tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44799325191480568992024-02-20T10:46:53.941-08:00StiffLeftJabA PARALLEL SPORTS UNIVERSE
by Brentwood BelairBrentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.comBlogger97125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-5092030379045503172012-12-25T00:04:00.000-08:002012-12-25T00:04:47.200-08:00THE THREE WISE MEN OF THE NBA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAdjjdBQDOxlo5zaEEUstmPmSN_DS9ibn9DZMLbGkMI98J0W-RqDvOdTkMhXZU_eFaSvX-N_tUKE2qOLRFJbayDQry5ZNC9LncoDFw8IGrRoJsf6ZKmDFXyq_XewDVSn3DrT9IuuJk-N0/s1600/Bikeride.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAdjjdBQDOxlo5zaEEUstmPmSN_DS9ibn9DZMLbGkMI98J0W-RqDvOdTkMhXZU_eFaSvX-N_tUKE2qOLRFJbayDQry5ZNC9LncoDFw8IGrRoJsf6ZKmDFXyq_XewDVSn3DrT9IuuJk-N0/s1600/Bikeride.jpg" /></a>LeBron James, Dwyane Wade & Mario Chambers bike ride once a month in Miami's Critical Mass Ride. The route takes them through Omni, Edgewater, Upper East Side, North Bay Village, Miami Beach, Venetian Islands, ending Downtown. An event that bring respect for the bike rider in Miami. Thousands ride every month. What better way to bond with the people of Miami? <br />
<br />The three ride on Christmas Day, after their game with the Thunder. It is a special ride. <br />
<br />"Hey, guys," says LeBron. "A little different tonight. A detour. We're going to stop in to the Fontainebleau Hotel. They're having a Christmas Toy Drive. Whole bunch of little kids'll be there." <br />
<br />"Toy drive?" says Dwyane." <br />
<br />"Yeah," says Mario. "They have it every years, give kids toys during Christmas. Real nice thing." <br />
<br />"But, LeBron", says Dwyane. "I don't have any presents to give any kids. Only place open now, 7-11?" <br />
<br />"Got it covered," says LeBron." He shakes a paper bag. "We'll give these. They're gift cards. Got a couple hundred or so. Magic Johnson's Theaters. Each gives you a year's worth of movies. Just pass them out. Kids'll love them." <br />
<br />"But," says Mario, looking into the bag. "They must have cost you...?" <br />
<br />LeBron looks over at Mario. "Come on. It's Christmas. Let's go. It'll take about an hour to get over there." <br />
<br />
North on Biscayne Blvd, twenty minutes, they slow down. They're lost. The Fontainebleau is west of the AA Arena, but aren't they traveling North? <br />
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<br />"We're lost, I think," says Mario. "Sure this is right?" <br />
<br />"You might be right. Let see," says LeBron. "We know it's west of the Arena." He looks into the sky. "I got it. We'll follow the lights of the planes landing at MIA. That's west of here. Just follow the lights, and we'll get there."<br />
<br />And they do. The Lights in the sky show them the way. <br />
<br />Half hour later, relieved, they sail into the parking lot at the Fontainebleau.<br />
<br />Inside, a lady stands at the hotel's reservation desk. She has no bags. She's pregnant. <br />
<br />"I'm sorry ma'am. This place's full. There's absolutely nothing available." His voice is grim. "You must have a reservation. I'm real sorry, but you'll have to leave..." <br />
<br />The lady moves back, a tear in her eye, but goes into the hotel instead. She needs a place to sit down. <br />
<br />"Ma'am, you can't go back there," he says. He taps the bell for security. <br />
<br />Outside, our Three Wise Men park their bicycles and plow through the glass doors. There is a red and green sign pointing toward a large room full of screaming children.<br />
<br />"This must be the place," says Dwyane. He waves to children going in. They stop and wave back, their mouths hanging open. They wave back, fun in their eyes.<br />
<br />As the three moves toward the room, LeBron look down a long corridor, and sees a woman sitting on the floor. She holds her head. <br />
<br />"This isn't right," says LeBron. He walks down the corridor. "Are you okay, Miss?" <br />
<br />"Hello. Well, I tried to get a room...there are no rooms...I'm having a baby. I didn't think it was going to be so soon..." <br />
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<br />"Your kidding? A baby? Right now?" says LeBron. He scoops her up in his arms. "We gotta get you to a hospital." <br />
<br />On the run, "Hey, Dywane. Mario. Another detour. We're not staying. We gotta get this lady to a hospital." <br />
<br />The man at the reservation desk points. "There. Get her. There she is." Two security guards move from the shadows. <br />
<br />"But...it's LeBron James?" says one of the guards.<br />
<br />
"Dwyane Wade...and Mario Chambers?" says the other. "We can't..." <br />
<br />"But she isn't supposed to be in here? Arrest her." <br />
<br />"But..."<br />
<br />The Three...well, actually it's The Four now...rush by the open door of the Toy Drive. There are hundreds of kids and presents inside. Pandemonium. <br />
<br />"Here," says LeBron to the guards. "We brought gifts. Pass these out to as many kids as you can." He tosses them the paper bag. "There's a couple hundred in there. We gotta go."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Wn097UwB2NTOP6HQHe6vtkHevzd6rvYPKtjnenxzow33J5R9wrZCVDnIrbJC5SjaRhUR9vO1uwVPJJZ79L5EwiLWckd_HbkvHaDfF_GQpZuKUAqBTtMuJNsC74h565rZ1Dt8lXtFEkd5/s1600/bikeride4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Wn097UwB2NTOP6HQHe6vtkHevzd6rvYPKtjnenxzow33J5R9wrZCVDnIrbJC5SjaRhUR9vO1uwVPJJZ79L5EwiLWckd_HbkvHaDfF_GQpZuKUAqBTtMuJNsC74h565rZ1Dt8lXtFEkd5/s1600/bikeride4.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Out they fly, piling into a cab. And they're off, with all four, in unison, yelling, "Jackson Memorial Hospital." <br />
<br />"And step on it." says LeBron. "It's Christmas Day. And we're going to have a baby."<br />......................<br />
<br />HELP COME FROM:<br /><br />nbcmiami.com/news/LeBron-Says-Bike-Riding-Helps-His-Conditioning-184198681.html<br />huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/29/dwyane-wade-critical-mass-gabrielle-union_n_1925176.html<br />dltk-bible.com/cv/the_wise_men.htm<br />readabilityformulas.com - Google/Images - </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-43495641367417337552012-12-21T02:12:00.000-08:002012-12-21T22:30:15.105-08:00KOBE'S CHRISTMAS CAROL - PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Kobe sits in the break room, right after the Lakers game. They beat the Bobcats by one. He watches Sports Center, relaxing. Still in uniform, he sits back, feet up, a Red Bull in one hand, a PayDay in the other. <br />
<br />
Jerry West sticks his head in the door. "Hey, Kobe, good job tonight. Pretty close, huh?" <br />
<br />
"It was a tough game tonight, Mr. West, but we pulled it out. Still working on defense." <br />
<br />
West comes into the room and looks up at the TV. They're talking about the old Lakers, and showing fast breaks. 'It's Show Time,' they're saying. <br />
<br />
"Remember those days, when it was up and down the court, setting up plays on the run, long passes. You were there. Rebound, one pass, four on two, and score. Those were the days." <br />
<br />
"Mr West, come on," says Kobe. "When we get our team all on the same page, get into synch, everybody's healthy, we can do it. Maybe my legs were stronger when I was a rookie. But I'm still fast, you know I am." <br />
<br />
"Those faster days," says Jerry. "We'll get there again. That's the Lakers. Show Time." He leaves with a wave. "Good game, Kobe." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaS4rTV9-Nj4-rOedJpZYpRNxTJ_u816r_etEEXDrDp91mDt13LvacqwzQ8-WklQL8C4BMgnIAOXNaPxlcN6O0Z42j5LvaCVCtwelAGdp4K7b9C_SWysJLjiq4QoUSSwFbUm0pMY6s0Y5/s1600/shaq4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaS4rTV9-Nj4-rOedJpZYpRNxTJ_u816r_etEEXDrDp91mDt13LvacqwzQ8-WklQL8C4BMgnIAOXNaPxlcN6O0Z42j5LvaCVCtwelAGdp4K7b9C_SWysJLjiq4QoUSSwFbUm0pMY6s0Y5/s320/shaq4.jpg" width="141" /></a><br />
Kobe lifts his Red Bull. "See ya, Boss." <br />
<br />
What was that all about? Does Jerry think we should be like we were? Fast breaks, Running, Show Time, on every play? We won with Show Time, but come on, you're talking 17 years ago." <br />
<br />
Matt Barnes bounces by, sees Kobe, and does an about face. "Kobe? Saw the game. A squeaker, one point, right down to the buzzer." He laughs. "How many of those did I play in when I was a Laker?" <br />
<br />
"Matt Barnes? What are you doing in here. Don't you play for that other team? LA Clompers?" <br />
<br />
"Came by to get Jodie Meeks. I'm taking him to my tat guy. Get tattoos. Like to get a crown like you got, but it's been done. Back when everything was so exciting. Well," as he looks at the TV, "that excitement, we had, I got it now with the Clippers. You guys were...kinda slow tonight...really..."<br />
<br />
Kobe's feet hit the floor and he throws the Red Bull can at Barnes. "Matt go. Get out of here. Go play with your Clompers. I'm trying to relax here."<br />
<br />
Barnes ducks, arms up, then waves. "Good Luck, Kobe. You guys'll get it into gear...maybe...someday." Big grin, and he's off. <br />
<br />
What? Again with the Slow? Are we that slow? We're a little older, maybe, but come on. What about The Nicks. Look at them. How old are they? Rasheed, Jason Kidd, Canby. How old is Kurt Thomas? 75? <br />
<br />
He looks up at the TV. <br />
<br />
"...Sports Center will be right back with a list of illegitimate children of NFL players. Darren McFadden, Santonio Holmes, Jason Caffey...there's a whole long, long, loooong list. We'll be right back..." <br />
<br />
"...When your back hurts...get the ICY HOT patch. I do..." <br />
<br />
Pau Gasol walks in, goes over to the glass door fridge, pulls out a large can of Beaver Buzz, and sees Shaq. "Hey, look it's Shaq, doing another commercial. How many does he do? I see him all the time?" <br />
<br />
"Once I retire," says Kobe, "I'll be out of my contract and I'll be doing all those too. Buick, Icy Hot, Pepsi. I've seen them all?" <br />
<br />
"They say he makes $20 million for every commercial he does. Not too shabby."<br />
<br />
"He's so big, they like that I guess." says Kobe. "I'll be all over the TV too, when I retire." They bump fists.<br />
<br />
"Who's better than you?" says Gasol. "That stuff in Colorado, everybody's forgotten by now." <br />
<br />
They hear Shaq's voice, and look up at the TV.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLJNmuv7cNVr9_K8XxKN01mA1Pwh0CN7_sW1twdpw09j4qo4FaSTfNfxlk4twPGhNS1SZTbXUwsYsIBUhh4M2uvvGg2K85Cwxzp1SuQfL8dGbpxPXeL5MotyPZvs_U8Ti33dkgWUJ8SEME/s1600/shaq2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLJNmuv7cNVr9_K8XxKN01mA1Pwh0CN7_sW1twdpw09j4qo4FaSTfNfxlk4twPGhNS1SZTbXUwsYsIBUhh4M2uvvGg2K85Cwxzp1SuQfL8dGbpxPXeL5MotyPZvs_U8Ti33dkgWUJ8SEME/s1600/shaq2.jpg" /></a><br />
"Luv Shaq," says Shaq. "Luv Shaq Vodka. Of course it's what I drink." <br />
<br />
"Luv Shaq Vodka? Can you believe." Kobe starts laughing. "Shaq was nothing more than just a huge center. Should have been a football lineman. Now he's everywhere. His own Vodka? Give me a break. If it wasn't for him I'd have 40,000 points, not only 30,000." <br />
<br />
"Gotta admit, he's a savvy marketeer," says Gasol. "Shaq's probably known by more people round the world than you, Kobe. I know he's better know than me." Gasol throws his towel over his shoulder and turns toward the showers. <br />
<br />
"Damn Shaq," mumbles Kobe. He gulps down the red bull, and chomps off a chunk of his PayDay. "I can do that too, you know. I'm a much better player than Shaq. Hello." <br />
<br />
Kobe pops another Red Bull, and rips open another PayDay. We win the game, and all I'm getting here is how slow the team is. And how come I'm not doing more commercials? What is that? More people know Shaq than me? Come on guys, I lead the NBA in scoring. What do people want from me?<br />
<br />
He wolfs the PayDay, and gulps the Red Bull. <br />
<br />
The door slowly pushes open. Two young high schoolish kids stick there heads inside. They're tall. <br />
<br />
Kobe waves them in.<br />
<br />
"Hi," one says. "It's a pleasure to watch you in action, Mr Bryant. We're high school all-stars." <br />
<br />
"They said it was okay to come back here," says the other. "Just be real cool about it."<br />
<br />
"That's okay," says Kobe. "Just winding down from the game. We almost didn't get it done this time." <br />
<br />
"Yeah, but we knew the Lakers would win," says one. "The Bobcats, come on." <br />
<br />
"They got tired in the last 5 minutes," says the other. "Couldn't make a three pointer to save their lives."<br />
<br />
"There was no passing," says Kobe, "just shoot and miss. Good defense won the game." <br />
<br />
"Good Luck, Mr Bryant." And they leave. But Kobe hears as they slowly close the door, "Yeah, Kobe. They call him the ball hog. They all say it. He doesn't like to pass to anybody. He doesn't set up shots for anybody else. But he's still pretty good." <br />
<br />
What? That's how people see me? Ball Hog? He squeezes the Red Bull can in his hand and shoots it at the trash can across the room. It hits the rim and bounces back behind the fridge. "Damn." <br />
<br />
He looks up at the TV.<br />
<br />
"...and 5,000 assists for Chris Paul. Officially 6 foot, but...5 10's more like it. Only four other players got to 5,000 assists faster in their career's than Paul, and they're all Hall of Famers...." <br />
<br />
Kobe waves his PayDay at the TV. "Don't have to be a good shooter to get assists. You just need good shooters on your team to dish it off to. Shaq are you listening?"<br />
<br />
"...and the crowd chanted C. P. Three, C. P. Three, when he got his 5,00 assist. C. P. Three...C. P. Three..." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBDQVLK_ASO0c509JjP-xknvAfsZtsxPOz5CzEHuJxwfeo1GI3k2OOG36APy9iD9iPV69HH6VBTOrAdwLz1wIwIHia3RidEH3zfzTdKqLW0iJdB_XLlHRcY2_mu_UQQXpD-XYmi_fc9EVO/s1600/shaq8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBDQVLK_ASO0c509JjP-xknvAfsZtsxPOz5CzEHuJxwfeo1GI3k2OOG36APy9iD9iPV69HH6VBTOrAdwLz1wIwIHia3RidEH3zfzTdKqLW0iJdB_XLlHRcY2_mu_UQQXpD-XYmi_fc9EVO/s1600/shaq8.jpg" /></a><br />
Kobe points the remote, the TV clicks off. He sits there, snapping the PayDay wrapper.<br />
<br />
So, when I retire, Jeeez, 17 years at this. Next year, yeah. It'll be next year. So...How will I be remembered?<br />
<br />
A Ball Hog?<br />
<br />
Not my Champion Rings? Not my buzzer beaters? Not my scoring points? He was a Ball Hog. That's how they'll see me?<br />
<br />
So, okay, I am kind of a ball hog. But...I don't want to be known...I guess...okay, I'll be a much more giving player in the future. All right already, I'll stop hoggin' the ball. <br />
<br />
Kobe jumps to his feet, grabs a towel and turns toward the showers, an inspired new spring in his step. <br />
....................... <br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM: <br />
sports-kings.com/kobe-bryant-says-he-would-have-scored-40000-points-without-shaq-drops-hint-of-retiring-next-year/ <br />
huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/18/shaq-vodka-luv-shaq_n_2325146.html <br />
nba.com/clippers/news/paul-records-5000th-career-assist?quicktabs_nba_clippers_qt_1=0 <br />
readabilityformulas.com - Google/Images </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-35435537552746210272012-12-15T12:05:00.000-08:002012-12-15T12:05:04.497-08:00WARREN SAPP LOSES HIS SUPER BOWL RING IN HIS COUCH?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>THE OFFICIAL STORY: </b><br />
<br />Warren Sapp filed for bankruptcy earlier this year, but he says he lost his Super Bowl ring from the 2002 season. When he showed up for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers 10 year Super Bowl reunion last Sunday, he was wearing the ring. He says he found the ring in time for the reunion. Turns out the thing was under the cushions in his couch the whole time, along with the remote. <br />
<br /><b>HOW IT REALLY WENT DOWN:</b><br /><br />Stenciled on the door: Salvatore Manila, Attorney at Law.<br />
<br />Warren Sapp and his posse of four push through. <br />
<br />"Hello Mr. Sapp," says Debbie. I'll tell Sal..." <br />
<br />"I got this." Sapp opens the door. "He said to come over. So here I am." He laughs, high fiving his posse. <br />
<br />Debbie looks in. "Mr. Manila, it's Mr. Sapp..." <br />
<br />"Sal, got your message." Big grin. <br />
<br />Mr. Sapp and his posse wear their best; Armani, Florsheim, Fubu, Hilfiger, Rolex.<br />
<br />Sal stands, and waves his hand in the air. "Hey guys...Debbie?..." <br />
<br />"I'll get more chairs," she says. She smiles, and points to the chairs in the other room. The posse brings in the chairs. <br />
<br />"Gentlemen," says Sal. "Glad you could all come."<br />
<br />
They look around at the mahogany walls, desk, the cabinets.<br />
<br />"Nice," says one of the posse. "Ooooo," says the rest, and flop down in the cushioned chairs. <br />
<br />"Okay Sal," says Sapp. He giggles, looks around, and crosses his feet on the mahogany desk.<br />
<br />"What's this all about? Get a panicky call from my lawyer. I gotta change my schedule, you know." <br />
<br />"You got a lot of debts, Warren. About the bankruptcy. We gotta talk." <br />
<br />"I owed people money? I know that. There was the bankruptcy." He looks around, big smile. "You're the one supposed to pay all my bills for me."<br />
<br />"Hey," says a posse. "Drinks? I'm feeling thirsty. Got any Gin and Juice?" <br />
<br />Debbie is at the door. "I'll see what I can do?" <br />
<br />"Okay, bottom line. You Warren, you made $82,185,056 in your NFL career. You now have $826.04 in your bank account." <br />
<br />"Sal, you said I was lookin' at $6 million in the bank." He puts his head back, and talks to the ceiling. "Chump change for me." He giggles. "But still, Sal, that's what you said." <br />
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<br />His posse, laugh, but squirm a little in their seats.<br />
<br />"Hey, you're not alone," says Sal. "A 2009 Sports Illustrated study found that 78 percent of NFL players are bankrupt two years after they retire. And fifty percent of the NBA five years after leaving the league, broke. Can you believe?" <br />
<br />"Warren," says a Posse. "Should've invested in gold, not gold diggers." Big giggles. Sapp furrows his brow. <br />
<br />"Hard to feel sorry for someone gets his Bentley repossessed, Warren, come on," says Sal.<br />
<br />
"Sal, you're supposed to be my friend. Didn't we already do the bankruptcy stuff." <br />
<br />"Warren, you went through $82 million." says Sal. "But it's about the ring." <br />
<br />One of the posse raises his hand. "Man got robbed by bad investments, bling bling, balling, getting robbed by whitie collar guys. That's the truth." <br />
<br />"Got that right," says Sapp. <br />
<br />"Look," say Sal. "Iron Mike blew $400 million on mansions, cars, tattoos, jewelry and Siberian tigers. Bad investments usually a big part." <br />
<br />"You know I got expenses," says Sapp. "Two kids with Jamiko. And, well, four other kids with four different ladies along the way." <br />
<br />"I got it here," says Sal. "$75,495 a month in alimony and child support." <br />
<br />One posse mumbles, "NFL stand for NEED TO F*** THE LADY'S."<br />
<br />"Oooooo," the others say in unison, laughing. They point at Sapp. He smiles, and shakes his head.<br />
<br />"Bankruptcy judge called me." says Sal. "Your Super Bowl ring was not one of the items on your list. You gotta give it up. It worth quite a bit of money. They'll want you to sell it." <br />
<br />"Sell my Super Bowl ring. No way in hell. My ring? I can't, Sal." <br />
<br />"But you got no choice. They know you got it. Hell, everybody knows you got it." <br />
<br />"I'll say I sold it. Sold it to...some dude. I ain't got it no more. That's what I'll say. Why not. What they going to say. I'm a lair?" <br />
<br />"If that's what happened, you sold it, then they'll want the money you got. Pay back some of your debts." <br />
<br />"You're my lawyer. What do I do? Nobody's gettin' my ring. Nobody."<br />
<br />"Look, Warren, I can't tell you to lie, but...I can give you a ...hypothetical. You lost it, could happen, but for something as valuable as your Super Bowl ring? Might be a hard story to sell." <br />
<br />"I can believe it," says a posse. "Remember, the Bentley, we had to get it out of impound? You forgot where you left it. Four in the morning that time?"<br />
<br />"See," he laughs. "I got a reputation for losing stuff. They'll believe it. So, I lost it...at a bar, somewhere?" <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGYFc-cA29i8r6JBiURJxrU_BunjIXo18wjZxkmKdmZ8agrbQ3ZScWyxUfRMWYfFF6HvoHG0N4ybTw2EvD9cc20vXy4ar2Tmv3d3zJKppkEId84jPHOL3vjKB1K-k_Prb-3OfNar9inDO2/s1600/sapp9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGYFc-cA29i8r6JBiURJxrU_BunjIXo18wjZxkmKdmZ8agrbQ3ZScWyxUfRMWYfFF6HvoHG0N4ybTw2EvD9cc20vXy4ar2Tmv3d3zJKppkEId84jPHOL3vjKB1K-k_Prb-3OfNar9inDO2/s1600/sapp9.jpg" /></a><br />"Maybe we can think up some other place..."says Sal. "If you really lost it."<br />
<br />"Sal, it'll work, come on, it's me. They'll believe me. I was on Dancing with the Stars. People believe Celebrities." <br />
<br />"Warren," says a posse. "We was watchin' Sports Center, eatin' Doritos, you know, and we maybe lost it in the couch? Under the cushions, you know. All kinds a stuff gets lost in the couch."<br />
<br />"And I found the TV remote in there too. That'll work." Sapp puts both hands in the air. "Why not?"<br />
<br />"But," says Sal. "Not saying that won't work. But...I can't tell you what to say, but...hypothetically..." He rubs his forehead. "This is about as believable as Andrew Bynum saying he hurt his knee bowling." <br />
<br />"Relax, Sal," says Sapp. "I gotta go to the ten year Buccaneer reunion. I can't go without my ring. Miracles of miracles. I found it." <br />
<br />Sapp looks at his posse. He jumps up. "Thanks Sal. I got it. I couldn't never give up my ring. It's sacred. It was in the couch with the remote. Crazy, huh?"<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-BZHiT1zcVLrB1VkNiYJ6ZvDEItKGe7kE0Nte1ankvgXNSYKLeRp7JmpDsiC-3acd7RKost5qHHszFPXUVQPhfDSyUBB5e_-LFS8O7KpCzLHqwkuxI9aPXBFa1BuLgXXS_FW69NZodJh/s1600/sapp11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin-BZHiT1zcVLrB1VkNiYJ6ZvDEItKGe7kE0Nte1ankvgXNSYKLeRp7JmpDsiC-3acd7RKost5qHHszFPXUVQPhfDSyUBB5e_-LFS8O7KpCzLHqwkuxI9aPXBFa1BuLgXXS_FW69NZodJh/s1600/sapp11.jpg" /></a> <br />
"Warren," says Sal. "Maybe I can make some kind of deal with the bankruptcy court, and you can buy back the ring, so you won't have to...Misrepresent...?" <br />
<br />"Misrepresent? No way, Sal. I represent." Sapp jumps up. "Right guys? We'll go with I lost it in the couch. Could happen. I like it." Sapp and Sal bump fists. "Okay, guys, I think we all need to buy us a couple of pairs of new shoes...after lunch, of course. Whadya say?" <br />
<br />As the whole bunch, giggling like hell, pile out of the office. <br />............................ <br /><br />HELP COMES FROM: <br />profootballtalk.nbcsports.com/2012/12/12/sapp-spotted-at-super-bowl-celebration-with-his-ring/ <br />thepewterplank.com/2012/12/12/warren-sapp-found-his-super-bowl-ring-in-time-for-sundays-reunion/ <br />StiffLeftJab.com - The Real Story Behind Andrew Bynum's Bowling Mishap/ <br />readabilityformulas.com/- Google Images/- <br /> </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-28224719462103487012012-12-11T18:28:00.000-08:002012-12-11T19:24:10.622-08:00THE HORNETS ARE CHANGING THEIR NAME TO THE PELICANS...WHAT?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Two Brown Pelicans balance atop the far rail on the pier at Paradise Cove, Malibu. <br />
<br />
"Hey," says Billy, moving over to Scoopie. "See the Sports Section in this morning's Times?" <br />
<br />
"Hi, Billy," says Scoopie. "What? Are we finally off the endangered list, and now we're fair game again? What with the economy, you know we're just as tasty as turkeys."<br />
<br />
"No, no. The owner the New Orleans Hornets...NBA...he's changing the name of his team." <br />
<br />
Scoopie raises her eyebrows. "Okay?" she says. <br />
<br />
"The Pelicans. He's going to change Hornets to The Pelicans."<br />
<br />
"I don't know," says Scoopie. "New Orleans Pelicans?" <br />
<br />
"Makes sense to me," says Billy. "Being it's down in Louisiana. All those Pelicans down there. It is the state bird." <br />
<br />
"New Orleans Pelicans? I guess? But wouldn't something like, I don't know, The Brass be better. Like the horns in all the parades they have?" She smiles. "And when New Orleans team gets a rebound, it'll be the Brass' ball. Now that sounds cool?" <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-F5G7qtsprjjqgMihWmvwYN1xT5IQUXqHS1cnXJajUz3nRxPb38JiQ5WF_OSGpwmgYANqMIg7tnm9P0uPemH-LrqOECFPV2-yyw436VAuiPUhAoACNwQikiVUtf-dBfmcMnqCA4awTNd/s1600/pelican4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl-F5G7qtsprjjqgMihWmvwYN1xT5IQUXqHS1cnXJajUz3nRxPb38JiQ5WF_OSGpwmgYANqMIg7tnm9P0uPemH-LrqOECFPV2-yyw436VAuiPUhAoACNwQikiVUtf-dBfmcMnqCA4awTNd/s1600/pelican4.jpg" /></a><br />
A wharf rat sticks his head out from under a piece of ratty canvas. "Brass Balls? What?" <br />
<br />
"Hey, Plague," says Billy. "You heard?"<br />
<br />
"The New Orleans Pelicans?" says Plague. "I read about it. Sounds real intimidating. I'm all scared. The Pelicans? They're kidding, right?" <br />
<br />
"We're part of the landscape on the Gulf Coast. As team mascots go, could be a lot worse. They thought the Anaheim Ducks were a joke, until they won the Stanley Cup." <br />
<br />
"Billy...Scoopie," says Plague. "I hate to say it, no disrespect, but you guys are big, clumsy sloth kinda birds, hanging around the pier, all like slow motion." <br />
<br />
"Come on, you know us," says Scoopie. "We eat fish, not rats...usually... so you don't see the killer in us. Hey, we can be real ferocious when we want to be. But yes, we're usually pretty calm. Unless, you know, some little rat get under our skin." <br />
<br />
"Okay, okay," says Plague. "If they're changing their name, why not the New Orleans Funk? New Orleans gotta have that funk." <br />
<br />
"You ask me," says Scoopie, "We're pretty beautiful, and fascinating. Pigeons? Sea Gulls, Sandpipers, come on. We are the ones that stand out." <br />
<br />
"Or," says Plague, twitching his whiskers, "How about The New Orleans Cornbread N' Beans? You want a home town name. I got relatives down there on the bayou." <br />
<br />
Billy flaps his wings. "Strong, dedicated, selfless and fierce are good ways to describe us. We can carry more than our weight while flying. Can survive a hurricane and would tear off our own flesh to feed our young. Can a Baltimore Oriole, or a Cardinals, or a Blue Jay come close? Don't think so." <br />
<br />
"Why not New Orleans Zydeco," says Plague. "Zy..de...coooooo, yes." <br />
<br />
Both scowl down at Plague. Billy pokes his beak at him. Plague scurries back under the canvas, a weak squeak in protest. <br />
<br />
"Hell," says Billy, looking off toward the horizon. "We can certainly be fearsome. Take a Raven. It eats bugs, and seeds, and fruit. Dead stuff. We eat meat, and only meat, and only if it used to be alive. And we're not like Eagles or Falcons, or Hawks, we don't scrounge somebody else's kill. We're not like that." <br />
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<br />
Scoopie nods. "We don't splash around in the water, either, trying to gulp fish swimming by. No way. We put our wings back and dive to catch them. Sardines, smelt, anchovies, grunion. We are the real Raptors." <br />
<br />
"The New Orleans Mardi Gras." peeps Plague. "Talk about something New Orleans-ish."<br />
<br />
A Sea Gull, a tad scrawny, drops onto the rail.<br />
<br />
"Scraps," says Scoopie. "You need to eat something. Not enough left overs on the beach this morning?" <br />
<br />
"Clean as a whistle, sweetie. Hey, couldn't help overhearing. New Orleans Pelicans? Can you believe? Aren't they the creepiest and scariest birds, with those honkin' long beaks. You know that's how people see you. You can't deny it, you know." <br />
<br />
"Scraps, you've seen us do our death dive. The last thing those fish see is lights out when we chomps down. Swallowed alive." <br />
<br />
To the side there's movement, and Billy sees it. A man in plaid shorts and dress shoes, a camera around his neck, creeps along the railing. "Maude, look-ee. It's a Pelican. I'll get real close, and grab it's bill. Watch me." <br />
<br />
Adrenalin shoots through him. He jumps up, floats off the rail, then turns and dives straight at the man's chest, knocking him backwards. He snaps his bill. "Get lost, pal. Grab my bill? Like hell." <br />
<br />
"Hey," says the man, scurrying away. "I didn't mean nothing...take it easy..." And slithers off back to safety behind Maude's day-glow pants suit. "Sorry." <br />
<br />
Scoopie smiles as Billy flutters back to the rail. <br />
<br />
Plague noses out into the light. "I got it. The New Orleans Jambalaya." He raises up on his back legs. "Two ways, see. Jam like they're jammin', or like a slam dunk type jam." He waves his front paws. "Now that's the perfect name."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-PuISDl-RVQ2hl7mfYao0q836keP1Ja4JV6TBTl79fiNQlYAaZ91C5J2JlEghi_PIDM1Ch1HB3i4a_fjNpHxYNEjrcoYJvgsm__teug2B4SRBH4bPhD84IFK3YVVlGj49WcVRLxN8LuAj/s1600/pelicans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-PuISDl-RVQ2hl7mfYao0q836keP1Ja4JV6TBTl79fiNQlYAaZ91C5J2JlEghi_PIDM1Ch1HB3i4a_fjNpHxYNEjrcoYJvgsm__teug2B4SRBH4bPhD84IFK3YVVlGj49WcVRLxN8LuAj/s1600/pelicans.jpg" /></a><br />
"Don't think so," says Scoopie, watching Plague's little dance. "Pelicans work together. We practice 'cooperative fishing,' herding fish into a bunch so we can do our dive-bombing. A mascot that works as a team. No my friend. Pelican. That's the perfect name." <br />
<br />
"Guys," says Scraps. "Mascots are supposed to be fierce. Tigers, Lions, Raptors. Not Pelicans. It's too...goofy. You guys are my friends, but come on, jeeeeez." <br />
<br />
Billy shakes his head. "The real power teams aren't aggressive. Yankees, Packers, Browns, Maple Leafs, 49ers, Jazz, Nets, Nicks, Red Sox, White Sox." <br />
<br />
Scoopie nods her head. "Pelicans gotta better than Cornhuskers, or Boilermakers, or how about Beetdiggers. The Irvine Anteaters, talk about ferocious." <br />
<br />
"What's worse?" says Plague. "The name'll be shortened to The Pels. 'Tonight, the Pels face off with the Clips in a battle the silliest nicknames. The Pels, ya gotta love it." <br />
<br />
Scraps starts to giggle. "How about the New Orleans Popeyes. Or have I been watching too many TV commercials?" <br />
<br />
"Well," says Billy. "I don't care what you two think. I like the new name. It means something to New Orleans, and it's better than the Hornets. It about the city. Lakers? Where's all the lakes in L.A. Utah Jazz? Memphis Grizzlies? Wizards? There's no connection. " <br />
<br />
Scraps looks down at Plague and winks. "New Orleans Gumbo. Kid gets drafted right out of college, 'I can't wait to be a Gumbo.'" They both snicker. <br />
<br />
"No," says Plague. "I still like the New Orleans Jambalaya. JAM...bull...eye...yaaaaa." <br />
<br />
"You want something New Orleans...Frozen Daiquiris." says Scraps. He guffaws. <br />
<br />
"I got it," says Plague, jumping up on his hind legs again, little arms in the air. "The New Orleans Levee. Come see your New Orleans Levee's fast break. Get it? Levee's fast break?" <br />
<br />
He does a jig. Scraps hops on the rail. Both howl. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvOAi-kcOHL6jp3948CCVKLxNopc0Z8xw1qVtWWgb8UMvvc673r96p1xDDrZElKPv6dkqNsAE8MBVvVtD4sI6smrJtrJnO5nCkAaucyhw7JrK2DSIcnbHc2rVll2Lv8aJSFMDX7ZSKJmD/s1600/pelican8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvOAi-kcOHL6jp3948CCVKLxNopc0Z8xw1qVtWWgb8UMvvc673r96p1xDDrZElKPv6dkqNsAE8MBVvVtD4sI6smrJtrJnO5nCkAaucyhw7JrK2DSIcnbHc2rVll2Lv8aJSFMDX7ZSKJmD/s1600/pelican8.jpg" /></a><br />
"Ugg," says Billy as he touches Scoopie's wing. And as they both push off and soar away over the vasty deep, Billy says, "In the never ending search for the perfect name, and the New Orleans Pelicans is an exceptional one, none can compare with UC Santa Cruz's mascot.<br />
<br />
"Yes, my friends, they're the mighty, the magnificent, the unmistakable, Banana Slugs." <br />
......................... <br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM: <br />
bleacherreport.com/articles/1433169-new-orleans-hornets-reportedly-changing-nickname-to-pelicans <br />
huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/04/hornets-pelicans-new-orleans-changing-name_n_2241256.html <br />
huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/04/hornets-pelicans-new-orleans-changing-name_n_2241256.html <br />
readabilityformulas.com / Google Images / thesaurus.com / </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-91560909620647094142012-12-07T12:36:00.001-08:002012-12-07T12:46:43.457-08:00ROBIN YOUNT SHOOTS CUB'S MANAGER DALE SVEUM IN THE EAR <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMy3cjfmTOact5UfpqAf_-vY1L6j5W_pwqXW_xcdF0wpJyD_2m5W9ySShWoEudeDocUbX3027zZqVDhN4CFpFvehs79WDpYSlEn-hTKKKE_yhFlETTOjf8iXfnMBTB_OWXST_6uhOt9MF/s1600/yount.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMy3cjfmTOact5UfpqAf_-vY1L6j5W_pwqXW_xcdF0wpJyD_2m5W9ySShWoEudeDocUbX3027zZqVDhN4CFpFvehs79WDpYSlEn-hTKKKE_yhFlETTOjf8iXfnMBTB_OWXST_6uhOt9MF/s1600/yount.jpg" /></a>"Quail, " yells Dale. <br />
<br />
"What?"
