Huff’s World

I have yet to consider myself a great sportswriter.

So maybe I shouldn’t be the giving my fellow sportswriters tips. But I can’t get over some of the questions I hear from the far superior “big time” people in this profession sometimes.

While watching the postgame Hornets/Spurs press conference on Monday, there were a series of stupid closed-ended questions from the media. And I couldn’t help but get a laugh.

The first was directed toward Hornets head coach Byron Scott. Someone asked Scott if he could talk about the fact that the Hornets have been able to minimize the production of San Antonio’s “Big Three” — Tim Duncan, Tony Parker and Manu Ginobli.

Talk about it? Of course he can talk about it. If you want to ask him how they’ve been able to do that, then just ask him.

It really shouldn’t be that difficult. And you might surprise yourself and get a better answer.

By asking him if he can talk about it, you’re setting yourself up for a yes or no answer.  

Later, San Antonio coach Gregg Popovich took the podium and TNT kindly granted us access to two more stupid close-ended questions.

The first noted the fact that Popovich pulled his starters in the beginning of the fourth quarter. The reporter then asked if Popovich was trying to change the momentum of the game.

Change the momentum, are you kidding me? Of course he was trying to change the momentum of the game. The Spurs were down something like 15 points.

No, he would’ve rather had the game continue in New Orleans’ favor.

The last question was my personal favorite of the night. Popovich was asked if he could speak about the fact that the Hornets and the Spurs always seem to blow each other out.

You could tell Popovich didn’t really like the question, and it was perfectly understandable.  He just said something like, “You’re right. I don’t know how you want me to talk about, but you’re a very accurate young man.”

If this reporter actually wanted to get a sound-bite, maybe he should have asked Popovich why the Spurs and Hornets seem to never play each other close. He might have actually made Popovich think, and as a result gotten a genuine and intuitive answer.

It always baffles me that these big, bad sportswriters cannot ask open-ended questions. That’s one of the first rules taught in school. Never give your subject the easy way out by setting them up with a “yes” or “no” question.

I get irritated when I hear the new sportswriter fad these days — talk about this, talk about that coach. How about you ask him a question, and then maybe he’ll talk about it.

Ask how. Ask why. Ask a person what they were thinking during a particular moment of the game.

Dig deep, and maybe you’ll get an insightful answer back. Just a thought.

 In other news, I’ve become a fantasy sports maniac, and I’m currently in the midst of baseball season.

If anyone ever wants to talk fantasy sports, I’m all about it.

Sometimes I get sick of sports, just straight annoyed with them.

I mean, think about it. I sit around and write about sports all day, and when I finally get off of work, the only thing worth watching is playoff basketball. I wake up, check my fantasy baseball box scores, watch ESPN, maybe work out to clear my mind, and then go back to sports.

It’s a vicious cycle. I am consumed in a world of sports.

There was a time when sports were a luxury for me. Now they are me. Or so I think sometimes.

Sports, sports, sports, sports, sports.

Blah, freaking, blah, blah, blah, blah.

In other professions, there is a divide between work and life. For a sportswriter, that separation doesn’t exist.

I frequently joke with my buddy Tom, who worked with me as a sportswriter at my old newspaper, about the life we both lead as sportswriters. We call each other from time to time, just to poke fun at one another.

He’ll be going out to a middle school swim meet, and I’ll be in the midst of covering a local putt-putt tourney. We both have  endless ammunition to fire off jokes at one another. It’s become a hobby within a hobby.

The best part is that we can read each other’s work on-line and make fun of it. I’ll come up with some weak pun in my lead, and sure enough, he’ll mention it two days later. He won’t blatantly say it sucks — no, no that would be far too easy.

He’ll work it into our conversation.

That’s the painful life we lead as sportswriters. Not only are we criticized by the public, we’re more than willing to criticize each other.

Perhaps that’s what keeps us sane.

It’s been a rough couple of months for this sports fan.

My alma mater, Indiana University, has been smothered with controversy surrounding its legendary basketball program, and now one of my favorite football players of all time is being questioned for possible involvement in a recent shooting.

In case you haven’t heard, Marvin Harrison reportedly shot someone.

