A damn good night

That was awesome.

I just returned from Sun Life Stadium having witnessed one of the greatest exhibitions of the quarterback science in NFL history. I saw two fights, one between a man and a woman. I saw parachuters and a stealth bomber.

And I finally saw NFL football in person.

The 9/11 tribute was great to see in person. And the stealth bomber flew directly over my head. (I was high up there.) Stealth is a good word for it. I didn't hear it coming. There are motorcycles and scooters louder than that fine piece of American weaponry.

The game started inauspiciously with Chad Henne turning into Michael Vick. But then Tom Brady came out and showed that the Dolphins couldn't do much to stop him. Seeing him play on TV is one thing. Seeing him in person is another.

I had a nice coach's tape eye-view from my seat next to the moon. The plays develop in flash. Four or five guys running routes with only three seconds to decide where to throw it. And when he does throw, the space available is tiny. And he just zipped pass after pass after pass into those tiny spaces.

Surgical is a word used often to describe Brady, and it's damn appropriate. That first bomb he threw to Matthew Slater ... his back was to me so I sort of saw what he saw. There was a sliver of space and he zoomed a perfect dart.

Then there's one of my favorite live sporting moments I have ever seen live. The Pats were at the half-yard line driving toward my section behind the end zone. Brady was barely visible behind all the lineman buried deep in New England territory. He throws a seam route to Wes Welker. I couldn't tell if he caught it. Then he's running in my direction and I lost it.

I was quietly rooting for the Home 11, but I could not help myself on that play. Just awesome. That sent whatever remaining Dolphins fans home for the evening.

The game was far from the only interesting thing I witnessed. In the second half the people in my section started to get rowdy. There was this one female Dolphins fan who was cussing at every Pats fans walking up the aisle. "Suck my d&%$!" Or "Suck his d%^#!" while pointing to whom I suppose was her boyfriend.

A trio of Pats fans just laughed it off. But seconds later, the Patriots scored. I believe it was the Aaron Hernandez touchdown. That trio came back down to talk some trash to this lady. There were words exchanged. Another Patriots fan sitting across the aisle from me started to horn in on the action, using naughty words to describe this fine lady.

So one of this lady's friends approaches him and they jaw at each other until she splashes beer in his face. That involved the Pats fan's girlfriend and the lady's boyfriend. Some shoving, pointing fingers, all egged on by the crowd of course.

"Control your bitch," the Pats' fan said to the boyfriend. That only escalated matters. The girls started shoving a bit, but at that moment, the authorities intervened. They were just about to the eject the Pats fan but, shocking, Dolphins fans came to his defense and he was allowed to stay.

Later on, there was another fracas seven or eight rows up. A Pats fan was ejected for this one. Seems the police have a little bias, but then, Miami fans have to win at something, right?

I stayed until the final whistle. I wanted to soak it all in -- the half-empty stadium now taken over by Pats fans, who already had represented themselves in impressive numbers. I exited on the opposite end of the stadium from where I parked (my sense of direction failing me again) but I did happen to drop by a fleet of buses that were taking the victors to the airport.

This blog makes adding photo difficult, though my photos aren't great anyway, but I did see some Patriots board the buses and talk to family and friends. There was Chad Ochocinco. Nate Solder. Julian Edleman. BenJarvus Green-Ellis. Deion Branch. Vince Wilfork. Albert Haynesworth. And Bill Belichick himself. No Tom Brady, unfortunately.

But he made up for it on the field, don't you think?

The Reverend

"I can motivate just as easy as I can bring someone down."

The Boston Globe had Speck, with his array of strange quotes I'll always remember. "Where's the wellington, hi-ho?" being the No. 1 most memorable, and oft-repeated, line.

My current job has someone even more quotable. So quotable, in fact, that one of my co-workers keeps a wall of his cubicle covered in post-it notes chronicling the best lines this man mutters.

For the purposes of this blog, we'll call him The Reverend. That's his nickname. And this man knows how to give out nicknames. I am "Willy Lee," an ironic redneck name for someone who is far from a man of the South. Other nicknames include "Shandoor," "Yo-gee," "The Professor," "The Director," "Jitter Bob," "Remo," "Mr. Pink," "Spaniard," and my all-time favorite, "Fritzy," for a guy with Sideshow Bob style hair.

As The Reverend would say: "I don't give nicknames to individuals I don't like."

This man came to America in 1984 from Communist Romania. He's a New York sports fan who happens to be very good at ping pong. He's a no-nonsense individual with a manner of speaking and plethora of phrases I will use in my every day life. Here's a few.

Pork

Used to describe anyone who is disheveled, unseemly, messy, and usually, obese.

Fui

Sounds like fu...wayyy. Used anytime someone burps, farts or says something disgusting. It's used often.

Papa-gallo

Used to describe a clown deserving of no respect.

Criminal element

Used when talking about shady characters like Michael Vick, Plaxico Burress, etc.

Those are just a few of his original phrases. But I'm here today to give you some of his best quotes. Enjoy.

On a man who likes to eat.

"He'll always be a pork. Food is too important to that individual."

On my frequent trips to Boston Market.

"Willy, that is a terrible establishment."

On an injured player.

"Is he broken? He's broken. Cadaver on the field. Career over."

On something that doesn't concern him or matter to him.

"That don't bother me no none."

On a particular co-worker making personal calls to you for a favor

"Any time he calls you, he has filthy reasons."

Here are a couple on his ping pong exploits. He does not lack for confidence.

"Whenever I am down, I rise to the occasion to show I am the superior athlete."

"Wanna lose with your ball or my ball? Your choice."

"When I serve it, I serve it nasty."

"Put any punk in front of me, and I'll beat him like a mutt."

"I made him bleed."

"His name is Alex. I'll take the English out of him. Call him Alejandro."

On someone having a cushy day or afternoon schedule.

"Those are banker's hours."

On someone calling me "Lord Willy" in honor of the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup.

"There ain't no Lord. There's only me, the baddest motherfucker on the planet."

That's all I can recall off the top of my head. There are more.

This guy is endlessly entertaining.

Just a few questions

After months of secrecy and deceit, the child is coming. It's exciting news for sure, but the American public has a lot of questions for the Schaible couple. Like, when bearing gifts for the new child, should we bring gold, frankincense or myrrh?

The biggest query I have is the name. Will the Schaibles go the celebrity route and choose a name like Baseball Prospectus Schaible or Coffee Coolatta Schaible? No one knows. There was less secrecy to the Osama bin Laden mission than with this baby's potential name. Here are a few guesses of mine ...

1. They could do the right thing and name the child after me. I'd be honored if a baby boy was named Stephen Steve Schaible. In the case of a girl, Stephanie Steve Schaible would be acceptable.
2. Another possibility would be to honor Jeff's best friends from college with Vishal French Schaible. A diverse name for sure. He'd easily make it to Harvard.
3. For a girl, the Schaibles could get lazy. Hey, it's been a hectic few months. So Emily Emily Schaible has a nice ring to it.
4. Since the parents really got to know each other at the Boston Globe sports department, honoring that wonderful dream maker would be appropriate. MIAA High School Roundup Schaible? Wintext Sport Joe Schaible? The possibilities ...

The smart Vegas money had to be on smooth, one-syllable name, especially for a boy. Dave. Bill. Tom. Joe. Something that would fit easily on the lists of Bristol, Connecticut's finest country clubs 50 years from now.

In the instance that the child is a girl, the field of names if wide open. I wouldn't know where to begin. It's not unlike the field of candidates for the Republican convention, except the fetus probably accepts evolution and climate change by now.

Now, there are other questions I've been hearing. Such as: Where is the birth certificate? The fact that the baby hasn't been born yet is not enough to deter certain conspiracy theorists on the web. Other issues ...

1. When will the child have a Facebook account?
2. By what age will the kid have a fastball that is better than mine? Five or six is the guess, boy or girl.
3. Which baseball team will be the kid's favorite, Red Sox or Yankees? Or will the kid rebel against his/her parents and hate baseball and love other activities, like clapping at a movie theater to movies like "Tree of Life?" By the way, what is "Tree of Life?" A sequel to the "Lord of the Rings?" I'm really out of the loop on this one.
4. Which website will the child use for his/her Fantasy games, because you can't beat the top notch product at CBSSports.com!

At least a few of these questions should be answered very shortly.

The man with the scary tattoo

Last Friday my string of one-on-one basketball victories came to an end. And I knew it would the second I saw my challenger.

He was around 6-foot-2, 6-foot-3 with a very long wingspan. When you play enough times, you can just tell when guys are good. You develop a sixth sense for this stuff. This guy looked like he had played in high school.