says Hall of Famer Robin Yount. "Wait." He jerks up his rifle. "I
see it." And 'Bang...Bang...Bang.' He squints, points, and says, "Go,
Beethoven, go get it." And off goes Beethoven.<br />
<br />
Robin holds his rifle in the air. "I win the $100 bucks, I got one first."<br />
<br />
But there's silence in the Arizona hills. "Dale, I got one." There's no answer.<br />
<br />
He
looks out toward the trees, and sees Dale. And waves. But Dale is down
on one knee, hunched over, holding his head. Blood drips down the
side of his face.<br />
<br />
Robin rushes up to him. "Dale, what the hell?"<br />
<br />
Dale groans as he looks at his red hands. They shake as he touches his head.<br />
<br />
"Robin, you got me...and it hurts...damn...real bad." He holds out his hands, all the blood, and wipes then on his shirt.<br />
<br />
"Oh
my God," says Robin. "God, I'm sorry. I was so excited to see the
quail...and the $100 bet...I didn't see...I'm so sorry."<br />
<br />
"Robin,
look at me. Did I get hit anywhere else? I can feel pain in my back.
You got me in the back, up high." He touches his face, his neck, and unbuttons his shirt. He feels his chest.<br />
<br />
They both kneel in the sand as Beethoven bounces up
and drops a small quail at their feet. "Good Beethoven," says Dale.
He takes deep breaths.<br />
<br />
"What do I do?" says Robin. "I'll call 9-11?"<br />
<br />
"Get the first aide stuff. I don't think it's all that serious."<br />
<br />
"Your
ear, Dale? All the blood, and...oh my God...there is a piece missing.
I'll get the kit." Robin rushes off toward the SUV.<br />
<br />
Dale pets
Beethoven's head. "He shot me," he says. He lightly touches his right
ear, and jerks at the pain. "I guess I was too close and right in his
sights. My fault, I guess, partly. Robin was so excited to shoot
something." He breathes deeply. "Like Cheney when he went shooting,
shoots his friend in the face. Could've been like this, but I think
Cheney was drunk that time." <br />
<br />
Again he touches his ear. "Okay, it's not
that bad. Might need stitches, might not. Oh Boy." He rubs
Beethoven's neck. "I came real close to getting killed, my friend.
Real close."<br />
<br />
Yount is back with a metal box, opens it and starts dabbing Dale's ear with a swab.<br />
<br />
"Half
inch I would've got you in the eye, or right in the forehead. God,
Dale, I'm sorry. It was just so fast. Bird was about 50 yards up on the
hill..."<br />
<br />
"I think there are some pellets in my back, too."<br />
<br />
Robin's
face is red and sweaty. He moves around and takes off Dale shirt.
"We gotta get you to a hospital fast. I don't know...but the blood
is stopping."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZCzx7ROlVYf1OO4qBAqwk3p50cSCy_YGiGyQhEqcXSexzUKN1kkCWRvzq5ej9ECukPfibuw-qcEr-vELokZpmsaDuAjwYUnnW_MZyYT5_DM9qKi9IguAsfCIv-FjwwdWYAXZvQOECsZX/s1600/yount6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZCzx7ROlVYf1OO4qBAqwk3p50cSCy_YGiGyQhEqcXSexzUKN1kkCWRvzq5ej9ECukPfibuw-qcEr-vELokZpmsaDuAjwYUnnW_MZyYT5_DM9qKi9IguAsfCIv-FjwwdWYAXZvQOECsZX/s1600/yount6.jpg" /></a><br />
Robin wipes his forehead. "How could I do
something like this." His eyes start to roll back at the sight of
the blood. "I don't like all this blood."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I better get checked
up. Must be an emergency room around here somewhere, but don't worry,"
wiping blood off his shoulder, "all I'm going to say is the bird flew up in
front of you, you lost track of where I was and you pulled the
trigger.”<br />
<br />
"Guess I should've yelled, 'Duck.' says Robin.<br />
<br />
"Funny,
but...too early to start making jokes, Yount." says Sveum. He dabs at
his ear. "You're just mad because the Cubs hired Rob Deer, a .220 hitter,
as their batting coach over you."<br />
<br />
"I think you're feeling a
little better. I called 9-11. I hope you're all right? Nothing more
than your ear and your back." Yount sits beside Dale. "Once everybody
hears about this...It'll be all over the papers, all this about guns
and athletes in the news already."<br />
<br />
"All these guys dying. Macho Camacho down in Puerto Rico. That football player Belcher. Guns kill people." says Dale.<br />
<br />
"No, no," says Robin. "It's people who pull the triggers." He wipes his hands on his jeans. <br />
<br />
"We'll
be on the sports section right there with Belcher, shoots his wife then shoots
himself. They'd be alive if he didn't have a gun, and started shooting."<br />
<br />
"Robin, it's not the same thing. This was accidental. You got too excited and shot."<br />
<br />
"They'll take away my registration. I won't be able to go shooting...'<br />
<br />
"Robin,
I'm not going to tell anybody. It was an accident. Belcher had problems. The team knew he and his wife were in trouble, and they
say they..." And he stops.<br />
<br />
Beethoven jumps. A machine gun fires
from above the ridge by the cactus. Right up there. Dirt flies ten feet in front of them, like fireworks. A killing machine.<br />
<br />
"Holy Christ," says Dale. There's shock. Then both scramble behind a large
rock, flat on their stomachs.<br />
<br />
"We gotta get out of her. They're shooting at us." Dale, on his feet, holding his ear, runs wildly toward
the SUV. <br />
<br />
Robin yelling, "Hey, STOP. Stop shooting. You're shooting at us."<br />
<br />
Two men lurch into view up by the hill. They're laughing, walking like rag dolls. One swings a bottle. <br />
<br />
Zig-Zagging, they make it to the SUV, Beethoven bouncing into the back seat. They looked
back to see the two men hobble back up the hill, both holding automatic
rifles, shooting at the sky.<br />
<br />
"That's how people get killed,"
says Dale. "Crazies, people drunk, showing off, shooting without
thinking. Guys who think killing will solve their problems, and go shoot
somebody."<br />
<br />
The SUV engages, wheels dig, and they leave dust. Out of breath, they
wave down the Paramedics arriving from Scottsdale, and good luck. No
stitches needed, and a large bandage for Dale's back does the trick. <br />
<br />
"Hey," says Robin. He snaps his fingers. "My 100 bucks. I got the first quail. Right Beethoven?<br />
<br />
Beethoven nods, winks, and says, "Wwoooff."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEl9d1C6fPgzxnfXBMipqQGx_JZZjXH82yKjO5VjFuQkqqR9bsQP9Dqml-d3YINLf1JJDQyk7VGpQcu7nMLfIbUXvmlKc34nJLbSR05D6RpJS6qrsvX01S5wHuBJnLVp06zdMYB0cUy_I/s1600/yount7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBEl9d1C6fPgzxnfXBMipqQGx_JZZjXH82yKjO5VjFuQkqqR9bsQP9Dqml-d3YINLf1JJDQyk7VGpQcu7nMLfIbUXvmlKc34nJLbSR05D6RpJS6qrsvX01S5wHuBJnLVp06zdMYB0cUy_I/s1600/yount7.jpg" /></a><br />
"See
the football game other night, with Bob Costas at half time. Guns in
football, he says, it's a culture. They all carry guns. That's a major
problem that has to be solved."<br />
<br />
"Drugs, there's a lot of guns there," says Robin.<br />
<br />
"That's for protecting their territory, their profits, but in Sports...Come
on, they don't all have guns," says Dale. "It's guys who think
somebody else is responsible for their lives, their pain, their supposed
hardships. If they looked at themselves, they wouldn't be shooting
other people."<br />
<br />
Dale looks at Robin, "Unless, of course, they have a
gun, and they're so competitive they have to be the first one to get a
quail."<br />
<br />
"That's right...so...where's my hundred bucks?" He looks up
at the large white bandages on Dale's right ear. "But, if you
think...you know...since I shot off part of your ear...and you don't think I
deserve..."<br />
<br />
Dale pulls out his wallet, peels off a hundred dollar
bill, folds it small, and flicks it at Robin, skipping it off his right
ear.<br />
<br />
"Touche." says Robin, and giggles, trying his best to make light of the fact that he almost killed somebody.<br />
................................<br />
<br />
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Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-28365281661668027402012-12-02T10:50:00.000-08:002012-12-02T11:42:13.508-08:00CHICAGO BEARS RISE TO THE OCCASION WITH VIAGRA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"Molly," says McGee. "See the sports section? Guy with the Chicago Bears says they take Viagra before their games?" <br />
<br />
"Viagra? You're kidding." She pours something murky from the Mr. Coffee. <br />
<br />
"No. Listen." He leans over the table, moving his finger as he reads. "Brandon Marshall, guy plays with the Chicago Bears. '...it is such a competitive league, guys try anything just to get that edge. I've heard guys using like Viagra, seriously. Because the blood is supposedly thin, some crazy stuff. So, you know, it's kind of scary with some of these chemicals that are in some of these things so you have to be careful." <br />
<br />
She sits next to him, swizzling her coffee. She blinks. "Guess that means linebackers will have to watch out for more than just a stiff arm now." <br />
<br />
He stops, and looks up. Molly? He looks off toward the window. "Yeah, you got the quarterback with his hands right there under center, YIKES." He looks back at her, wide eyed.<br />
<br />
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"Gives new meaning to a hard count," she says, nodding, very serious. <br />
<br />
"Post patterns...?" <br />
<br />
"Well, McGee," she says. "They do say football is a game of inches."<br />
<br />
They both giggle<br />
. <br />
"I tried taking Viagra once," says McGee, "but I swallowed too slow and got a stiff neck." <br />
<br />
"My God, McGee." She shakes her head. "At least, I have something I can use with the doctors I call today. Tough on a girl pushing condoms all day." <br />
<br />
Two condom salespeople, sitting in a break room. On the wall is the company's name; Randy's Universal Latex, Inc. (NYSE: RUT). <i> 'Make sure your Willie Warmer is a Randy.' </i><br />
<br />
"But this is terrific news, you know," says McGee. "We got a whole new clientele. Once this gets out, every football player in America above the age of ten will want to take Viagra. The Chicago Bears take it, come on. We're talking every kid from 10 to what...40. Then those from 40 to 110, they'll want it for sex." <br />
<br />
Molly eyes McGee, sips her coffee. <br />
<br />
"Young kid's will be taking it with their morning Fruit Loops." <br />
<br />
Molly brightens. She sits up straight. "And what are the awful side effects of Viagra? You know, besides going blind, it's VD and huge families." She grabs McGees shoulder. "A parents worst nightmare. Their teenage daughter getting pregnant, or catching some kind of awful venereal disease. We'll be their savior."<br />
<br />
"What parent wants their football son sidelined because of disease, or he's quit school to raise a family? None that I know of." <br />
<br />
She smiles. "And how do we prevent that?" She slaps the table. "With a Randy." <br />
<br />
"Now," says McGee, "Viagra will be taken for energy. Sex becomes the ugly side effect." <br />
<br />
"Wow," she says, scootching her chair up to the table. "And how is this going to work? After the game, kids will not be able to calm down, one thing on their mind. And what do they need? Condoms. And who makes the best? Randy." <br />
<br />
"Viagra is better than caffeine for athletes." says McGee. "It's better than Red Bull, even 5-hour Energy." <br />
<br />
"Commercials like...Your brain on crack with a fried egg. Show some small intestines, you know, body parts with V.D. Protect yourself, get a Randy. Or a picture of a fifteen kid family. Child support could be a real problem." <br />
<br />
Her brow furrows. <br />
<br />
"I'm just saying." <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
"McGee, this is big, really," says Molly. "I don't have to concentrate on selling to," she ticks off on her fingers, "Cops to protect field drug samples, gangsta mules, gun dealers. They use them to keep their silencers clean." She takes a breath. "Not to mention all the arrogant hospitals buyers I have to bribe." She sighs. "I can contact families of football players." <br />
<br />
He takes her hand with both off his. "Molly, were on the door step of a whole new Randy world." <br />
<br />
They both take deep breaths. <br />
<br />
The NCAA." he whispers, breathing heavily. "Every university, college, high school athletic department. Viagra, and Randys will go together. Can't think about one without the other. Like Harley and Davidson, Rock and Roll, like Bonnie and Clyde." <br />
<br />
"Yeah," says Molly. "Like Oysters and Champagne, vodka and orange juice, like Thelma and Louise." <br />
<br />
And together, "Like Viagra and Randys." <br />
<br />
They high five. But he holds onto her hand.<br />
<br />
Their eyes meet. "Viagra will be over the counter, soon, since they've sold so many. We make a package deal with Pfizer, people who make Viagra. I can see it now. Little quickly packs, 25 Viagras and 100 Randys in a plastic bag. Buy them at Rite Aid on your way out, at the register. Ralphs, Big 5, Dick's Sporting Goods."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCcP8DzkJ2YPZ5pLmXLevEhD3M9wlxwnGSv11InMoxyydLgBcdxhN8ObxeBaCa8Tiq_Fnv6kmnur6hlppFzmu6rrVnZzgy28OHuAWoJILvoz4J3-ahkSIsIGlbdbUu9P87uCeDBcz0emH/s1600/viagra3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPCcP8DzkJ2YPZ5pLmXLevEhD3M9wlxwnGSv11InMoxyydLgBcdxhN8ObxeBaCa8Tiq_Fnv6kmnur6hlppFzmu6rrVnZzgy28OHuAWoJILvoz4J3-ahkSIsIGlbdbUu9P87uCeDBcz0emH/s1600/viagra3.jpg" /></a> <br />
They hold each other, and begin to shake. Faces get hotter. <br />
<br />
"Every gym, too," says McGee. "24 hour fitness, Gold's gym, Easton's, Bruno's No Bullshit Workouts."<br />
<br />
"A Randy Sampler," she says. "Oh man, this is wonderful." <br />
<br />
"Yes," he says. "10 Viagra, along with 15 assorted condoms, like the Leviathan, the Earthquake, or the Funicus Maximus." <br />
<br />
"Oh, oh, the Funicus Maximus," she says. She squirms in the chair. Her eyes start to roll back. <br />
<br />
"I feel it, too," he says. "We'll get NFL endorsement, their logo on each wrapper. Advertising in Sports Illustrated, Men's Health, GQ. This is big." <br />
<br />
They begin to pant. <br />
<br />
"Here's the thing," he says. "We get with Senator Fibber. This company's got to have some clout with the guy, get him to get with the FDA."<br />
<br />
"Yes," she breathes. "The money we'll make." <br />
<br />
"We get the FDA to make it a crime not to sell then together. Viagra and Randys." <br />
<br />
"Yes, oh, oh yes." Her voice gets higher. She licks her lips. <br />
<br />
"And high school vending machines," he says. <br />
<br />
She almost chokes. "Oooh Boooy. Like the automat in NY City, like in Gentlemen Prefer Blonds." <br />
<br />
"What?<br />
<br />
"Never mind..." <br />
<br />
Their faces come close. <br />
<br />
"And Molly." He strokes her hair. "We give doctors a commission." <br />
<br />
"Nooo." <br />
<br />
"Yeees. Like car salesmen get. Why not doctors. HMO's pay doctors extra to keep costs down. Ten cents for each Randy prescribed. They'll love us. We'll make soooo much money." <br />
<br />
"Yes, yes, oh yes." She jumps up and hugs McGee. <br />
<br />
"We'll get Brandon Marshall to do our ads. Why not? If Shaq can do those Icy Hot commercials, come on..."<br />
<br />
Molly's face flushes. "Our commissions will be...ooh oooh oooooh."<br />
<br />
They crash together and kiss, hot, shaking, clutching.<br />
<br />
Then she stops and jerks back. She stares, stunned, then turns, and quickly smooths down her skirt, and checks the buttons on her blouse. <br />
<br />
McGee winks, and steps back. <br />
<br />
"Sorry," says Molly.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he says, "I don't know what came over..." <br />
<br />
They rush off to their cubicles. <br />
<br />
McGee phones his stock guy, and buys stock in Pfizer, (PFE), and Randy Universal Latex, Inc (RUT). <br />
<br />
Molly flops into her chair. "McGee, McGee, McGee, " she mumbles, fanning her face with her hand.<br />
<br />
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And while she too calls her broker, she wonders what if the NBA takes up this Viagra craze? <br />
<br />
Those thin shorts? Cameras looking up from the floor? Guys hanging from the hoop? <br />
<br />
She fans her face with both hands. <br />
<br />
"Oooooh boy." <br />
..............................<br />
<br />
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Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-29574934972972973842012-11-28T01:36:00.000-08:002012-11-29T15:54:32.462-08:00MAGIC JOHNSON'S $6 BILLION DEAL WITH FOX SPORTS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It's a bright room. All glass. It overlooks Santa Monica Bay. You can see all the way to Palos Verdes, all the way to Malibu. Pitchers of water on the table, but they have Starbucks. Each has an assistant with laptop. <br />
<br />
A tall young man stands, three piece Brooks Bros, Florsheims, and straight bow tie.<br />
<br />
"Let me open these negotiations. My name is Mr. Importance, and this is my assistant. And for the record, the gentleman at the other end of the table needs no introduction. The once NBA super star Earvin Johnson."<br />
<br />
And yes, there's Magic sitting at the end of the polished mahogany table. Pin stripe suit, championship ring, no tie. He raises his cup to the man. He has a Big Smile. And why not? He's Magic Johnson.<br />
<br />
Mr. Importance nods, and continues. "I represent Fox Sport, Incorporated. This meeting is to determine the new contract between Fox Sports and the Los Angeles Dodgers, for exclusive television rights."<br />
<br />
Mr. Importance puts his hands behind his back, and begins to pace. "Let me begin with our offer, which, I must say, is an extremely generous offer from Fox Sports. Our sharpest legal minds have worked this out so it is unquestionably fair to all sides. We will offer you...Two and three quarters Billion Dollars for the Television Rights extending out 25 years, starting in the year 2014. I'm sure you'll agree this is far better than your current contract."<br />
<br />
Magic motions to Jeffery, his assistant, who stands. "This is unfortunate. Our price is much higher. We are looking at $9 Billion for 25 years. Remember, the Dodgers are the most expensive team in the history of professional sports. You're not buying the rights to an triple-A team, you know."<br />
<br />
Magic nods, sips his coffee, and smiles over at Mr Importance.<br />
<br />
"What?" says Mr. Importance. "Nine Billion? You got to be kidding me...us. That's outrageous. Nobody's going to pay that much. Nine Billion?"<br />
<br />
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Look, we're Fox Sports. We asked you to come by as a courtesy. This meeting is really a formality. We have the contract all ready. Just the amount is left blank." He reaches for a copy of the contract, and slides it toward Magic. "Just sign it. We'll get out of here. We certainly have other things to do. This is a,"...he looks around..."a grand-slam deal." He giggles, and lightly punches the shoulder of his assistant.<br />
<br />
He leans down and stares into his assistance's laptop. He scratches his neck. "Okay, gentlemen, perhaps a little higher bid will solve this impasse, get this over with quickly. I'm authorized to go a tad higher. $3 Billion for 25 years. We'd certainly like to offer more, but what with the economy, you know. That's Three Billion, with a 'B.' We know what the Dodgers are worth, gentlemen, and Three is very reasonable. On the high end for sure." <br />
<br />
"You're not even in the Ball Park." says Magic. "We know how much we're worth, too." <br />
<br />
"Look, Mr Johnson," he says, waving his hand in the air. "Fox has control here. Where would you be without our Television coverage?" <br />
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<br /></div>
His face is red, an he holds onto the back of his chair. "After the Dodgers went bankrupt, you thought you'd get a deal, but in your haste to buy them you paid way too much. $2.15 Billion? The Yankees aren't even worth that, and they are a much better team. Face it, the Dodgers are only a mediocre team." He shook his head. "Okay, let's say, in the spirit of honest negotiations, we increase our offer to...$3.5 Billion. I think that's more than fair. Come on."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjUn3lQTvy_1NCWR5GrU_fE4Hl5pzhISLGJcMwvbMAPQfwbYwB7RrPTA4hF5KDKQINwHOtlk5HsGVxrUc_6QXrMT1bcS9II-To3uyNJMWmgLwbvVoM5ZSFDtFQ17a_71KR9yjwMaUKAoz/s1600/magic1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjUn3lQTvy_1NCWR5GrU_fE4Hl5pzhISLGJcMwvbMAPQfwbYwB7RrPTA4hF5KDKQINwHOtlk5HsGVxrUc_6QXrMT1bcS9II-To3uyNJMWmgLwbvVoM5ZSFDtFQ17a_71KR9yjwMaUKAoz/s1600/magic1.jpg" /></a><br />
Magic stares back at Mr. Importance. He folds his hands and smiles. "We're reasonable people here, Mr Importance. I've been given the right to negotiate for the other owners. Remember, teams change. Sure we don't have Loney anymore, but we're the only team in Los Angeles. You got a deal at $8 Billion."<br />
<br />
"Eight?" says Mr. Importance. He shouts, "We're the ones putting up the money." He blinks, then says, "$4 billion, and we're done. It's the best deal you're ever going to get. Four and it's a deal. You'd be insane not to take it. And, a warning, you won't get a penny more. From us or anybody."<br />
<br />
Jeffrey raises his hand. "The money we're asking will be used to purchase quality young players. That is paramount. That will help us both."<br />
<br />
"Please," says Mr. Importance. "You'll simply become the Yankees of the West. We both know when payroll increases, ticket prices also go up. You'll do what the Lakers did and shut out the every day fan. The Dodgers will become irrelevant. You'll never get an offer like $4 Billion ever again."<br />
<br />
"No, no, no," says Magic. "I think you'll pay our price. Fox wants to monopolize sports on Cable Television, leaving fewer games on free TV. Live sports broadcasts are the last place where the viewer can't just pre-tape the show and cut out the commercials. You know you'll make it back. $8 Billion, my friend." <br />
<br />
"You think we're a lousy team?" says Jeffery. "Shows how much you know. We dealt with a lot of injuries with Kemp, Bills, Lilly, Jansen, Guerra, Ellis, and Kershaw. No matter what, injuries are always a risk. You have to give the new owners time to put together the team. The more money you can spend, the better chance you have of getting the best players, better chance of winning."<br />
<br />
"25 years is a long time," says Magic. "Who knows what the market will be like in 15 or 20 years--or even 10 years. You know what we're worth. $8 Billion is cheap."<br />
<br />
"This is crazy," says Mr. Importance. He snaps his fingers, and his assistant tunes the laptop.<br />
<br />
"It's right here." He points at the screen. "Your current deal, Fox Sports spends $40 million a season. If we pay your price, it's like over $200 million per season. Be reasonable." <br />
<br />
Magic looks up at Mr. Importance. "In the next 25 years, and we both know, Los Angeles will become, not only the largest and wealthiest sports city in the world, but the Dodgers will be worshiped in Asia like they are in Latin America. Fox is getting off cheap here. Real cheap." <br />
<br />
Mr. Importance folds his arms and looks down at the floor. "If I agree to this, and I'm not saying I will, this will be the most expensive TV deal in the history of professional sports." <br />
<br />
He walks slowly over to the expansive window. He looks off toward a high school asphalt basketball court.<br />
<br />
He stands there quietly.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA2B14Wczl0eTQgQnbMMfXa27kfjcXiGRMa6BL3wkjxXj_Nd3whcV-5xtDNJAEB-xHsqvOMxM_ZIH425Vcr0ZSm3FIFFufUq51gzvx2r0daqrJ0COLjEWMn8CkyGq0GH8XkfugY4VidAj1/s1600/magic6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA2B14Wczl0eTQgQnbMMfXa27kfjcXiGRMa6BL3wkjxXj_Nd3whcV-5xtDNJAEB-xHsqvOMxM_ZIH425Vcr0ZSm3FIFFufUq51gzvx2r0daqrJ0COLjEWMn8CkyGq0GH8XkfugY4VidAj1/s1600/magic6.jpg" /></a><br />
"How about this, Mr Johnson. We in essence flip for it. A game of H.O. R. S. E. We split the difference. You win, it's the $6 billion, and if I come out on top, then we'll go with a flat $4 Billion for the 25 years. What do you think? You can still shoot hoops, can't you?"<br />
<br />
Shock.<br />
<br />
"But," he says, "I must warn you, Sir. I played two years Varsity for Princeton." <br />
<br />
"But..but..Mr. Importance," say his assistant. "This is Magic Johnson...?"<br />
<br />
"That's Princeton, Sir. Ivy League. But, if you don't think you're up for it?"<br />
<br />
Magic puts his head back and looks at the ceiling.<br />
<br />
"I can understand, if you're afraid. There is a huge amount of money at stake. You're getting older and well, it's youth that now dictates what happens in this world. But, I can understand if you don't think you have the...."<br />
<br />
"You're on," says Magic. "I'm not that far away from my MVP year. Why not?" He looks at Jeffery, and smiles. "It's only money, right?"<br />
<br />
Still looking out the window, "Agreed." He points. "There. That court down there, at that school. Twenty minutes, we'll play." And he turns and strides out, followed by his assistant, arms full of a laptop, forms, yellow legal pads, fumbling with his glasses, one shoe untied.<br />
<br />
Magic drinks the rest of his coffee. And with a grin, "And I just happen to have a basketball in the trunk of my car." <br />
<br />
...............................<br />
<br />
Two hours later it's getting dark. Mr. Importance sits at a Hotel bar. He gulps down number five and calls for number six, another double. "Son of a bitch. A thirty foot bank shot. The guy's 53, and I'm 26. Come on. Princeton Varsity.<br />