These reports have yet to be confirmed. And I’m going to use a horrible pun here, but I’m not going to jump the gun on him. Harrison hane done way too much for my beloved Colts and played the game with far too much class for me to even begin to convict him until more evidence is revealed.

According to fatface WIP Radio shock-jock Anthony Gargona, Harrison got into a heated argument with someone inside his Northside Philadelphia bar, Playmakers. That led to an exchange of gunfire in which two people were wounded, according to Gargona’s sources.

While only Gargona is indicating Harrison fired the shots, one thing is for sure, Harrison was definitely interviewed by Philadelphia police. That much is not up for debate.

Like I said, I’m not going to come out and play judge and jury just yet. But if Gargona’s reports are true, this comes as an unbelievable shock.

When I first read the initial release coming from the Associated Press, it was almost like I was dreaming. This kind of stuff isn’t supposed to happen to players like Marvin. Pacman Jones, Chris Henry, Ray Lewis — maybe. But not Marvin.

Harrison is supposed to exemplify everything that is right about NFL players.

He never showboated, talked trash or called out one of his teammates. He just did his job, and did it well. That’s why Colts fans have grown to adore him over the years.

Some people may have already convicted Marvin as guilty. And I’m sure there are many people eating up this story – salivating at the mouth. But I’m going to let reliable evidence come to light before I make any convictions.

Marvin has provided me with too many good memories. I’m not going to turn my back on him just yet. Maybe later, but not just yet…

Another day, another dolla’, or so the kids say.

Today was pretty freaking long, and I’m not going to sugarcoat that fact. My eyelids feel like they have  a thin layer of lead inside them.

But it can’t be all that bad. When I walk to my apartment every night, taking in a breath of the cool air and tilt my head to the sky, I try to be real with myself. Come on, man, relax a little bit. Don’t take yourself too seriously.

That can be a problem at times because I do take my job seriously, and I try hard to do it well. But it’s never good enough. It can always be better.

That’s the painful world we live in. Perfection is impossible. I’ve never flawlessly written a story, just as I would assume a painter has never perfectly painted a house.

When I struggle to write, it’s self-imposed torture. It’s like trying to fit a round peg into a square hole.

Man, that was cliche. See what I mean?

This type of irritation led me to getting out of the business not too long ago. I decided I was going to try out public relations for a while and live the 9-to-5 lifestyle.

The job sucked, but the life was nice. I got to hang out with my friends more often. I got a bachelor pad with some of my buddies and lived up the accompanying lifestyle. We grilled out, had people over, went out on the weekends, etc. But I soon found out that wasn’t my thing anymore.

It was time for this big kid to grow up.

So, I packed my bags and headed to North Carolina with a clear motive in mind:  I’m going to make this thing work, whatever “this thing” might be.

I’ve never been a person to back down from a challenge. That has always been my biggest strength and my biggest weakness in life.

I’m like the kid always questioning the teacher’s authority in class. Most of the time, I should just sit down, listen and learn, but there are other times I can’t help but stand up, raise my voice and speak my mind.

Theodore Roosevelt said, “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” right? 

To me, that translates to:  “Don’t intrude, but always be prepared to defend.”

I’m pretty sure I live by this motto. I don’t take shots at anyone else, that is, unless they take shots at me. And then, the gloves are off.

Who knows if this motto leads to the best lifestyle. There are certainly a lot worse.

One of my best friends growing up used to live by the “eye-for-an-eye” code of ethics. If you borrowed a T-shirt from him and didn’t give it back, sure enough he would be rummaging through your drawers looking for something to wear. If you kissed his girlfriend, expect yours to be kissed.

He always said, “Don’t get mad, get even.”

Everyone has their own philosophy toward life, and that’s what makes this world round. We can’t all be the same. We can’t all follow the same self-implied rules.

I haven’t quite figured this all out, and I don’t think think I ever will. Perhaps, no one is intended to discover our true purpose. It would just be far too simple that way.

And, with that, I take a deep breath, tilt my head up, exhale and relax. Quit taking yourself too seriously, Jess.

Peace.

On May 15 1912, Ty Cobb jumped into the stands of New York’s Hilltop Park and changed his legacy forever, assaulting a physically handicapped man named Claude Leuker.