But I'm never one to back down, so I accepted his challenge and we played a three games to 11 on a blustery, 94 degree afternoon. (I had already been shooting for almost an hour by the time he arrived, and the winds that day were cruel.)

The reason I blog about this particular game is not that I lost, which is certainly rare enough to warrant such a report. It's that the guy took off his shirt and displayed a tattoo I will never forget.

"Fuck Every Body" ran right across the top of his chest. You should have seen my face when I saw it. "Dear God, he's going to destroy me." He also had tattoos of woman's faces on his stomach. It was distracting. And sort of scary.

In the first game, I took a quick lead driving to the basket without abandon. But then I missed a shot wide right (remember, 15-20 mph gusts that day) and he decided, "Perhaps I should post up this 158-pound stick figure." From then on I was powerless to stop him.

My strategy was to play off him and pray that he would shoot jumpers. It worked here and there, but he built a 7-2 advantage. At one point, I blocked one of his jump shots, but the ball went right back to him and he attempted a hook shot. He missed that one, too, but rebounded over my back and laid it in. I screamed a profanity in frustration. You can't call "over the back" in pickup hoops, but I was still peeved. He told me to "calm down."

Yes, the guy with "Fuck Every Body" tattooed on his chest told ME to calm down.

This lit a fire in me and I hit five straight shots to tie the game, but he went on to win 11-9. Absolutely exhausted and my right shoulder killing me, I rested for ten minutes and then we faced off in a rematch. I entered Schaible mode and shot almost nothing but two's (shot from behind the arc). I couldn't drive on him. He was too tall. I couldn't do my patented drive, stop and shoot a fade-away because he had arms like the tentacles of a giant octopus.

He got out to another big lead, but I found my touch once again. It was 9-9 and I missed three two-point attempts in a row. Thankfully, he was taking jump shots and missing them. At last, I grabbed a rebound, raced to the top of the key and nailed a two-pointer. I ran forward in case there was a rebound, saw the ball touch nothing but net and raised my arms in sweet, sweet victory.

Whatever is beyond exhausted, that's what I was at that point. I also had to be at work, but a true man can never leave if a series is tied at 1. A tiebreaker must be staged.

He toyed with me down in the paint, at some points laughing to himself because he got about 90 percent of the rebounds. Again, this guy's wingspan was ridiculous. Up 7-1 at one point, he thought victory was assured. Little did he know that his spindly opponent is not called "Ironwill O'Houlihan" for nothing.

The gusts FINALLY died down and I started draining everything. I took the lead at 9-8 and had a chance to make it 10-8 but I short-armed a very makeable hook shot. Unfortunately for me, he did his thing in the paint and won the deciding game 11-9.

Yes, this story ended tragically. But perhaps I gained a modicum of respect from this fellow I shall forever know as "Fuck Every Body." He said, "Good shootin'" and we clasped hands before I stumbled deliriously to my car.

My streak of not having lost a one-on-one series, which lasted all of 2011, is over. But my pride shall never die.

I just don't get it

It's safe to say Bill Belichick knows more about football that little ol' me. Criticizing his selection of players is akin to me criticizing a neurosurgeon during an operation.

Still, I just don't get this draft.

They had a need on the offensive line, which has been dominated in the team's last three playoff losses. Nate Solder could address that. But defensive line/linebacker? They didn't try.

Many love to screech about the unwashed masses who yearn for a pass rusher like we're baseball fans who hate OBP and BABIP, like we're the same WEEI banshees who would call for cutting Carl Crawford.

Yes, it may be a cliche at this point. But we watch the games, and it's a clear as it can possibly be. Opposing quarterbacks have dissected this defense with ease for years. Matt Flynn did it. Seneca Wallace did it. Mark Sanchez's jersey is always a pristine white after any Patriots game, if he sucks or not. Why not? When Tully Banta-Cain and Rob Ninkovich are your pass-rushers ...

I can't go on. The fact that these two are the main pass-rushers makes me ill. I don't want to vomit on my keyboard. I liked TBC as a guy they brought in on third downs occasionally. I never, ever wanted him to start, to be the main guy.

For many years, we Pats fans have been waiting for the next Mike Vrabel/Willie McGinest. Shawn Crable never panned out. Adalius Thomas was a bust. And in the draft, the Pats aren't even trying. I always hear "so-and-so doesn't fit the scheme." So, for three years not one pass-rushing outside linebacker or defensive end fits the scheme? Clay Matthews seems to fit Green Bay's scheme. If 1980s Lawrence Taylor was available, would New England trade out of his spot to stockpile 14 second-round picks in 2013 because "he doesn't fit the scheme?"

Draft all the corners you want, a secondary of four Deion Sanders clones could not cover receivers if the QB has five minutes to throw. This is what Mike Vrabel and Willie McGinest and Tedy Bruschi were able to provide. Jerod Mayo is good, but he's not a force in the backfield. Ty Warren and Vince Wilfork are supposed to occupy O-lineman in the 3-4, creating space for the LBs to attack the passer.

Who's going to do that next season? Jermaine Cunningham? Dane Fletcher? Lt. Weinberg? I don't know. But the fact that the Pats aren't even trying to fill this hole frustrates me to no end, as a fan. Going 14-2 or 12-4 is fine. But I don't want my team to become the Colts, completely incapable of making the big play on defense when it counts.

If a sports genie told me, "I grant one of your teams a championship. Pick which one, but only one," I would pick the Pats. The Bruins would be tempting, to finish out the four major sports, but I DESPERATELY want one more title for Tom Brady and the Pats. The last Super Bowl which I am refusing to name still stings. Balancing the scales from that epic, gut-wrenching, haunting disaster of a game is the one thing in sports I want more than anything else.

And Brady is in his 30s now. The end of his career is no longer a decade away. (As for Ryan Mallett, I watched him plenty and he gets the Drew Bledsoe yips when things start to go wrong.) So instead of making sure we have 13 draft choices every season, the Pats should be focused on the now. Go for the Lombardi Trophy while Brady still wears a Flying Elvis. Sell your soul if you have to. Having five or six picks won't doom the team to 3-13.

And getting NFL-capable outside rushers is important. The Ravens have Suggs. The Steelers have Harrison. The Packers have Matthews. The Colts have Freeney. The Pats have Banta-Cain and Ninkovich.

I don't get it.

Basketball Guy

After every school day in high school, I would rush home to listen to the Jim Rome show. Did this lead to a lucrative radio career berating callers or playing fart noises on WEEI? Sadly, it did not.

Nonetheless, Jim Rome cracked me up. One particular bit he did that I will always remember is “Softball Guy.” He would rip on the stereotypical middle-aged man who takes softball way too seriously. You know the type: guy who wears batting gloves, cleats, the stirrup socks, eye black, the whole works. He acts like he’s playing DH for the Yankees, instead of third base at the Irish O’Malley field in Dorchester for Jacko and Sons Plumbing, LLC.

Yesterday, I participated in two full-court basketball games where I witnessed many incarnations of certain Basketball Guys. After years of playing with Bob Knight Hosseini and Nenad Schaible and Kyle Korver Grimala, then playing with the serious types down in South Florida, I believe I’ve accumulated ample expertise to delineate the certain types you’ll find playing any basketball game.

Has this been done before? Sure, but not with my wit and keen insight.

And-One Bloopers Guy

This guy loves to dribble between his legs, juke no one out of his shoes, run the fast break like Marcus Banks and, my favorite, loves to try fancy passes during games. Too bad for him every pass behind the back hits someone in the knee or rolls helplessly out of bounds. This guy popped up numerous times yesterday. One time, I’m Not Steve Nash, who was on my team, had a 3-on-1 fast break, dribbled up the middle and tried a behind-the-back, no-look pass that clanked off someone’s shin and right to the waiting arms of the defender. If you can pull off the Harlem Globetrotters’ moves, then play for the Harlem Globetrotters. If not, then a simple pass will do.

Doesn’t Shut Up Guy

This guy likes to showcase his knowledge of primary colors on defense. “Get White!” “Watch out for Red!” “Watch out for Black!” He calls for the ball on every possession. He complains loudly when he doesn’t get the ball. He yells at people when they miss shots. He’s the guy who makes a loud, random noise in your face when you’re shooting, just to gain that little competitive advantage while also coming across like a giant douche.

Follow the Rules Guy

This guy thinks he’s Dick Bavetta. He never misses a shot on his own, calling for a foul instead. He calls traveling and double-dribbling with such insane bias you’d think he was reffing a Lakers game. He will yell at you for ignoring the Treaty of Versailles. But if you dare call him out for any infractions, prepare for ….

