Huff’s World

I’m like Paul Pierce in Game 1 of the NBA Finals.

Like Kirk Gibson against Dennis Eckersley in the 1988 World Series.

Like Michael Jordan wearing the No. 45.

Like the Eagles in the early 90s.

Like George Foreman dropping Michael Moorer.

I’m back, baby. I’m back.

OK, so I realize that my extended absence from the blogging world probably cost me all five of my faithful readers, but that’s OK, I’m pretty sure my mom still reads this thing. And maybe my brother. So that’s enough reason to write a little something today.

Besides, in order to have a lifelong career in this business, it’s become clear to me that I must become Web savvy, and I must do it fast. So, here I am, for what it’s worth.

The NFL football is still months away, but it’s never too early to start talking about fantasy football. This year differs from recent years in that there is not a consensus No. 1 pick. You either go with L.T. or Adrian Peterson. One or the other, and that much has been pretty much determined.

This may sound crazy, but I don’t even want the No. 1 or No. 2 pick in my draft, basically because I don’t trust either of the guys. Peterson has been prone to injuries since he’s been in the national spotlight, and L.T.’s best days are clearly behind him.

Picking up Peyton Manning or Tom Brady might be an option for someone drafting late in the first round. Even though quarterbacks typically don’t put up enormous fantasy numbers like running backs, both of those guys are most likely going to be playing every Sunday.

It’s always a good idea to check your settings before the draft. The people who set up your league have the ability to customize the scoring, and if you don’t trust them, you might want to keep on eye on them. A simple adjustment here or there could drastically alter the playing field.

For example, my fantasy league last year valued wide receivers over running backs. Unfortunately, I didn’t have that pre-draft knowledge, but I knew something was up when Chad Johnson, Plaxico Burress and Marvin Harrison were coming off the board in the early rounds. That strategy ended up paying off for the people that looked at the settings ahead of time — or rather, made them.

Another good rule of thumb:  seal up a solid tight end and legitimate defense. Those two slots are the most difficult to fill in free agency. Do yourself a favor and make it a point to draft well in those two areas.

Drafting a tight end won’t be all that easy this season. The old faithful selections — Tony Gonzalez, Jeremy Shockey and Antonio Gates – are no longer the hot commodities on the market. Players like Dallas Clark, Jason Witten and Kellen Winslow are now in demand more than ever.

If it were my selection, I’d go with Witten. He’s got a gun-slinger for a quarterback and he’s coming off the best season of his career. Choosing Winslow would be gutsy, considering his injury-plagued past, but the thought is appealing.

At quarterback, as much as I hate to say it, you’ve pretty much got to go with Brady as the No. 1 pick. I don’t know if I’d do it, just because I’m a Colts fan, but I would definitely recommend others to do it. He was a killer last year, and he’s only going to be more fired up after losing the Super Bowl.

From there, my list goes something like Manning, Tony Romo, Derek Anderson, Matt Hasselbeck and Phillip Rivers. You won’t see a top-six list like that because I don’t play by the numbers. I play from the gut a lot, and that’s what makes it fun.

I love seeing my risky picks pay off months after the draft. My friends laughed at me when I made Randy Moss my No. 1 receiver last year and chose Peterson as my No. 2 running back. But I had a feeling about both of them, and when they started dominating the league, I got to talk all kinds of trash to my friends.

That’s what fantasy football is all about. If I had one recommendation above all, I would say have fun with it. Make the risky move, offer your opponents bogus trades and don’t forget to rub a little salt in the wound.

I got to sit down and have a conversation with former major league baseball player and manager Davey Johnson today.

Johnson was playing in the Celebrity Players Classic — a two-day tournament at the New Bern Golf and Country Club, benefiting the Athens Theatre renovation and the Wounded Warriors. A group of 15 former athletes and entertainers took part in the event.

Johnson, Jim McMahon and Jim Hart were the headliners. Or, at least, in my opinion.

Johnson had a calm, laid-back demeanor about him, as if he was willing to talk with me for hours. Ask him a question, and he goes off. I just sat their with my tape recorder and soaked it all in.