Leuker had been heckling Cobb throughout Detroit’s game versus the New York Highlanders (later to become the New York Yankees), and Cobb decided to take matters into his own hands. What a guy.

On that day, Cobb became the villain of Major League Baseball.

Cobb had always been known as a dirty player with a short fuse, but beating Leuker — a man who had suffered from a severe industrial accident — took Cobb’s negative public perception to a whole new level. Cobb was also said to have slapped a black elevator operator and then stabbed a black night watchman who attempted to intervene on the matter.

Those are just a few of the darker details of Cobb’s life.

There’s no doubting Cobb’s production on the baseball field:  He had a career batting average of .367, racked up 4,189 hits and stole 892 bases. He was one of the most intimidating players on the diamond, known for sharpening his spikes before games to instill fear  in the infielders he faced. Man, he must have been a joy to hate.

I can’t imagine having a player like Cobb in Major League Baseball today. His public persona must have been like Barry Bond’s image on steroids — no pun intended.

There have been many “bad boys” come and go in professional sports since Cobb’s retirement, but the fact is there will never be one that will terrorize the diamond, the court, or the field like him again. The bureaucracy alive and well in the MLB, NBA, NFL and NHL simply wouldn’t allow it.

It’s a shame, really, because we need someone to hate in sports. We need a villain. There are several that make a case, but fall short of Cobb’s standard.

There’s Bonds, who clearly cheated to become the “Home Run King.” Granted, that makes a good case in itself. But aside from that, we really don’t have that much dirt on him. He’s rarely confrontational, and typically seems cool, calm and collected when speaking to the media. It’s hard to hate a guy that says all the right things in front of the camera.

There’s Terrell Owens, who is flamboyant and cocky. But, after losing to New York in the playoffs last season, he was weeping in front of the press. Come on? That spells softie to me. I would be willing to bet my right arm that Cobb never cried to the media.

There’s  Bill Belichick, who clearly cheated by videotaping the Jets’ defensive signals last season. He’s most likely responsible for much more scandalous behavior, but unfortunately, we don’t have all the dirt on him just yet. If we go on what’s been proven so far, Belichick looks like Princess Diana compared to Cobb. And that’s coming from a Colts fan.

I want to call out other potential candidates, but I’m having trouble. Pacman Jones comes to mind, but he hasn’t proven enough on the playing field to hated by opposing fans. Rasheed Wallace is someone I personally can’t stand, but he really doesn’t do that much off the court to be deemed a bad person. Kobe Bryant has sleeze written all over him, but in fairness, nothing has been proven against him.

Gary Sheffield is a moron. The Steinbrenner Family is pure evil. But nothing compares to Cobb.

He’s like something we’ll never see in professional sports again. And for that, and perhaps that alone, we should appreciate him. 

My buddy Jerry tells a funny story about getting ripped off by Frank Thomas.

Apparently, the Big Hurt used to never sign autographs, and this Jerry knew well, because he used to write him once a month trying to get him to sign a card, a ball, a piece of paper — anything. Jerry would rush home from school every day, digging through his parents mail to occassionaly find an envelope addressed to him. Inside would be a rejection letter, reading something like, “Sorry, Frank Thomas doesn’t sign autographs for his fans.”

Sometimes he wouldn’t even get his baseball card back.

So imagine Jerry’s delight when he opened a Beckett one day and saw a Frank Thomas autographed picture for sale. He begged his mom to order it for him, and one day she finally caved in.

Days must have seemed like months for Jerry after his mother sent the check in the mail. You can almost feel the the agony in his voice when he tells the tale of waiting for the piece of memorabilia.

Well, one day, Jerry finally got a hold of the package he had been waiting for – only it was nothing like he expected. Inside was an autographed picture of Frank Thomas all right. But it wasn’t the Big Hurt. It was from the Frank Thomas who played in the National League from 1951-1966.

Imagine Jerry’s heart sinking to the floor when he opened this package. I assume he dropped the signed picture or threw it in the trash. I still get a laugh when I think about this. And Jerry still gets a little fired up when he talking about it.

He got the wrong Frank Thomas.