Bitch-and-Moan Guy

He comes in many sizes, but he is impossible to miss because he complains about everything. His testosterone levels are enormous and he’s not on the court to play basketball; he’s on the court to impose his male dominance. I’ve played in pick-up games that were brought to screeching halts for 10 or 15 minutes just by guys arguing at each other. And it’s always the same culprits week after week. Is there anything more pointless than filibustering during a pickup game? Can’t we all just play mediocre, post-Kendrick Perkins Celtic basketball that would make James Naismith wish he’d invented the XFL?

The Chucker

George Costanza is the most famous of this popular species. The chucker believes he or she is Ray Allen and Reggie Miller, firing fade-away threes whenever the balls touches the hand. And yes, I’ve played with a guy who hoists at least four or five fade-away THREES a game.

Yesterday, the chucker was a girl. She had some game, but she took at least 10 threes over two games and each one was a more horrible disaster than the next. Like M. Night Shyamalan movies!! (And the foul!) I cleaned up after her, scoring off these terrible misses several times, enough to really frustrate the other team. “Who’s watching RED!!??!?!” Still, all chuckers, there are four other players on the court. And there’s no shot clock. No need to play like all the idiots in the NCAA tournament who dribble around for thirty seconds and then heave a 30-foot prayer. We’re better than that.

The Midget

One of these yesterday, too. He’s usually a little over 5-feet tall. And he knows he needs to make up for it by being a 7-foot asshole. He will elbow you in the nuts. He will slap you silly. He will do everything he can to annoy the living hell out of you. While one must appreciate the effort, the groin area is important and does not want to be disturbed by sweaty, small male hands. Unless it belongs to a Republican. (And the foul!)

We get it, Danny Woodhead wannabe. You’re a ‘gamer.’ Yesterday, you tried to post me up. Yes, I had at least a foot on you and you were posting me up. Now, my defense in the paint is Situation-trying-to-be-funny abysmal, but still. And you elbowed and scratched and clawed … and you never got the ball because no one wants to throw an entry pass to Tom Cruise.

On the next possession, you tried to sprint for an offense rebound and Steve “The Thin Fundamental” Sears eased right in your path and gave a solid box-out. You audibly groaned when you made contact with my muscular frame. You never did post me up again.

The Old Guy

My college buddies will never forget Bert. Or was it Bird? Anyway, he was an older, rotund gentleman who wore a Larry Bird jersey and, even worse, Larry Bird short shorts. Covering him was like swimming in a pool of his sweat. He donned the goggles and the headbands. Straight outta 1983. He also cherry picked like a mofo, but that’s another story.

Yes, you know you’re in a pickup game when there’s at least one dude in his fifties laboring up and down the court. No, not me. He might not have hair or a working back, but he does have guile. I can’t help but love these guys. They have their set-shots, their muscle-shirts showcasing healthy amounts of chest and/or back hair. They are not afraid to take off said shirts at any time. And if you ever find yourself in a locker room with one, the penis will make a guest appearance.

The Pretty Boy

Oh, he’ll play alright, but not before he applies the hair gel, the very tight black shirt and his new kickin’ sneaks. He thinks he’s way better at basketball than he is. He will be picked before more capable players because he looks like he can play, but then you find out he can barely dribble. He just wants to run around and show off his biceps to the ladies. But unless the Food Network or Bravo starts televising pickup games, ladies won’t be watching.

The Kobe

Our final type. He is the best player on the court. He assumes the leadership position and everything just runs through him. Pickup warriors can usually pick this guy out during warm-ups. He has a steely confidence and focused glare. It’s Game 7 of the Finals and he’s ready to win it all. He is also extremely demanding, unafraid to cuss you out for missing a layup or failing to grab a rebound. He’s like Kobe Bryant, except you don’t necessarily hate this guy. But like Kobe, you need him to win. You just hope he doesn’t try to backstab you to the Colorado police.

I will stop here. There are other types, but I don’t want this to turn in to a Bill Simmons column. There’s the Fundamental Guy Who Does the Little Things (ME!), the Foreigner, the Girl, the Trash Talker and the Ringer. If I missed any big ones, feel free to let me know how stupid I am in the lonely hellscape of my comments section.

The cure

I actually did stuff this past weekend, hosting MMA impresario Dave Doyel on a trek to Fort Myers for Red Sox spring training.

Here are the bullet points.

• I did not get lost from the airport.
• I did miss the exit to 75 North, which crosses Florida east to west. Just a small diversion.
• I still did not get lost from the airport.
• I had my first memorable Jacuzzi experience. Where I hung out in Rhode Island and Boston, Jacuzzis were rather rare. Those things are relaxing! Either that, or it sapped all my youthful vigor and turned me into a static prune.
• We sat in the Jacuzzi with a farming couple form Minnesota. The salt of the earth cavorting with evil librul commu-fascists. They were none the wiser.
• I challenged Mr. Doyal to a swim race, assuming a victory. Instead, I was routed. I'm used to some jabroni challenging me on the basketball court, his head filled with hubris, and then quickly and coldly dispatching that hubris. To be on the opposite end is not as enjoyable. I am not a creature of the water.
• We drove around our first night in sprawling, octogenarian Fort Myers looking for a cool place to eat. We ended up at P.K. Sam's aka P.F. Chang's. After more than four years down here, I should know that you don't find cultured eating in this state.
• Game 1 on Friday afternoon. Great seats several rows up near home plate at the spring home of the Minnesota Twins, Hammond Stadium. Carl Crawford didn't make solid contact once and Jonathan Papelbon could not find the strike zone. Recipe for a Red Sox defeat.
• I did get revenge for my loss in the swimming pool with a thrilling win at Smuggler's Cove mini-golf course. I started out hot, went into a slump, but then turned on my Ironwill O'Houlihan motor to pull out a one-shot victory.
• We met up with some of Dave Doyil's Harvard buddies, one who used to work as a hawk back in the pre-Sears days. Dark, dark times. I heard of a scoring scandal and a hilarious story involving Sport Joe. For more details, you'll have to ask nicely.
• One of the guys thought about being a journalist but instead went into consulting. He asked if he made the right choice. After laughing uproariously, I asked him, "Do you like money?" He nodded. I asked, "Do you like living like a normal human being?" He said yes. So I told him he made the right decision.
• This group of Boston-educated Red Sox fans ended up at the Fire Pit, one of those cookie cutter restaurants that tried its hardest to appear trendy and appealing. Mediocre food. While we left, they were setting up the place into a nightclub. During the day, I hear it's a library and a BINGO hall. (I've been watching too much Larry Sanders.)
• The next day was a trip to City of Palms Park, the site of the Boston Red Sox. We packed into the right field bleachers and baked in the sun while we (mostly me) tried to find as many non-Caucasians attending a Red Sox game as possible. And I found a few.
• I was there for Adrian Gonzalez's first at-bat in a Red Sox uniform, a solid single. The game went very well, even John Lackey pitched like a professional.
• The one player who stood out in both games was by far Jacoby Ellsbury. He smashed the ball all over the field in the two games we saw, including a home run against the Marlins.
• After the game, NESN reporter Heidi Watney walked right by us. Just thought I'd mention that.

In summation, you can't beat a few days of spring training baseball in wonderful Florida weather with likable people. And while Fort Myers has its faults, Dave said, "I could see myself loving to live here when I'm 70."

Indeed.

After last week's unfortunate events, this little excursion was the perfect elixir. Now it's time to enter the chaos that is mid-March at my job. It begins Thursday.

FLASHBACK: The Chronicles of Mordor: Part II

NOTE: I killed my MySpace account today. But I didn't want to lose one of my proudest accomplishments ... The Chronicles of Mordor. They led to this blog and I think they're pretty good. I did not want to lose them. So I'm republishing them here, with slight editing.

Originally published July 2, 2008


Loyal reader(s) of my blog may remember a flood, occurring several months ago, of strangers saying they recognized me from somewhere. A few British lads even sent me Facebook messages to this affect. New Zealand is much like I would imagine Great Britain to be, save for the sunlight. I hoped I could find this doppelganger there, this evil twin, but no such luck. Maybe there is no evil twin and they got me confused with this guy.






My second day in Dunedin started at a Starbucks. Yeah, yeah. I know. I sat there leafing through the Sunday paper and buried way in the back was the news of Tim Russert's shocking death. Definitely a blow to the gut there. The big news in the country at that time? The police were being armed. Other big news? A liquor store clerk was murdered. Later in the week a woman was killed in a hit and run. As tragic as these stories are, it was odd to see all the fuss since these events constitute a Tuesday afternoon in South Florida.