Here are a few things he had to say…

On instant replay in baseball:

 DJ:  I’m kind of an old-fashioned baseball player. I really still don’t like the designated hitter. I’m glad they finally have the umpiring interchangeable now, so it’s more consistent in both leagues. I’m just an old-fashioned — I guess, Dinosaur. I’m a little more of a purist.

My thoughts:  Johnson kind of dodged addressing the subject directly, but he pretty much made his opinion clear in roundabout way. I hate to speak for the guy, but by telling me he’s a purist, I think he’s indicating that he would not like to see instant replay in baseball. I disagree, but my opinion really doesn’t matter all that much.

On the 1994 strike, in which he was managing the first-place Cincinnati Reds:

DJ:  It was kind of traumatic. I got in trouble during that strike year in Cincinnati. We were leading the pennant, and the next year I had those (replacement) players. They had families to feed. They weren’t like the big league players. I got in trouble when I said, “This is a travesty in baseball.” Management got mad at me about that. But it was [a travesty]. One thing I’ve been is mostly candid throughout my career. I always felt that if I came out with what I felt in my heart, I wouldn’t have to go back and think about what I said.

My thoughts:  Johnson got a lot of heat the year of the strike when he called using replacement players a travesty. But, after reading some old articles on the subject, I feel like his comments were taken out of context. It seems to me he had a genuine concern for the replacement players. He didn’t like to see them called on to play for $50,000, and then dropped once the regular players ended their strike.

On the life of a Major League manager:

DJ:  The pay is awfully good now, but it’s not as glamorous as people think. You’re going at it 24-7, and the job lasts 12 months out of the year. It’s not eight or 10 — it’s 12. You have to be really close with ownership and the general manager to make really good decisions about personnel.

On returning to manage a Major League Baseball team:

DJ:  You never say never, but it would have to be a situation where I knew the owner and general manager. I got burnt out in 2000, and I was really burnt out. I’m enjoying life now. I have no stress on me, other than making a five-foot putt or something. Life is good.

I did also ask Johnson about performance-enhancing drugs in baseball, and he said he really doesn’t blame the players for trying to gain an edge. But in his day, he said, players didn’t even lift weights, let alone use steroids. They were told that adding muscle could harm their mechanics.

Overall, I’d have to say Johnson struck me as a pretty good-natured and humble guy. I would’ve liked to have asked him about 10 or 12 more questions, but unfortunately, neither of us really had the time.

Yeah, right.

Believe me, I could’ve found the time, but figured the man had given me enough for the day. A few minutes was all I asked, and a few minutes was what I got.

Much appreciated, Davey.

A couple months ago, I wrote a column about Drew Christy, a collegiate cornerback who was involved in a serious car accident on Feb. 22. .

Although I never really knew Drew, I did have the opportunity to cover him during my first year out of college. We spoke briefly a few times, but that was about it.

What I got is that he was a really good kid.

Ever since hearing about his accident, I’ve kept up with his progress and found him to still be engaged in the fight of his life. He’s beginning to respond to his surroundings in the simplest of ways, which is providing hope to all of his supporters.

It’s going to take a miracle, but it just so happens his family believes in miracles.

Drew’s mother keeps a journal on caringbridge.org, updating readers on his progress. Every entry focuses on the ways in which God has blessed their family members, instead of bringing them down. She focuses on the positives and merely mentions the negatives a sidenote.

Her faith and courage is so inspirational, that it makes me wonder if I could ever find the same in myself if ever faced with a similar situation.

I hate to get all deep on everyone, but if you’re ever stuck thinking about the trivial concerns in your life, try and remember people like Drew’s mother. Put yourself in her shoes for a minute.

You might begin to understand that life is not all that bad after all.

I know it’s easier said than done, but remember people like Drew. He’s putting up an enormous fight just to live a normal life.

I’m still pulling for you Drew.

Some of you may have noticed. Some may have not. Many more couldn’t force themselves to care. But I took a break from blogging recently due to the fact I was on a mini-vacation of sorts.

Per se. Kind of. Pseudo. Any other word and/or set of words I can use to help describe an abbreviated period away from work?

Anyway, the parents flew in from Indiana, and several days of burning by the beach followed. Yes, that’s right, burning. Baking. Crisping.

I peeled off my entire forehead today and plan to work on my scalp tomorrow, and then nose and cheeks on Friday.  

