime contending teams outside of Cleveland suffered devastating injuries to their stars. Okay, so that’s not a rumor as much as it is spiteful commentary.

Back to the rumor mill. I’m sorry to harp on this so much, but I can’t say enough how much I love rumors. From those as the trade deadline approaches, to those on “TMZ,” a rumor, no matter how crazy, can add a little spice to your day. A rumor is like a tell-all book, except that those are usually true and once they’re verified, they become uninteresting.

“What’s that? Magic Johnson doesn’t like Isiah Thomas after all? But what about all the pre-game kissing? I could’ve sworn they were lovers.”

Once a rumor is proven unsubstantiated, it loses steam. The news that Tom Cable didn’t assault his former assistant smashed any hope the Raiders had this year of becoming newsworthy short of Al Davis walking on the field mid-game and dropping his pants to the camera.

Well, I’m stumped. Here’s hoping the world of sports provides something juicy for us this week.