During the next few days my humble hosts took me on a tour of the Greater Dunedin area, my favorite place being Tunnel Beach. To reach the beach you have to walk downhill and it just so happened to be pretty muddy that particular morning. At one point I made the mistake of rushing down said hill and you can guess what happened next.






The crowd had a hearty laugh at my expense. The biggest victim was not my bruised ego but my nice cargo pants. Mud stains all over. Nonetheless, the place was Bauer-tastic. The tunnel leading to the rocky beach, the cliffs, the seemingly endless expanse of water all made for a pretty cool sight, just 10-15 minutes away from the city.

I have to admit my mind, as well as Zach's I would venture to guess, focused on something else those days. Our Boston Celtics, last year starting Gerald Green and Sebastian Telfair while trying to lose games intentionally, were on the cusp of a championship against the dastardly Lakers. We watched Game 5 at the Terrace, the place mostly to ourselves on that Monday afternoon. The group: Zach, his friend Mike (a Boston fan) and a lad named Marcus. The most memorable part of the game, which the Celtics went on to lose, was Zach cussing intensely in my face as K.G. missed late free throws. He's a bit insane. Zach, I mean.

The next game the four of us did the same thing, and the Celtics went into halftime with a huge lead. I wasn't counting to No. 17 until midway through the third when it was clear the Lakers had no intention of trying to win. The game became so lopsided (as Ray Allen swished about a million wide-open 3s) that Zach and I could only laugh. That's when you know you have it in the bag. To my chagrin, there was no rioting in Dunedin that day. Apparently, the NBA is their Arena Football or Pro Bowling tour. The people were aware but didn't care. But I was happy! So was Paul Pierce, who deserved that trophy more than anyone else.

With the Celtics as champions, the time came to hit the road with clear minds, stale Twizzlers and a shaky iPod radio converter. The beautiful landscape of the South Island awaited and I was determined to show New Zealanders a true obnoxious American. I would kill as many endangered species as I could. I would insult the New Zealand way of life and walk around with a general air of entitlement. USA! USA! USA!

Next on the Chronicles of Mordor … how many innocent seals can Steve strangle with his bare hands? How many Northeastern stories can Zach and Steve recount until Monica runs away to Antarctica? Will Shannon Doherty make a guest appearance? Don't forget to tune in. Reruns of Mad About You are killing us so we're on the chopping block. Kinda like this guy.

Surveying the wreckage

Nightmares can come true!

Exactly what I feared came to pass. The Patriots turned it over. They started slow. Things began to snowball. The crowd grew quiet and the Jets fed on it.

More sloppy play. Momentum clearly on Jets side. Dumb mistakes, curious calls, physical errors, lapses in judgment. New England did the veritable Dick Van Dyke routine, slipping over the Ottoman, clashing into the china cupboard, and accidentally falling into the same bed as his wife.

And then the Jets preened around Foxborough, just as I imagined they would. Bart Scott, a flea to Tom Brady's St. Bernard, mouthing off like The Rock on Monday Nights. Braylon Edwards doing a full back-flip at midfield. I don't even want to imagine LaDainian Tomlinson's smug smile.

A complete bomb.

Rehashing this game in my head as I drove back home from where I watched the game in Coral Gables through half-heartedly following the Golden Globes, one word keep repeating in my head: baffled.

I was, and remain, baffled at what I saw yesterday. Credit the Jets for playing well and avoiding mistakes, but this Patriots team did not slink by in the regular season at 9-7 and tip-toe into the playoffs. In that case, a performance like yesterday's would make sense. This team went 14-2, beat every playoff team it faced and scored the most points in the league by a wide margin.

In this case, being stuck with 11 points as the clock ran down in the fourth quarter was preposterous. Let's start with the Tom Brady interception. Awful pass of course, but the Jets did not score. Disaster averted, right? Then Alge Crumpler drops a touchdown. What could have been 14-0 was 3-0.

Then the Jets went to work against a defense that played well, but when the time came to absolutely make a play, they couldn't. A troubling pattern since 2006. Fast forward to the last quarter and it's 14-11. Pats finally have some momentum. Stop the Jets and they might just eke the game out. Instead, they allowed Cotchery to turn a simple crossing route into a 58-yard gain.

Shockingly easy and utterly deflating. And over course, they gave up the fade route in the end zone. Opposing teams have an Albert-Pujols-against-the-Sears-fastball average against the Patriots with that play.

On third down, they give up 6 to Edwards. Subsequently, the inexplicable Drive to Nowhere begins. I think the Pats were so used to running out the clock in the fourth they reverted to an old habit. I can't comprehend what they were possibly thinking. Let's move on.

It typified the whole game offensively. Something was off. They were out of sorts. Brady kept throwing passes to receivers who weren't even looking for the ball. He flinched in the pocket when there wasn't any pressure. And sometimes, he had enough time to watch the Shoah documentary and still could not complete a pass.

I still don't get it. This wasn't the team I watched this season.

If this loss does one thing, it wipes away that aura of certainty we as Pats fans have taken for granted. Bill Belichick will have a great game plan. The Pats won't shoot themselves in the foot. They'll play situational football. And, if need be, Brady will make the plays in the end to win the game.

The past three playoff games have kicked these assumptions straight in the balls.

I'm done waiting for that magic to reappear. Those players, McGinest, Bruschi, Harrison, Vrabel, Brown, et al are gone. Most of the current Patriots don't have any rings.

So enough with the invincibility train. Enough with the 10-point lines. This is just another team trying to make a name for itself in the postseason. That 'championship intangible' does not reside in Foxborough at the moment.

It's not all bad. They did go 14-2. They aren't the Bills. They have a young core on defense, plenty of draft picks, and the all-time coach-QB combo. Maybe -- and I've been praying for one for years -- they'll get a pass rusher. Maybe they will fortify their offensive line or find another threat on offense.

Then we could be here 12 months from now.

But I won't be counting on some Patriot mystique to take over in January 2012. No more "We have Brady and Belichick, so we win" proclamations.

Three straight postseason losses to Eli Manning, Joe Flacco and Mark Sanchez make that a stone-cold certainty.

I have a nightmare

I'm having nightmares.

Rex Ryan beating his chest like a gorilla in mating season. Mark Sanchez running off the Gillette Stadium field wagging his finger Joe Namath style. LaDainian Tomlinson and Antonio Cromartie and Braylon Edwards hooting and hollering in front of the few Jets fans who have moved to the front row in place of departing Patriots fans.

"The Jets are going to the AFC title game!"

And then comes the media hype. The sickening celebrations. The New York media gnawing at the New England carcass non-stop for weeks. Rex Ryan is the greatest coach of all time. Mark Sanchez is the next big star in New York. LaDainian Tomlinson for Pope. Antonio Cromartie starring in Tyler Perry's Full House remake.

This Armageddon scenario has dominated my mind since the Jets beat the Colts last Saturday. And after a week of constant sniping, most of it coming from New York, the game is finally here. And whatever happens, at least this haunting uncertainty that is slowly driving me batty will disappear.

Rational Steve knows a few things. The Patriots are better. They have a better quarterback. They have a better head coach. They have receivers who don't drop five balls a game. They're playing at home. They went 14-2 and beat every playoff team they faced in the regular season.

And, duh, they savaged the Jets 45-3 a month ago.

The facts are clear. New England should win. Odds are, it will. But the mere possibility the Patriots could lose to this team -- of all teams -- makes me physically ill. Who knows? A freaky turnover or two. An injury. A helmet catch. Weird stuff can go down. And if it does, I will have to avoid the Internet and TV for a while.

Which is tough when you work for a sports website.

I used to be supremely confident in the Patriots in the playoffs. And while I know how lucky all us Flying Elvis fans are to have witnessed this dynasty, the past several years have ended in every agonizing way the football deities could envision.

That sloppy loss in Denver. The collapse in Indianapolis. The game in Phoenix I still have problems dealing with. And last year's pathetic effort against Baltimore.

There are some playoff yips to be exorcised here, is all I'm saying.

Losing this game would feel worse than winning it would feel good. And winning would feel damn good. Losing ... that's what brings the demons at night.

So Patriots, if any of you are reading this right now -- Tully, you're my man -- don't screw around. I want 75-0. If it's 27-26, I'll take it, but you'll have to pay the hospital bills. Just, please, for the sake of us and the rest of the world not having to listen to the Jets anymore, beat these clowns.

You just CAN'T lose this game. You can't.

No tix for you

I'm known for my performance under pressure. Calm eyes and what not. But my heart was racing this morning.

Mr. Dave Doyel (or Doyle? Doyal?) will be coming to South Florida for a few spring training games. I was tasked with purchasing the tickets. It was more suspenseful than Paranormal Activity.

