So Alex Rodriguez has apologized. Again. To be honest, I’ve sort of lost count, so I’m not sure exactly what apology number this is. I think it’s somewhere around 73 – but hey, this time he really means it.
With all due respect to Forrest Gump’s mother, Super Bowls are like a box of chocolates – you never know what you’re gonna get. Last year, the game was over within the first five minutes. The epicbeat down the Seahawks put on Peyton Manning and the Broncos was many things, but it was not particularly entertaining. This year however, we got everything we could possibly want and more. The prologue to this contest couldn’t have been any better. The two best teams in the league squaring off. The defending champion Seahawks on the one side, looking to add another title, and stake their claim as the next dynasty of the NFL. The Patriots on the other side, ten years removed from their last Super Bowl triumph, beleaguered by accusations of cheating, and knowing that a win over Seattle would etch their name on the Mt Rushmore of greatest franchises of all time.
And so at last, we get to see this game between the Patriots and the Seahawks. As if playing for the championship itself wasn’t enough, this contest is brimming with subplots. For New England, they have to endure two weeks of accusations that they cheated to get past the Colts, only adding fuel to the fire that was the Spygate scandal in 2007. For a franchise that has become the gold standard for success in a league designed to promote parity, a loss would mean that their legacy stands to be maligned by those who would say they can’t win without cheating.
It has been a long strange week here in Phoenix. I have been on radio row all week long, and what started out as a slow rumble on Monday, has built into a crescendo that will peak on Sunday night in Glendale when the Patriots meet the Seahawks in what should be one of the more entertaining games we’ve seen in a while. Ok, I probably just jinxed it and now there’ll be a huge blowout, but at least right now it looks like it should be a great game.
It’s amazing. Whenever there is news about Michael Phelps (especially if it’s bad news) my cell phone blows up with people letting me know, and asking what I think. I never intended to be the official Michael Phelps commentator, but since he and I had our run-in over a limo ride and he acted like a jackass, it seems our fates are intertwined.
It was a hot day in early July in 1863 when 22 year old Major Alonzo Cushing stood upon Cemetery Ridge. He commanded a Union artillery battery that, as fate would have it, was positioned right next to a copse of trees which was the focal point of the Confederate charge on the third and final day of the battle of Gettysburg.
The World Series is back, with the upstart Kansas City Royals trying to beat the San Francisco Giants and win their first title since 1985.
Over the last year or so, there has been quite a bit of attention focused on the name of the Washington football team. Changing the name from Redskins to something else has become the cause célèbre, and people from all walks of life have chimed in on what should or shouldn’t be done. There has been, and there will continue to be a considerable amount of debate as to whether the team should change its name.
When I saw the news that Michael Phelps had been arrested for driving under the influence for a second time, I have to admit that a smile broke out on my face. Now, I am not normally the type of person who takes great pleasure in the misfortune of others – unless of course, someone has done something particularly vile to me. Someone once told me that I hold a grudge like Khomeini. I never knew the late ayatollah, but we may indeed have that in common. Michael Phelps and I had an encounter years back, and he did not acquit himself very well. What was this encounter you ask? It’s the Michael Phelps story.
The beleaguered commissioner of the NFL is doing everything he can to plug the leaks in the mighty ship that is the league. Or at least, he doing everything that his focus group and PR handlers are telling him to do to get the media off of his back. He held a press conference. Ok, he didn’t actually say anything of substance, or offer up any kind of concrete plan, but he stood out there for 15 minutes, that has to count for something, right?
Derek Jeter is a great many things these days. To some, he’s the greatest player of his generation – and on the Mt. Rushmore of greatest Yankees of all time. To others, he’s the most overrated player in history – not only a terrible fielding shortstop, but also essentially a singles hitter who really wasn’t that clutch in big moments. To other still – specifically the cops in “The Other Guys” – he is simply a bi-racial angel. The celebration of Jeter as he nears the end of his playing days has gotten way out of hand. Every moment is documented and praised, until even the most reasonable among us wants to vomit.
A lot of people are outraged over the David Petraeus affair. Quite frankly, I’m outraged over the outrage. People are breaking their ankles as they race to get to the moral high ground and boldly proclaim, “How could he have done this?!?”
As the dust from the NCAA’s ruling on the Penn State child sex abuse scandal begins to settle, the focus seems to be on whether the penalty the NCAA imposed on Penn State --- a $60 million fine, a scholarship reduction, and a four-year postseason ban --- is too harsh. The answer is that it isn’t harsh enough. There shouldn’t be any football played at Beaver Stadium this year. The NCAA should have given the Nittany Lion football program the so-called “death penalty” to deter other schools from doing what Penn State did: covering up a scandal in order to protect an athletic program.
Last month, the good folks at NASA announced that their high-powered Keppler telescope had revealed over 1,200 possible new planets. So, it seems more and more likely that we are not alone in this big, bad universe. Now we’d all like to think that the aliens who come here first will be cute and cuddly like E.T., or like those music-loving little fellas in “close encounters of the third kind.” But you know they won’t be -- things are never that easy. They’ll probably be more like those little bastards that Sigourney Weaver had to stomp on in “aliens.” They’ll be mean, tough, and likely pretty pissed off from the long drive to get here.