Perhaps one of my coworkers put it best when she gave me a weird look and said, “You don’t look like a white man.”

No, not white. And not black either. Some strange blend of red and brown — almost purplish. 

Kind of like Violet Beauregarde after chewing Willy Wonka’s three-course dinner gum. Only I did not blow up like a balloon.

In case you’re wondering, the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory reference is not entirely random. My first evening of vacation was spent watching the movie, and as always, it rubbed me in a strange way. Not necessarily the wrong way, but definitely not the right way.

It’s so bizarre. I mean, the Oompa-Loompas still make me a little uncomfortable today. Not scared, just weird.

Little orange men with green hair, monotonously singing and dancing. That concept is supposed to charm children? Can’t you somehow spare the expense of freaking the rest of us out?

Anyway, putting Charlie and the Chocolate Factory aside for the moment, some of you reading this blog must be interested in the purpose behind it. To be honest with you, I’m not really sure.

My best guess is that it can be a tool to interact with the readers of the Sun Journal. I’m still relatively new to the area and need story ideas. If you call me and give me a good idea, chances are I’m going to run with it.

For example, yesterday, I got a phone call from Havelock resident Charles Nay, letting me know that his brother, Cliff, recently bowled a 299 in one of the nation’s largest bowling tournaments. Right then and there, I got the information, called Cliff, did a little research and wrote the story.

If Charles wouldn’t have had the idea to pick up the phone and call, the story would’ve never been written. It’s that simple.

I want to share good stories with the public, and it’s my hunch that each every person reading this has a story to share.

So, what’s with the hesitation? Why not at least give me an opportunity to share some of the best stories in Eastern North Carolina?

That’s it. Now that I’m back, I’m going to try to get this thing going strong.

Sports Illustrated recently ranked New Bern High School athletics No. 1 in the state.

I just heard about this, and it’s a great honor for the students, coaches, faculty and staff at New Bern. Congratulations.

There will be an article in Thursday’s Sun Journal. I just thought I would try to get the word out now. Not that anyone reads this thing.

Mike Piazza retired today, closing the book on a successful baseball career that lasted 16 years in the Major Leagues.

Piazza will probably go down as the best offensive catcher to ever play the game. His 397 home runs as a catcher rank first all-time for the position, and he’ll retire with a .308 batting average.

However, above all else, I think I’ll always remember Piazza for being the only professional athlete ever to hold a press conference to clarify his sexuality. In case you don’t remember, the year was 2002, and rumors were circulating around the New York media indicating that a prominent member of the Mets was gay.

Piazza went out of his way to eliminate any doubts about his heterosexuality.

“I’m not gay,” Piazza said in the press conference. “I’m a heterosexual. I can’t control what people think. I date women.”

If this does not go down as one of the all-time “meathead” moments in sports, I’m not sure what will. Poor guy.

I mean, the problem with every rumor is that it’s like a fire — the more you blow on it, the larger it gets. By inviting the media to add to the flame, Piazza effectively created a bonfire.

It just makes you wonder.

Last time I checked (albeit from reading Maxim and GQ), women were attracted to confident men who are unphased by petty rumors. If Piazza was trying to get women, wouldn’t he just let the whole thing go, instead of revealing his insecurity to the world.

It’s one of those things I encounter a lot in life:  It’s sad, but it’s funny.

It’s sad, because Piazza should be remembered for a lot more. But it’s also funny. Piazza was so concerned with his public image that he took a major risk in hopes of preserving it.

In the end, it backfired.

Growing up an Indiana Pacers fan, I always modeled my game after the great point guard Mark Jackson. He wasn’t the most flashy player on the court, but he played smart and wasn’t afraid to put the ball on the floor and post up on a inferior defender.

Up until a few years ago, I think I was the only person in the world who still owned a No. 13 Mark Jackson jersey. I ended up giving it to a good friend of mine who was in college at the time and could use it as a conversation piece at the bars. Ladies loved that thing.

I wore it out on the town my final weekend of college at Indiana University, and it was the biggest hit on campus.  I got more high-fives and shout-outs that night than I got in my previous three-plus years of college combined.

One guy approached me with a crazy look in his eye and graciously said , ”Man, you have no idea how much I respect that.”