First there's the virtual waiting room, an online limbo that could never end ... but you better be on standby or you go to the back of the line.

Then the fun starts.

You have one minute to pick your seats.

I'm hurrying! OK ... Two reserved box seats. Just in time.

Nice try, sucka. We don't have that available. Clock is ticking.

Um ... box seats?

No soup for you! MACGRUBER! (Bomb explodes)

Actually, I was able to pick some bleacher seats for the Red Sox-Marlins on March 12.

Then you have a minute and thirty seconds to remember your password. I have about 10 of those, and I never remember which ones go where.

Then a little over two minutes to fill out your credit card info. I'm racing through my name, address, postal code and I never know where the Doomsday Clock is.

And they even want me to buy ticket insurance. Is everything insured now? Can you buy anything anywhere without someone trying to get you to sign up for this card or buy this insurance or purchase this warranty? Sigh ... society.

MACGRUBER!

But I made it through to the other side. I came up huge in the clutch. Now I know what those Hurt Locker guys were going through. The pressure. Any small mistake could cost you your life ... or a chance to see Marco Scutaro battle Burke Badenhop.

I think this makes up for my Taboo debacle.

At the bah

While you Northern folk might be cursing your lot in life as it snows and rains and howls at freezing temps, you have one thing on which you can hold:

You don't have to watch the Dolphins.

They really are terrible to watch, but this being the local market, they receive televised priority. This means I need to venture out to this scary place known as "The Outside" where strangers congregate and spread their germs and their tweets if I want to watch the New England Patriots.

So yesterday I ventured over to a Boston-themed Fort Lauderdale seafood place to watch what was supposed to be a dogfight with the Bears. The game was a mismatch. Tom Brady is God. Bill Belichick is Super God. We all know that.

What's more interesting is this little enclave of Bostonians hidden in one of South Florida's lifeless plazas. It's like the Bostontown for South Florida. Burly men decked in tight Brady jerseys. People screaming for "Welkah!" and "BenJahvis!," people you would think came straight out of central casting for a hard-scrabble CBS sitcom set in Dorchestah starring Jimmy O'Doyle and Katelyn McCallister.

Yes, it's like a gift basket of Boston cliches, but it's a slice of home. So when the Patriots aren't on national TV, I go here. And it is here where I realize I need to work on my Boston bona fides.

You'd think I have enough credentials. Sure, I was born in Rhode Island, but to everyone down here Rhode Island and Boston are synonymous. And I do admit to being attracted to Tom Brady in way too many instances for a straight man. He's just that awesome. Like any true Boston fan, I wish Bill Belichick was the Secretary of Defense and I know who Sam Gash is.

But even in this utopia of Southies, I feel out of place.

Perhaps it's my aversion to alcoholic beverage. I just can't put them down like any true Boston man can. I nursed one glass of Guiness like it was a premature baby. And all around me are brash men's men screaming in billowy baritones while I clap like a cheerleader on a Glee.

And my small talk talents are in the Mark Blount range. I happened to sit next to this guy who talked non-stop to me about how sports used to be in the good, old days.

"Remember when pitchers used to throw 506,000 innings a game? And then they killed a moose with a toothpick and pitched another 506,000 the next day? Nowadays, they throw one pitch before they curl up on the mound and suck their thumbs."

"Back in the 60s, there this was one football player named Rock of Gibraltar, and he played every position on the field all at once. That's when men were men, I tell 'ya."

All game .... There was nowhere to go and nothing to do but nod politely. Then he veered into even more interesting territory ... Formula 1 racing history.

Lots of nodding and uh-huhs from me. I thought about taking out my book. (Yes, I brought a book. You never know when you'll need one.)

Then this gentleman, coughing up a storm, veered into movies.

"Everything's a remake these days," was his actual quote. "A few years ago, they remade It's a Wonderful Life. How can you replace Jimmy Stewart?"

"I don't think they ever remade that movie," I say.

"Oh they did. It was terrible."

"I really don't remember that."

A stalemate.

The man did earn some Sears points when John Boehner showed up on the television, and for what must be the 103rd time, he was crying. Boehner just loves to cry. Imagine if a Democrat cried as much as this guy?

Apparently, this guy was thinking the same thing.

"What's he crying about this time? I'll give him something to cry about, that asshole."

That's more like it!

For the most part, I sat in my corner like a good little boy while we cheered for our suddenly dominant patriots. Fun times for all. Meanwhile, the guy next to me ate a lobster, and the lobster's eyes stared me down, pleading for mercy, yet I could do nothing. I could never eat anything with its eyes staring at me.

Another line in my girly-man resume.

While the game got out of hand, the real men started arguing about the Celtics. One big guy in a beard basically said Ray Allen sucks. A younger Boston fan was challenging him on it. I felt like chiming in, but I would probably have come across like Milton in Office Space.

The game ended and we all stayed to watch the Dolphins beat the Training Camp Super Bowl Champion Jets. We took extra glee in New York's loss and then we parted ways. The working class men who chug down beer like I consume coffee milk, unafraid to speak their minds and speak it to anyone within a five-mile radius, slapped backs and said their goodbyes. They have their Ben Coats and Andre Tippett jerseys. They don't know 'r' is a letter in the alphabet, and they don't care.

I had my Northeastern shirt and my book as I slithered out anonymously, because that's how I do.

Emo warning

If the dating life of Steve Sears was a television show, it would be funnier than Outsourced, canceled faster than Lone Star and match the disappointment level of The Office.

(Seriously, that last episode of the Office was one of the worst they have ever had. I don't think I laughed once. I hate when Jim and Pam are clueless. And I HATE HATE HATE how they always bring Michael out of the Dunder Mifflin office so he can do something excruciatingly stupid in front of a lot of strangers. That whole deal in the bus was predictable and deliriously unfunny. And after an all-time classic that was the Halloween episode, this was just sad.)

Don't fret. I'm not here to rage an emo, Simple Plan diatribe on the tragedies of heterosexual interplay. But I am here to make a Bill Simmons style athletic comparison, which will come at the conclusion.

Let's start with Lady No. 1. Around the beginning of September she contacts me online. We email back and forth for a few days. Then she disappears. This has happened to me a zillion times, so I was completely immune to such abandonment.

A week or so later, she emails back with the ol' 'it's been crazy' excuse. Whatever. She gave me her cell phone number. I sent her a text the next morning. Little did I know what I had just started.

Mr. Z.C. Hoss-man was visiting from out of town, so for the first time in a long time, I was going to be busy. So Lady No. 1 embarks on a torrid texting binge. "What's up?" every morning. Asking for status updates every two hours.

I played along as much as I could, considering I still had a flip cell phone and T9 texting. It takes ten minutes to say "hello" on those things. (I've since upgraded.) I told her as much, while also explaining I had a friend in town so it might take me a while to answer back. By 'a while,' I meant several hours. Keep in mind, I've been forced to wait days and weeks for responses. She apologized but didn't stop the mass deluge.

When I did respond, I'd get passive-aggressive answers, like "Nice to hear from you. Been a while."

Anyway, once the visitor left this humble state, Lady No. 1 and I set up a meeting in Boca Raton on a Monday. Time and place were all agreed upon the Saturday before. So I did not message her from that Saturday night through Monday. I drove up to Boca, found the bar and watched Saints-49ers alone while I waited.

Thirty minutes late and still alone, I texted her to see what was up. She answered back, "You didn't message me at all today so I figured you blew me off." I read it, smirked a defeated smirk, and immediately deleted her from my phone.

To recap, I blew her off by not keeping contact over the span of two days and not confirming something we had already confirmed. But she ignored me for seven says and that's OK. I'm a terrible person for not responding to 25 texts within minutes, she can wait a week.

Now on to Lady No. 2, which is a much more recent tale of woe. We started talking in late September. Same song-and-dance for a few days until -- POOF! -- she disappeared. I'm like Harry Houdini in this shit. I'm a paper shredder and they are ENRON financial documents. (Timely reference.)

Right before I'm to leave for my sister's wedding, she emails me. "Sorry it's been a wild week. I wasn't ignoring you ." OK, I'm forgiving (and not exactly full with other options.) So we message intermittently and set up a date for a Sunday, conveniently during the Pats bye week. What happens? She cancels the morning of.

Then I don't hear back from her for more than a week. I wonder what I possibly could have done the entire time. I didn't even get the chance to un-impress her in person. So, a few Saturdays ago I message her out of the blue just wondering what's up and actually get a response. We end up setting up another date, which she cancels again.