<br />
He looks at the TV above the bar. It's a smiling Magic Johnson on SportsCenter. A big grin. A very big grin, the Son of a Bitch. A thirty foot bank shot. Who makes that? A Two Billion Dollar shot. Son of a BITCH. <br />
<br />
He downs number six, calls for another, and glances at the text on his iPhone.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZD1OgN4oZH1rVeJ_IQ21hOKCPoZwyMVVK5uSINGr9-ZrneoXLeAokFG3M8XHVRC_GwXvdbIJJloRcUlo1jUiqG2ow9kUpGrXiMTlylQPbw3k9Y1LWi0g9iYhpv1mP51kVos0qu0l3BBZ/s1600/magic3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZD1OgN4oZH1rVeJ_IQ21hOKCPoZwyMVVK5uSINGr9-ZrneoXLeAokFG3M8XHVRC_GwXvdbIJJloRcUlo1jUiqG2ow9kUpGrXiMTlylQPbw3k9Y1LWi0g9iYhpv1mP51kVos0qu0l3BBZ/s1600/magic3.jpg" /></a><br />
'We know where you are, Importance. Don't move. We're sending a car. WE NEED TO TALK.'<br />
<br />
"Oh boy." he mumbles. "We need to talk? TALK? Two Billion Dollar screw up, they'll want to do a whole lot more than just talk. OH BOY." <br />
<br />
A deep breath, he salutes the bartender, jumps off the stool, and stumbles out the door. Then bolts down the sidewalk, a cold wind in his face, last seen fleeing South toward LAX.<br />
........................<br />
<br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM:<br />
<br />
abbaroo.com/lakers/chick.html-<br />
http://www.cbssports.com/general/blog/eye-on-baseball/21130016/report-dodgers-fox-close-to-multibilliondollar-tv-deal-<br />
http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1423842-would-6-billion-fox-deal-allow-dodgers-to-sign-josh-hamilton-and-zack-greinke-<br />
Google/Images - readabilityformulas.com - Magic Johnson Wiki<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-77120147206016644092012-11-23T22:38:00.000-08:002012-11-23T22:38:26.265-08:00IN THE END MACHO CAMACHO COULD NOT STOP A BULLET<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLjR_FCQKGJDhf7CmTE0Qqd2TsVbSP_SQ0OEwpUIJZCBDc99uPRNRXtwPBQRmSq-0N_7OY6AhbloBtXbqjo6D2lLc8u_rJsPEAf4rJjEbalgxyyhTHZkHzh-uy9vNEQ7wCZhMd51_8m3lj/s1600/comacho1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLjR_FCQKGJDhf7CmTE0Qqd2TsVbSP_SQ0OEwpUIJZCBDc99uPRNRXtwPBQRmSq-0N_7OY6AhbloBtXbqjo6D2lLc8u_rJsPEAf4rJjEbalgxyyhTHZkHzh-uy9vNEQ7wCZhMd51_8m3lj/s1600/comacho1.jpg" /></a></div>
He was a man who had both the skills of a boxer, and a magnificent sense for entertainment. Flamboyance. One of the greatest small fighters ever. Hector Camacho Extravagant. Hector Camacho Champion. Hector Camacho Legend. <br />
<br />More than a flash, wild costumes, theater, Hector had a career record of 79-6-3. He was indestructible. He won Super Lightweight, Lightweight and Junior Welterweight World Titles in the 1980s.<br />
<br />
He took on the best. Felix Trinidad, Julio Cesar Chavez, Sugar Ray Leonard. He knocked out Leonard in 1997, ending the former champ's final comeback attempt, knocking him into retirement. <br />
<br />
We couldn't wait for his entrance. A real boxer, it was hard to watch him lose to Oscar De La Hoya. <br />
<br />But it was when he met met Edwin Rosario, Madison Square Garden, HBO. He was Hector Macho Camacho for the first four rounds, on your feet, yelling, but falling to your knees, holding your breath for five and six. Then the Skill and Savvy of a life time got him the middle rounds. But Rosario came back. Eleventh and Twelfth. Sure it was close, but more than guts, it was heart that made the difference. A split decision, but he was still the World Champ.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89tusBa8C7m4hG9zB90u4p9YbRaTFwErJjphF_nLj07bOxbaQ_UvajAs9ljn-1dZDL0nniasRj0mzk3Ji0w8tCu_6N2jbhR9EfPBLp3Y4Hbo9T6M20RkU_HC2G2yLdKNQFIixUMkAiC25/s1600/comacho4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg89tusBa8C7m4hG9zB90u4p9YbRaTFwErJjphF_nLj07bOxbaQ_UvajAs9ljn-1dZDL0nniasRj0mzk3Ji0w8tCu_6N2jbhR9EfPBLp3Y4Hbo9T6M20RkU_HC2G2yLdKNQFIixUMkAiC25/s1600/comacho4.jpg" /></a><br />Then in Las Vegas, 1992, Julio Cesar Chavez. Even though he lost in a unanimous decision, it was dressing like Captain America when he entering the arena that everybody remembers. <br />
<br />***<br />
<br />He was a man I remember as a kid in New York when my dad got me and my brother into boxing at the Boys Club up in East Harlem. My dad helped out there training guys to box. That's when we met Hector. I remember Dad saying, 'You see that kid? He's going to be a World Champion.' And he was right, more than one division. <br />
<br />
Hector trained in Jefferson Park, out on East 111th Street. We always waited for him when he came running around the corner and when he got close we would run with him and try to pass him. It was all for fun but he was a whole lot faster. He'd be way ahead and would stop and wait for us to catch up. Then he'd take off with a big smile. World Champion waiting for us kids. Thank God for those wonderful times.<br />
<br />***<br />
<br />He was a man just sitting in the car. A Ford Mustang, parked out side the bar like it was supposed to. I talk to the driver while two guys do the deal through the other window. Way they go down. But this time, it wasn't right? They don't have the stuff, or they want more money, or something? I see them jump back, and they're shooting, so I close my eyes, and I shoot too. I don't ask no questions. I run to get away. I never look back. <br />
<br />
I've heard the name? Macho Camacho? Some kind of boxer long time ago, I think. All I know. He's just another drug guy to me. Not the first time I had to shoot some guy. Shooting's part of what you have to do sometimes. Part of doing this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtoO-8HcrmNPhH3FAl-cLeM5MNFheHzRLVVMxg52eZexsvFrDxeVEto_ubM1-ZVSHditEaUC6-RliQh3_glR_papNT4rVr5KWNYi4I3VAAdenDMOQ3InLZLUG2DRpWKbYc-RNNhGhnuZA/s1600/comacho.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGtoO-8HcrmNPhH3FAl-cLeM5MNFheHzRLVVMxg52eZexsvFrDxeVEto_ubM1-ZVSHditEaUC6-RliQh3_glR_papNT4rVr5KWNYi4I3VAAdenDMOQ3InLZLUG2DRpWKbYc-RNNhGhnuZA/s1600/comacho.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />They say he's brain dead. Say the bullet entered his jaw and hit a bunch of arteries in his neck, then sticks in his shoulder. It stopped the blood to his brain.<br />
<br />
And, like I thought, they found nine bags of cocaine in the other guy's pocket, and a 10th one open, under the seat. He got killed, outright. Yeah, we got him, too. <br />
<br />
He was a Boxing Champion, huh? <br />
<br /> <br />
<br />
............................<br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM:<br />
<br />
msn.foxsports.com/boxing/story/doctor-says-hector-macho-camacho-brain-dead-after-shooting-112212?gt1=39002<br />
http://espn.go.com/boxing/story/_/id/8662680/hector-macho-camacho-declared-brain-dead-shooting-puerto-rico (Comments)<br />usatoday.com/story/sports/boxing/2012/11/22/hector-macho-camacho-shot-brain-dead/1720845/<br />
readabilityformulas.com - Google/Images<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-17888942839120422092012-11-20T23:25:00.000-08:002012-11-20T23:25:49.679-08:00THE REAL STORY BEHIND ANDREW BYNUM'S BOWLING MISHAP<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcs53N6UziuqRR05e5eds86D4OPyfpIGtVsUWaTyopX2bsxjUMG3ZME2LKbEbOBTei86ulW3G-gDQjuc7Vgl0Fuf5A4G5_P-wjD9sfVIe4IYF92ffYFs5DHYIVmdya5YMNj74XsFSAXyP6/s1600/bynum1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcs53N6UziuqRR05e5eds86D4OPyfpIGtVsUWaTyopX2bsxjUMG3ZME2LKbEbOBTei86ulW3G-gDQjuc7Vgl0Fuf5A4G5_P-wjD9sfVIe4IYF92ffYFs5DHYIVmdya5YMNj74XsFSAXyP6/s1600/bynum1.jpg" /></a></div>
<b>The Official Story:</b><br />
<br />Philadelphia 76ers' center Andrew Bynum, confirmed an ESPN report that he injured his left knee Bowling. Bynum said he didn't remember when it happened, only that he noticed the swelling later. Bynum hasn't played yet for the Sixers in either the preseason or regular season since coming over from the Los Angeles Lakers. He was already in rehab for a knee problem.<br />
<br /><b>The Real Story:</b><br />
<br />They sit together on the plane. Andrew Bynum, and his friend D.J. Player.<br />
<br />"Get away from Philly," says D.J. "Get some snow. Skiing. It'll be fun."<br />
<br />"Good, but I don't know how to ski," says Andrew. "Guess they'll teach me, right?"<br />
<br />"How tough can it be? Best athletes in the world play in the NBA."<br />
<br />"Yeah, I guess. Okay, if you say so. Won't hurt my knees? I'm in rehab, you know."<br />
<br />"Forget about it. You seen on TV how skiing's so smooth. It's snow. It's real soft, come on."<br />
<br />They land in Aspen, private motor coach, La Chateau Hotel, bags in the suite, and they're at the Ski Shop. All hyped.<br />
<br />Bob and Ray watch them enter. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglPfxpXGRH4M1vcOdC2v6Ay9YhVc2y6Y1lq4LWkb0dVZ2-pnr1RQqoy9fqnLj6Vr3NeV6wZ7vWMwTrhcTybSxVdFaRpDa90kiZ3GvevhWxPi-_6tykp7kD-FfgXUyTRNdHnx_9NZfyvTvK/s1600/bynum4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglPfxpXGRH4M1vcOdC2v6Ay9YhVc2y6Y1lq4LWkb0dVZ2-pnr1RQqoy9fqnLj6Vr3NeV6wZ7vWMwTrhcTybSxVdFaRpDa90kiZ3GvevhWxPi-_6tykp7kD-FfgXUyTRNdHnx_9NZfyvTvK/s1600/bynum4.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />"I know this guy" says Bob, big smile.<br />
<br />"Yeah, it's Andrew Bynum," says Ray, eyes wide. "Plays with the Lakers...no 76ers. He's here to ski?" <br />
<br />"I didn't think they let players...Hello, gentlemen, looking to do some skiing?"<br />
<br />"Set us up," says D.J. "We're going skiing."<br />
<br />"Do you know what you'd...like...?" asked Ray.<br />
<br />"Whatever we need, guys, " says Andrew. "I only got a few days. Gotta get back for rehab in Philly, so..." <br />
<br />"Okay," says Ray. "Where do you want to start?"<br />
<br />Andrew and D.J. scan the shop, blink, look at each other, then back at Bob and Ray.<br />
<br />"Gentleman," says Bob. "No problem. You need our Klondike ThreeDogNight Sub Celsius Power Package.<br />
<br />"You get the Iceman Suspension Skis with full sidewalls, full wood core, with a titanium coat, creating a powerful driving ski with an edge that transfers all your power to the snow. It has a 5mm tip rocker that gives you a real smooth turn. You get Iceman Fire Rocket X200 Ski Boots with the strength to resist twisting. And there's a 60 degree instep retention buckle..." <br />
<br />"We'll take it...we'll take two," says D.J.<br />
<br />"And what about pants, mittens, long underwear...?" says Ray.<br />
<br />"Yup," says Andrew. "Whatever we need."<br />
<br />After an hour, looking, trying on, too big, that's really ugly, red, no green's better, I like that, it too tight, but yes, finally they're all set up. D.J. snaps his fingers, Andrew passes his credit card, $6,300.00.<br />
<br />Bob and Ray, shake their heads, muscle the two to the top of the slope, say good luck guys, and slog back.<br />
<br />The two look down the slope.<br />
<br />"Just like on TV. Nothing to it. Andrew, go ahead. GO."<br />
<br />"Okay," says Andrew. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9XID4UBcuNM-mgTeJ9o7muTLQUBvsR3nDkK4p8HleZeoMXlmNv7bWAkxRyyrerbOU8p8BruNlQ9P_QbPNagFfRM8OYhHWlhQMUfkKQ6Keo-IDPwVJn0biBTFdSk8LPwxXK1xXuOQsAFO/s1600/bynum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9XID4UBcuNM-mgTeJ9o7muTLQUBvsR3nDkK4p8HleZeoMXlmNv7bWAkxRyyrerbOU8p8BruNlQ9P_QbPNagFfRM8OYhHWlhQMUfkKQ6Keo-IDPwVJn0biBTFdSk8LPwxXK1xXuOQsAFO/s1600/bynum2.jpg" /></a></div>
A shove from D.J., Bynum moves, slides, arms windmilling, picks up speed. <br />
<br />"Yikes," says Andrew. Then the trees start to jump out, all round him. "Whoaaaaaaa. I can't stop. I can't stooooopppppp." Thanks to a tall pine tree, and it's collision with Andrew's knee, he is saved from going who knows how far, how many head over heels, and how much more agonizing pain?<br />
<br />Skiers arrives, rescuers arrives, D.J. comes running. And an hour or so of, lights in his eyes, bandages, snow bunnies pointing, 'Is that Andrew Bynum?', how many fingers do you see, and pain, Oh Boy. The pain.<br />
<br />As the sun sets, Andrew sits with his leg up by the main lobby's fireplace.<br />
<br />"What am I gonna tell 'em happened?" says Andrew. "They don't like us doing stuff like this. Looked real easy, you know."<br />
<br />"I been thinking about that too," says D.J. "How about this. We tell them you hurt your leg Bowling. Think they'd go for that?"<br />
<br />"Bowling? I guess," says Andrew. "Yeah, I was Bowling. Screwed up my knee...Bowling, yeah."<br />
<br />"I can fix it. Lois Lanes up in Allentown'll do it. Few bucks, get you on their surveillance, so it looks real."<br />
<br />"Damn," says Andrew. "I won't be playing for a long time now. But hey, they won't be saying how I'm slow on the court, or how come I don't rebound more." <br />
<br />"You got it made, Andrew. Big contract, and a real bad knee."<br />
<br />"After the Lakers traded me...I don't know...My knee, it just got worse. It just keeps hurting..."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVR_QYwTWdnu5WoZyhJcH93IjE9nUTA_k-US1CUR0ScWKV-L0ZygFmLrcLs0L28E5JmUsaM83Ujnh_SouOoQd0CpBz4YFhyphenhyphenQWtVDl4ca1w9o4ULgtYzJTllQjvEhCc8X-3OP_dfJt3RXl/s1600/bynum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVR_QYwTWdnu5WoZyhJcH93IjE9nUTA_k-US1CUR0ScWKV-L0ZygFmLrcLs0L28E5JmUsaM83Ujnh_SouOoQd0CpBz4YFhyphenhyphenQWtVDl4ca1w9o4ULgtYzJTllQjvEhCc8X-3OP_dfJt3RXl/s1600/bynum.jpg" /></a><br />D.J. smiles. "You know it might never get well...and then they won't be trading you, or talking about how you play. We could really learn how to ski, or maybe wrestling, you know, you'd be good at that...or be an actor like WorldPeace, John Salley, or Kareem."<br />
<br />"An actor," says Andrew. He stares into the fire. "I wouldn't have to workout all the time...this rehab...them reporters...a new adventure...? Yeah. I'd like to maybe get a Harley, too."<br />
<br />And that's the real story behind Bynum's knee problem. "I twisted it Bowling. It's true. Really." <br />
<br />I twisted it Bowling? Andrew, my man, come on. That's a hard one to swallow. Even for me. <br />.................<br /><br />HELP COME FROM:<br /><br />usatoday.com/story/sports/nba/sixers/2012/11/18/bynum-injures-knee-bowling/1712877/<br />aol.sportingnews.com/nba/story/2012-11-19/andrew-bynum-injury-update-bowling-knees-<br />readabilityformulas.com - Google/Images </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-35659756829577045292012-11-17T23:24:00.000-08:002012-11-17T23:24:02.548-08:00FLOYD MAYWEATHER AND 50 CENT TO FIGHT IN VEGAS DEC. 14<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3y9yoqNbblClNYMlzg03mOptphVgJP4FwgdsEdo1Y2-4q-XUtaP15DxZVvbUDzKVEe3MN5QbBrBOBxgyxCxnlCrZbQTVesWqvv7k6n2Z1uGV0AX4CcInngaP5PeVh3EATm9Kx346lvAx/s1600/mayweather1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV3y9yoqNbblClNYMlzg03mOptphVgJP4FwgdsEdo1Y2-4q-XUtaP15DxZVvbUDzKVEe3MN5QbBrBOBxgyxCxnlCrZbQTVesWqvv7k6n2Z1uGV0AX4CcInngaP5PeVh3EATm9Kx346lvAx/s1600/mayweather1.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zBJBuQUImz25qZp_PlMLDxyZQvlo3xnkEMHDcDBy72EF3gSVdyQUULVVkxsJ2TqWasuvewLRPxI6xi2MNvULdRNctumM2tkmHSH-ElFlgSlG5fyU24bSDVPN5E38eKkDYc1n62XaKswZ/s1600/mayweather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_zBJBuQUImz25qZp_PlMLDxyZQvlo3xnkEMHDcDBy72EF3gSVdyQUULVVkxsJ2TqWasuvewLRPxI6xi2MNvULdRNctumM2tkmHSH-ElFlgSlG5fyU24bSDVPN5E38eKkDYc1n62XaKswZ/s1600/mayweather.jpg" /></a>I sit at my usual booth back by the kitchen, relaxing, it's Friday, my day off, surfing the web for ideas for my next Blog Post. And then....<br />
<br />"What the Hell?" I say. Helena sits next to me, an eye on everyone, on her rounds filling everyone's coffee. She's good with customers. That blond hair, those legs, plus she owns the place, the Montana Galley. <br />
<br />I find it. It's perfect for my Blog Post. I turn my iPad toward Helena, and show her the headlines. '50 Cent Accepts Offer To Fight Floyd Mayweather.' Must be true, it's on the internet, right?<br />
<br />And as I look up, I say it again, "What the Hell?" In the next booth. I whisper, "I know that man. This is crazy."<br />
<br />"What?" She looks over. "Yeah. It's Jimmy Chintz, big time Celebrity Agent. He's a regular." <br />
<br />
I check the internet. "Here...yes...Mayweather is one of his clients."<br />
<br />"Do you think I should open a bar in here? I got a liquor license."<br />
<br />"What? Sure," I say, not listening. I should be asking Jimmy about this fight with 50 Cent. Perfect Blog material. That's when it happened. (This just gets better.) <br />
<br />Floyd Mayweather walks into the front door. I'm not kidding. Through the front door. Jimmy waves and Mayweather walks back and slides into his booth. <br />
<br />Helena moves quickly, is over there pouring them coffee, then comes back.<br />
<br />"But Floyd," says Jimmy, "he's got 50 pounds on you, he could..."<br />
<br />"Whaaaat?" says Mayweather. "Dude, 50 is a RAPPER, not a BOXER. I was raised up from a child boxing, come on." <br />
<br />"But," says Jimmy, "you're not thinking. It's a stunt. Floyd, it's only $5 million."<br />
<br />"And 'til this day I never lost to other trained BOXERS. What makes you think a RAPPER stands a chance against an undefeated BOXER? What else am I doing on Dec.14? Nothin.'"<br />
<br />"We made $20 million against Pacquiao. What's $5 million. It's like that celebrity fighting crap. D-Listers do that, not you."<br />
<br />Mayweather eyes open wide. "What are you saying, Jimmy." His voice is loud. "50 Cent can take me in the ring?" He looks around the restaurant. He pounds his knuckles into his palm. <br />
<br />"Floyd, calm down. I know about the feud between you two, but just walk away."<br />
<br />Floyd smiles. He has white teeth. "You've been reading my tweets? I been tellin' how he's going down."<br />
<br />"Yeah, I saw," says Jimmy. "This feud. We'll work it out. But not for $5 million."<br />
<br />"Feud?" I ask Helena. I start typing on the iPad, but she elbows me. <br />
<br />"You're not up on this, I guess?" she says. "Okay, this feud appears to be over a Boxing Venture the pair cooked up called The Money Team Promotions. That was before Floyd checked himself into prison. Then 50 Cent changes his mind. He claims prison had 'Changed' Mayweather.' 50 Cent then announces he's creating a new promotion company with Manny Pacquiao. Manny and Mayweather are kinda at odds."<br />
<br />I read off the iPad. "It's a couple of eccentric billionaire Alki David and Celebrity Boxing Owner Damon Feldman have offered these two $5 million each to square off in a three round boxing match. David says the match will air live on Filmon.com and Battlecam.com, two of his websites."<br />
<br />Floyd," says Jimmy. "This Feldman is the same guy who wanted Drake and Chris Brown to fight after a bar brawl. $5 million each. They were both fighting over who loved Rihanna more."<br />
<br />Mayweather pounds his fist on the table again. "So he's been working out. So he's a big guy, but Dude, he ain't no boxer. He needs to be taken down." <br />
<br />"You can't be doing this Floyd." Jimmy waves his hand in the air. "'I'm so rich I can have these two monkeys dance for my entertainment.' That's what they're saying about you." <br />
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Floyd is hot. His hands are fists. "Guy decides to breach our contract, our promotion company? I should just let him get away with it?"<br />
<br />"About the restaurant," says Helena "Do you think I should have a bar with food or a nice restaurant with alcohol?'<br />
<br />"What...shshsh...I'm listening to..." I nod toward the next booth. Jimmy rubs his head. Floyd's forehead sweats.<br />
<br />"I have competition," says Helena, "from down the block. Wild Cherry Tree Pub." <br />
<br />"Shshshsh," I say. "Sweetheart, I'm trying to listen..."<br />
<br />”He was on Twitter," says Floyd. "He says he needs time to get in shape. 204 lbs." He thumbs his SmartPhone. "Here's what he says. "'I hit that boy he will see a white light.' That's what he said. Dude, I can't let him say that, no way."<br />
<br />"I'll have to find a bouncer," says Helena, "you know, having so much alcohol...bartenders... Woody, you're not listening." She punches my knee. <br />
<br />"Helena...My dear...I'm trying to listen..."<br />
<br />"You're no fun. Look, he'll never do it." She looks up at me. "He's too good a fighter, and above such foolishness. Floyd and 50 Cent, come on. Is it worthy of your Blog?"<br />
<br />I'm amazed. She knew about this. I open my mouth, but there's no sound. <br />
<br />Helena scootches out. "Hey Jimmy, Floyd. You doin' okay?" They nod, and smile. She pours more coffee. She touches Mayweather shoulder, "I've heard about this fight..."<br />
<br />Mayweather leans back in the booth. "50 cent wants to fight." There is a loud laugh. "Thinks he can break his promise. Says I've changed somehow. I've got my head on straight, that's what changed." He apologize for his loud voice. Then gets out, says he's gotta leave, salutes Helena, and moves toward the front door, a bounce in his step.<br />
<br />"Helena, don't make your Vegas reservations just yet," says Jimmy. "We might, I say might, do it for $10 million, but for five, no way." He waves to Floyd as he goes out the door. <br />
<br />Helena waves too, and slides in with me again, shoulder to shoulder. She looks into my eyes, and blinks. She squeezes my arm. "This ain't Sports. It's a boxer and a rapper feuding over some bull shizzle. Dance for three rounds, take the dough, and own an orphanage, little kids who truly need the money. Then move on."<br />
<br />
"Neither seems to be the 'move on,' types," I say. "Nor the 'back down' type."<br />
<br />
Jimmy stands, stops and turns to our booth.<br />
<br />"These two billionaire guys, offering $5 million? 'Peasants, Fight for my Amusement.' These guys are the one's that are sick."<br />
<br />He bows to Helena and me. "I'm trying to get this craziness out of Floyd's head. Makes him look like a clown. It's a no win for him."<br />
<br />And as he leaves, "No telling what 50 Cent will do."<br />............................<br /><br />HELP COMES FROM:<br />defsounds.com/hip-hop-news/50-cent-accepts-offer-to-fight-floyd-mayweather/<br />allhiphop.com/2012/04/25/50-cent-to-accompany-floyd-mayweather-to-the-ring-compares-boxing-champ-to-muhammad-ali/<br />3news.co.nz/50-Cent-offered-5-million-to-fight-Mayweather/tabid/418/articleID/276087/Default.aspx#ixzz2CRsuWZCl<br />readabilityformulas.com - Google/Images - </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-82938771650771826942012-11-13T01:43:00.000-08:002012-11-13T01:43:53.474-08:00LAKERS COACH MIKE BROWN DISAPPEARS AFTER GETTING FIRED<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Lakers ex-Coach Mike Brown sits next to his agent Jimmy Chintz at the LA Coliseum. Halftime, USC vs Arizona State.<br />
<br />"Jimmy," says Brown. "Thanks for the tickets, but I can't enjoy this. I can't relax. Come on, I just got axed. It's just not a fun time."<br />
<br />"I had to get you away from basketball. Out in the open. We can talk here. But first, let's get some food."<br />
<br />He pulls two $20 bills from his wallet. "Kids, get everybody something, hot dogs, whatever." They stare at him, so he pulls out another $20. They both smile.<br />
<br />"I'll go too, give you two a chance to talk." says Brown's wife Carolyn . Elijah and Cameron, run ahead of her. <br />
<br />"Five games and I'm out," says Brown. "It was so quick." <br />
<br />"Lakers management doesn't like losing. I guess they didn't want things to get out of hand." <br />
<br />"They really didn't give the team a chance to jell. If this was College basketball it's like me being fired during the 2nd game. Or an NFL coach getting fired before the end of the 1st game. Team was coming together. All I needed was a little more time. Five seasons with the Cavs, I was the most successful coach they ever had. Hell, I was Coach of the Year in 2008."<br />
<br />Just before the start of the second half, the announcer is very loud, while the JumboTron shows Brown and Jimmy in full color. "And in attendance Mike Brown, ladies and gentlemen, former Lakers Coach, fired from the Lakers after a dismal one and four record. Good Luck Mike."<br />
<br />The crowd turns from the JumboTron, and stare at them. No cheers. Instead the sound begins to build, like an oncoming freight train. An intense boooo.<br />
<br />Brown looks toward the large screen, and smiles, but the crowd's reaction hit him, high voltage through his body. He stiffens.<br />
<br />"This seems rather harsh." says Jimmy.<br />
<br />"Bloodthirsty, you ask me," says Mike.<br />
<br />A yell comes from a few rows back. "Brown, no defense. You have to have defense...reason the Lakers are losing..."<br />
<br />"I'm their scapegoat," says Brown. "I'm the one gets blamed for the huge payroll, $100 million plus."<br />
<br />"That's right," says Jimmy. "Not only that, but Nash only played a game and a half. Howard is still recovering from back surgery, and Kobe has that injured foot. He can't even practice."<br />
<br />'It started with a whisper...' "Sorry," says Brown. "My ringtone. Hello?...Yes, this is Mike...yes...No, I think I'm going to be busy."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3KjeCG4wDqBwjf3EhFk0oGrXqxPPj-UsOqinUhlBbT_ANAdXwj2ka5S01GuEBzkC0m_jeKaqOlhpH9Pc3lBBKm1Zo3z8KGuGfRvumugoRdKrqHJEmZy6yW-JZgYqbss7oa_1KVF5sz9X/s1600/mikeBROWN1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3KjeCG4wDqBwjf3EhFk0oGrXqxPPj-UsOqinUhlBbT_ANAdXwj2ka5S01GuEBzkC0m_jeKaqOlhpH9Pc3lBBKm1Zo3z8KGuGfRvumugoRdKrqHJEmZy6yW-JZgYqbss7oa_1KVF5sz9X/s1600/mikeBROWN1.jpg" /></a>He turns to Jimmy. "That was a high school coach in Thousand Oaks, asking since I'm now unemployed, could I maybe coach their basketball team?"<br />