Ah, good times in college. How I wish I could relive my glory days for just one day. Just one day.

Heck, I’d take one hour – if I got to pick the hour. Is that too much to ask?

I got a chance to relive my basketball playing days for a few hours on Sunday, and quickly found out that I was much slower and far less agile than I ever remembered. And I could barely get my feet off the ground.

Myself, Sun Journal reporter Matt Tessnear, sportswriter Adam Thompson and his roommate Steve hit the courts for 2-on-2 basketball on a pretty hot and painful Sunday afternoon.

Thompson had been bragging about his game, and seeing as how he is around 5-foot-3, I assumed he was blowing his skills way out of proportion. And I wasn’t wrong about that fact.

He described himself as a “shooter.” Yet, to my knowledge, Thompson didn’t hit a single jumper more than six feet away from the basket all afternoon. His form made Shawn Marion’s look silky smooth, and his ball-handling skills were similar to what I would expect from Andy Dick.

I felt sorry for the little guy. I mean, I’m from Indiana, where basketball is King. When someone says they can hoop, I expect them to back it up.

Watching Thompson dribble to the basket with his head down brought back childhood memories of me playing with my little sister. I would occasionally let my guard down and let her score, just to keep her interested in the game. The same rules applied to Thompson on Sunday.

The only reason he ever made a basket was because I refused to play defense. Or, rather, my broken down body didn’t allow me.

He would go up for a shot, two-feet away from the hoop, and I would stand still with my arms raised, never jumping to exert any more energy than absolutely necessary. After all, it was amusing to watch the little guy miss time and time again, only to run down the rebound and fire up another broke shot. Occasionally, he would hit one and react with enthusiasm, like he had just hit a buzzer-beater in Game 7 of the NBA Finals.

His teammate, Steve, wasn’t bad, but he was basically just a big aggressive body, and neither I nor Tessnear felt the need to get in the way of the train when it was trucking on the tracks.

The team of Tessnear and Huffman — we’ll call it Naughty by Nature — was far superior in skill and showmanship. Tessnear, who is about 6-foot-4, played in high school and displayed a nice touch and decent post moves. He reminded me of an out-of-shape Mehmet Okur.

I, myself, still played like a scaled-down-version of Jackson — or at least, I’d like to think that.

From the beginning of Game 1, I made it a point to pass first and shoot second. I wanted to utilize the height advantage we had down low with Tessnear against Steve.

I was playing smart like Jackson.

When the shots stopped falling for Tessnear, I started posting up Thompson and showing off my baby hook. At times, I would pull up and let Tessnear do the dirty work down low. He had something like a 5-inch advantage on Steve, so I was thinking he could grab some offensive boards and put the ball in the basket, only Steve was out-hustling him.

Leaving me with few other options, I decided to kick open the back door toward the end of the first game and allow Tessnear to reap the benefit of my pin-point passes. More times than not, I was looking like Chris Paul to Tyson Chandler. The only problem was that my “Chandler” couldn’t dunk, and he became more and more tired as the game progressed.

Although it pains me to admit it, Naughty by Nature lost to The Elephant and the Mouse by something like two points. We put up a fight, but couldn’t find enough fire to win the game in the end.

Not to call a teammate out, but Tessnear totally left me hanging on the last possession. He basically stood on the sideline while I tried to stop both Steve and Thompson from scoring.

Steve hit me with a low shoulder in the chest, and I decided enough was enough — take the game, big fella.

Game 2 saw Naughty by Nature show off its true skills early and often.

I was on fire, knocking down shot after shot — and talking trash. Matt was pulling down rebounds and showing off a little muscle down low.

The highlight of the day came sometime in the second game:  When pulling down a rebound, I accidentally reached back with my left hand and smacked Thompson in the face. Never has a cheap shot ever felt so good in my life. Suddenly, I understood what it felt like to be a dirty player like Bruce Bowen, Bill Laimbeer or John Starks.

That in itself was a victory for me. In what other set of circumstances, could I get away with punching my coworker in the face?

Of course, Thompson called a foul on the play.

That was another thing that I didn’t like about Thompson’s game. He was always calling ticky-tack fouls and whining about a little contact. I guess the playground rule of “No blood, no foul” doesn’t apply when playing with Thompson.