I have to believe Oakland A’s fans are thinking today exactly what Jerry was thinking some 10  or 15 years ago.  They got Frank Thomas, signing him shortly after the Toronto Blue Jays released him, but they didn’t get the Big Hurt. Oh, and there is a difference.

The Big Hurt played for the Chicago White Sox, from 1990 to around 2003. He was one of the best hitters in the game, possessing the ability to hit for average and power. Perhaps the Big Hurt’s best season came in 1994 when he hit .353 with 38 home runs, 101 runs batted in and 106 runs.

He was a deamon on the diamond — one of the most feared hitters in the game.

Today, Frank Thomas is just Frank Thomas. He’s not the Big Hurt anymore. And he needs to realize that.

Through Thursday, Thomas was batting just .167 and had more strikeouts (13) than base hits (11). He’s always looked slow and fat. But this season, he appears bitter, tired and old.

The Blue Jays had clearly had enough of him. They tried benching him, but when Thomas began moaning and pouting, they booted him.  Wise move.

No one can know for sure what the A’s where thinking when they decided to sign Thomas. I guess the name looks good on paper and is hard to resist.

This is a feeling Jerry is familiar with…

So I get off of work around midnight every night, looking for a way to wind down, relax and soak in the day’s events. Recently, I decided this was going to be my outlet — writing on this blog for whatever it may be worth.

But, when I sat down to write tonight, I was distracted. The Real World Hollywood was on television, and I couldn’t miss it.

Rarely do I find myself laughing out loud, but when I watch the Real World, I often erupt blatantly in the face of other people’s misfortune, tilting my head up toward my ceiling, letting out sinister, “Hah, hah, hahs.”

They don’t know I’m laughing at them, right? I’m laughing with them.

Probably not.

I was never an avid-watcher of the show, but this year’s cast of characters has me hooked. There’s no other program on television that features so much unintentional comedy based on the insecurities and the personal flaws of those involved. Call me sick (and that I may be), but I love it.

There’s Greg, who was voted on the show via the Internet. He calls his fellow roommates peasants and makes it no secret that he looks down upon them. He hopes to be a model one day, and all his roommates absolutely hate him.

There’s Bri — a stripper, who goes out to the Hollywood clubs with the other roommates looking like, well, a stripper.

There’s Sarah — the cute, lovable, brunette with a charm about her, which all the guys in the house can’t resist. Problem is, she’s got a boyfriend back home. Ouch, all I keep thinking about is when that guy watches the show and finds out what really happened when she was in Hollywood.

There’s Will — the cool, hip, wanna-be producer who can’t resist Sarah. I have a feeling that’s going to heat up here in coming episodes. Sarah’s boyfriend has a hit out on Will by now.

There’s Dave — pretty much every guy I knew in college. Loves to drink, loves to party, loves women. MTV basically knew what they wanted before they found this guy, and he fits the bill.

There’s Kim — seems to be a good old southern girl carrying some gold old fashioned racism in her. OK, scratch the good part from the latter part of that last sentence. But, from a producer’s standpoint, it couldn’t get better than casting her as a character, considering she has three black roommates.

And, of course, there’s Joey — my personal favorite. Joey is crazy. I’ve only seen two episodes, but this I already know. He’s already gotten angry and violent in the first two episodes, hitting himself in the head with beer bottles, flexing his muscles and yelling, “You don’t know me. I will (expletive) you up.”

After a little research, I was mildly disappointed to see that Joey gets kicked off the show, although the events that lead up to his departure will no doubt be amazing.

So, then, I ask myself:  What is it about this show that makes my wheels turn? Perhaps the answer will reveal something about myself that I didn’t already know.

My best guess is that it makes me think, ‘Wow, Jess, you really aren’t that screwed up after all. Just look at these people.”

And, maybe therein lies the problem.

But then again, these people volunteered to go on this show, revealing their mental scars to the world. Why not take a peak?

When I was in college at Indiana University, the Real World had auditions at a local bar, Kilroys. The bar is legendary, but that’s beside the point. I thought about going out to audition, but then I came to terms with the realization that A) I’m way too boring and B) I wouldn’t want cameras around me 24-7, picking apart every little detail about the way I live my life.

That’s just too much pressure.