<br />They both shake their heads.<br />
<br />"It's not like we're destitute," says Jimmy. "Still under contract. $10 mil over four years."<br />
<br />"Guess I'm not broke. But come on, this is my professional life here." <br />
<br />"We'll find something else," says Jimmy.<br />
<br />Another in the crowd. "He's right, Brown. Princeton Offense? What the hell is that? You go to Princeton for a lawyer, or an accountant, economist, but basketball theory, give me a break...that's the reason you're a loser."<br />
<br />Young kid down in front, maybe six, looks up from texting. "The Princeton Offense is an offense that emphasizes constant motion, passing, back-door cuts, picks on and off the ball, and disciplined teamwork. I'll have to agree. The Lakers are just too old for that constant movement."<br />
<br />"What the hell is this," says Brown. Then to the crowd, "Can't blame me for Nash, and Kobe, and Howard. It's not really my fault." <br />
<br />"I don't think that's what this crowd wanted to hear. Blaming their heroes, Mike."<br />
<br />'It started with a whisp...' "Hello," says Brown. "Yes this is...yes..."<br />
<br /> "...our new cable show, Survivor Los Angeles. We start in The Valley as street people, six episodes, through Tarzana, Beverly Hills, Watts Towers, Venice Beach, ride the Metro, and end up at Staples...you're not doing nothin' now...there'd be some panhandling involved..."<br />
<br />"I think I'm going to be busy..." He hangs up. "Damn."<br />
<br />As Brown sits up straight, ready for the second half, a jolt runs down his spine. He is hit with a rock, or marble, something hard and small, thrown from behind, hitting him in the back of the head. He freezes. He knows there is blood, but doesn't rub it.<br />
<br />
He squeezes Jimmy's arm. "We have to get out of here. They're throwing stuff at me."<br />
<br />Jimmy frowns. "What? You got hit?"<br />
<br />"I'm not kidding. Come on."<br />
<br />The JumboTron is still on them. Everyone watches as they duck down and move down the row. Fans along the row stiffen. They do not move their knees, pushing back as the two try to move past. Brown is shoved by one fan, but Jimmy grabs the back of his jacket before he plunges ten rows. <br />
<br />"Son of a Bitch," says Brown. Jimmy puts his head in Brown's back and pushes him forward.<br />
<br />The boos intensify. The crowd angry and red faced, show teeth. Brown can feel the heat.<br />
<br />They get to the aisle, then move up the cement steps two at a time. As they run, three large men tail them. One points, "There's that loser Mike Brown, the Lakers Coach." Now others take chase.<br />
<br />Brown sees his wife and kids holding footlongs. He waves. "Meet me at home. Gotta run. I guess I said the wrong thing." <br />
<br />Panting hard, Brown veers off toward the exit, while Carolyn and the boys simply wave, befuddled. And they thought LA was a step up from Cleveland.<br />
<br />A chant erupts, 'Mike Brown, Mike Brown, Mike Brown.' The mob increases. <br />
<br />They make it to their cars, Mike to his SUV, and Jimmy his red Jaguar Convertible, the crowd now throwing large cups of beer.<br />
<br />Brown, in a panic careens down Figueroa Boulevard, and onto the 110 Harbor Freeway. But, he hits the wrong onramp. He's going East on the West bound lanes. Within thirty seconds this woeful lack of bearings alerts the highway patrol.<br />
<br />
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'It started with a whisp...' "Hello? Hello?...Yes this is...yes..."<br />
<br />
'This is Dancing with the Stars, and we were just wondering...now that you've got a whole lot of time on your hands...'<br />
<br />
"I'm kinda busy right now...but...call me back...sounds like fun..."<br />
<br />What did he just say? "My God, I'm losing it." as he see the oncoming traffic. <br />
<br />And the CHP.<br />
<br />"Please, step out of the car." <br />
<br />After an arrest, a trunk search, an impound, a police escort to Central Lockup at Parker Center, Brown sits in a cell.<br />
<br />And once they realize it's the ex-Lakers Coach, he is charged with resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, fleeing the jurisdiction, and whatever else pops into the Booking Officer's head. <br />
<br />All he remembers about the arrest as he sits in the cell is someone saying, "You got some guts showing your face in public, Brown. Do what you did."<br />
<br />But, and this is the strange part, not a word is heard from him after that. Mike Brown simply vanishes.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1zT2qA2FpU-Qk_jh-bNlrc-XJRoavADNr_4_T32iho60FHbos5AGQLgkrF2r_OiV8l815_r2z9E472kc8Hj8owSsGUyHli52BhMBh4QFgjJLBHNlD8GD7RZae6k0ihvRbsN5l6RfPgqh/s1600/mikeBROWN5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1zT2qA2FpU-Qk_jh-bNlrc-XJRoavADNr_4_T32iho60FHbos5AGQLgkrF2r_OiV8l815_r2z9E472kc8Hj8owSsGUyHli52BhMBh4QFgjJLBHNlD8GD7RZae6k0ihvRbsN5l6RfPgqh/s1600/mikeBROWN5.jpg" /></a>July 5, 2015. The disappearance of Mike Brown will be solved. A very unfortunate mix up. If it wasn't for Carolyn watching an episode of, 'Top 100 Crazy Criminals,' Mike Brown Ex-Lakers Coach, and Mike Brown, Serial Exhibitionist will never be discovered. <br />
<br />From the Prison Warden, "Sorry about that. Guess we mixed up the files. Honest mistake. Lots of Mike Browns in the system. Hard to keep track. We're real sorry." He laughs, "And, trust me, it had nothing to do with me being such a loyal Lakers fan either. Really."<br />...............................................<br />
<br />HELP COMES FROM:<br />winnipegfreepress.com/sports/basketball/report-la-lakers-fire-coach-mike-brown-after-1-4-start-178144741.html?story=LA Lakers<br />espn.go.com/los-angeles/nba/story/_/id/8610888/los-angeles-lakers-fire-coach-mike-brown<br />tmz.com/2012/11/09/mike-brown-lakers-coach-chick-fil-a/<br />readabilityformulas.com - Google/Images - Mike Brown Wiki </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-16693076599716677152012-11-08T21:06:00.000-08:002012-11-08T21:06:00.398-08:00THE DEVIL IN DODGER BLUE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzVxAUzJyijnjlWTIWNSB783mH9sCU57Y0jz94DHkU8VOwYGH4W-esPLWY861OCmsaAMEoFunFT7txDld9Xjk12DN7R21QP4f8VINbLCAz91d8ANO01GsjBpsq5268l0gLui04eFjKjtV-/s1600/mcgwire4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzVxAUzJyijnjlWTIWNSB783mH9sCU57Y0jz94DHkU8VOwYGH4W-esPLWY861OCmsaAMEoFunFT7txDld9Xjk12DN7R21QP4f8VINbLCAz91d8ANO01GsjBpsq5268l0gLui04eFjKjtV-/s320/mcgwire4.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3A9FxGT-1ynWts3UGc7Sv_mHyHKlHuR6HFNYFbudJN52DEt0IhB5JhsDdsjyG791uMdQsAHfuRhvBcnoMgDTWB5etiGE0874w6OOoYFACVY7eYAuqM5Km5sxr3kzAwYxSzhIvRoF2lbHr/s1600/mcgwire1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> Mark McGwire, the new batting coach for the Los Angeles Dodgers, lands at LAX. He sits alone, but not for long. A wisp of acrid smoke and next to him sits a man in a red tuxedo. The man radiates heat, and his big smile shows lots of large white teeth. He has room in his pants for a long tail.<br />
<br />Together they look out the window, and see a battery of news reporters waiting near the Dodgers' private hanger.<br />
<br />“I told you,” says the Devil. "It's no different here. Same as St. Louis."<br />
<br />“I was hoping it wouldn't be like this, again,” says McGwire. “I'm being hounded every place I go. Damn reporters." <br />
<br />
“It's hell, isn't it.” The Devil giggles, and shakes his head. “Come one, McGwire. You've been through this before. You're what, 49 years old now? We figure you got maybe twenty five years more of this.”<br />
<br />“Thanks.” Mark looks over, his eyes dark. “Don't you have some place better to be? Other poor souls to torment? Why are you here, anyway?”<br />
<br />“Part of the deal, McGwire. We get to visit from time to time. Hey, I didn't twist your arm, back then. You came to me, remember?”<br />
<br />
"Excuse me, Mr. McGwire," says a steward. "Would you like something to take with you? We have coffee, soda, and juice. Lots of juice."<br />
<br />"No thank you."<br />
<br />"No juice?"<br />
<br />"No juice. NO JUICE," he says. He turns to the Devil. "And not a word from you."<br />
<br />"Who
is it...you're talking...to?" asks the steward. "There's nobody
sitting..." He pats McGwire on the shoulder and moves on. <br />
<br />“All right already," says McGwire. "I screwed up. But, come on, that was a long time ago.”<br />
<br />“What is this?" says the Devil. "Do I see tears? We signed a contract, my friend. I did my part, now you're all sad. You're not going to cry?”<br />
<br />“No tears.” says McGwire.<br />
<br />
“Be honest. Was any of this my fault? Come on. If you had it to do it all over again, would you stay clean? No steroids?”<br />Silence.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3A9FxGT-1ynWts3UGc7Sv_mHyHKlHuR6HFNYFbudJN52DEt0IhB5JhsDdsjyG791uMdQsAHfuRhvBcnoMgDTWB5etiGE0874w6OOoYFACVY7eYAuqM5Km5sxr3kzAwYxSzhIvRoF2lbHr/s1600/mcgwire1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3A9FxGT-1ynWts3UGc7Sv_mHyHKlHuR6HFNYFbudJN52DEt0IhB5JhsDdsjyG791uMdQsAHfuRhvBcnoMgDTWB5etiGE0874w6OOoYFACVY7eYAuqM5Km5sxr3kzAwYxSzhIvRoF2lbHr/s1600/mcgwire1.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />“That's what I thought,” says the Devil. “You'd be surprised how many sign up. Five year of glory; World Records, Batting Titles, Olympic Gold Medals. Then, it's over. Poof, you drop off the map. It's too much for me personally to handle. So, to cut down, I only talk to a chosen few. Like you, McGwire.” He looked over at McGwire, and rubs his brow. “I'm thinking, I need a vacation, you know.”<br />
<br />“You don't take vacations, I know that.” McGwire looked out the window at the reporters again. “Every time, it's always the same. I see that cold hostility in their eyes whenever they interview me.”<br />
<br />The Devil unfolds a piece of paper and holds it up to the light. “Says right here, 'I want to hit more homers than Maris.'” He pokes it in front of McGwire . “That is your signature, right?” He grins.<br />
<br />McGwire pushes it away, and stares down at his hands.<br />
<br />“You wanted to hit more home runs than Maris.” He neatly folds the paper. “Okay, a tall order, but I made it happen. I was your guy, remember. I was your Savior.”<br />
<br />“Enough,” said McGwire. “That was a long time ago. I took your steroids. But, I've confessed...I've confessed.” He rubs his hands together.<br />
<br />“Confession? What confession?” said the Devil. "'Steroids gave me the opportunity to recover from injuries and get back on the field, resulting in more at-bats but not necessarily adding to my home run count.' Same thing as saying, 'Crap, you caught me.'" <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpJW-NJksb2hme9s5xbqJ9lhCAmeeu5VVoUinKWDleH1rEl_QK4N4smGkWwZzdn8rWEuJw6Qy8E8YmTT0V9vGYTN91JkAz5Szdx2XTnIxhCUuVLDkThbHIC5p6mfAVFgAzepjEsfXPRIuv/s1600/mcgwire3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpJW-NJksb2hme9s5xbqJ9lhCAmeeu5VVoUinKWDleH1rEl_QK4N4smGkWwZzdn8rWEuJw6Qy8E8YmTT0V9vGYTN91JkAz5Szdx2XTnIxhCUuVLDkThbHIC5p6mfAVFgAzepjEsfXPRIuv/s1600/mcgwire3.jpg" /></a><br />Marc mumbled, “I could hit home runs. I always could. Without your help.”<br />
<br />“My friend, I'm like a loan shark. You take my money. And when you don't pay on time we break body parts. But I like you McGwire. So we've been pretty easy on you. Come on, who do you think kept you in the major leagues, got you these jobs, kept you employed?" <br />
<br />“Should be 'whom.' Not 'who.' Whom do you think kept you...”<br />
<br />“Shut up, McGwire. Smart ass. Look, you were doing us no good in retirement. I consulted with some of my, how do you say, homies, and we worked out a plan. You had to start paying us back. Get you back in the public eye. So we got you the gig in St. Louis. You saw the movie Damn Yankees, you knew when you signed up how it was going to end. You're not stupid, McGwire. Hell, didn't you go to USC?”<br />
<br />“I was good back then.” says McGwire, picking at his knee. “The drugs didn't change that. I can hit home runs. The steroids got me back on the diamond faster. Quicker recovery time.”<br />
<br />“You keep telling yourself that. Weak, McGwire, weak."<br />
<br />They look out the window again.<br />
<br />“So I have to go through this every time I see a reporter?”<br />
<br />“Now you're getting it, McGwire,” said the Devil. “You will NEVER be asked again, 'How did it feel when you hit a homer?' or 'My son wants your autograph, he wants to be just like you,' or 'Will you come to my son's school on Good Guy Day?' He laughed. “That's hell.”<br />
<br />They came to a stop. News vans surround the plane.<br />
<br />"So, and this is kind of ingenious, every time your on the field, every time you're interviewed, every time there's a close up, everybody will think steroids. He was a fake, a phony, a traitor to the game.” He looked over at McGwire . “Hey, you gotta laugh. Come on. It's what I live for.”<br />
<br />“I'll bet,” said McGwire, trying not to look into the Devil's burning eyes. “Don't suppose I could get you to...re-negotiate my contract.”<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtgVRM-psFRKeksZ0dz7htKBWpX9BzQuou2l00g9zywlsDp_nTaOsoG16zwMsM9SxSaAnwu7WqQaX8_PC2YegvzpAIwBrJftvBKnRxuTnN_lWsnJYS06YdmbGoTArJ-OYXKPK6bpkh_B0/s1600/skeeter3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
“You're kidding, right? Re-negotiate? Good one. Might be able to pull that crap with management, but it's me you're talking to. I don't negotiate, if you haven't heard.”<br />
<br />“Worth a try, I guess,” said McGwire . “So...Guess I got keep doing this.” He picks up his bag.<br />
<br />“Hope you're not thinking Hall of Fame.”<br />
<br />
McGwire raised his eyebrows. “I was thinking maybe...give it time...I know it'll take time...”<br />
<br />“Give it up. McGwire. Would you vote for a steroid user?”<br />
<br />McGwire took a deep breath. “Probably...not.”<br />
<br />“We made Jose write his book. Stroke of genius. We needed kids to see what drugs could do for them. Makes them hit home runs. They don't have to spend their lives in the weight room. Come to Papa. Sign up, and you're a hero. For a while anyway. I tell them what will happen but they don't listen. They want to be heroes. Brilliant! Our master plan. How do you like it, McGwire? You like it?”<br />
<br />“So you're never going to let up? No matter who hires me?”<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtgVRM-psFRKeksZ0dz7htKBWpX9BzQuou2l00g9zywlsDp_nTaOsoG16zwMsM9SxSaAnwu7WqQaX8_PC2YegvzpAIwBrJftvBKnRxuTnN_lWsnJYS06YdmbGoTArJ-OYXKPK6bpkh_B0/s1600/skeeter3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />He closes his eyes.“I ain't got time for this, McGwire. Supposed to be talking right now with Sammy, and later today with Barry. Guys need to get hassled a little.” He glances down and thumbs his red BlackBerry. "Go see Mike Trout. No, he's too good already, damn it. I need somebody batting .240 .250." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtgVRM-psFRKeksZ0dz7htKBWpX9BzQuou2l00g9zywlsDp_nTaOsoG16zwMsM9SxSaAnwu7WqQaX8_PC2YegvzpAIwBrJftvBKnRxuTnN_lWsnJYS06YdmbGoTArJ-OYXKPK6bpkh_B0/s1600/skeeter3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtgVRM-psFRKeksZ0dz7htKBWpX9BzQuou2l00g9zywlsDp_nTaOsoG16zwMsM9SxSaAnwu7WqQaX8_PC2YegvzpAIwBrJftvBKnRxuTnN_lWsnJYS06YdmbGoTArJ-OYXKPK6bpkh_B0/s1600/skeeter3.jpg" /></a><br />The Devil looks over, "Re-negotiate?" He laughs. "McGwire, you crack me up," He shakes his head. “Ciao babe. Gotta fly." A flash of teeth, a puff of smoke, and he is gone.<br />
<br />
Mark McGwire, the new Dodger Batting Coach, takes a deep breath, and walks off the plane. The reporters are there, pointing their microphones, their tape recorders, looking up with half smiles. And he sees it in their eyes.<br />
<br />“Mark, how did it feel taking those steroids...”<br />..................<br />
<br />HELP COMES FROM:<br />latimes.com/sports/baseball/mlb/dodgers/la-sp-plaschke-mcgwire-dodgers-20121108,0,1931402.column?track=rss<br />hardballtalk.nbcsports.com/2012/11/08/mark-mcgwires-advice-to-young-players-about-peds-yeah-dont-do-it/<br />en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_McGwire<br />readabilityformulas.com - Google Images - grammar.quickanddirtytips.com<br />
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Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-78089890500820110662012-11-04T21:09:00.000-08:002012-11-04T21:16:59.876-08:00 SMUSH AND KOBE'S ARGUMENT ENDS IN GUNFIRE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It looks like a bowling alley. Built as a secret Masonic Lodge, it was converted into a Gentleman's Club in the 60's, primarily a cigar lounge. Today it's the Beverly Hills Gun Club, in the basement of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Gunsmoke's the only smoke there now.<br />
<br />
Kobe Bryant, feet apart, aims and fires. For the rush. His release valve from the pressures of the NBA. Blasting the hell out of a paper target does the trick. He looks forward to the challenge.<br />
<br />
Smush Parker, an old teammate pushes through the door, stops, and taps Kobe on the shoulder. <br />
<br />
Kobe pulls down his earmuffs. "Hey, Smush Parker. What are you doing here?"<br />
<br />
"I can't come in and shoot off my gun a few times? I gotta have your permission?"<br />
<br />
"Hey. Relax. I haven't seen you for what?...7 years."<br />
<br />
Kobe sets out another paper target, a torso and head outline. He sets his earmuffs, points his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum, and blasts. Six shots. He retrieves the target. All six shots in the forehead.<br />
<br />
"Well," says Smush. "I'm sure you've heard the interview I did for TMZ. I told them you were a terrible teammate, so I stopped passing you the ball."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I heard," says Kobe, pulling down his earmuffs. "And you think I was the reason you got traded...back in 2005. Face it, it was your lack of talent. You cost me the 2005-06 MVP trophy to Steve Nash."<br />
<br />
“You said I was the worst. I didn't belong in the NBA. So, you had them replace me with Jordan Farmar in the playoffs. I was better than him." He stares at Kobe.<br />
<br />
"It wasn't the passing, Smush. You just weren't that good. What are you doing now? You left the NBA. I heard Iran?"<br />
<br />
Smush unzips a bag and pulls out his gun. <br />
<br />
"What the hell?" says Kobe.<br />
<br />
Smush hold the gun at arm's length. "It's a Pfeifer Zeliska 28mm. World's biggest hand gun."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyjOwwa2_RMP2U7NiaLFBQBprwHzVh_j0eE8W-qjNeqtFJflsrxYldQdvOvDuJ3YysMVZfitc058coZJA6zZQY5vKN7yHluJcwNFc1mY3V86uOz-qWx1ttBu_IwkT8qC_FSh2Y9Knpr75/s1600/KOBEsmush1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguyjOwwa2_RMP2U7NiaLFBQBprwHzVh_j0eE8W-qjNeqtFJflsrxYldQdvOvDuJ3YysMVZfitc058coZJA6zZQY5vKN7yHluJcwNFc1mY3V86uOz-qWx1ttBu_IwkT8qC_FSh2Y9Knpr75/s1600/KOBEsmush1.jpg" /></a><br />
"I thought my gun was big."<br />
<br />
Smush sets up and shoots. Two hits out of six. Smush looks at his target, then glances over at Kobe's target. His shakes his head. <br />
<br />
"So what have you been doing since you left the NBA," asks Kobe.<br />
<br />
"Well after you made them trade me...I played for the Heat, and I was doing good, then I get jumped by this guy in the parking lot...but it's too hot down there, and the bugs, so I got a chance with the Clippers."<br />
<br />
He puts on his earmuffs on again, and shoots. Three hits this time. He glares down at the gun, and then sights down the barrel. He takes a deep breath. His hands shake.<br />
<br />
"Didn't you play with the Nuggets?" asks Kobe.<br />
<br />
"So? I played with the Nuggets...2008."<br />
<br />
"You know Smush, there are tons of players who have rings because they were my teammates. They played as part of the team. They didn't hog the ball. You just didn't perform when you were supposed to."<br />
<br />
"What he hell? I performed. You know that."<br />
<br />
"The Rio Grande Valley Vipers of the NBA Development League. I think that's where you went next?" <br />
<br />
"What, you been stalking me? I'd still be on the Lakers wasn't for you." Smush stares over at Kobe. Sweat forms above his eyebrows. <br />
<br />
"Sour grapes, Smush." Kobe puts on his earmuffs, and pulls off six more. They all hit chest high.<br />
<br />
"It's only because you played with me, you got signed with Guangdong Southern Tigers of the Chinese Basketball Association, I read about it."<br />
<br />
Smush hold his gun to his side. He glares at Kobe. He takes a step toward him. "You know so much about me..." <br />
<br />
"You can't blame me for getting dropped by the Tigers," says Kobe. "Then it's the Russian club Spartak Saint Petersburg."<br />
<br />
"So I went to Saint Petersburg. I stayed a professional."<br />
<br />
"Last year?"<br />
<br />
"Last year I played in Greece with Iraklis Thessaloniki B.C...So what? You know, I don't like you, Bryant. Never did." He waves his gun in the air.<br />
<br />
Kobe moves back. He looks around for security.<br />
<br />
"I don't care." Smush gets very loud. "I'm traveling around the world. That against the law? Petrochimi Bandar Imam of the Iranian Super League, played some in Venezuela, then signed with the Indios de San Francisco of the Dominican Republic."<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm real glad you're getting a chance to see the world."<br />
<br />
He jams on the earmuffs, and shoots. He misses the target altogether. He breathes through his teeth. His body shakes.<br />
<br />
"You didn't fit into our program," says Kobe. "You know I could have been MVP." <br />
<br />
"I didn't kiss your ass. That's the reason." <br />
<br />
He yells, "You're the one who screwed me," and waves the gun in the air. Wildly. The Pfeifer Zeliska 28mm goes off. One. Two. Three times. Fire. Smoke. Explosion. Like an earthquake, the entire Hotel shakes. <br />
<br />
Kobe grabs his leg and goes down, hit high in his thigh. Kobe's mouth opens but there is no sound.<br />
<br />
Blood shoots everywhere.<br />
<br />
Smush freezes, ducks down, turns, and bolts for the door. Up the stairwell, he's out onto Wilshire Boulevard, across the street, past Cartier on the corner and up Rodeo Drive. <br />
<br />
But running down the sidewalks of Beverly Hill is a mistake, especially when you hold a large, very large, hand gun.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYSuIXLgDror2D97YrZ8p-Pal3F2fN34UKeMu62DJZ7KYKrJSowJTt8C3T-c2k5nb3wlspcNinbGvTwR2I_g81R6YV9l9aUE_Rfq7gzEZ7CFZUmAZtop0_mTXhlena9N2dQ6VLjvG1JC8w/s1600/Kobeesmush2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYSuIXLgDror2D97YrZ8p-Pal3F2fN34UKeMu62DJZ7KYKrJSowJTt8C3T-c2k5nb3wlspcNinbGvTwR2I_g81R6YV9l9aUE_Rfq7gzEZ7CFZUmAZtop0_mTXhlena9N2dQ6VLjvG1JC8w/s1600/Kobeesmush2.jpg" /></a><br />
The police react quickly in Beverly Hills. Very quickly. Police cars already block the street, their doors open, guns drawn. "Stop," "Drop the gun. "On your knees." All at once. Smush knows there's no way. "Damn." He stops and as he raises his hands, another cop tackles him from behind. His face mashed to the cement, he watches his Pfeifer Zeliska 28mm bounce into the street, and slide into a storm drain, gone. "Damn." Kobe's fault. I hate him. I hate him. <br />
<br />
Six hours later and a $100,000 bond, he sits on a bed at the Beverly Hills Hotel. ESPN, he watches the news conference from Cedars Sinai Hospital. <br />
<br />
"We were talking basketball, and Smush kinda lost it. We were at the Gun Club, and well, he shoots me in the leg. It really hurts, but my uniform will cover the bandages. I'll be playing tonight. A little gun shot can't stop me."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTHCsIbH2-AniuxRKi8zH3ffWupieBwn39xckDcO9UH-DdJYQmhpA7jFgVys5CIjj_bLYd8JQWh80vFdq8PWycIdKW0Ki0QBOGUiXagP3w4DGVcyHDUP7Lh4Q8FKdMgd7l5AtSQ02QtW1/s1600/KOBEsmush3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQTHCsIbH2-AniuxRKi8zH3ffWupieBwn39xckDcO9UH-DdJYQmhpA7jFgVys5CIjj_bLYd8JQWh80vFdq8PWycIdKW0Ki0QBOGUiXagP3w4DGVcyHDUP7Lh4Q8FKdMgd7l5AtSQ02QtW1/s1600/KOBEsmush3.jpg" /></a><br />
And it didn't. Against the Clippers, Kobe, with a slight limp, scored 29 points, 8 rebounds, 5 blocked shots.<br />
<br />
Smush watches the game. He paces as he watches. He wants to punch the screen.<br />
<br />
Then, after the game: "We'll just have to see what the doctor says. Smush, I don't know, probably had a lot of anger issues to overcome. About pressing charges against him? Well, he did shoot me in the leg."<br />
<br />
As for Smush, he's in the wind. Last seen late last night, on his stomach, reaching down into a storm drain along Rodeo Drive. Smush, don't leave town, the Beverly Hills Police would like to talk. <br />
..........................................<br />
<br />
The entire argument can be found:<br />
http/sports.yahoo.com/blogs/nba-ball-dont-lie/smush-parker-fires-back-kobe-bryant-worst-slam-205745231--nba.html<br />
<br />
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Smush/WikiPedia, readabilityformulas.com, Google/Images, </div>
Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-20742450993207729282012-10-29T13:42:00.000-07:002012-10-29T13:42:28.515-07:00METTA WORLD PEACE AND NANCY GRACE SEEN HOLDING HANDS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8OVaBJcBgACqRAJZ0qi-zu19lEUGEsnjIp6VSiIN5vN_UyKsF-Q8hgdGvrKSFSJeUxKq8DX7599MVvmA1veH3hvG7nnG_5eVpgmb4Q09wADQu0HoNmYFtrNvZjCANQ-LheJu0mZ-fRjR/s1600/nancyG1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8OVaBJcBgACqRAJZ0qi-zu19lEUGEsnjIp6VSiIN5vN_UyKsF-Q8hgdGvrKSFSJeUxKq8DX7599MVvmA1veH3hvG7nnG_5eVpgmb4Q09wADQu0HoNmYFtrNvZjCANQ-LheJu0mZ-fRjR/s1600/nancyG1.jpg" /></a>They stand in line on the red carpet. Everybody will be watching. They're given their queue. In five it's their turn to walk in front of the cameras. <br />