By this point, I'm getting the message, but I forge ahead anyway because I'm a putz. We try a third time, she cancels a third time. Then uncancels. We finally get together last Wednesday. It goes pretty well, but as I've learned the past two years, what I think means squat. It always takes me a while to get comfortable with people, so I don't expect some lame Jennifer Lopez movie moment when the leads lock eyes, the camera turns into a cloudy dream and soothing musics soars through the speakers. So yeah, I have a little wall around me when it comes to strangers. That's just how I am and have always been. I pretty much refused to talk at first to the kid who would become one of my best friend in Cranston. My two longtime college roommates can tell you their first impressions of me weren't great.

Having such a problem in the dating world is like a batter going to the majors who can't hit any pitches over 70 miles per hour and can't touch a curveball. Not good. The conversation goes pretty well, but not without some momentary awkward silences. Mind you, I had another date that went for four hours of almost non-stop spirted talk, and she still told me to take a hike a few days later. Anyway, it went pretty good. I waiting two days, called, left a message and hung up the phone knowing the battle was lost.

Again, I read the tea leaves a while back and still went through the motions. You never know, but it's been more than 24 hours without a response. I let her dick me around for four weeks and for what? Some sushi in Boca. The thing is, I always knew it was ending this way. After cancellation No. 2 I should have just scrapped the whole thing. I just KNEW the ending would suck, like any Mets fan feels in April.

If there was a scouting report on me for these first meet-ups, I don't know what it would say. At this point, I can't think about these nights rationally. I do know the first few days after these dates where I spend most of my waking hours thinking how I screwed this or that up are no fun at all. It's like being on Death Row. You know the end is near and you just want it to come already, and in the meantime you have nothing to think about besides your mistakes.

This brings me to my Bill Simmons moment. If I were a terrible Red Sox shortstop, who would I be? Nick A. Green? Nah, he had his moments. Edgar Renteria? He was awful in Boston, but obviously remembers how to play when he's on other teams. Julio Lugo? He was an affront to baseball, but he also has a ring. He'd be like Turtle from Entourage, who gets women only because he knows Vincent Chase.

So the only conclusion ... Cesar Crespo. A second baseman by nature, he played some shortstop in his Red Sox days. He batted a sparkling .165 in 52 games in the early part of 2004. An absolute black hole in the lineup. A testament to futility. (He also got a ring in 2004, but then again, who didn't?)

It's all fitting. Crespo is one of my favorite random Red Sox players of all time, along with Arquimedez Pozo, Reggie Jefferson, Jeff Frye, Tim Naehring and Jim Corsi. Quality company, I would say.

And I would take some serious 'roids if it meant I could hit .165.

Some sporting thoughts

My heart is back to its normal rate and I'm no longer shaking.

Just like the infamous goal-line stand from 2003 against the Colts, the Pats let slip a sizable lead on the road to a rival, only to escape at the last second with a win. Like those old Pats teams, they were extremely opportunistic on defense and rudimentary on offense.

They infuriated. They frustrated. They excited. They gave me a near heart attack.

And they won.

There's a ton to criticize after this one. The offense needs to pick it up in the first half. Matt Light needs to take off his roller blades. The hands team should have been on the field for the onside kick. Brandon Tate needs to make an impact.

We Pats fans have been spoiled the past few years with 38-14 blowouts. We've been used to Brady-to-Moss for 50-yard touchdowns. Now that those days are gone, we hearken back to the Super Bowl years with rose-colored glasses.

Those teams blew leads. They missed tackles. They struggled to get going on offense. We tend to forget this looking back on it. Those teams did make just enough plays to win. It's trite. It's a cliche, but it's true.

This year's edition was alert enough to pounce on the ball after that Chargers receiver just dropped it on the ground thinking the play was over. This edition made a heads-up play picking up the ball after the lateral by Philip Rivers while the Chargers just stood around thinking about what dance they were going to try after their next touchdown.

When your offense is gaining 30 yards in a half like the Pats, these are the types of plays (and breaks) you need.

And for the Chargers, who talk trash like they are the Miami Hurricanes of the 80s but play like the 'Cane from today, this loss must eat at them. They're a flashy, talented team. They're also sloppy and play terrible situational football. Frankly, they play like your average Cranston West dropout. The Pats of this season play like Cranston East honor roll students (for the most part. The 15-yard cushions on 3rd and longs are driving me crazy.)

***

Oh no! The Rangers and Giants are in the World Series. How boring! The ratings will be terrible! Baseball is dead!

Hog wash. Even speaking as a Red Sox fan, not every World Series needs Boston, New York or Philly to be interesting. Many always complain that its the same teams in contention every year in baseball. Now we have a team that's never been to the Fall Classic in the Rangers and a team that has the second longest championship drought. (You know who's No. 1 there.)

And who cares about the ratings, besides Fox TV executives? Sure, they're not doing jumping jacks. It's not Yankees-Phillies, but I don't remember last year's breaking records. People will watch a competitive World Series, no matter who's in it. Angels-Giants was great. Marlins-Indians was an all-time classic. Non-Northeastern teams can play great series as well. And there are plenty of interesting players involved in this one.

Cliff Lee vs. Tim Lincecum in Game 1. Josh Hamilton, who put a David Ortiz-like fear of God in the Yankees. Nelson Cruz, who hit the home run that ended New York's season. Elvis Andrus, who ran the Yankees crazy and was ten times better than Derek Jeter. Neftali Feliz, an electrifying rookie closer. Buster Posey, one of the best young catchers to come along in a while. Matt Cain, a criminally underrated pitcher. Brian Wilson and his fake beard. The ballpark formally known as Pac-Bell, for my money the best field in the country not located on Yawkey Way.

So if fans don't watch this series, they can never complain again about East Coast bias or Yankee over-saturation. The storylines, players, angles and hungry fans are there for the taking. Take a week off from Dancing with Bed Bugs and Iron Urologist and watch this series.

***

As for my pick? The Rangers have the better lineup. They have more power and better base-runners. They play superior defense and they have the best postseason pitcher going right now in Cliff Lee.

So of course I'm picking the Giants.

I'm going against my brain here, but this San Francisco club has all the ... intangibles. I can't believe I'm saying this. I swear Joe Morgan hasn't overtaken my blog. But they've proven they can win one-run games. They don't rely on any one player, mostly because they don't have one who is good enough to rely on. They've been in playoff mode since early September.

And their pitching has been phenomenal. Lincecum, Cain and Sanchez are better than Lee, Wilson and Lewis all together. And the Giants bullpen might be even better than the starting staff. Old friend Javy Lopez, who loved to come in against a lefty while playing for the Red Sox, only to promptly issue a four-pitch walk, has been dominant. Santiago Casilla, Jeremy Affeldt, Guillermo Mota, former Boston great Ramon Ramirez and, of course, heart attack closer Brian Wilson comprise the best bullpen of any playoff team has this October.

A good bullpen is essential in this era of six-inning starts and La Russa-style specialization. The Giants are well equipped with versatile arms. The Rangers will not abuse this pitching staff like they did the Yankees.

And Bruce Bochy just played around with good ol' boy Charlie Manuel in the NLCS. Then again, Manuel is a terrible tactician. He went to the Jimy Williams/Grady Little school of southern drawl, go-with-the-gut managing. Ron Washington is a fine skipper, but Bochy is better. And he has the Dave Doyle charm going for him, which means only good things can happen.

With home field and the gods of baseball on their side, the Giants take a seven-game classic to win their first title in the beautiful City by the Bay.

How the other half lives

I am on the 80-year-old man schedule.


At 4 a.m., with the sun yet to rise, I awake to prepare for the hustle and bustle of another day in the rat fast-walk. With the help of some Red Bull and intestinal fortitude (for which I am famous) I manage to keep my eyes open long enough to last until 2 p.m.


Then I get home and feel like napping the rest of the day. Perhaps, if the will arises, I will watch the beginnings of a sporting event on TV until I decide to call it a night anywhere between 9:30 and 11 p.m.

I have the same routine as my dad. He's 78.

This new life - the life of a regular, sunlight-enjoying worker bee - has been eye opening. I'm like Ryan Atwood staying in the guest house of the well-to-do Cohens. I have no idea how I got here, but I'm thankful for the opportunity. And I'm brooding about my inner-pain.

Look at all the things my release from the night prison has allowed me to do.

First, I was able to attend a Goo Goo Dolls concert. Yes, the Goo Goo Dolls are still rocking the adult alternative charts. Switchfoot even opened for them. There was a guy with a t-shirt that said, "Boobies make me smile." The crowd groaned audibly whenever one of the Goos said the following words: "Here's a new song ..." All those people enjoying themselves on a sweltering Miami evening ... and little ol' me accompanied them. On a Saturday no less!