I feel like I’d be much more of an interesting castmate now, because I’ve lived through the times that all these kids are facing. I might be able to offer guidance — maybe I could be the mediator. Ah, I picture myself so, so wise.

Or, then again, maybe I would just be “that old dude” whom they would all make fun of for being “their father’s age.” I could see the cameras peeping them in the hot tub talking about me, while I’m highlighting passages of the Da Vinci Code in my bed.

They would be out partying at the clubs. I would be watching Modern Marvels on the History Channel, discovering how bottled water makes its way from the picturesque Washington  streams into every home in America.

I’ve never seen that one, I swear.

Regardless, you get me, right? Having someone 10, 20 or even 30 years older could make for some more unintentional comedy.

That begs the question:  Why isn’t there an old guy on the show? There have to be many elderly men out there who would die for an opportunity to live in a house with three or four young, good looking women. Man, that would make for great television.

Everyone is brushing their teeth, attempting to recover from a long night, and here comes the geezer in a white tank-top trying to rinse off his soaking dentures. The camera zooms in on his back hair while he walks away. They cue the young hottie grimacing in disgust. 

Ah, I think I could get along with the old man on the show, serving as a middle-man of sorts.

But maybe I’m just not cut out for being on the Real World, although it was a childhood fantasy of mine – along with appearing on Guts, American Gladiators and Love Connection. But there comes a time when you realize you’re just better of watching, benefiting from the other dumb people who sacrifice their pride in hopes of becoming stars.

Yes, it’s something I’m infatuated with, and I cannot believe I’m admitting it. The Real World is definitely garbage, but I can’t help but rummage through it.

Everyone has a guilty pleasure, right?

I had a conversation with a co-worker not too long ago. Knowing I was a baseball fan, he asked me one of the most complex questions surrounding the game today:  

“So, Who’s the Home Run King,” he said.

I surprised myself with my response, because without even thinking about it, I said Hank Aaron. No hesitation. The all-time home runs leader Barry Bonds was a mere afterthought.

My coworker didn’t agree. While admitting Aaron was a great ballplayer, he said the only true way to measure a home run hitter was to take into account how frequently he went yard, not necessarily how many times total. 

For example, Aaron hit one home run in approximately every 16.38 at-bats during his 23-year career in the Major Leagues.

We’ll call it Mike’s law. I’m not sure he even works for the Sun Journal anymore, but regardless, this was his way of estimating the greatest home run hitter who ever played the game.

He told me Mickey Mantle was the greatest — “Just look at the numbers.”

So, as promised, tonight I sat down and broke down some numbers, and the results were shocking. Mantle wasn’t even close to the top. Who was at the top?

Drum roll, please…

Mark McGwire.

Yep, as it turns out, according to Mike’s Law, the roided-out former bash brother was the greatest home run hitter to ever live. Throughout his injury-plagued 16 years in the Major Leagues, McGwire hit a home run in approximately every 10.61 at-bats.

Big Mac just edged out Babe Ruth, who went yard once in approximately every 11.76 plate appearances. Aaron wasn’t even close to the top, as roided-out freaks like Juan Gonzalez, Andre Bell and Jose Canseco made his numbers look minuscule.

I don’t consider this measure to be accurate, but it is interesting to look at. For instance, Harmon Killebrew’s name is rarely brought up in this discussion, yet he hit home runs more frequently than Aaron, Mantle and Willie Mays throughout his 22 year career in the big leagues.

Dave Kingman was also a surprise to see come up — he ranks No. 11 on the list, just ahead of Mantle.

Now, disclaimer:  I don’t believe Mike’s Law to be the best way to measure the greatest home run hitters to ever play. But it should not be ignored.