<br />
Shrine Auditorium, mid way between USC and the Staples Center. Jefferson and Figueroa. It's the 33rd Annual Emmy Awards.<br />
<br />
Metta World Peace and Nancy Grace, rub shoulders. Or, more precisely, Metta's hand rubs up against Nancy's shoulder. It's nearing 4 p.m., time to begin taping, for the 'Live' presentation on the East Coast.<br />
<br />
She looks him up and down. "Maybe you didn't get the memo, Metta, but...you were supposed to dress like...in a tux, or something...you know, designer. You're wearing the detective clothes. They were just for the movie?"<br />
<br />
"Well, I like being a cop. You said I looked the part."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, when we were on the set. But...everybody knows who you are. It's okay." She smiles up at his tallness, his largeness, his presence. <br />
<br />
"Today," says Metta, "I'm Garlan Fincher, Georgia detective. Got the season opener against the Mavs next Tuesday, so I'll be him...Detective Fincher... until then. Why not?"<br />
<br />
A young man holds up two fingers. "You're up in two," he says.<br />
<br />
Metta's hands shake. He sways, on one foot then the other. Grace can feel it. She elbows him. "Metta, don't be nervous . Nothing to be nervous about."<br />
<br />
"Garlan. Remember?"<br />
<br />
"Okay, Garlan. Let me hold your hand. Just relax. You're not nervous before a basketball game are you?"<br />
<br />
"I am, but once it starts, I'm good to go."<br />
<br />
"Remember, these questions, they're all fluff. Let me do the talking." She looks at his compact abs, his large biceps, and strong hands. She takes a deep breath.<br />
<br />
Together they move out on the red carpet.<br />
<br />
An interviewer whispers to his cameraman. "Watch me. I'll make sure my interviews get on the 11 o'clock news. You'll see." He snickers.<br />
<br />
And as Metta and Nancy arrive, the interviewer jams his microphone in Nancy's face. She pulls back.<br />
<br />
"Hey, it's Nancy Grace...along with...Metta World Peace...you know, Ron Artest...from the Lakers. Grace is nominated for Best News Commentator, and Lakers Metta World Peace is here to advertise Grace's Lifetime Movie. 'The Eleventh Victim.' It shows November 3rd. Metta plays a police detective.<br />
<br />
"Hello. Nancy Grace, and Metta World Peace. Jimmy Twit, WDUD TV, Buffalo. Wow, what a night, huh?"<br />
<br />
"It's wonderful," says Grace. "It's always exciting to be nominated for what I do. I fight for the rights of those who don't have a voice when they are screwed over by..."<br />
<br />
"And World Peace," says Twit. "How do you feel about acting. Are you going to say good bye to the Lakers?"<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQGDebYcTU8cGU40_eBHRUXch3tpuHveULTvq69_2q2xyQLHTTjtIZmo-A0fQpXb616nr-7MNr4-YuVeirTYDs5xG2ZadACwiPUpoXudsqgDFOuZHyqfG2jUSoltqFerNUUhr8d5uM5luw/s1600/NancyG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQGDebYcTU8cGU40_eBHRUXch3tpuHveULTvq69_2q2xyQLHTTjtIZmo-A0fQpXb616nr-7MNr4-YuVeirTYDs5xG2ZadACwiPUpoXudsqgDFOuZHyqfG2jUSoltqFerNUUhr8d5uM5luw/s1600/NancyG.jpg" /></a><br />
"He's not there yet," says Grace, "but Metta is just beginning a new profession. He was very good..."<br />
<br />
"Didn't you two meet on Dancing with the Stars? Metta, you going to be a dancer now...quit the Lakers?"<br />
<br />
Metta looks down at the man. He losses his smile. "I'm not much of a dancer. I'm better under the basket. Why would you ask that?"<br />
<br />
Grace squeezes his hand. "Metta put supreme effort into his dancing. For a non-professional he did very well. He certainly put maximum effort..."<br />
<br />
"You're telling me," says Twit. "I saw you on the show...Rhythm you ain't got, Metta. Guess that's the reason you were the first one cut." He giggles toward the camera, shaking his head.<br />
<br />
Metta's hands became fists.<br />
<br />
Grace's eyes turn red. "He was excellent for someone who is not a dancer." She moves into the man's face, waving away the microphone. "He was a lot better than anyone thought he'd be. I saw his potential in front of the camera. That's the reason we chose him for the part."<br />
<br />
"But Grace, as a cop? From his crazy stunts on the court, running into the stands, that elbow shot...I don't know?"<br />
<br />
Metta eyes get big. He breathes heavily. He starts shaking again.<br />
<br />
"But a cop, dealing with criminals and all? Come on. Nobody'll ever believe it."<br />
<br />
Metta moves forward. Twit moves back a step. "Now that you're a novelist, Nancy, are you going to concentrate on writing books? I'm guessing you won't get sued as much. I bet that gets pretty old?"<br />
<br />
"They're all nuisance cases. I beat most of them. People who can't stand the heat, they just sue me. If they'd just come clean, they'd feel a whole lot better. The truth will set them free."<br />
<br />
"Now, Metta, this cop outfit. Who's your designer? Columbo?" He looks up at Metta, looking for a smile.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGYO29aUgfoEJEZI90c4w8xtoQ0kukCYCRgKJT4Fugg9bmwZY06Ad7islc0FsxhCBE9KRQQLhvaDvukWqkWdksnHscvd_qAniCEFJkygiKPAzvYB1hyzrewbnrbCmxv5IC1K8o7yXB1F9/s1600/nancyG4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGYO29aUgfoEJEZI90c4w8xtoQ0kukCYCRgKJT4Fugg9bmwZY06Ad7islc0FsxhCBE9KRQQLhvaDvukWqkWdksnHscvd_qAniCEFJkygiKPAzvYB1hyzrewbnrbCmxv5IC1K8o7yXB1F9/s1600/nancyG4.jpg" /></a><br />
Metta stares down. His eyes are black. "What's your name again?" He steps on the man's foot, and presses down hard, his chest an inch form the man's nose. <br />
<br />
Grace moves in between. "It's his character in the Movie ," she says. "He doesn't need an Armani original. You don't think Metta is so unsophisticated..."<br />
<br />
Twit looks down. They are still holding hands. He points.<br />
<br />
"Is there a connection here? Grace? Metta? Beyond Producer and Actor?" Then he points at her stomach, and his cameraman moves in for a close up. "Is there something going on you're not telling...?"<br />
<br />
She squints at him. "Just what the hell are you trying to say? That I'm pregnant? I produced a movie, so I must be sleeping with all the actors?"<br />
<br />
Metta's fist is a blur. Twit's jaw, teeth, nose. Crushed. Blood gushes through his fingers. Metta certainly doesn't need it all spelled out.<br />
<br />
Twit lurches back, his mouth opens, his head twists. He drops to one knee, and flops over. <br />
<br />
"What... is your... problem?" says Twit. His voice cracks. He kicks wildly at the camera as it comes in for another close up. "Get that thing..."<br />
<br />
"What is my problem? What is MY problem?" says Metta. He leans over the man, his foot ready to kick him hard high in the ribs. "I don't like you." <br />
<br />
Grace pulls him away. "These guys are no different than paparazzi." She checks the crowd. "We gotta get out of here. Follow me." They push through, off the red carpet and out toward the parking lot, running, Metta flashing his badge the whole way.<br />
<br />
Twit's groans are loud. Everyone hears the commotion. The other cameramen stop, and turn. They too can see a good story. They are on the move.<br />
<br />
Security rushes up. They see Twit's face planted in the plywood. They can't miss all the blood. They look toward Metta World Peace, hand in hand with Nancy Grace on their way to the streets.<br />
<br />
"What the hell did you say to them, to make them react like that?" asks security. <br />
<br />
"What? I didn't say anything...well...I just asked if they were...seeing each other. And...HEY, get that stupid camera out of my face..."<br />
<br />
"And that's when you got slugged?" <br />
<br />
"Go after them. He hit me. I want to press charges." He tries to get up, but falls forward. His face is a mess.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwC6niVeuSYgIo6gFixu9AFRu0aSfX82FA0E9pmhcAQX3FSsCYUeVeJLkYrT5Qw1jvzvFhq87aHEPOaF8V9qFWvAy5spLtGsT3Cgr6NfVXLYW9X3t1H0c7d9IX1NTBmx2ECGi7YzW3cuo/s1600/nancyG6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSwC6niVeuSYgIo6gFixu9AFRu0aSfX82FA0E9pmhcAQX3FSsCYUeVeJLkYrT5Qw1jvzvFhq87aHEPOaF8V9qFWvAy5spLtGsT3Cgr6NfVXLYW9X3t1H0c7d9IX1NTBmx2ECGi7YzW3cuo/s1600/nancyG6.jpg" /></a><br />
"Press charges? Against Metta World Peace, and Nancy Grace? Exactly who are you again?"<br />
<br />
Without looking back, they sprint out the front door, across the street, and into her limousine. "Drive, Billy Ray, Drive."<br />
<br />
"Oh boy." says Nancy. She puts her hand on Metta's knee. "I was watching that guy. I think, matter of fact, I'm sure of it, he had a knife in his hand. He was going to stab you."<br />
<br />
She pats his knee. "All he wanted was to get big TV ratings. These small-time Blogger guys doing the red carpet interviews. I saw it. No wait...a gun. Yes, a gun. I'll tell them that's what I saw. No way he's getting away with this."<br />
<br />
"Man," says Metta. "I'm so stupid. I'm going to get suspended for this...again. I know it." <br />
<br />
"Guy had it coming. You're the only one with the guts to fight back. That's the way little men are. You wait, I'll make you a hero."<br />
<br />
"You'd do that for me?" He grabs her hand. His eyes big.<br />
<br />
She looks again at his large bicep's.<br />
<br />
"Cops know where to find us. Come on, you saved my life." <br />
<br />
With a wave of her hand, and a 'Take us home, Billy Ray,' the limo shoots up Out Post Drive, and into the Hollywood Hills.<br />
<br />
"I like you, you know," says Metta. He looks out the window, as he rubs her leg, high on the thigh. "Girl, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." He puts his head back. "I remember that from an old movie I saw once."<br />
<br />
"I like you too, Metta, and remember, we'll always have the Red Carpet." She laughs and puts her head on his shoulder. <br />
.............................<br />
<br />
HELP COME FROM:<br />
filmdrunk.uproxx.com/2012/10/metta-world-peace-starring-in-a-lifetime-movie-<br />
deadline.com/2012/04/nancy-grace-to-produce-lifetime-movie-<br />
latimes.com/sports/lakersnow/la-sp-ln-will-kobe-bryant-be-ready<br />
readabilityformulas.com/ Google Images/ Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-23426289408403441922012-10-24T01:02:00.000-07:002012-10-25T13:59:01.282-07:00O.J.'s SELLING THE BLOODY KNIFE, CASH ONLY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3Nc3fzMLcdJxW6k9KWlxYOjEMV9uSIk6bRanAoniPV7ShJdehN1o2MIKlJHuCg3RQdQgK4yy1ROrTuslJbz3WKaEEUL5UDXLdmn88Cb9egUdeDKK55oRjbbV4J0Gz1E0HnYqLIdugnRV/s1600/ojSimp1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3Nc3fzMLcdJxW6k9KWlxYOjEMV9uSIk6bRanAoniPV7ShJdehN1o2MIKlJHuCg3RQdQgK4yy1ROrTuslJbz3WKaEEUL5UDXLdmn88Cb9egUdeDKK55oRjbbV4J0Gz1E0HnYqLIdugnRV/s320/ojSimp1.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
The Exercise Building, Lovelock Correctional Center, Lovelock, Nevada. Just north of Reno.<br />
<br />
Two men walk toward the weight lifters in the far corner. Both have shaven heads. Both have facial tattoos. <br />
<br />
"I bitched about losing my toothbrush so much they just gave me a new one. They didn't check. They never do." <br />
<br />
"You ready?"<br />
<br />
"The plastic handle's sharper than a straight razor. Work of art." He moves his arm. It is under his sleeve.<br />
<br />
They approach O.J. Simpson, who is sitting on a bench watching guys clean and jerk. <br />
<br />
They sit on both sides of him.<br />
<br />
O.J. sits up straight. "Hi, guys." He does not make eye contact. He looks out toward the far basketball court.<br />
<br />
"Been reading the National Enquirer," says the tall one, Tom.<br />
<br />
"One with your picture on the front." says the other, the shorter one, Erik.<br />
<br />
"You guys saw the Enquirer?" says O.J. "So, you know I'm selling some stuff. I'm getting out of here real soon so I'll need the money."<br />
<br />
"Getting out?"<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZlJMF5EAjz_8wNYMP5Wjf8MtywgmunOX_EYM5vP1i66Pn6EI076jANM6hIwv0qnbGK_H3Npza2ZgsVP_RAgoHeCppHuOfX-HHSqpa8XgNHv28Q-TTu1zQvKYngrP1IEKCBwaHJcXgsHg/s1600/ojsimp6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzZlJMF5EAjz_8wNYMP5Wjf8MtywgmunOX_EYM5vP1i66Pn6EI076jANM6hIwv0qnbGK_H3Npza2ZgsVP_RAgoHeCppHuOfX-HHSqpa8XgNHv28Q-TTu1zQvKYngrP1IEKCBwaHJcXgsHg/s320/ojsimp6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Got a new lady lawyer. She's getting me a new robbery trial. Seems my last attorney, Galantner...I paid him $525,000, but the guy who was actually in court with me got only $5 Grand. Strange. She says it's negligent representation, conflict of interest, some such, so it'll be time served and I'm out of here."<br />
<br />
"You're doing 33 years for armed robbery, Simpson?" says Tom.<br />
<br />
"I'm not a robber. Getting back my own stuff's not robbery. Most guys do what I did, it's three to five, not eight to 33? It's unfair."<br />
<br />
"Says in the Enquirer you're selling the bloody knife? The one you killed Nicole with. You still got that knife?"<br />
<br />
"It was my knife, so I can sell it if I want. I kept it." O.J. glances at Tom. "I got two severely injured knees. How can I kill 2 people in the middle of the night, and nobody hears nothing? And they said I scaled a wall to get back home, and nobody saw me? Come on. It wasn't me guys?" <br />
<br />
"Enquirer says you want $5 Million for that knife?"<br />
<br />
"Yup," says O.J. "I need the cash when I get out. <br />
<br />
"But, $5 Million?" says Erik.<br />
<br />
"Look," says O.J. "that's what it's worth. It's probably the most famous murder weapon since the gun that shot Lincoln. Come on, worth every penny." <br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
"I got other stuff," says O.J. "I saved it all. I figured after the trial I needed some kind of retirement plan, so I saved some stuff that I knew would be valuable in the future." <br />
<br />
"Kind of stuff?" asks Tom.<br />
<br />
O.J. rubs his knees. "You know, stuff." <br />
<br />
"Okay," says Tom. "$5 million, we can always come down on the price. We can negotiate." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjix91_iKqP4EXZoyVcVpG0KahBoXxkSIzzE6EAxJUKzkitOCCF_2Q0U9QLIqTSqZi_dwzGl0DXxa30h7oXFEXFPkc6emIsfqVbyZUlmeFqpOP172qNbeUwcA3-Jtn9blX7juBNgd5HQIex/s1600/ojsimp2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjix91_iKqP4EXZoyVcVpG0KahBoXxkSIzzE6EAxJUKzkitOCCF_2Q0U9QLIqTSqZi_dwzGl0DXxa30h7oXFEXFPkc6emIsfqVbyZUlmeFqpOP172qNbeUwcA3-Jtn9blX7juBNgd5HQIex/s1600/ojsimp2.jpg" /></a><br />
"What?" says O.J. He blinks.<br />
<br />
"Go on, Simpson," says Tom. "What else did you save?"<br />
<br />
"Okay. The glove. Remember, the one that didn't fit."<br />
<br />
"The bloody glove? You got that too?"<br />
<br />
"I bought it back. I was found 100% not guilty, so...I sent it all to my place in the Bahamas...you know, to keep it all safe. The glove, I'm putting that up for $3 million. You know, that glove fits Kato." O.J. snickers.<br />
<br />
"$3 Million?" says Tom.<br />
<br />
"At least. And for the car guys out there, my White Ford Bronco. It's down there in a garage just outside of Nassau. I'm thinking, $20 Million. Does that seem high? There's people who'll pay that, come on. It's O.J's Bronco. I'll get that. I'm O.J."<br />
<br />
"Well, I got to say, Simpson," says Tom, "you're probably the best running back I've ever seen play, when you were with the Bills...well...Bo Jackson, he was really good..and on defense there was Michael Strahan... He was real..."<br />
<br />
All right already. Guys, there's been more written about me in sports than anybody since Babe Ruth." <br />
<br />
"Will people really buy this stuff, at that kind of money?" asks Erik.<br />
<br />
"I have the bloody socks, they found in my room. I'm thinking $500 Grand."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN4yvMEJmqT2chmphOrX2cI91sctG8XXnNmq0r1sK8c8JcFEkjJv_2dWW21k27jefD6ZRSsGt-pdivvR2vm_0ViPQukPfiASsojSDQ3MINJPMzjBAl5YckOKf34gci8BCjT2ki5p4fULf/s1600/ojsimp4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTN4yvMEJmqT2chmphOrX2cI91sctG8XXnNmq0r1sK8c8JcFEkjJv_2dWW21k27jefD6ZRSsGt-pdivvR2vm_0ViPQukPfiASsojSDQ3MINJPMzjBAl5YckOKf34gci8BCjT2ki5p4fULf/s1600/ojsimp4.jpg" /></a><br />
"Half a mil?" says Tom. He looks over at Erik, and rubs his hands together.<br />
<br />
"And believe it or not I got the glasses that that kid Goldman was returning to Nicole. Now those are really valuable. $2 Million easy. <br />
<br />
"Sunglasses?"<br />
<br />
"All my stuff. It's worth millions now. Like my jogging suit. That's gotta be at least $4 Million. <br />
<br />
"I've even got Fung's rubber gloves. They said he contaminated everything. They were an important part of the evidence against me. I'm putting $1 million on them. I got a family to support, you know. My daughter Khole Kardashian. Who knows what's in my future."<br />
<br />
Tom looks at Erik. "I'll tell you what's in your immediate future." Erik pulls back his shirt sleeve.<br />
<br />
"Simpson, we're here to take our cut."<br />
<br />
"What? Your cut?" says O.J. <br />
<br />
"We were thinking 30%, but we'll take 25. We gotta a right to it."<br />
<br />
"What right? You can't do this. It's outright robbery. I got friends who'll track you..."<br />
<br />
"What friends, Simpson? The public? The police? Your football buddies?"<br />
<br />
"You can't..."<br />
<br />
Erik pushes the toothbrush handle into O.J.'s ribs, just far enough. O.J. lets out a moan, and jumps up. But Erik yanks him back down.<br />
<br />
"Sit down," says Tom. "Guards will be over here. Look, it's 25%."<br />
<br />
"There's no way..." says O.J.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMI0h5sEaUQmK-G1iVJH4b3x-u6ReqgnTfejrrQLhuBE8llttfrWfFw2Mfp-v2kL_E-LB5hctvimU-2eFAAHSun3kGm_JkLmkaN08BPar4NhnAAtf7DAlJD5OMyYZqx7hdnh2V5agoEAu/s1600/ojSimmp2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMI0h5sEaUQmK-G1iVJH4b3x-u6ReqgnTfejrrQLhuBE8llttfrWfFw2Mfp-v2kL_E-LB5hctvimU-2eFAAHSun3kGm_JkLmkaN08BPar4NhnAAtf7DAlJD5OMyYZqx7hdnh2V5agoEAu/s1600/ojSimmp2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
"Protection," says Erik. "We've been protecting you since you got here. There's guys in here who'll mess you up bad, just to get their picture in the papers, or on Dateline of something." He shows O.J. the shiv again. "Trust us, you need our protection."<br />
<br />
"It's called, 'The New Order,'" says Tom. "Maybe you'd like to join?" He looks at Erik, who is shaking his head, 'NO.' <br />
<br />
"Well, maybe not, but just remember the money will be going to a real good cause. We help people see the light. Very important work, you ask me."<br />
<br />
"25%?" says O.J.<br />
<br />
This time the plastic shiv draws blood. O.J. looks down, and starts to shake. He grabs his side.<br />
<br />
"So, it's a deal." Tom and Erik move away. "It's pay back Simpson for keeping you safe."<br />
<br />
O.J. looks down at the blood on his hands. He looks up and nods. He tries not to, but he slumps over, and groans loudly. <br />
<br />
His distress compels lifters to stop in mid clean, guards to turn and look, and other nearby cons to raise their eyebrows.<br />
<br />
O.J. hears, "We'll be waiting for our cut, Simpson." as Tom and Erik disappear.<br />
<br />
"I'll sell my stuff, and live in the Bahamas. All cash. No banks." <br />
<br />
But nobody's gaze follows Tom and Erik. They hold their eyes on him.<br />
<br />
He tries to stare back, but can't. He puts his head down. He wants to cry, but won't.<br />
<br />
This is not the way it was supposed to be.<br />
<br />
"What's going to happen to me?" he mumbles, his hand holding back the pain in his side. <br />
<br />
What's going to happen to me?<br />
..........................<br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM:<br />
<br />
nationalenquirer.com/celebrity/exclusive-oj-simpson-khloe-k-confidential-<br />
nationalenquirer.com/celebrity/world-exclusive-oj-simpson-slay-knife-sale-<br />
readabilityformulas.com, Google Images<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-12838264666976548372012-10-19T01:18:00.000-07:002012-10-19T01:36:58.268-07:00N.Y. KNICKS: THEY'VE FALLEN AND THEY CAN'T GET UP<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DgsIfOG0Oawn_pnoOXaX6cNMMn6QbqePo24FnvDVotnp3AAmPiquLbx5feXC1r77wVn5yklq0IGE5Py5MWAG8-KMrQlqX2rEmw4MXPbtg5eAXDKGC_zOQX6VQVjMJY_YtcivMzQrRhWS/s1600/Knicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DgsIfOG0Oawn_pnoOXaX6cNMMn6QbqePo24FnvDVotnp3AAmPiquLbx5feXC1r77wVn5yklq0IGE5Py5MWAG8-KMrQlqX2rEmw4MXPbtg5eAXDKGC_zOQX6VQVjMJY_YtcivMzQrRhWS/s1600/Knicks.jpg" /></a></div>
It's one on a Saturday. Jim aims the TV remote. Knicks Nets game is in progress. <br />
<br />
"...rejected by Jason Kidd...Camby has it...pushing it...takes it hard all the way to the basket...foul...he'll get to the free throw line..." <br />
<br />
Toward the kitchen, "Hey, games already started. Got any beers?" <br />
<br />
<br />
"Too expensive," says Jeff from the kitchen. "We got Brandy. Just as good. Mix it with the Pepsi that's out there."<br />
<br />
Jim mixes fifty-fifty. "Yikes, this stuff is strong."<br />
<br />
"Take it easy. That stuff's 80 proof."<br />
<br />
"...that's the right idea...little up fake...get to the free throw line...Camby makes the first one..."<br />
<br />
"Come on," says Jim. "It's already the second half."<br />
<br />
We hear the horn.<br />
<br />
"...Time out with the score...Brooklyn Nets 60, New York Knicks 40...Be back..." <br />
<br />
A man holds his back. "Do you have annoying back pain? Can't bend over to tie your shoes, play with your grand kids, pick up a penny off the sidewalk? Then you need BenGay to relieve that back and joint pain." (Yada, yada, yada.) "But wait, there's more. Call today, we'll double the offer. Two tubes for the price of one, you pay only shipping and handling."<br />
<br />
We hear the horn.<br />
<br />
"...We're back. The Knicks made some off season trades, filling their roster with playoff warhorses. Guys are older. Jason Kidd, he's 39, Marcus Camby, 38, Kurt Thomas, 40, and Rasheed Wallace who's 38. Some say they're just too old, all these youngsters in the NBA. We'll just have to see..."<br />
<br />
"They're saying the Knicks are a bunch of old men, can you believe? Not much older than the Lakers, come on." Jim gulps down his Brandy, and mixes a second. Strong, but tasty.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4c8_sTgi6WmCT0Meer_4cq5slDRwR1deG67c7mExcpk4hc4JLLxxBXJSVIDYU08D-e5cmi5JcbE497cYk5GAaJCLxzdqRGGUF_heDUnVFbp-2aj0W0cxt2zxxV4yeMoMxlSrjk_og6uW/s1600/knicks2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx4c8_sTgi6WmCT0Meer_4cq5slDRwR1deG67c7mExcpk4hc4JLLxxBXJSVIDYU08D-e5cmi5JcbE497cYk5GAaJCLxzdqRGGUF_heDUnVFbp-2aj0W0cxt2zxxV4yeMoMxlSrjk_og6uW/s1600/knicks2.jpg" /></a><br />
"...Knicks will have to get down the court a little faster...well, a lot faster if they are going to keep up with the Nets today...70-45 Nets..."<br />
<br />
"Hey, this Brandy tastes real good, you know. Come on, Jeff. What're you doing? You'll mizzz the whole game."<br />
<br />
"Breakfast. I'm making Pigs in Blankets. Found some hot dogs in the freezer...expired 2003, but hey, they look okay."<br />
<br />
"Now what?" Jim points at the TV.<br />
<br />
Jeff sticks his head around the corner. "Looks like he lost something on the floor?"<br />
<br />
"...it's Marcus Camby...looking for something...Oh, it's his bifocals, they got flipped off, banged up against the official's table...right under...okay, he's got them..."<br />
<br />
Camera pans to Coach Woodsen, who's filling his cup from a large orange barrel. Duct tape covers the old Gatorade name. Stenciled below it is, 'Sunsweet Prune Juice.'<br />
<br />
"Remember," says Jeff. "Easy on the Brandy. I'd like some with my P's in B's."<br />
<br />
Jim empties the glass. "I can hardly taste it," he says, as he mixes number three.<br />
<br />
...and a floater by Kurt Thomas...nice shot...very impressive...but what this? Time out? Rasheed has dropped something, must be his lower dentures. Yup, see them? There... skidding under the bench. Okay, a quick wipe off, and their back in his mouth. No problem, didn't even stop for a time out. Okay..."<br />
<br />
Jim smells the Pigs coming from the kitchen. "That smellzz Real gooood." He flops onto the sofa, his head back against the cushion. "You're mizzing this whole game." He half closes his eyes.<br />
<br />
We hear the horn.<br />
<br />
"...Time out, we'll take it. One fifty seven left third quarter...Reggie Evans 20 second quarter points for the Nets...it's a 23 point game...be right back..."<br />
<br />
"Do you have those embarrassing, ugly, sickening age spots? You need Porcelana. It helps remove those nasty..." (Yada, yada, yada), "Money back guarantee if you don't look 60 years younger after just one application. Don't wait. Buy it now. Don't look old."<br />
<br />
We hear the horn.<br />
<br />
"...We're back...Tickets for all Knicks home games, visit us on the web...19% shooting for the Knicks...1 for 15 from 3 point land...they'll have to do better..."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPFKfUOhcXem0QCC3fcTlPl57keXyccipN76WK_Uw87rHaxidTUBM4IZ-clAtx77jpetV_huzjB2kHAs73Rd9eLpZrZBm2ROSmrKqw8JE9GQWYU81eE5tVyb9oTdXeW0dcjnR6z_rDaCf/s1600/knicks3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPFKfUOhcXem0QCC3fcTlPl57keXyccipN76WK_Uw87rHaxidTUBM4IZ-clAtx77jpetV_huzjB2kHAs73Rd9eLpZrZBm2ROSmrKqw8JE9GQWYU81eE5tVyb9oTdXeW0dcjnR6z_rDaCf/s1600/knicks3.jpg" /></a><br />
Eyes partially open, "What is that?" says Jim. "It looks like a...cane?"<br />
<br />
Jeff looks in at the TV. "Kurt Thomas is watching from the bench, his chin on a...cane?" <br />
<br />