Then on Sunday, I saw a matinee showing of Inception. I enjoyed all the thought that must have went into that film. And I saw where the ending was going to go in general terms. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was not buried in an avalanche of baseball recaps. Instead, I sat next to a large man with a keg of popcorn. The real life.

I wake up on the weekends and feel the mid-morning sun and realize I have a whole day to waste, instead of just half of one.

And then I relaxed in the sauna that is the 6 p.m. Florida heat and finished the Lisbeth Salander trilogy. I admit I was sad to say goodbye to those quirky, kinky, coffee-swilling Swedes. I felt like they were true friends and when I read the last words I teared up a little, as if I were giving a goodbye hug at an airport.

So there you have it. A honest weekend in South Florida, my first since November of 2006, before Barack Obama ruined the earth with his Islamic socialism and Asante Samuel ruined my dreams with his dropped interception. A full week of semi-normalcy.

Granted, as a result of my early early EARLY bird hours, I am currently drooling all over my Toshiba and my eyelids weigh more than Albert Haynesworth (hey-o!), but it's a price I'm willing to pay.

As long as I have my Red Bull.

On second thought ...

By virtue of purchasing Celtics-Heat tickets in 2009, I have received intermittent phone calls from the Miami Heat ticket office, usually at obscene hours like 9 or 10 a.m.

They offered me packages to Heat games and I politely turned them down.

In retrospect, perhaps I made the wrong decision.

Now I'd have to do many unsavory things just to have the privilege of standing outside the arena for Heat-Bobcats in February.

I traveled down to South Beach for drinks with a pal from work, ostensibly for some good social time but we both wanted to be down there on this night. We plopped down at a random bar at the Lincoln Mall (an outdoor strip of posh restaurants, art galleries and bars) and waited as LeBron made out with himself in the mirror on national TV.

This pal is a Heat fan, but also a LeBron hater. He was - and still is - legitimately torn about LeBron James teaming up with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh on his beloved team. For years, this fan has loathed LeBron for what he claimed was James' supreme, preening selfishness. I shrugged him off, thinking he was just bitter because LBJ is more talented than Wade.

(But the past few weeks have proved him right.)

Random beautiful people in designer clothes stopped at TVs all across South Beach as LeBron's head appeared on every single screen I could see. It was like Big Brother. He was EVERYWHERE. Then he said he plans to "take his talents to South Beach" and the fans cheered.

No, they didn't erupt. They didn't act like a massive glob of people in a major European city watching the World Cup. People clapped, yelled, and high-fived for a few minutes then went on their way. They had some priceless art to buy and some homeless people to laugh at.

That said, there was a general excitement in the air and as the announcement rang out through all the speakers, only my LeBron-hating Heat fan and myself stood stoically. If this town can do one thing, it's jump on a bandwagon.

Nine trillion words have been written on LeBron and we're due for a few trillion more in the next few days. I can't say anything that someone else hasn't already come up with. I'm just glad this whole fiasco is finally over. In a few days, perhaps I can go more than 10 or 12 hours without hearing the words "LeBron" and "James."

And after that, perhaps a whole day sans LeBron James.

By that time, unfortunately, I'll still be kicking myself for not buying those tickets when I had the chance. Despise this super Justice League amalgamation in Miami all you want, it would still be great to see in person.

And I let a cheap ticket to witness it all live get away.

Bring me a pink hat

I'm starting to come around on soccer.

Yes, I woke up in time for the second half of USA-Algeria in the World Cup. It's tough to admit, but that was some of the best, most intense athletic competition I have seen in a while. Certainly the best soccer game I've had the pleasure of watching.

Team USA had chance after chance after chance to score. My pulse quickened with each missed opportunity as the clock ticked toward 90ish and the end of America's World Cup run.

A 0-0 tie and the United States goes home and soccer is set back another five years after a second disappointing World Cup in a row.

It certainly did not seem to be in the stars for the red, white and blue. One disallowed goal robbed them of a win over Slovenia. Another goal wiped away against Algeria. Tons of missed chances. In my groggy state, I held little hope.

Then Landon Donovan streaked down a huge area of open field, passed it to the middle and found the back of the net off a save and I jumped out of bed yelling. The person upstairs did so as well. I heard the yelling and the felt the ceiling shake a tad.

So ... I am starting to come around on the beautiful game. I still wouldn't watch MLS regular season games or some random European game, but high-stakes, elite soccer is something I can get behind. Does this make me a bandwagon jumper?

Quite simply, yes. But I have no problem confessing this.

Here are the good things about soccer.

1. No commercials: Watching an NFL or NBA game, you're bound to see more erection pill ads than the actual game. Soccer games fly by. You can get five minutes with a commercial break. Biggest factor in its favor.

2. High stakes: I can watch almost any sport if the stakes are high enough. I'll watch the Masters, Wimbledon, Stanley Cup playoff games, etc. You can't find higher stakes than the World Cup.

3. New Zealand tying Italy: Thanks to some obnoxious Facebook people who root for Italy over America even though they were born and lived here their whole lives, I root against the Azzurri. That tie gave me great satisfaction.

It's not all good. The flopping is ridiculous and embarrassing. It's above shameful. And don't even compare it to flopping in basketball. Pau Gasol flops all over the place, but at least he doesn't pretend he got shot in the knee and start writhing on the ground in absolute agony.

The stoppage time doesn't make much sense either. Soccer games just end at a secret time and you're left to guess. Why not just stop the clock during the game, for an "injury" or a goal, instead of adding extra time at the end?

And I still don't get this offsides thing.

Nonetheless, I'm starting to like it as a niche sport. It won't supplant baseball, football and basketball in my mind, but it can carve a nice spot right below them with the occasional golf tournament or big boxing/UFC match. It's just hard not to like the World Cup.

Give me a pink Bayern Munchen hat and a knock-off Messi jersey and I'll be ready to join the hooligans.

But I still refuse to call it football.

The One Where I Make a Very Inappropriate Analogy

Over the past ten or so years, I've had plenty of practice at what Jeff would call "The Blackout." After agonizing losses by a Boston team, I will avoid any and all media that I possibly can. I don't need the failure of my team rubbed in my face for 48 straight hours.

Unfortunately, I'm also in the worst possible job in which to conduct a true blackout. There are 5,000 TVs at work and all of them are on sports channels.

Needless to say, the Lakers' championship will pounded into all senses of my brain tomorrow and there's absolutely nothing I can do.

But I can control what I watched tonight. Not one second of the celebration. Nope, I watched Valkyrie. There was nothing else on On Demand worth seeing. So I watched a movie about a failed plot to assassinate Hitler starring Tom Cruise with an eye patch.

And this may be the copious amount of Miller Lite I imbibed tonight, but I saw some parallels to the NBA Finals. The Celtics were the Resistance. They tried valiantly to take down Hitler (Lakers) and came really close. They had the lead in the fourth quarter, so to speak, but Hitler rallied and ended up killing them all. The end.

Oh boy. I've really lost it. I know. The Lakers aren't Nazis, but they're still despicable. I'm just admitting what hit my brain while watching the film. Good efforts and good intentions don't always end up with good results.

Screw this. It's time to really let it all out.

THAT F*&%ING SUCKED!!!!!!!!!!

The Celtics shut down Kobe Bryant. He was awful. Couldn't hit anything. No one on the Lakers could. They shot 33 percent. The Celtics had a 13-point lead in the fourth quarter. And the Celtics F$%&ing lost???? They blew a Game 7 about a month after the Bruins blew their Game 7. What's going on???? They got a great game from Rasheed Wallace, too!!

13 POINT-LEAD!!!!!!!!!!!

Sigh.

It's easy to see why in retrospect. They got demolished - DEMOLISHED - on the glass all day. As bad as the Lakers offense was, the Celtics' offense was worse. At the end, it was all isolation plays that went nowhere and resulted in terrible shots. No cutting to the rim. No post play. And sure as hell no free throws.

(The refs did not lose this game or series for Boston. But how did the Lakers have twice as many free throws in every game when they weren't the aggressors? How come they let the teams play in the first three quarters and then call a foul parade in the last? Ugh.)

Frankly, the Lakers had more talent. They actually hit the shots when it counted. They rebounded. They hit free throws at the end. And now they're champions for about the 4,456th time in the past ten years. The bad guys win sometimes. And when the Cavs do a sign and trade with Lakers, shipping LeBron to L.A. for Adam Morrison's mustache, the Lake Show will win a few hundred more.

The 2009-10 Celtics were always an infuriating, yet valiant club. Some days they played like absolute crap, engaging in months of listless basketball. This was why I wasn't expecting anything from this team. But they turned it on in the playoffs.