So, without further ado, here’s the list:

1. Mark McGwire, 1 in 10.61

2. Babe Ruth, 1 in 11.76

3. Barry Bonds, 1 in 12.92

4. Jim Thome,  1 in 13.48

5. Harmon Killebrew, 1 in 14.22

6. Alex Rodriguez, 1 in 14.23

7. Manny Ramirez, 1 in 14.38

8. Albert Pujols 1 in 14.42

9. Sammy Sosa, 1 in 14.47

10. Ken Griffey Jr., 1 in 14.93

11. Juan Gonzalez, 1 in 15.1059

12. Dave Kingman, 1 in 15.1063

13. Mickey Mantle,  1 in 15.12

14. Jimmie Foxx, 1 in 15.23

15. Mike Schmidt, 1 in 15.24

16. Jose Canseco, 1 in 15.27

17. Albert Belle, 1in 15.36

18. Carlos Delgado, 1 in 15.41

19. Frank Thomas, 1 in 15.53

20. Wille McCovey, 1 in 15.73

21. Lou Gehrig, 1 in 16.23

22. Hank Aaron, 1 in 16.38

The NBA Playoffs are here, and I couldn’t care about the outcome if my life depended on it.

There’s just a synthetic quality about the game at the professional level in the United States. It’s more about the individual, rather than the team. And that’s not the way James Naismith intended it, or at least I’d like to think that.

Take the Los Angeles Lakers, for example. They’ve got both the the most talented and the most selfish player in the league in Kobe Bryant. He’s an arrogant cry-baby who attempted to bail on his teammates prior to the start of the season — that is, until he found out they might not be that bad after all. Months later, the Lakers trade for Pau Gasol, pick up the No. 1 seed in the West and all is forgotten.

This kind of garbage doesn’t happen on true teams – where no one player is larger than the sum of its parts. Yet, time and time again, the Lakers front office has given Kobe’s bad attitude a pass, effectively stomping on the pride of every other player on the team.

Shaquille O’Neal provides another example of the selfishness within the NBA. Don’t let him fool you for a second; he’s not trying to help the Phoenix Suns win a title. He’s trying to help Shaq win a title. He doesn’t care about the other players on the team. It’s all about Shaq.

Other examples, here’s a few…

Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen aren’t playing this season for the city they represent or the colors on their jerseys. They’re playing to fulfill their own personal ambitions, out chasing a title.

Maybe there isn’t a whole lot wrong with looking out for No. 1, but at least be honest about it. People should recognize it for what it is, instead of what they want it to be. 

In my opinion, if the Celtics do chase down their tainted NBA Championship, it should not feel genuine to the Boston fans. They should celebrate half-heartedly because their title was contrived. Not home-grown, imported.

It’s kind of like investing stock in a successful United States company that relies on cheap foreign labor to benefit its bottom line. More power to you – buy low and sell high. When you cash out, go out and get yourself something nice, but remember your dirty deed.

It’s kind of like when the Lakers reeled in Karl Malone and Gary Payton a couple of years ago, only to fall flat on their faces in the playoffs. Can’t say I was sad to see that.

For me, college basketball is basketball, and it doesn’t get any better than the NCAA Tournament. Maybe I’m just suffering from a March Madness hangover every year, and the NBA Playoffs are just the lame alternative. Maybe the NBA is just the methadone treatment to my terrible addiction.

But, to me, going from NCAA basketball to the NBA is  like going from a 54-inch plasma TV to to a 10-inch Apex with a fuzzy screen. It’s just the better-than-nothing option.

Whatever happened to the glory days of the NBA, when players like Larry Bird, Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan graced the court? Whatever happened knee-high socks, headbands and goggles. Where are dunkers like Dominique Wilkins, shooters like Mark Price and clutch-performers like Reggie Miller?

The NBA is damp with the sorry tears of it forefathers, crying from the great upstairs. Naismith has already rolled over in his grave so many times that he’s gotten dizzy. It’s making me a little sick thinking about it.

Now, some are claiming that this season has been a revival, and there have been many storylines — the Shaq trade, the return of the Celtics, Chris Paul, Lebron James, Houston’s 22-game winning streak and Gasol’s season-saving arrival in Los Angeles. But, don’t let them fool you, the game itself is damaged, and therein lies the problem.

In no basketball league but the NBA can you step four times, dunk and not be called for a travel. In no other league can you change pivot foots and the infraction be ignored. In no other league can star players get such preferential treatment.

In no other league are players so so selfish.

I’m sick and tired of the NBA, and you should be too. Don’t buy into this pathetic excuse for the sport. I’m getting a little angry thinking about it.

I’m done here with this post. I’ll see you tomorrow.