"Whazzz going on here?" says Jim. "They said they were old, but come on guyz?"<br />
<br />
"Maybe he's got some kind of injury," says Jeff. "But, wasn't' he just out on the court. Makes no sense."<br />
<br />
Jeff sticks his hand in the oven. It feels about 350 degrees. Good. And in slides the tray of P's in B's.<br />
<br />
The TV camera pans the Knicks' bench. Some rub their eyes. Others yawn. All look haggard. Then down at their shoes.<br />
<br />
"...There see? Right there. Marcus Camby's new autograph shoes...Kinda like Air Jordans...I gotta get me a pair of them...M.C.'s Hush Puppies...with the Nike Swoooosh...look real smart, you know... and...there goes Rasheed, running off, another of his five minute bathroom breaks..."<br />
<br />
Jim lurches up, and hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. Then laughs. "The Hell?" He watches, confused, as Jason Kidd slowly pushes out onto the court in a...walker? Kidd tries to dribble, but it's stolen, Jerry Stackhouse of the Nets, who slam dunks for an easy, real easy, two for Brooklyn.<br />
<br />
"...Wait...now what...oh boy. Kurt Thomas...It didn't look like anything happened...he just fell...and...what's this?...He can't get up? Maybe because he's...how should I say it...beyond his years? There's two cheerleaders out there...lifting him by both arms..and pulling him over to the bench. He seems out of it. Real groggy..."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3y1oBTM5JLFM56-crsbzl2tbBz53ZJIEHXiWSnTn274cCpbAs3gXsoM0Q3KYNb1-by2MxeH6vXtUBxPL4KJXUC0Ulfm4V3DnWczQL0eiblyxNZjBMMOxBMzWhfJjRx-5v_-Y33kKZQBZK/s1600/Knicks4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3y1oBTM5JLFM56-crsbzl2tbBz53ZJIEHXiWSnTn274cCpbAs3gXsoM0Q3KYNb1-by2MxeH6vXtUBxPL4KJXUC0Ulfm4V3DnWczQL0eiblyxNZjBMMOxBMzWhfJjRx-5v_-Y33kKZQBZK/s1600/Knicks4.jpg" /></a><br />
Jeff from the kitchen, "And the other cheerleader has an oxygen mask on him...and there's one on Camby. They must really be out of breath. Man, what a game." <br />
<br />
He stares through the oven window at his P's in B's. They sizzle. "Yes," and pulls them out.<br />
<br />
Jim downs his drink. Number four. "Thiz iz crazzzy."<br />
<br />
All set, Jeff enters, holding the platter of P's in B's. Along with a large jar of peanut butter, he sets it down on the coffee table in front of Jim, who lies there mouth open, eyes closed. Figuring the amount of 80 proof Brandy in him, Jeff smiles, knowing the Pigs are all his.<br />
<br />
And we hear the horn.<br />
<br />
"...And that's it. Game over..."<br />
<br />
Oh boy," Jeff says."<br />
<br />
Then he smells his P's in B's.<br />
<br />
"OH BOY, " he says.<br />
<br />
They have that old, godawful, greenish meat odor. But because he's spent an hour screwing around with them, he figures enough peanut butter will kill the taste. Hard to make stuff that old taste good again. <br />
<br />
"...Brooklyn Nets 109, New York Knicks 70. It was a tough game to watch. The Knicks have problems way beyond shooting and defense. Just being able to stay on the court...they have to really work on that. They simply ran out of steam about half way through the first quarter..."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHCdeA9M9og07DdWCZXiqZ9GOJBZdwUsLJ9T9YnWk665r6pURkiIEYvM5E_aeT7j5nXPsPjLYCc1qyoNhn01CACGTQljA6k9MH-aZICAq16ZcHmYYBOOpL5lU7nfrWrKkUTxGb-L5Dbfr/s1600/Knicks1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHCdeA9M9og07DdWCZXiqZ9GOJBZdwUsLJ9T9YnWk665r6pURkiIEYvM5E_aeT7j5nXPsPjLYCc1qyoNhn01CACGTQljA6k9MH-aZICAq16ZcHmYYBOOpL5lU7nfrWrKkUTxGb-L5Dbfr/s1600/Knicks1.jpg" /></a><br />
As the Knicks depart, the camera follows them into the parking lot. Still in their uniforms, they hobble onto the team bus. The one that has, 'Sunset Retirement Community, Home of Your New York Knicks.' painted on the side.<br />
<br />
And as the doors begin to close, the entire TV audience overhears Rasheed Wallace groan, "Man, do I need a nap. I'm sure glad tonight's Bingo night."<br />
......................<br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM:<br />
fannation.com/truth_and_rumors/view/340997-knicks-age-already-a-factor/<br />
nydailynews.com/sports/basketball/knicks/knicks-feeling-aches-age-article-1.1183601/<br />
slumz.boxden.com/f16/boston-celtics-happy-new-york-knicks-now-oldest-team-1829676/<br />
readabilityformulas.com/ Google Images/ Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-80046761986455356992012-10-15T16:55:00.000-07:002012-10-15T16:55:10.503-07:00BAD BLOOD BETWEEN COMMISSIONER STERN AND STAN VAN GUNDY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDw4WqXAI_8XFITIo-efDRJWMtK6M85RyNtXF2GdVBQq-d8M_bUt-cQFnQQHGShqM6FlUIitLj6sxcp3MQ0fQZ_uSbwq4hdh4nEQ-8gdoaSv0JpLWNsqLVrOibtbr0g628MZYY0CEX4Wdr/s1600/stern1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDw4WqXAI_8XFITIo-efDRJWMtK6M85RyNtXF2GdVBQq-d8M_bUt-cQFnQQHGShqM6FlUIitLj6sxcp3MQ0fQZ_uSbwq4hdh4nEQ-8gdoaSv0JpLWNsqLVrOibtbr0g628MZYY0CEX4Wdr/s1600/stern1.jpg" /></a></div>
Come to find out that they raised the price of my tall glass of buttermilk. It's now $2.95, up from $2.65. Something about increase delivery cost due to higher gas prices. Why am I surprised? <br />
<br />
So, when gas prices go back to 'normal,' the price of my tall buttermilk will go back down? Right? Like beer, worldwide hops shortage, prices rises. Now that hops are plentiful again, I'm waiting for the price to drop. But it never seems to ever get back to that original price.<br />
<br />
While I bemoan this price increase automatically being passed on to the customer, I look up. Is that David Stern, Commission of the NBA, walking through the front door? Along with two husky guys in dark glasses? <br />
<br />
What is he doing in here at the Montana Galley, and who exactly are his two friends?<br />
<br />
This has to be the most famous person in here since Al Pacino came in to see his agent, a week or so ago.* <br />
<br />
I should introduce myself. This would make an interesting Post for my Blog. But as I move to get up, he turns toward me, and walks back. He stops at my booth for a second, taps the table, then slides in next to me. His friends, still wearing their shades, also slide in. There are no smiles. <br />
<br />
A bit befuddled, I push back in the seat. "Hello, guys," I say.<br />
<br />
This is a mistake. He wants to meet me? Maybe he reads my Sports Blog? He wants my autograph? But...This is David Stern?<br />
<br />
"Mr Belair. How are you today?" He puts out his hand. "Commissioner Stern."<br />
<br />
I look at his two companions, but they are silent. They simply stare at me. (X and Y)?<br />
<br />
I look at each. "Okay," I say. And how are you Mr. Stern." I'm shocked he even knows my name. I hold my buttermilk with both hands. "This is certainly a surprise. What brings you here?"<br />
<br />
"Well," says Stern. "I got this thing out in Burbank, doing the Leno Show, and thought I'd just drop in here and see you."<br />
<br />
"You know where I..."<br />
<br />
"We know where you are most of the time. We read your Blog. You're usually sitting in this restaurant, just to be close to the blond in the kitchen, Helena. I saw her. Not bad. Keep trying, scout. One day, maybe you two'll be an item." He laughs. X nods his head and continue to eyeballs me. <br />
<br />
"She heard you talking like that..."<br />
<br />
A waitress comes over, but Stern waves her off. "We won't be here long."<br />
<br />
He adjusts his jacket. "Reason I came by. You've probably read about cry baby Stan Van Gundy saying I screwed him over at ESPN. That I told them not to hire him for ESPN’s 'NBA Countdown.' Because I don't like him. Guy's a fool. He compares me to Gadhafi. Says I'm a dictator. What'd he expect? That kind of guy does not belong on ESPN, I don't care who it is."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I think I did read something..."<br />
<br />
"ESPN is partners with the NBA," he says. "$930 million contract. So any significant hires have to be cleared through me...you know, the NBA."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEbsfQbbpPx1OmuRtQh-xueThHmdmJ5fsfhKlhPTZKIYqGQYdDhcrtMh5jYWtTvdSsmX7A2n-PfSXn8kGb-3Nsd9V-6K3aqVu8cLHinMRHNjfApT4nQVJqh53irlUGR8m9DPInVhMGRA6/s1600/STERN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyEbsfQbbpPx1OmuRtQh-xueThHmdmJ5fsfhKlhPTZKIYqGQYdDhcrtMh5jYWtTvdSsmX7A2n-PfSXn8kGb-3Nsd9V-6K3aqVu8cLHinMRHNjfApT4nQVJqh53irlUGR8m9DPInVhMGRA6/s1600/STERN.jpg" /></a><br />
Stern waves his hand in the air. "We figured he was just too mouthy about me to be good on the air."<br />
<br />
"But," I say. "isn't that really what ESPN needs. Exciting, mouthy guys. You want ratings, right? Wouldn't he be more exciting than Shaq? Someone should build a fire under Shaq, you know."<br />
<br />
I get the 'We'll grind you into the ground' stare from X and Y. Guess you don't interrupt the Commissioner.<br />
<br />
"Mouthy and smart, that's okay," says Stern. "Anyway, here's the reason we dropped by."<br />
<br />
He folds his hands, looks at both associates, (the word Gorillas comes to mind), then at me. "We want only...how should I say it...good writing from you in your Blog."<br />
<br />
"Only good writing? You mean only Responsible Writing?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, you know, " he says. "Do I have to spell it out? Look, Belair, you want to go the way of Van Gundy? Good writing means good posts about me, the NBA, and ESPN. Believe it or not, people actually read your stuff."<br />
<br />
"But what if...?"<br />
<br />
X and Y clench their fists. Oops, again an interruption.<br />
<br />
"I remember reading a Post about one of my cab rides from LAX. Your friend, Diego Garcia, guy who owns the Fresh Air Taxi Company. I thought he was a stand up guy. But my conversation mysteriously ends up in your Blog. I don't remember any call from you, asking me if it was all right?"<br />
<br />
"So if you say something that I think is Sports worthy..."<br />
<br />
"I command a presence. It's not going to be tarnished by the likes of some blogger. Better yet, Mr. Belair. I don't want you writing anything about me or the NBA."<br />
<br />
X and Y lean over toward me, breathing heavily through their noses.<br />
<br />
There are flashes of men sitting in dark corners waiting for me when I get home, baseball bats in cornfields, horse heads in beds. This could get out of hand.<br />
<br />
"You sure I'm the guy you want? I hate to say it, but I really don't have the worldwide audience you seem to think."<br />
<br />
Again I spoke. Not good. X shows his teeth, pushes his glasses up on his forehead, and glares at me. Then he looks down and opens his coat. I'm shown a gun in his waistband. He had that, 'Your a dead man if you mess with us,' look in his black eyes. <br />
<br />
"Van Gundy claiming I was some sort of tyrant, cost him his job. I'm in charge and it you don't like it, find some other place to go."<br />
<br />
My face is hot. Was there something in the Buttermilk? This is a bad episode of Gangland, Vito Corleone, Tony Soprano, the ghost of George Raft.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHTdKifmOgJgQL47FOXZBgScPYNtu4-5k3w6PLw-coBR5Kza-2TuWCVYyfs-gi39N0WY8i2QpZOQCVP_S-f7H47Qfvo-sAUnqFK6Wz_YfthC_0Tz0Hp5xNIdnqN3U0HSSQ1Cgr4F-72uF/s1600/stern2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHTdKifmOgJgQL47FOXZBgScPYNtu4-5k3w6PLw-coBR5Kza-2TuWCVYyfs-gi39N0WY8i2QpZOQCVP_S-f7H47Qfvo-sAUnqFK6Wz_YfthC_0Tz0Hp5xNIdnqN3U0HSSQ1Cgr4F-72uF/s1600/stern2.jpg" /></a></div>
Then The Commissioner smiles, sticks out his hand. "Gotta go. Been real, Belair. You're a smart guy. So. Write about Cricket, or Soccer, Riding Bicycles. Something other than basketball. Be a lot healthier."<br />
<br />
The three rise together, turn and head for the door. As X holds the door for Stern, he look back at me, lowers his head, and pats his pocket.<br />
<br />
I get it, you're tough guys. <br />
<br />
And they're gone.<br />
<br />
What the hell just happened? Commissioner David Stern sits down, and demands happy thoughts about ESPN, the NBA, and about himself. Or else? What? I'm going to start a fire storm against the NBA? With StiffLeftJab? <br />
<br />
The romantic notion of the 'responsible journalist'' taking a bullet for his reader, I get it, but, those guns look really real. I'm not dealing here with the manager of the Studio City Little Dribblers. Bullets hurt, hurt bad, you know.<br />
<br />
I lean over the table, my head on my fist. I rub my forehead, never imagining this day would ever come. I sip my buttermilk, but I know I'll need to buy something a lot stronger on my way home. I have to learn all I can now about Cricket. Damn.<br />
<br />
..........................<br />
HELP COMESFROM:<br />
<br />
thebiglead.com/index.php/2012/10/10/did-david-stern-put-the-kibosh-on-stan-van-gundy/<br />
orlandosentinel.com/sports/os-mike-bianchi-stan-van-gundy-espn-1012-20121011,0,5261071.column/<br />
larrybrownsports.com/basketball/stan-van-gundy-david-stern-preventing-espn/157876/<br />
readabilityformulas.com, Google/Images, <br />
* WILL PACINO PLAY PATERNO IN THE MOVIE? StiffLeftJab.com.<br />
<br />
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<br />Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-28665143986467162082012-10-10T21:52:00.000-07:002012-10-10T21:52:58.411-07:00MARK CUBAN FREAKS OUT OVER NETS.com<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SsDh7GD9kUW2fMp4_U5FrGb8qb51usoO7-6fSxnEQYrYvb6enqY-mrhp_BZUmJQkdg8CBzNJ1JBO-lYhUDr-cwgTkF89eDM5L4en67rEs7XaHh2IbGVq9KXntlEavcnL_6x1HLoe1JS-/s1600/cuban1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SsDh7GD9kUW2fMp4_U5FrGb8qb51usoO7-6fSxnEQYrYvb6enqY-mrhp_BZUmJQkdg8CBzNJ1JBO-lYhUDr-cwgTkF89eDM5L4en67rEs7XaHh2IbGVq9KXntlEavcnL_6x1HLoe1JS-/s1600/cuban1.jpg" /></a>Sitting in the back booth of the Montana Galley, nursing my usual afternoon glass of buttermilk, I spin my iPhone on the table. I have to make a decision. Should I call Mark Cuban, owner of the Dallas Mavericks?<br />
<br />
Or not? <br />
<br />
Will he even take my call? TV says the guy's a Billionaire. Hey, who am I to say he isn't. But if he hasn't heard about this, I'm sure he'll want to know. I should call.<br />
<br />
So I do.<br />
<br />It rings.<br />
<br />"Mr. Cuban's Office. Press 1, if you're calling about Season Mav Tickets. Press 2, if you have a super profitable business and you'd like to be featured on Shark Tank. Press 3, if you'd like to find the nearest ultra stylish Sketchers Shoe Store. Press 4, if you'd like to say something real nice about Mr. Cuban. Otherwise hold on for the next available operator." <br />
<br />I get Corporate not Personal. Be nice to schmooze with him poolside, maybe over cocktails, much more comfortable, but I guess not. Then again this is Mark Cuban.<br />
<br />"Mark Cuban's office. How can I help you?" Her voice is maple syrup, with just a touch of jalapeno.<br />
<br />"Hi," I say. "My name is Brentwood Belair. I've got some very important information..."<br />
<br />"Well, Mr Cuban is in a meeting right now. Give me your number..."<br />
<br />(Being forceful), "I could put this in writing," I say, "but every second we let this continue...it would be ...<br />
<br />"...Like I say Mr Cuban is in a..."<br />
<br />"...an unmitigated disaster. It has to do with Mikhail Prokhorov."<br />
<br />"The Russian?" she says.<br />
<br />"The owner of the New York Nets. They're the Brooklyn Nets, sort of, now."<br />
<br />"You say the Russian?"<br />
<br />(Not taking a breath), "And as you well know, Mr. Prokhorov and Mr. Cuban are like the Hatfields and the McCoys. He would be tragically disappointed. Give me five minutes?"<br />
<br />"The Russian, huh? Hold on. Be right back."<br />
<br />It was in the NY Daily News. Mikhail said he is ready for a 'throwdown' with Cuban over the free agency of Deron Williams. 'Let the best [sic] man win,' Prokhorov said. 'If he wins, I will crush him with the kickboxing throwdown.' Guy's treading on thin ice, if he thinks he can...<br />
<br />"Hello, this is Mark. Something about Prokhorov? Who's this?"<br />
<br />"Mr. Cuban. Thanks for leaving your meeting. Brentwood Belair. I'm a Sports Blogger out her in Calif..."<br />
<br />"Yeah, I've heard of you...out there in enemy territory, Clippers, Lakers. So? What's this about Prokhorov? The Crazy Russian. What's he want now? He's threatened to kick my ass. Now what?"<br />
<br />"Well here's the thing," I say. "The other day I was checking facts for a Blog Post about the Jets, and well, I typed in Nets instead. Nets.com, and guess what?"<br />
<br />"What?"<br />
<br />"The site shows up, and it kinda looks official, but it's your picture on the home page. And it's not all that flattering a picture, you ask me."<br />
<br />"Wait...What did you do? Type in...Hold on, let me do this...My picture? Okay, NETS.com...?"<br />
<br />His voice jumps three octaves. "What the hell is this? Prokhorov? No, no, this isn't right. My picture on the Nets web site? I'm going to sue the son of a bitch. I can't believe this."<br />
<br />"Well, that's not the half of it, Mark."<br />
<br />"I'll sue him for everything he's got. He thinks this is some kind of game. I'll get him deported so quick. The guy comes over here, starts spreading his money around. Thinks he can buy what ever..."<br />
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<br />"Mark, Mark, Mark," I say.<br />
<br />"The Son of a BITCH!"<br />
<br />"Mark,' I say. "It's not his site.<br />
<br />"What?"<br />
<br />"Here's the thing. See at the bottom of the page. The Russian stuff.<br />
<br />"Yeah?"<br />
<br />"I got a guy, Nizhny Novgorod. He translated it for me. The Russian text is to embarrass Prokhorov. It's the name of a prostitute he was arrested with back in 2007. Of course the charges were later dropped." <br />
<br />"Okay?"<br />
<br />"The domain, NETS.com is owned by a company called, CyberMesa. Not the N.Y. NETS."<br />
<br />"CyberMesa? What? You mean the N.Y. NETS don't own their own web site?"<br />
<br />"So, I gave them a call, and guess what?"<br />
<br />"I'm listening?"<br />
<br />"I get a Jane on the phone. She says she owns the site. Nice lady. She told me that the Nets have been calling her, wanting to buy the domain, but she says she's not ready to sell. She said she's got plenty of money. She made it selling another domain name, Roadrunner.com to TimeWarner."<br />
<br />"You're kidding. The Nets don't own their own domain name? Incredible. Jane, huh? And, not ready to sell, just means she wants more money." <br />
<br />I actually hear him rubbing his hands together.<br />
<br />"Hold on," he says. "You got a number for this Jane? You said you called her?"<br />
<br />"Sure did," I say. "In my undying effort to check every fact for my readers..."<br />
<br />"Yeah, yeah, yeah, the number."<br />
<br />I give him the number and we do a three-way.<br />
<br />"Hello," I say. "Is this Jane, the lady I spoke with the other day? This is Brentwood Belair. Remember? We spoke about your domain, NETS.com. I've got Mark..."<br />
<br />"Hello, this is Mark Cuban. Please to meet you, Jane? You own the domain Nets.com?"<br />
<br />"Actually it's owned by CyberMesa, and I own CyberMesa." <br />
<br />"Well," says Mark. "If I owned the site, it would sure be a thorn in the side of my arch enemy, Mikhail Prokhorov. Would you ever consider selling it. I might like to buy it."<br />
<br />"Not a problem," she says. "You'd be the guy who'd really have fun with it, knowing how you feel about the NETS. $20 million, and it's yours."<br />
<br />I jerk back, an uncontrollable spasm. $20 mil? But not Mark. <br />
<br />"That's quite a price," he says. He's in his element. "I was hoping you'd take a little less than that. You're right, it would be nice to own that domain. How about this. $15 million, not a penny more. You know, I could sue you for putting that crazy picture of me on your site. It's defamation. My legal team..."<br />
<br />"You're a public figure, Mr Cuban, and it's not pornographic. Really it's not all that bad a picture. I have others much more...frightful. Hey, I watch TV. They say you're a Billionaire."<br />
<br />"...maybe on paper..."<br />
<br />"So, I think you can easily afford $20 million. Come on, that's what? Two percent of your net worth. You only live once, my friend."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWGyBpUXZ7SAOWMRpE4hHVg2xdIfWChRt-9ebFq1tvGKLd-JW3j35A1H4wEtIbdEc-KvT_J7OMXCWZa52CTSCUuWob7pIYuKOk3T0gB0DK2lcl1Xvja-fCcpzKdZWmCwxsWZ8xPK-vN4H/s1600/cuban2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVWGyBpUXZ7SAOWMRpE4hHVg2xdIfWChRt-9ebFq1tvGKLd-JW3j35A1H4wEtIbdEc-KvT_J7OMXCWZa52CTSCUuWob7pIYuKOk3T0gB0DK2lcl1Xvja-fCcpzKdZWmCwxsWZ8xPK-vN4H/s1600/cuban2.jpg" /></a><br />"You're good Okay. $18 mil. And that's final. Look, no name is really worth that much. Now that I know about this site, my Tech Team could crash the entire thing. We have ways. Then what's it worth?"<br />
<br />"I don't think you want that made public. You have a real nice guy reputation. Mr. Prokhorov has already tried to threatened me. You know, I got a feeling you really want this domain. Think what you can do with it. I changed my mind. I'm asking $22 million."<br />
<br />"Hey, you can't do that..."<br />
<br />"So, it's been nice talking with both of you gentlemen. Something like this doesn't come around every day. You'll kick yourself tomorrow if you let this go."<br />
<br />"All right Already! You got it. $20 million. Okay?"<br />
<br />"Deal." she says. "I knew you'd come around." <br />
<br />"So." He laughs. "You're good. Real good. Okay, Mikhail Prokhorov, you're mine now. I got your web site. Am I going to screw with you, you Crazy Russian. Jane, you're a doll."<br />
<br />"I don't know about that."<br />
<br />"Oh boy, okay. This is great. Okay, okay. So...I'll have my Tech Team get in touch with you."<br />
<br />"Any time."<br />
<br />"You heard it, right Brentwood. I'm the owner, right?"<br />
<br />"That you are, Mark," I say.<br />
<br />"My Finance Team will call you, too, and do the money transfer."<br />
<br />"So," says Jane. "I guess I gotta get back to work. Nice doing business with you Mark. Next time your over here in New Mexico, stop by. We'll do some tequila shots."<br />
<br />"I like this lady. You're on. Okay. We'll be in touch."<br />
<br />"See ya, Mark. Brentwood."<br />
<br />Silence<br />
<br />"Bentwood," he says. He's out of breath. "Thank you, my man. I got it. $20 million. I'll sell some stock or something, but YES I got it."<br />
<br />"My pleasure," I say "I'm glad I was able..."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAmA6dwBmASYTnupAYz5xMBquWqzoznxuRwMa3hjnmFgX7O9IOJe4t__83C9aSep-egI3P5gXBTrvPzAj7uvG53qV3ey8BGC1Jjkj6ogwjI3mBxiO7sywtE49xeDbyZ3nco3OhojzaynjJ/s1600/cuban.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAmA6dwBmASYTnupAYz5xMBquWqzoznxuRwMa3hjnmFgX7O9IOJe4t__83C9aSep-egI3P5gXBTrvPzAj7uvG53qV3ey8BGC1Jjkj6ogwjI3mBxiO7sywtE49xeDbyZ3nco3OhojzaynjJ/s1600/cuban.jpg" /></a><br />"Thanks so much. This is awesome. So, I'll see you. I'll send you some Mav tickets."<br />
<br />"When they play the Lakers?"<br />
<br />"You got it."<br />
<br />And that was my call to Mark 'The Shark' Cuban. An NBA web site not owned by the owner? Who knew?<br />
<br />I sip my buttermilk. This is a good day. It's always nice to have a Billionaire who owes you. And for this, he owes me big time. <br />.......................<br /><br />HELP COME FROM:<br />deadspin.com/5949020/who-is-using-netscom-to-fuel-the-mark-cuban+mikhail-prokhorov-feud/<br />usatoday.com/story/gameon/2012/10/08/mark-cuban-shark-tank-deron-williams-dallas-mavericks/1621907/<br />readabilityformulas.com/ Google/Images, <br />jezebel.com/5950333/mark-cuban-twists-deron/Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-861669709828016022012-10-07T17:28:00.000-07:002012-10-07T17:28:22.329-07:00PLAXICO BURRESS IS RUNNING OUT OF TIME<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..." <br />
<br />"Come on, guys," says Plaxico Burress. "You gotta catch the ball. Stickem.' You gotta get some Stickem on your hands, Dummy. What am I? Watching some kind of high school game?" <br />
<br />It's Friday afternoon, around one. Plaxico Burress lounges on his couch, bare feet on his coffee table, one full, three empty Doritos' bags on the floor. His iPhone sits on the table, set on vibrate, blink, and loud ring. No way he's missing the call.<br />
<br />He points an empty Red Bull can at his 100 inch LED Flatscreen. "How can this be happening. This is beyond just lame, guys. I can't keep watching this." <br />
<br />He grabs the remote, and replays the play.<br />
<br />"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..." <br />
<br />He pitches the Red Bull can. It hits the wall and banks into the plastic trash can in the corner. He pops another. Eight or is this number nine?<br />
<br />"Come on, where's Tebow? Something. Sanchez ain't hackin' it. What's going on? Ryan, hello? I'm sitting here. Your next wide receiver. Waiting. By the phone."<br />
<br />His iPhone sits silently on the table. He looks at it just as it rings. He leaps.<br />
<br />"Plaxico? That you?"<br />
<br />"It's me, who's this? Coach Ryan? Rex Ryan, that you?" says Plaxico.<br />
<br />"No no, no. OchoCinco. The Chadster. Mister Chad Johnson. I'm Just hangin.' Been watching the Jets. They need somebody like me back on the team, you know. One of the best and they've forgot about me already, can you believe it? Me, the Chadman."<br />
<br />"The Jets? They're looking for young, my friend. What are you? Thirty-four? Kinda old. Come on, of course they'll take me first. And after that thing you did on Dancing with the Stars, it's a wonder you can still show your face..."<br />