Still ... the see-saw act continued. They laid an egg in Game 3 vs. Cleveland. They laid an egg in Game 5 vs. Orlando. In the first game of the Finals, they just didn't show up. It was over by the middle of the first quarter. Inexcusable. Same thing for Game 6. This series was going to be tough enough without just handing games away.

For all the no-shows, there were games like tonight where they poured their heart and soul into every minute. Most of the times, their best efforts were enough. Not this time.

And that's how I'll remember this team. They were tough and feisty but also infuriatingly inconsistent. You know how Mets/Yankee fans feel about Darryl Strawberry? He had immense talent and always played hard. When he was on, he was a treat to watch. But every now and then the inevitable relapses came.

The Celtics weren't talented enough to relapse twice in these Finals. So it came down to a wacky Game 7, where their best wasn't enough, either. Like the 2003 Red Sox and the 2006-2007 Patriots, they gave us a bunch of great memories but will always be remembered for the way they lost.

I'm proud of the good, junkyard dog Celtics, frustrated and disappointed at the relapsing Celtics.

Honestly, I don't know what I think of them as a whole right now. The pain of this loss is too close right now. This goes up to No. 4 on my Most Agonizing Boston Loss list.

1. Pats lose to Giants

2. Red Sox lose 2003 ALCS

3. Patriots lose 2006 AFC title game.

4. Celtics lose Game 7

5. Northeastern's loss to BU in the Beanpot final. (We had 'em!)

What I do know for certain is that my hatred of the Lakers is finally in my blood. I've never liked them, but now I hate them. I hate Pau Gasol's Institute of Floptology, Kobe Bryant and his fake family bullshit after the half. I hate their purse poodle fans and their smug coach. I hate Derek Fisher and his BS shots. I despise them now with 100 percent of my being.

And I hope they go 0-82 next year. I mean, Hitler won in Valkyrie, but killed himself nine months later.

So there's that ...

There's a big game tonight

So, did you know LeBron James is playing tonight?

He is, in what promises to be one of the more intriguing sporting events we've seen in years. The storylines are overflowing, like Rasheed Wallace's pot belly.

If LeBron loses tonight, he's probably on his way out of Cleveland. If he leaves Cleveland, the next 10 or so years of the NBA landscape will change. The balance of power will shift to somewhere, be it New York or Chicago or wherever he might wind up.

There's poor, God-hates-us Cleveland. If the city's hometown icon bolts for a bigger city, the whole place could crumble. That's no joke. It could literally crumble. The Cavs would be relegated to Raptors territory and LeBron would suddenly become Art Modell Jr. The whole psychological makeup would be transformed forever. They've been through hell, but this would be Armageddon.

Oh, there's also another team playing tonight. The Celtics, if they win, could rise from the nursing home everyone sent them to (including me) as they took off January through March. The Big Three are healthy, Rajon Rondo is quickly becoming the most interesting Celtics player since Larry Bird and the whole team is playing better than it has all season. Maybe they were just waiting for the playoffs this whole time.

Win tonight, and suddenly they're a threat to win a second title in three years while also burning a Midwestern city to the ground.

I can't wait to see this game, and I haven't looked forward to a Celtics game this much since the season opener. But something is nagging at me.

Everyone is already packing LeBron's trophies and his Nike puppets, ready to ship them to a media-powered metropolis of his choosing. The post-mortems are ubiquitous. Cleveland fans sound a lot like Boston fans after Game 3 of the 2004 ALCS.

So, what if Cleveland were finally to win a championship? Wouldn't the first come after everyone had already written off its chances?

There's no way LeBron does not play with a Michael Jordan-type intensity tonight. He's just too good to stink up the court like he did Tuesday night. He could drop 40-8-8 in the New Garden and I would not be surprised. The Cavs won more than 60 games for a reason: They're very good and they have the best player in the world.

The problem for them is, if LeBron has an off night in any game, they're toast. If Kobe struggles, Pau Gasol or Lamar Odom can pick up the slack. If Dwight Howard sucks, Rashard Lewis or Jameer Nelson or Vince Carter can come to the rescue. Ditto for the Celtics, since they have four of the best five players in this series. The Cavs cruise when LeBron is playing like LeBron. Only then do their mediocre complimentary pieces (overweight Shaq, soft Antawn Jamison and the valedictorian of the Dan Dickau school of defense in Mo Williams) look like title contenders.

When LeBron is off, they have nothing. No contending team in decades, not even the Bulls of the 90s, has relied so heavily on just one guy. (I don't count the post-Shaq, pre-Gasol Lakers. They were never contenders).

But LeBron can't struggle tonight. There's just too much on the line. Which is why I fear this Game 6, even while I eagerly await it. Too many people are dumping on him. Too many people have penned obits on the Cavs. When this happens, I get weary. Obviously, it has nothing to do with what happens on the court, but it's still scary. I'm just a worry wart.

I hope the Celtics make my consternation look foolish. No matter what, anyone who follows sports has to watch this game.

The stakes are higher than Alyssa Milano.

King Pong

Brookline, 2005-2006. Parkway Road. Known to house the law firm of Sears, Schaible, Hosseini & Briston. Infamous for its $100 dollar parking spot or the crazy cat lady landlord who tried to have us thrown out or the bat in the kitchen that sent me screaming to my room or the “Lost Winter” of the Sopranos or the fact I spent a good week cleaning up the apartment for the security deposit only to have the cat lady give me the money without even checking the work I had done.

(Whew, talk about a run-on sentence.)

It actually was a fine little place, even though a public toilet in Fallujah would have been the Ritz Carlton compared to that rat-infested basement we occupied in Jamaica Plain.

But this little apartment is best known for its ping pong table. Purchased on a whim by the Hossschaib duo and painted with delicate care by Schaibleangelo in a grandiose Celtics pattern, the ping pong table stood in what was supposed to be a dining room. It housed many a grand ping pong battle. You can guess who lost most of the matches. That damn Hosseini spin still gives me nightmares.

Like a band in a Behind the Music feature, the glorious early rise led to days of drug abuse and sexual diseases. Actually, the table just got covered with mail we were too lazy to open. It was followed by a bitter custody battle straight out of Kramer vs. Kramer and is now rumored to reside in Gansettshire in Rhode Island, burned out on crack but still hoping to relive the glory days.

That was my first real taste of the ping pong bug. I thought it came and went. But then CBSSports.com moved into a new office equipped with a game room. The game room has a ping pong table. Now we play on a daily basis.

You can guess who loses most of his matches. (Do I ever win at anything you might ask? Yes, English awards, Oscar pools and Royal Rumble 1994 tickets.)

One of my co-workers is crazy, Forrest-Gump good at ping pong. A few others just consistently beat me. I do have a usual playing partner, a guy named Neil who is very much like Grimey. (Another story.) Anyway, when we first started playing I beat him consistently with my strategic style. Others tend to describe me as the Jamie Moyer of ping pong.

Let’s just say my game is not known for its speed. Then something bad happened. This Neil guy got very good and now he has turned the tables. Many of our matches are instant classics, but I still end up on the losing end more often than not. He has a wicked backhand winner to go with his lefty style.

My big problem is returning fast serves. I always hit them long. Another problem is my inability to hit the ball hard and accurately. It’s not my spaghetti arms or pre-teen girlish strength. No, any time I try to hit a sharp winner, I hit the ceiling, the net or my opponent’s groin.

Lately, I’ve improved on that, but not enough to put myself in the win column consistently.
All this losing grates on me. I know it’s just a silly little game played with paddles and a small ball, but I want to win. I’m not insanely competitive, but I don’t like losing. I take it well on the outside, but on the inside I’m flailing my arms and screaming, “Not like this!”

During games with better opponents, I’ll hit several good returns and volleys only to have my moves halted. I’ll end up hitting the net or hitting it out of bounds sooner or later. This is when I get outwardly frustrated. I collapse like Eric Gange. If I were a reliever, I’d start balking guys and giving up grand slams. If I’m playing great but someone hits the bare edge of the table, I go into a big funk. I just can’t help it. I’m not cut out for such rigorous athletic competition.

I only hope I can improve to a point where I win every now and then against the big boys. And there are some big boys here. The company is even having a bracket-style ping pong tournament. I wasn’t good enough to make it, so I’m thinking of starting the CBSSports ping pong NIT. Maybe I can be the best of those who suck.

I will get better. I vow to get better, to work on my game, to train like Rocky or Rich Garces. I will become King Pong, if only to honor the Mona Lisa of ping pong tables that decorated our memorable Brookline confines. I’ll never forget you, buddy.