<br />"Plaxico, you'd be out there playing for free, they ever gave you another chance."<br />
<br />"What? Look, I'm not waiting by the phone if that's what you want to know. So...Hey I got a call coming through, so...I'll see you Chad."<br />
<br />"It's me they really want, Burress. Me, Chad Johnson. I'll always be the real star."<br />
<br />"I don't know? Didn't you do some pistachio commercials? And race a thoroughbred? You do weird stuff, Chad. They aren't looking for weird. I'm down to 225 pounds and I'm faster and more explosive today than I ever been. Hey, gotta go. Real nice talking with you, Chad."<br />
<br />He drops the phone on the coffee table, and kicks it away with his foot. "Play for free? Guy's crazy. Thinks I want to play that bad?" He gulps Red Bull, sits back and looks at the can. "This stuff ain't good for me."<br />
<br />He picks up his iPhone, and thumbs a number. <br />
<br />"New Jersey Discount Liquor."<br />
<br />"I'd like somethin' delivered. I usually get drinks already made, so..."<br />
<br />"We got some Mount Gay Rum?"<br />
<br />"I don't know? Mount Gay?"<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZI_s4BM1bHtpKzzjPRDVyLLs4gsCz_xekBKDs5QR3p-tGP7r90Q36FytaJ8AhxecP-9X_rVStqpUPb4NPOe2ze5jt8e63X_c2SdRro1-cEim2sXqsvDIWERX5mayeIaab49Fm8MqZ71nN/s1600/plaxico2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZI_s4BM1bHtpKzzjPRDVyLLs4gsCz_xekBKDs5QR3p-tGP7r90Q36FytaJ8AhxecP-9X_rVStqpUPb4NPOe2ze5jt8e63X_c2SdRro1-cEim2sXqsvDIWERX5mayeIaab49Fm8MqZ71nN/s1600/plaxico2.jpg" /></a><br />"It's excellent rum. Or how about a bottle of Old Grand Dad?"<br />
<br />"I don't know. Old?...no, not really."<br />
<br />"Got just the thing. Ten High Whiskey. It has a unique, (code for taste like kerosene), bold taste, (code for peels the paint off the hood of your F-150) you won't forget (code for you're in for one really hideous hangover). <br />
<br />"I'll take it. Two bottles."<br />
<br />"Okay, that'll be...let's see...with tax and tip...$100. That's cheap, trust me." <br />
<br />Plaxico clicks replay.<br />
<br />"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..." <br />
<br />"I should be the one catching that...I'm sorry, okay two bottles, twenty minutes...that'll be fine."<br />
<br />Back at the LED. "What the hell? This guy Hill is nothing..." <br />
<br />His phone vibrates. "Hello..Hello? This is Plaxico. Is this Rex? Coach Ryan?"<br />
<br />"Plaxico...it's me T.O."<br />
<br />"T.O? Oh, yeah. Terrell Owens."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, T.O. Who'd you think I was? Coach Ryan? You've been watching too many Jets games."<br />
<br />"No...Well yeah," says Plaxico. "They sure need help."<br />
<br />"They need somebody like me," says T.O. "No problem catchin' passes from Sanchez. And Tebow? He's still green. One season with me makin' touchdowns..."<br />
<br />"You?" says Plaxico. "How old are you, T.O? Close to 50?"<br />
<br />"...39, if you have to know...<br />
<br />"...and with your Hydrocodone problems....<br />
<br />"...a long time ago...<br />
<br />"...and that stint last year with the Allen Texas Wranglers? What the hell was that?"<br />
<br />"...I can still bring it, Buddy."<br />
<br />"I gotta much better chance than you, T.O. I'm faster, stronger, and a whole lot younger."<br />
<br />"What about you, Burress?" says T.O. "You're no prize. You go to a stripper bar, a 9 mm in your pocket, and while you're getting a lap dance..."<br />
<br />"That was an accident...<br />
<br />"You end up shot in the leg. No NFL teams wants somebody so Flaky, man."<br />
<br />"End of conversation, T.O. And I'm no Flake, my friend."<br />
<br />Again he replays the play. <br />
<br />"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..."<br />
<br />There's a knock on the door. A young man carries in a brown paper bag. Plaxico points toward the kitchen. The young man sets down the bag, grabs the C-Note off the counter, giggles, and darts out the door. <br />
<br />Plaxico finds a milk glass and fills it to the rim with Ten High. Three gulps, his eyes water, as he points the remote. Another replay.<br />
<br />"...the Jets are up against it again...third and sixteen...Sanchez in the shotgun...he's got it...looks left...looks right...he throws over the middle...Hill, he's got it...no, it's off his fingertips...incomplete..."<br />
<br />"I can't watch this any more." He flops down on the couch. His face is hot. "This is crazy." Another large gulp. <br />
<br />"What am I going to do?" He breathes heavily as he watches Hall drop the ball again and again, and again. He stares at the screen, '...off his fingertips...incomplete...' '...off his fingertips... incomplete...' '...off his fingertips...incomplete...'<br />
<br />He lifts up, walks over to a desk, pulls out a 9 mm, walks back to the couch. He takes another gulp, slowly sits down on the couch and blasts three large holes in the 100 inch screen. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAAKKW9Wkfwjc_5Znmb3hpVWrQkR6fhrZXAd3rrcT9aWZWVvMI7BPtUb3s2dKMwraXr6FRr7rWjqRE45Py2ms2CwSBO4vwsi7-VH_J-0hLoQMZPCx4rHQTBeoSZ7BRblyOldbyocDZnof5/s1600/plaxico.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAAKKW9Wkfwjc_5Znmb3hpVWrQkR6fhrZXAd3rrcT9aWZWVvMI7BPtUb3s2dKMwraXr6FRr7rWjqRE45Py2ms2CwSBO4vwsi7-VH_J-0hLoQMZPCx4rHQTBeoSZ7BRblyOldbyocDZnof5/s1600/plaxico.jpg" /></a><br />Just as the phone rings.<br />
<br />He jumps up and lurches for the iPhone. "Hello...Hello. This is Plaxico. Plaxico Burress."<br />
<br />"Oh, I'm sorry. It's Rex Ryan. How are you doing Plaxico? I'm sorry, but I guess your number was in here...and I dialed it by mistake. Sorry. You take care Plaxico."<br />
<br />Plaxico's knees buckle. He falls into the couch, his face into the cushion. Slowly, he sits up, gulps from the glass, and reaches for the remote. But instead he picks up the 9 mm. He looks at it, holds it out in front of him, and as he begins to cry, he fires...<br />.....................<br />
<br />HELP COMES FROM:<br />nesn.com/2012/10/plaxico-burress-chad-johnson-could-provide-only-chance-for-mark-sanchez-jets-to-salvage-season.html<br />livingstondaily.com/usatoday/article/1611491<br />readabilityformulas.com/ Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-50837857861787722082012-10-04T12:50:00.000-07:002012-10-04T12:50:16.760-07:00ISIAH THOMAS LOOKING FOR WORK WITH ESPN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2cKZlr9qZG6jByAdEA46JaVBtPUgu8NRRciWEgAEdoVsntEsBBLIfVRqCx1yiy2Qhu59ctaNYtqTZCSO0rvdzFsZGfV-LXFt3kcmeubGX2amUR8z-70MI3F24VPzQtL0BKsaO3wUR7U5/s1600/isiah2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2cKZlr9qZG6jByAdEA46JaVBtPUgu8NRRciWEgAEdoVsntEsBBLIfVRqCx1yiy2Qhu59ctaNYtqTZCSO0rvdzFsZGfV-LXFt3kcmeubGX2amUR8z-70MI3F24VPzQtL0BKsaO3wUR7U5/s1600/isiah2.jpg" /></a></div>
Isiah Thomas sits and waits at a large conference table. He's ready. Armani, Florsheim, and a Gucci power tie. People, heads down, pass by the glass windows. They text, pour over scripts, squint at incomprehensible pay stubs. <br />
<br />
A young lady enters.<br />
<br />
"Hello...sir. Sara Walsh." <br />
<br />
They shake hands.<br />
<br />
"So," says Sara. "You're hear for...?"<br />
<br />
"It's me, Isiah Thomas. I'm looking for a position as an on the air commentator." <br />
<br />
Sara giggles. "Okay, Mr. Thomas. Those kind of jobs are...well...You have to be a real somebody in sports."<br />
<br />
She stares at Isiah. A blank stare. " Do you have a resume?" she says. "Something, you know, I could follow along...while we talk about this. But, I'll be honest, we have a pretty full roster of on air talent right now."<br />
<br />
"But...I'm Isiah Thomas. Here's the reason I'm here. I was out at LAX last week, getting my bags. Guy points at me, and snaps his fingers. You know what he says to me? Hey, I know you. You're Jerome Bettis, the Bus. I felt about this high." He puts his hand not too high in the air. "He thinks I'm some old football player. I need to get back in front of the public, so they know who I am again."<br />
<br />
"Well, " says Sara. "You didn't bring a resume...so..." She opens her lap top, and types in Isiah Thomas/Wikipedia. She stares into the monitor. "Oh, yes. Here you are. Mr. Isiah Thomas, NBA Basketball player. Okay. We'll just use this as your resume." <br />
<br />
She turns the monitor screen so they can both see it.<br />
<br />
"Your last employment..?"<br />
<br />
"You don't know me, do you? Everyone calls me Zeke. Lady, I'm in the Basket Ball Hall of Fame, come on."<br />
<br />
"Yes," she says. "I see it here." She points at the screen. "Okay, lets go backwards, the way we do interviews here. Probably won't need any references...Hall of Fame and all...so. You're last employment was...?"<br />
<br />
"Maybe it'd be better if I get interviewed by some guy who knows me. You think?"<br />
<br />
"Mr. Thomas. We're crazy busy around here. This is how it works. I do the first interview. If you're able to get past me, I'm sure you'll get someone who knows who you are."<br />
<br />
She pulls her lap top back, toward her, and leans in, closer to the screen. "Now, your last employment?"<br />
<br />
Isiah clenches his fists under the table. A deep breath, "Last three years I've been the basketball coach for the Florida International University, 2009 to 2012."<br />
<br />
"And how did that go?" <br />
<br />
"Well, young lady...Sara...you got it right in front of you. FIU had five losing season, so I wanted to help them out. But, at the same time I took a consulting job with the New York Knicks. Holding both jobs violated NBA by-laws. So..."<br />
<br />
"So...you got fired..? The University went 26–65 in those three seasons."<br />
<br />
Isiah blinks. His jaw tightens. "Look, I was stretched real thin, so I had a problem focusing on the University."<br />
<br />
"Could not focus...Okay?" Sara makes a note on a note pad. Then stares at the screen. "Says here, you had a problem with Michael Jordan? Now, there's a name I know. He's around here a lot. If there's a problem with Mr. Jordan...I don't think we can hire..."<br />
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<br />
"No problem, never was," says Isiah. He laughs. "He says we froze him out of an All Star Game once when he was a young player. But it's all good now." His voice rises. "There never really was a problem, whatever he says." He rubs the side of his face. <br />
<br />
"What...is...this? Oh boy." She looks Isiah in the eye. "I see here a law suit. Sexual Harassment? This is not good. Not good at all."<br />
<br />
"Oh that," says Isiah. He waves his hand in the air. "It never went to court. Complete misunderstanding." Again his voice rises. "Nothing to it."<br />
<br />
"But...Sexual Harassment is a very..."<br />
<br />
"Okay, we made a deal...we paid her."<br />
<br />
"Says here $11.5 million dollars?"<br />
<br />
"She had no case. To get her to go away, we simply paid her off." <br />
<br />
Sweat forms on his forehead. He gets up and begins to pace, flexing his fingers.<br />
<br />
"And, there's an attempted overdose?" She looks up at him, and shakes her head. "This just gets better and better. Drugs are pretty much a deal breaker here, Mr. Thompson."<br />
<br />
"Thomas. Isiah Thomas." His voice is very loud. "Damn, girl. It's Thomas. It was Lunestta, a sleeping pill. Back in 2008, come on. I was tired and took too many, okay?"<br />
<br />
"Not necessary to raise you voice, sir. And wow, you bought the CBA...ten million dollars?"<br />
<br />
He paces. "I was an NBA All Star, so why not buy a B-Ball League? So I did, the CBA. <br />
<br />
"But the League collapsed? Bankruptcy?"<br />
<br />
"I gotta explain all this? I was also the head coach of the Indiana Pacers at the same time...so the CBA didn't do so well."<br />
<br />
"Lack of focus again, Mr. Thomas? Being able to focus is very big around here..."<br />
<br />
Sara looks up. A lady waves, and comes into the room. A pretty lady in a tight blue skirt, and a wiley smile.<br />
<br />
"Well, hello. It's Hannah." Sara leans in close to Isiah, and whispers, "It's Hannah Storm."<br />
<br />
"Thanks Sara. I'll show Isiah around. I've been listening in."<br />
<br />
"Listening in?" says Isiah.<br />
<br />
"Well, it's important we get a good idea..."<br />
<br />
"That's not right," say Isiah. "You treat everybody comes in here like this?"<br />
<br />
Hannah takes Isiah to a small cubicle down a long aisle.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG35QIgA6RltX7l0wtq6bniu3H2E5L3RFdPTNEgqs1C01mW0oOGOLiTRRfZRbtfUnU_SARwDMNut3YTXk7IJ4lo3G7L_wqliM7_P8abZXr2Sh0L-I-fDtSSKMUuZN8DjPwQsKxyar17Reh/s1600/isiah3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG35QIgA6RltX7l0wtq6bniu3H2E5L3RFdPTNEgqs1C01mW0oOGOLiTRRfZRbtfUnU_SARwDMNut3YTXk7IJ4lo3G7L_wqliM7_P8abZXr2Sh0L-I-fDtSSKMUuZN8DjPwQsKxyar17Reh/s1600/isiah3.jpg" /></a><br />
"If you get a position here, this is where you'll be working. Just put your stuff on the table there. Fix it up anyway you like. You get your own computer."<br />
<br />
Isiah takes a deep breath. "This is it? But...I was thinking more like...my own office. I used to have a huge office...with a window looking out over Detroit...a view of Belle Isle..."<br />
<br />
"Your own office?" says Hannah. "Please. I have an office, sure, but, you'll be starting with graveyard shift stuff...if you're hired..and well..."<br />
<br />
Isiah freezes at the sight of the cubicle. No windows, no views, no freedom, "No, no way. This isn't going to work. A small, thin, sticky notes on the wall, cubicle. Not for me. No. I'm the one in charge. I do the telling."<br />
<br />
"Well, as a matter of fact, I'd be your handler here. Your marching orders, you know, would come from me, until you're ready to go on the air."<br />
<br />
"No, this isn't going to work out. Nobody's going to put me in a little box...and working for a woman? I'm sorry."<br />
<br />
"I don't like your tone, Mr Thomas. You came to us, remember?" <br />
<br />
He turns and strides toward the front door. "No body knows who I am anymore." As he pushes out the door, the lobby elevators open and two older ladies walk out. <br />
<br />
In his haste, Isiah throws an elbow as he passes them. (A holdover from his playing days?) <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
"What the hell, ladies," he says. "I'm walking here."<br />
<br />
The ladies look at each other, grab Thomas by the back of his coat, each taking a leg. They carry him outside, flip up a manhole cover, and drop him in. They smile and punch fists at his agonizing screams. <br />
<br />
"Some kind of old football player?" <br />
<br />
"Beats the hell out of me." <br />
<br />
......................<br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM:<br />
<br />
probasketballtalk.nbcsports.com/2012/09/28/report-espn-considering-isiah-thomas-as-studio-analyst/<br />
Isiah Thomas/WikiPedia, gogomag.com/talkingheads/misc_espn_f.php,<br />
deadspin.com/5948234/this-makes-too-much-terrible-sense-isiah-thomas-is-up-for-a-studio-gig-at-espn,<br />
readabilityformulas.com, Google/Images, thesaurus.com/Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-59603321079815060652012-10-02T12:02:00.000-07:002012-10-02T12:02:37.810-07:00MIKE TROUT BEST SHOT AT MVP<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggx3Hmn7tnQfanuSZCYL1rs_aPIToXG5R-tqpGJ252U2u15fu9ssdgHc8j_OBnM__9XDqHzwEszn15lOIGZRRrOqc2qKLe4Q6qkstXXroRTm9GLFMdP3WqCkIa-EZ4shSHFDid37Tpjba8/s1600/trout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggx3Hmn7tnQfanuSZCYL1rs_aPIToXG5R-tqpGJ252U2u15fu9ssdgHc8j_OBnM__9XDqHzwEszn15lOIGZRRrOqc2qKLe4Q6qkstXXroRTm9GLFMdP3WqCkIa-EZ4shSHFDid37Tpjba8/s320/trout.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>THE PHONE CALL </b><br />
<br />
"Just call me Oakley. All you need to know. Fifty Grand before and Fifty after. You got my account, in the Seychelles. It'll be safe there. Once I get confirmation, it's a go. So? Anything else?"<br />
<br />"We need to put a rush on this. You know, like tonight, against the Mariners, at Angel Stadium. We can't wait."<br />
<br />"I'm good at this. So, no problem. Anything else?"<br />
<br />"Well, no. I guess..."<br />
<br />Click. <br />
<br />Leaving the Starbucks on Sunset Boulevard, she drops her phone on the sidewalk, stomps on it, then kicks the pieces into the storm drain. Glancing at her watch, she sets her jaw. The Game starts at 7:05. Time to go. <br />
<br /><b>ANGEL STADIUM</b><br />
<br />"...So here we go everybody. It's the bottom of the ninth, Mariners up nine eight, Trout's on third, there's one out and a 2 and 0 count on Albert Pujols. The outfielder's are playing way back, on the warning track. A check of Trout, the pitch...it's a Suicide Squeeze...Pujols bunts it right in front of the plate...and...Trout, is...on the ground. He fell down...He's holding his left shoulder and is writhing in pain. He's tagged out, the throw to first. Double Play. Wait...What? There's blood shooting out of Trout's shoulder. Something is really wrong with Mike Trout." <br />
<br />"Did you hear the bang? See...on the replay. There...look, right there. Lady in the Green Polka-Dotted Dress...She's got a gun. See it?"<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdxsVSXX2LLCg81xsW56RD9IFW_yXyXrsLcqtgLaYkQcAAwVTkaTvAuQcUu4AHjCY6CU2_U1AYLxZaffxds8kKiGVWr0v0jOeCRgSULRRBdCzEZZ9tsQdiVI080VgkzQUVYuZZn5ZWvB_/s1600/trout1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdxsVSXX2LLCg81xsW56RD9IFW_yXyXrsLcqtgLaYkQcAAwVTkaTvAuQcUu4AHjCY6CU2_U1AYLxZaffxds8kKiGVWr0v0jOeCRgSULRRBdCzEZZ9tsQdiVI080VgkzQUVYuZZn5ZWvB_/s1600/trout1.jpg" /></a><br />"Yeah, right behind the dugout...Oh My GOD. But where is she?...She's gone...there...see her going up the stairs...? Somebody should stop her?" <br />
<br />After taking her shot, Oakley strides quickly toward the 'Ladies.' Seven seconds, she's in and out. Green Polka-Dotted dress going in, a Red Jump Suit coming out, just as Security rushes in past her. Hungry, she stops, grabs a corn dog, then melts into the crowd.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later she ditches the gun, in another storm drain on Katella, over near Los Alamitos Race Track. Like she said, she's good at this. <br />
<b><br />WESTERN MEDICAL CENTER</b><br />
<b> </b><br />Trout's eyes flicker, then open wide to an IV, to four white walls, and to a man sitting on the bed.<br />
<br />"What? The? Hell?"<br />
<br />"Mike, you're awake. You've been out for about two hours. You got shot."<br />
<br />"I got what?" He looks at his left arm. It hangs in a sling tied to a pulley. <br />
<br />"Mike, don't worry. Couple of months you'll be as good a new. Come on, you're only 21. You'll heal quick. It's not like it's your throwing arm."<br />
<br />Trout looks around the room. "This is crazy. Scioscia calls for a Suicide Squeeze, I'm running, and then...this Horrendous pain...in my shoulder? Now I wake up with my Agent sitting on the bed?" He lifts up on his right elbow. "Sammy, what the hell is going on. And why are you smiling?"<br />
<br /> Sammy's phone rings. "Yeah, this is Sammy...It's horrible. Right near third base, can you believe?...Shot...It's been touch and go...but he's awake now... He may never play another game..." <br />
<br />"Mike, you can't tell anyone about this, but there's a bonus clause in your contract. We...You...get a bonus if you're the MVP. Everybody thought no way MVP, you're only a Rookie. But I got it in there anyway, thank you very much. Ten Million Dollar bonus. A rookie, they said. Never happen, they said. No problem, ten million, they said."<br />
<br />Trout stares at his Agent. A 'WTF' stare.<br />
<br />"It's a bunch of sports writers who vote on MVP. Sports writers, don't you love them. And since it's so close this year, we needed an edge."<br />
<br />"An edge?"<br />
<br />"Yeah, we need these Sports Writer's sympathy. I hired Oakley, that's her name, to shoot you while you were on the field." He jumps off the bed, and punches the air, left, right, uppercut. "Yes, and we did it."<br />
<br />"You...What? You hired somebody to...Shoot me?"<br />
<br />"Hey, she only winged you. In the left shoulder. Like a bad spider bite. You'll live, Mike, you'll live." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xxrFP6Rqf3m2IF_xaSN30clYJNCAPwJGWWhQHu09yB4nT8pzjQq08GP3NdaPIEWwR5LedKhp8AAD7hSfkocwHzoVQyN2y4a7qGiJUcmeFNkLA5ycIvwbYk_YN3YPTLYs_Ca-TN3NyoUH/s1600/trout4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_xxrFP6Rqf3m2IF_xaSN30clYJNCAPwJGWWhQHu09yB4nT8pzjQq08GP3NdaPIEWwR5LedKhp8AAD7hSfkocwHzoVQyN2y4a7qGiJUcmeFNkLA5ycIvwbYk_YN3YPTLYs_Ca-TN3NyoUH/s1600/trout4.jpg" /></a><br /> Sammy's phone again. "The doctor's aren't sure...yet...it's so sad. You're one of the voters for MVP, right? It's so crazy. He might never play another game..."<br />
<br />"I could've been killed. What were you thinking?"<br />
<br />"Mike, trust me, I...we...had to take that chance." says Sammy. "We're talking Ten Mil here, buddy."<br />
<br />Trout's face is red. He flops back in the bed, and toward the ceiling, "Get out of here. And don't ever come back." In a voice heard throughout the Hospital, if not all of Anaheim.<br />
<br />"Okay, I'm going, but Mike, it's all good. I had to do it. We need their sympathy. You'll thank me later, my friend." <br />
<br />At the door he turns back. "You know it was worth the risk. Hey, MVP, and Ten Million Dollars? Come on. We'll look back on this in two, three years, and laugh like hell."<br />
<br />
.........................<br />HELP COME FROM:<br />
<br />Denverpost.com/renck/ci_21663737/troy-e-renck-miguel-cabrera-mike-trout-both,<br />LAtimes.com/sports/la-sp-0930-shaikin-trout-cabrera-20120930,0,2001712.story,<br />readabilityformulas.com, Google/Images,Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-2599463999383096232012-09-29T01:13:00.000-07:002012-09-29T01:13:27.281-07:00THE END OF REPLACEMENT REFS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCZKj4cjTAMvYKPIWdahXoxxLPO1efkPI1cjMZaOoZgmkD6NsIR_re3zjWW3pKvlUYA5dctBsxOkSUxUyPDQk1vbwv-_7hStEggOKm_BG2rL589bklSD0Hc3Ix4LqFeITfFdNpfyhErYG/s1600/Foodtruck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCZKj4cjTAMvYKPIWdahXoxxLPO1efkPI1cjMZaOoZgmkD6NsIR_re3zjWW3pKvlUYA5dctBsxOkSUxUyPDQk1vbwv-_7hStEggOKm_BG2rL589bklSD0Hc3Ix4LqFeITfFdNpfyhErYG/s1600/Foodtruck.jpg" /></a></div>
"Hey, Mister Manila. My favorite lawyer. How're you today? The usual?"<br />
<br />"Yep. The usual, and come on, call me Sal. Gotta be in court in half an hour, so I'll have just enough time." <br />
<br />"You got it. A Magnifico Breakfast Burrito and steaming coffee, coming up."<br />
<br />It's the 'Taste My Taco,' parked along 1st Street, near Spring, Downtown. Tecate Mexicalli, proprietor. Then in red script, 'We cater Weddings, Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, Coming-Outs, Clam Bakes, and sundry Festivities/Blowouts/Whatevers. We're World Famous.'<br />
<br />Tecate ducks back into his truck. "Gonna be a fantastic day today. How'd your weekend go?"<br />
<br />"It was good," says Sal "No...strike that. It was...how should I say it?...Stressful."<br />
<br />"Stressful?"<br />
<br />"I'm a lawyer during the week, and a Replacement Ref for the NFL on weekends. So, it was kind of hectic."<br />
<br />Tecate jumps back, face in the window. He looks surprised, then angry, then hateful. "You're a...what?"<br />
<br />"NFL. You know. I'm one of their Replacement Referees. But no more. The strike is over."<br />
<br />"A replace....ment?" Tecate's face turns gray-ish. He breathes deeply, and pushes out a red plastic basket. "Sick. I feel sick. Wait...I'll get you your...coffee."<br />
<br />Sal looks down at the basket. This is world famous? Magnifico? Pinto Bean slush, shredded half melted cheese, in a dried cracked tortilla? And the coffee; a Styrofoam cup, two thirds full, and definitely not steamy. What?<br />
<br />Tecate slams the little window closed, and turns over the open sign. 'Sorry We're Closed/Cerrado.' His voice is very loud. "We're closed. "Salir de aqui. Vete."*<br />
<br />Sal sits on the cement wall, bites into the Burrito, and sips from the cup. <br />
<br />"Something's wrong?" he says. He shakes his head. Not Tecate's finest hour. Mushy and gooey and luke warm? "This coffee...tastes...uggg?" He pours it on the lawn behind the wall.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Thirty minutes later he's in court...<br />
<br />"...then this dude says he was the one who shot..."<br />
<br />"Objection, your honor. Hearsay..." says Sal.<br />
<br />"Overruled, Mr. Manila. I'll let it stand."<br />
<br />"...and he pulls this huge gun..."<br />
<br />"Objection, your honor," says Sal. "Gun? What gun. We're assuming a gun not yet in evidence."<br />
<br />"Overruled, Mr Manila. I'll let it stand."<br />
<br />Sal sees splotches and spinning black spots. The room slowly lists to the right?<br />
<br />"...then what did you do? Did you wiped your fingerprints off the gun?..."<br />
<br />"Objection, your honor," says Sal. "Prosecution is obviously leading the witness. Any first year law student knows you can't..."<br />
<br />"Overruled, Mr Manila. I'll let it stand."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdWdEvIgzCDRtRJg6UCW2Qzdw0__S7-SRC56dvbiTfDT3EOomWnXL0pqB0IkHJDq0JCCrvBXKZmBjVhDKg8eexjZg6_xUKlbpuwHQcvbLCUb6IBMHHy5kvmFm147O-fNQYkXoYodQ2apQ/s1600/foodtruck6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdWdEvIgzCDRtRJg6UCW2Qzdw0__S7-SRC56dvbiTfDT3EOomWnXL0pqB0IkHJDq0JCCrvBXKZmBjVhDKg8eexjZg6_xUKlbpuwHQcvbLCUb6IBMHHy5kvmFm147O-fNQYkXoYodQ2apQ/s1600/foodtruck6.jpg" /></a><br />"But, Judge Flog, how can you...?"<br />
<br />"Approach," says Judge Flog. "We need to talk."<br />
<br />So, both lawyers approach the bench.<br />
<br />"I had my usual Breakfast Burrito this morning, Mr Manila. Tecate told me. How could you do such a thing? A Replacement Ref?" He looks at the Prosecution's Attorney, then back at Sal. "You were making calls on the field that ruined games. You're a fraud, masquerading as a real referee. I don't know how you can show your face in public? You're a disgrace, sir." He waves his hands in the air. "That'll be all."<br />
<br />But, as Sal walks back to his table, his stomach wrenches, he doubles over, and falls. He bounces off the table, hits the railing, and crashes face first to the floor. Hard!<br />
<br />"What's going on, Mr Manila? Get up, you're wasting the courts time here." The judge raps his gavel. "That's it, Mr Manila, you're in contempt. Five days in lockup should give you time to think about what you've done." He raps his gavel. " And...I suppose...we should also call 911?"<br />
<br />An hour later...<br />
<br />Dr. Cash talks with Nurse Hussy. "If I knew who this guys was, no way he'd be admitted. My man Tecate, this morning, over breakfast, told me all about him. An NFL Replacement Ref. Such screw ups. They had no idea what they were doing. Guy deserves everything he gets. Some kind of stomach poisoning. He says he had some bad coffee. Probably should pump his stomach, but...lets give it some time. Let's let it naturally work its way out ."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicu5SmhLyvrjjXumHCasjyPyh9a3reFJEQrdLFAr44Uc1XYkHkBcRLxse15ohAvHMvmhtCEmnb1LRnb0lX2WmjtyuP_iz9eflLjzrAIoYFUZ3U_Iip1H4OiVLePjM0iK5MqLUhfj4NakIu/s1600/foodtruck7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicu5SmhLyvrjjXumHCasjyPyh9a3reFJEQrdLFAr44Uc1XYkHkBcRLxse15ohAvHMvmhtCEmnb1LRnb0lX2WmjtyuP_iz9eflLjzrAIoYFUZ3U_Iip1H4OiVLePjM0iK5MqLUhfj4NakIu/s1600/foodtruck7.jpg" /></a><br />Sal reaches out for the nurse. "Please, help me."<br />
<br />
"Don't touch me," she says, jumping back. In a panic, she looks at the Doctor, then runs from the room. <br />
<br />The Doctor pulls up an IV stand, and throws on the IV bag. "We'll check back later. Judge Flog told us to keep you in restraints. I don't blame him. Up to me you'd still be sitting in the Paramedic Van." He leaves without looking back.<br />
<br />Two days later... <br />
<br />Hunger pangs growl like wild lions. "Somebody? Help me? I'm hungry? I'm Real Hungry."<br />
<br />In silence, Sal waits. And listens. Then a man in blue scrubs tiptoes in, takes down the IV, and rushes out.<br />
<br />"Hey," yells Sal.<br />
<br />There is a click at the door.<br />
<br />"Hey," he yells again.<br />
<br />And the lights go out. <br />
<br />"Hey, you can't do this." <br />
<br />Darkness.<br />
<br />And he yells into the darkness, "Oh my GOD. What have I done?"<br />......................<br />*Get the hell away from me, slime bag. <br />
<br />HELP COME FROM:<br />content.usatoday.com/communities/gameon/post/2012/09/28/roger-goodel<br />nydailynews.com/sports/football/replacement-refs,<br />news.blogs.cnn.com/2012/09/25/monday-night-football<br />readabilityformulas.com, Google/Images, Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-83739292532070130302012-09-26T11:01:00.000-07:002012-09-28T11:30:32.646-07:00MIKE SCIOSCIA THE NEW RED SOX MANAGER?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrY5aC7CbtLB1C-bnVUmQC7L7U_mB4PGF-O2ChI-Bwb4OJTOCgTde3SnhhI0MU6GPTqIwVvPOOXrJK77_eK7r7Jjbxr7RpZmzWbrHrbmqMDCguK_vHR9T1qgifZxeSKbq9xiTiwROJ9PWw/s1600/Scicia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrY5aC7CbtLB1C-bnVUmQC7L7U_mB4PGF-O2ChI-Bwb4OJTOCgTde3SnhhI0MU6GPTqIwVvPOOXrJK77_eK7r7Jjbxr7RpZmzWbrHrbmqMDCguK_vHR9T1qgifZxeSKbq9xiTiwROJ9PWw/s1600/Scicia.jpg" /></a>Two wise guys, more or less, sit, their backs against the wall, at 'Luigi's Little Sicily,' the Best Risotto in Boston.<br />
<br />
"So, Sal?" says Nico. "You called me down here. Whatcha got. It's a busy night. We gotta hit that dry cleaners, Shanahan's. Can't let that flake off the hook. $200 bucks. What? Guy has a caniption. He should be ashamed. Nobody'd pay us they hear we let the guy skate. Then where'd we be? Screwed, you ask me."<br />
<br />
"Nico, come on," says Sal. "You worry too much. I'm thinking, we gotta move up in this organization, you know."<br />
<br />
"You're telling me."<br />
<br />
"Doing collections all me life. Not my dream job."<br />
<br />
"Okay? Life of broken dreams. So?"<br />
<br />
"Here's what we gotta do. We gotta make The Boss know who the hell we are. We gotta do something for him. That's what we gotta do."<br />
<br />
"Yes...yes...yes...?" Eyes on Sal, Nico gulps from a champagne glass. <br />
<br />
"So, I'm writing him a letter," says Sal. "The Boss reads it, he'll call us in, and say we're Gumbas, you know, and no more collecting from Bozos who don't want to pay. We got more ambition than that, right."<br />
<br />
Nico looks over the glass, and frowns. "I'm still listening."<br />
<br />
"Here's what I got so far." Sal unfolds a piece of paper. "Dear Mr. Carmine, 'The Boss,' Scuzziano...Maybe just Mr. Scuzziano...No, The Boss." He looks up. "Maybe we shouldn't write a letter. Nothing in writing's probably be best. We'll just discuss this with him over plates of Chicken Cacciatore."<br />
<br />
"No," says Nico. "Something better. Lobster Ravioli. It's The Boss."<br />
<br />
"Or maybe Linguini with Mushrooms and Clams, I like that better, or maybe..."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHgXTVtqJPdS6H9SIa-W6rdyf6T6RHCWgdNJbVbn9IVe61DyqAGcg-Ntc7KSR2EFU_Cl-VW2QPrVsFYatDeR9zWgToCTQH698M9MugEzeIdHjPJErG86XGQ0khxYvdrooijw_2JuTa9gIu/s1600/sciocia2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHgXTVtqJPdS6H9SIa-W6rdyf6T6RHCWgdNJbVbn9IVe61DyqAGcg-Ntc7KSR2EFU_Cl-VW2QPrVsFYatDeR9zWgToCTQH698M9MugEzeIdHjPJErG86XGQ0khxYvdrooijw_2JuTa9gIu/s1600/sciocia2.jpg" /></a></div>
"All right already. Sal, focus. What's this all about?" <br />
Nico gulps a spoonful of Macaroni and Mozzarella.<br />
<br />
"So," says Sal. "Here's what I've done. The Boss will love this."<br />
<br />
"Sal?" <br />
<br />
"Okay, okay. The Boss likes baseball. But he loves the Red Sox more, right? And he thinks Mike Scioscia, manager of the Angels, is the best manager in Baseball. So I'm thinking, we get Scioscia to manage the Red Sox. What are the Red Sox, 20 games back right now?"<br />
<br />
"Mike Scioscia? Take over the Red Sox? Yeah, The Boss would like that, but...Scioscia'd be nuts to leave the Angels. Never happen, million years." <br />
<br />
"Why not. Grease the right peo..."<br />
<br />
"Have you seen the Angel's line up?" says Nico. "Albert Pujols, and that pitcher C.J. Wilson, come on. Greinke. What about Trout? Guy's going for MVP."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjca2CAM_GOzkhNd_GvPpjbopM9RK9CXwklQGwR3ElMTUmXv4SUdBnSE8CejQNpcAJzlaBNxo-9Ih7BBufLKzGzWY5wYMN36NShriqoaAU1KiW706qTL65MZu8hOSOL_dXw4vNwtEHZBrMS/s1600/scocia3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjca2CAM_GOzkhNd_GvPpjbopM9RK9CXwklQGwR3ElMTUmXv4SUdBnSE8CejQNpcAJzlaBNxo-9Ih7BBufLKzGzWY5wYMN36NShriqoaAU1KiW706qTL65MZu8hOSOL_dXw4vNwtEHZBrMS/s1600/scocia3.jpg" /></a><br />
Sal chews, spaghetti spun on his fork, half a dry meat ball. "But The Boss says Scioscia's the best manager in Baseball, real studious and all. He's got a notebook in front of him he keeps looking at, playing the percentages. So I talked to Tony Goofalio..."<br />
<br />
"You talked to The Belly...Tony Goofalio?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah," says Sal. "Close personal friend of mine. Says he knows a guy, who knows a guy, says he can get Scioscia voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. He probably won't make it as a player, or as a manager, so this is his only chance."<br />
<br />
"What? Hall of Fame? No way."<br />
<br />
"Nico, there's nothing we can't do. It's for The Boss. Besides, it's already in the works. I put out the story to TMZ, and FanNation. 'Red Sox Eye Scioscia for New Manager.'<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQD9G22J3OivkUG-SB7xu8k4B61Vwqe-vLHk57yYJ7WwnawEkZAkdyVCO7WvFoKM_Qpe7a9_zSVWJU1ls4qGMzwrEu1RqplnjIQMDdIzBQsgun2nXF0mU360aIoo2Qk2Nm4216o1lU83X/s1600/scicia1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWQD9G22J3OivkUG-SB7xu8k4B61Vwqe-vLHk57yYJ7WwnawEkZAkdyVCO7WvFoKM_Qpe7a9_zSVWJU1ls4qGMzwrEu1RqplnjIQMDdIzBQsgun2nXF0mU360aIoo2Qk2Nm4216o1lU83X/s1600/scicia1.jpg" /></a><br />
"Yeah I heard, last week, Sports Center." Nico looks down and stirs his macaroni and soupy cheese with his spoon.<br />
<br />
"Now The Angel owner Arte Moreno has to come out and say there's no way he'll fire Scioscia."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I heard that too." <br />
<br />
"And when they say it'll never happen, then you know it will probably happen. It's now in the works. See how I did that?"<br />
<br />
"But," says Nico. "Scioscia has to go for it?"<br />
<br />
"He will. Scioscia wants to close out his career near his home, not way out there in California. He graduated from Springfield High, suburbs of Philly. The Hall of Fame, he can't say no."<br />
<br />
Nico looks at Sal, then shovels in a large spoonful, macaroni and cheese, Little Sicily style, and sips Coconut Brandy, straight, the good stuff. "I don' know." <br />
<br />
Sal slaps the table. "The Boss said that Scioscia was better than Yogi Berra, or even Campanella...or Thurman Munson. Better. So when he hears about this, we're in."<br />
<br />
"But, the Hall of Fame?" <br />
<br />
Sal smiles and sops up spaghetti sauce with a toasted piece of Italian French Bread. His mouth full, "How can this not work? Scioscia has nothing left to prove? He'll jump at a chance like this."<br />
<br />
Nico, ready to leave, grabs his coat. "You sure about this?" He tosses $40 on the table.<br />
<br />
Sal turns, surprised. " He'll be living in Wellesley, and commuting by helicopter. With The Red Sox back in the World Series, The Boss'll be tickled to death. Trust me, Nico, we got this in the bag."<br />
............................<br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM:<br />
<br />
http://msn.foxsports.com/mlb/story/los-angeles-angels-manager-mike-scioscia,<br />
cbssports.com/mlb/story/20344296/owner-says-scioscia-will-be-back-next-year,<br />
http://hardballtalk.nbcsports.com/2012/09/07/the-red-sox-are-eyeing-mike-scioscia/<br />
readabilityformulas.com, Google/Images, Scioscia/Wikipedia, Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-91545465410870513982012-09-23T22:51:00.000-07:002012-09-23T23:23:03.540-07:00WILL THE NHL ADOPT THE ONTARIO HOCKEY LEAGUE'S FIGHTING RULES?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9y9zVj2-CqLU3KSuponu7s-I4QwlbgfuuE5HwAD1nJpWCJKiOdcMlFCWv78U08fxuRcwHiC-VM1upCGUQPyjjjzHcpjmgqxoEEfrwF_2TAakSMTc1d8U30l_QPoYsrV_AuwXGzsgNVQM/s1600/NHLhits2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9y9zVj2-CqLU3KSuponu7s-I4QwlbgfuuE5HwAD1nJpWCJKiOdcMlFCWv78U08fxuRcwHiC-VM1upCGUQPyjjjzHcpjmgqxoEEfrwF_2TAakSMTc1d8U30l_QPoYsrV_AuwXGzsgNVQM/s1600/NHLhits2.jpg" /></a></div>
A man in an black bathrobe sits at a computer. An eight egg omelet on his left, JobSearch on the monitor in front of him, and Bingo on the floor to his right. The man sloshes tequila into his orange juice. <br />
<br />
"Not much we can do, now, but look for another job," he says to Bingo.<br />
<br />
Bingo barks.<br />
<br />
The Man picks at his omelet, stabs a chunk, and wolfs it down. He raises his eyesbrows, and smiles down at Bingo.<br />
<br />
Bingo blinks, and smiles back, as good dogs do.<br />
<br />
"Here's the jobs they got, my friend," says the Man. He rubs Bingo's nose, and points at the screen. "Automotive Body Technician...Patient Coordinator...Help Desk Consultant with ACH Payments Experience. What is ACH? Hmmm. Credit Manager?" He looks at Bingo. "That means bill collector." <br />
<br />
The Man bites off a piece of bacon, tosses the rest to Bingo, and stares at the ceiling.<br />
"I know what I have to do." He breathes deeply. "Same thing I've been doing." He winks at Bingo.<br />
<br />
Bingo barks again, and nods her head.<br />
<br />
The Man thumbs his iPhone. "Hello? Is this WWE?"<br />
<br />
"Hello, WWE can I help...Yeah, this is WWE. This is Kaitlyn."<br />
<br />
"Thee Kaitlyn," says the Man.<br />
<br />
"I'm in the ring, in front of thousands one minute, the next I got this torn tendon, so they got me on the phone. Attacked from behind, can you believe. Somebody with a mask."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DE4aQz6d4PN4Q0CXzgYCUasVqwhsthqS8kM_ppbZdzNJWJTu1mFNOUN93W8tPJW2Guz6S2Ebh-IsNJLDmmLb0gxrWiAL_FolM9TTi0kcvXawRBBr7SJ3ngEcwXwFKM6VUnt8EsEXVbf9/s1600/NHLhits.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0DE4aQz6d4PN4Q0CXzgYCUasVqwhsthqS8kM_ppbZdzNJWJTu1mFNOUN93W8tPJW2Guz6S2Ebh-IsNJLDmmLb0gxrWiAL_FolM9TTi0kcvXawRBBr7SJ3ngEcwXwFKM6VUnt8EsEXVbf9/s1600/NHLhits.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
"This is Marty Mc Thornton. NHL? You've heard of me?"<br />
<br />
"Bone Snapper Thornton. Of course," she says. "Yeah, I've heard of you. You kidding? Who hasn't?"<br />
<br />
He bites into a piece of buttered toast. "Okay," he says. "Reason I'm calling. You've probably heard the NHL is pretty much shut down for the season." He sips fortified O.J. "So...to stay in shape...you know, since I got a name already..."<br />
<br />
"Bone Snapper, yeah. We are always looking for, you know, new talent. But...you'd have to talk with HR, you know."<br />
<br />
"I'm known as a goon in hockey circles. An enforcer. That's what I do. Kinda goes with WWE. I was thinking, it's the same thing."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, sounds good to me. Matter of fact we do have an opening of sorts. John Cena, he's recovering from elbow surgery. But...you'll have to work on a few things, like the Chickenwing Over the Shoulder Crossface? <br />
<br />
"Well, I don't think...<br />
<br />
"The Stomach Claw? and The Front Chancery?<br />
<br />
"...I'll have a problem...<br />
<br />
"How about the Head and Neck Rake?"<br />
<br />
"...'cause I'm a real fast learner."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPa3Ue7BwFwiV-Uhwd8ZXOt6a7p-FQpCcHHcy32mS3YLqqRO7qT2J1PLCz1BB34qU4evqnft5RkeXDRQodF_6bRgsjW4MjwiwIxDTE1MFsqFbohq7PHSzW9RqV0xO8KdQFFmUPpb_59mAn/s1600/NHLhits3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPa3Ue7BwFwiV-Uhwd8ZXOt6a7p-FQpCcHHcy32mS3YLqqRO7qT2J1PLCz1BB34qU4evqnft5RkeXDRQodF_6bRgsjW4MjwiwIxDTE1MFsqFbohq7PHSzW9RqV0xO8KdQFFmUPpb_59mAn/s1600/NHLhits3.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
"I'd hire you, but," she says without taking a breath. "Once your strike is over, you'll be saying adios. We're looking for someone who'll stick around, be one of us. Someone who wants to be a star."<br />
<br />
Bone Snapper reaches down and pets Bingo's back. "Well, Kaitlyn. Here's the real problem. The NHL is starting to push guys like me out of the League. Fans all say they like the fights, but the owners say fights turn away new fans. My part in the game is mostly as an enforcer. I won't last one day if they go with these new Ontario Hockey League non-fighting rules."<br />
<br />
"A job, huh? Of course, we'll have to see Mr. Cena...I'm sorry...are you crying? Was it something I said? You don't want to be a star? Is that it?"<br />
<br />
"No ma'am," he says. Bingo puts her paw on Bone Snapper's leg. "I get a little emotional. It's the League. They're destroying the game. The Ontario Hockey League's is talking about no more than 10 fights a season. <br />
<br />
"Less fighting, huh?"<br />
<br />
"I know. I'll be suspended real quick, if the NHL adopts these new rules. If they do, then I'm as good as screwed."<br />
<br />
"Well, guess who just walked in?" says Kaitlyn. "It's Hulk Hogan. And he brought me coffee. Well ain't that nice? Hey, I'm talking to a guy from the NHL. Marty Mc..."<br />
<br />
"Hello. This is the Hulkster. Who is this?"<br />
<br />
"Bone Snapper. Is this really Hulk Hogan?"<br />
<br />
"In da flesh," says the Hulkster. "Well, you wanna be a WWE-er, Snapper, you're going to have to lean a few holds. Think you're up for it? Like the Bite of the Dragon... <br />
<br />
"I know...<br />
<br />
"Or the Standing Headscissors...the Stepover Toehold Facelock...<br />
<br />
"...I got...<br />
<br />
"...the Hangman's Choke, and of course you'll want to Skin the Cat."<br />
<br />
"...what it takes. WWE sounds like a perfect fit for me." <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYclzHLuZApSXPuWG_ZTtthbCUCVOP3A0clcw-J2GM2ARLwJGotompr3nF7iFGYO9KhD5TXalUSKP9MO3UnHiNxcCUHDVjKPhkM6-S1wIkHQBDxiRHNaMFOBvs4W08W1Ka7yPd_6hrmURT/s1600/NHLhits4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYclzHLuZApSXPuWG_ZTtthbCUCVOP3A0clcw-J2GM2ARLwJGotompr3nF7iFGYO9KhD5TXalUSKP9MO3UnHiNxcCUHDVjKPhkM6-S1wIkHQBDxiRHNaMFOBvs4W08W1Ka7yPd_6hrmURT/s1600/NHLhits4.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
"The NHL," says the Hulkster. "Old ladies wringing their hands and clutching their pearls trying to get rid of fighting. Instead, they should outlaw all those cheap shots, like elbows to the head, leaping hits, boarding from behind, knee to knee hits. That's what causes the serious injuries. Hey, I watch hockey."<br />
<br />
"You're telling me. People ought to watch the non-fighting Euro League. It's all cheapshots and stick swinging. That's what happens when there's no enforcer."<br />
<br />
"Okay, Bone Snapper. This sounds real good. Why not drop by tomorrow morning? I'll get CM Punk, Sheamus, and maybe Beth Phoenix to drop by. Show us what you got."<br />
<br />
"I'll be there. Thanks man...sir."<br />
<br />
Bone Snapper slowly lays the iPhone on the table. They want him in the WWE. Outstanding.<br />
<br />
In between barks and 'Holy Cows,' they finish off the rest of the bacon, half a dozen pieces of toast, and a brace of greasy hash browns. And, with gusto, they party for the rest of the morning. But, knowing Bingo's propensities, Bone Snapper moves his bottle of tequila well out of Bingo's reach. <br />
........................<br />
<br />
HELP COME FROM:<br />
Wikipedia: NHL, Google/Images, Readabilityformulas.com<br />
torontosun.com/2012/09/19/a-way-for-nhl-to-cut-down-on-staged-fight,<br />
slam.canoe.ca/Slam/Hockey/NHL/2012/09/19/20214441.html,Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4479932519148056899.post-5423866906532406282012-09-19T00:05:00.000-07:002012-09-26T11:36:25.640-07:00WILL CHELSEY O'REILLY TAKE OUT DANICA? <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtibCY1zpV26U4nR6tpmIKVtmSNUzhisFJAaYeIMgAyncvAFhxYlywHq6Vu0qfZNZbz6W8aGxQHO1i_q3FqTMeyQvrxr6irIN4rT6Ocrl0bNY4qkwQvdduShPPcrkDVysQ2avXlwLtIVr6/s1600/danica2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtibCY1zpV26U4nR6tpmIKVtmSNUzhisFJAaYeIMgAyncvAFhxYlywHq6Vu0qfZNZbz6W8aGxQHO1i_q3FqTMeyQvrxr6irIN4rT6Ocrl0bNY4qkwQvdduShPPcrkDVysQ2avXlwLtIVr6/s1600/danica2.jpg" /></a>My head in the refrigerator, I search for...a pickle? No, but didn't I buy some strawberries? No, no no, something sweet, something dark, something chocolate. Yes, and there it is...<br />
<br />
Then I hear my ringtone: Steven Tyler yelling, 'Answer your damn phone.'<br />
<br />
I jerk. My head clunks against something hard, in the door. A bottle of apple cider vinegar? And it hurts. "Ooooouch. Damn."<br />
<br />
Rubbing my head, I reach the phone. "I...yes...Hello? This is Brentwood. What time is it?" The clock says 5:03 am. Yikes. <br />
<br />
"Who may I ask..." I ask.<br />
<br />
"It's me. Danica. Danica Patrick. What am I going to do?"<br />
<br />
"Beats the hell out of..."<br />
<br />
"I thought I had way more time before something like this. She's only fourteen. How can this be?"<br />
<br />
"It's so early...in the...morning...?" I say. So, this is what a sunrise looks like. I've always wondered. Oh boy. "Maybe, Danica, we should start at the beginning here. And...how did you get this number?...if I may ask."<br />
<br />
"Brentwood, I read your SportsBlog when I 'm not driving and stuff. Look, I tried my agent, but she's in Hawaii, with some guy named Ronaldo, and my manager is to hell and gone, on some kind of trip up the Amazon."<br />
<br />
"So of all the other people in the world..."<br />
<br />
"She's only fourteen? Chelsey O'Reilly, that's her name? And people already know her. Driving stock cars in some backwater burg up in Canada. Agassiz Speedway, British Columbia. She's stealing all my style, all my fire. She can't be doing this to me."<br />
<br />
"Danica, my dear. It's okay. Now let's step back, and..."<br />
<br />
"She had her picture on Yahoo, with her lucky pink fingernails. Gimme a break. No body can drive with those things on. Trust me, I've tried. Pink. Now isn't that cute. The next woman stock car celebrity? I'm nothing all of a sudden? Yesterday's chopped liver? I don't think so, Little Missy."<br />
<br />
"I understand," I say. "But can't this wait until...?"<br />
<br />
"Hey, I am real sorry about that, but, hey man, I got a situation here. I got maybe what? Ten years max. My bikini body ain't getting any younger, you know. She's only 14, and still growing. She can only get better."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXf5jYAIKdgqySAzmNuOZlNVnkQVzIRgCOrzF1IdBYzgf4OsSUJ_n43oFUxEjFUa74OqRl2KLLpaOsKU03TmSrsxRsK3_yb1ls1-CTKJby6_gGaCHU0Y3Mc7_coWP-IesguTP48uWL-cRj/s1600/danica3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXf5jYAIKdgqySAzmNuOZlNVnkQVzIRgCOrzF1IdBYzgf4OsSUJ_n43oFUxEjFUa74OqRl2KLLpaOsKU03TmSrsxRsK3_yb1ls1-CTKJby6_gGaCHU0Y3Mc7_coWP-IesguTP48uWL-cRj/s320/danica3.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
She breathes heavily. "This can't be happening. I'm so screwed."<br />
<br />
Do I hear a tear?<br />
<br />
"Danica," I say. "Maybe winning a race, you know, could be good for your image..."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, win a race. I know. But I've won races. I'm the top lady in racing. Me. My fans want to see me. It's hard work." <br />
<br />
"Chelsey O'Reilly?" I say. "I've read about her. Her father was a racer too. Now she's driving the same 1968 Chevy Chevelle he drove." <br />
<br />
I click on my computer, move the mouse, and type in Google. <br />
<br />
"Here it is. They call themselves Team O’Reilly. Driver, Chelsey. Pit crew, her two sisters, Chrystal and Veronica, Mechanic, Dad, and Moral Support? That's Mom Margaret. It's a family affair."<br />
<br />
"Damn. It's perfect. She's perfect...and she's so young. Soooo young."<br />
<br />
"So..."<br />
<br />
"You're right. I could manage a few more top tens, but racing's so hard. All those other cars. Those guys are good. Trying to stay in shape. Doing personal appearances. And now this?"<br />
<br />
"Danica, do you seriously think this Chelsey is a real threat?"<br />
<br />
"Helloooo. Her motto is just don't finish last. Now ain't that cute. The under dog everybody can get behind. It's just unfair."<br />
<br />
"Well, according to this Yahoo article, she's been practicing ever since she was..."<br />
<br />
"It's like I'm a target out there," says Danica. "I'm crashing all the time, skidding into the wall, and when I spin out right in front of the grandstands, my car doesn't even burst into flames. Somebody fixed it that way. It's so humiliating. I know they're out to get me."<br />
<br />
"Tell you what. Why not sponsor a race up there? At this Agassiz Speedway? The Danica 300? Why fight it?"<br />
<br />
"I guess...I could do that?" she says. "That's good. Sure, she's stealing my fans, stealing my thunder, stealing my title 'Queen of Auto Racing,' her and her family. But I'm above all that. Is that what you're saying?"<br />
<br />
"Why not?" I say. "Why not buy a percentage of her. Team O'Reilly. Come on, she's no competition...yet. What other woman can really take your place? Promote her yourself." <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBCkpZTTXOHAgVorizlLhqhBIpOmwo9RS-06ee6gg4ucjZaB4owP7SXYDqgQf9lXCO-4KyvkTk9dcPYjku0y33TZ4xy_Y20DES6W71JtL2i03w4S68_69sbDV-KzwrncfEPLsDCiO_keQ/s1600/danica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBCkpZTTXOHAgVorizlLhqhBIpOmwo9RS-06ee6gg4ucjZaB4owP7SXYDqgQf9lXCO-4KyvkTk9dcPYjku0y33TZ4xy_Y20DES6W71JtL2i03w4S68_69sbDV-KzwrncfEPLsDCiO_keQ/s1600/danica.jpg" /></a><br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
"I like that," she says. "Like I'm one step ahead of her. I'm the bigger person. Brilliant. And if she gets hot, I'm getting a slice of her action. Brentwood, how can I thank you?"<br />
<br />
"I don't want you thinking like Tanya Harding. Think like a big corporation. They just buy out their competition. Do the same thing."<br />
<br />
"You're right. She's nothing. But she thinks she's so cute. They picked her to hand out trophies last weekend. So she buys herself a tiara to wear. Hell of lot more to being a NASCAR driver. A whole lot more."<br />
<br />
"She hangs around the track. She drives against drivers twice her age. She's a woman in a man's world. Sounds a lot like you, Danica?"<br />
<br />
"Kinda. You wouldn't believe what I did before I got....so...popular. You're right. Fans will want somebody else, sometime soon, I know that. I guess I could start winning races, but this is better. Rise above these Stock Cars. Start training the next generation. I like that. Brentwood you're the best."<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm glad I could..."<br />
<br />
"I'm going to call her right now."<br />
<br />
"She probably in the pits."<br />
<br />
"Yeah, polishing those long, pink, stupid...real stupid...fingernails of hers."<br />
<br />
...............................<br />
<br />
HELP COMES FROM:<br />
sports.yahoo.com/photos/best-of-sports-slideshow/rookie-race-driver-o-reilly<br />
Google/Images, readabilityformulas.com,<br />
..........................Brentwood Belairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366502487042506025noreply@blogger.com0