Admittedly, the second game did not end in a Naughty by Nature victory, even though we controlled the majority of the game. At the time, I didn’t take it too hard, but then I found out Thompson was going to write a column about it, and I had to get in my two pennies on the matter.

Let’s just put it this way, the team of Tessnear and Huffman is something to be feared in the future. Watch out chumps, we’re a-coming for you.

Like most people, I’m not a very patient man. Or, at least when it comes to reading.

It’s sad, but it really takes a gripping writer to make me read every single word of an article. That is, unless my job requires it.

Chris Ballard kept me reading this week with a somewhat controversial column in Sports Illustrated. I’ve got to give it to the man. Just when I was beginning to think SI would never recover from the loss of Rick Reilly, Ballard provided me with a glimmer of hope.

Take a look at it. I’d like to hear some feedback.

I personally thought he made a great point. Honesty is something that is pretty rare in this world today, and it’s a shame…

So I was talking to two of my coworkers the other day, and I was upset that neither of them had heard of the greatest television show of all time.

You might be wondering what show I’m talking about…

No, not M*A*S*H. Not Seinfeld. Not Alf (although it ranks as a distant second). Not Full House. Not Guts. Not Legends of the Hidden Temple. Not Family Matters. Not Friends. Not Sex in the City. Not Taxi. Not I love Lucy. Not the Dick Van Dyke Show. Not the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Not Dragnet. Not the Cosby Show. Not the Andy Griffith Show.

And, definitely, and I mean def-in-it-ely not Dallas. I always hated that freaking show.

The greatest show of all time is Quantum Leap. Yes, my friends, Quantum-fricken-Leap.

In case you haven’t had the pleasure of watching the show, Dr. Samuel Beckett is transported back in time every week to set right what once went wrong. He saves people from getting murdered, keeps children from getting kidnapped and helps helpless people find hope in their lives.

All the while, he awaits that leap back home — where he returns to lead a normal life.

Beckett (played by the legendary Scott Bakula), inherits the lives of women, children and individuals of varying lifestyles in the process. He is given a mission in each episode by his only true accomplice, Al.

Al, a former Navy Seal, and extraordinarily brave man from Sam’s time (the future), can only be seen by young children, animals and the mentally handicapped. And, of course, Sam can see him.

Al pops up from time to time in each episode, only to later vanish in his “big, bad” time machine just when Sam needs him most. Don’t get me wrong. I like Al. It just seems he does Sam wrong sometimes.

Anyway, the reason I like Quantum Leap so much is because it intertwines fiction with reality. Sam might be a civil rights leader one day, a Vietnam veteran another and a major league baseball player the next. His fictional character comes face to face with real life events — or at least the historical interpretation of such. 

In each episode there is a mission. And, more times than not, it keeps you hanging on the edge of your seat.

Sam typically has to save someone’s life. And he knows karate, so you might not want to mess with him.

The show is awesome, simply put. And I  beg you to find a better actor than Bakula.

My coworker recently informed me that there was a “Scott Bakula Hate Club,” which only motivated me more to write this post. How can so many people dislike such a great thespian?

Think about it. There were 97 episodes of Quantum Leap. That means Bakula had 97 different roles, all the while maintaining his primary role as Beckett.

I’ve seen Bakula play a pregnant woman, a blind man, a mentally handicapped person and a monk. In every single role, you believe that he is the individual being portrayed. The show won two Golden Globes in four years. I mean, that’s telling me people bought into Bakula.

Yet, at the top of people’s “all-time actors” lists you will never find Bakula’s name. And you will never find the show in which he starred listed as one of the “all-time greats.”

It’s a disgrace .

I only wish Sam Beckett were here to set right what once went wrong.

Ranking great athletes is no easy task. It’s kind of like ranking great musicians. All the great ones are products of the generations in which they lived.

Trying to compare Babe Ruth to Barry Bonds is like trying to compare Mozart to Jimi Hendrix. There are so many contrasting elements, it’s hard to see the similarities.

Ruth and Mozart were both pioneers in their respective professions. Bonds and Hendrix were journeymen, intent on pursuing their own perceived manifest destiny.

Bonds used HGH to break records. Hendrix used LSD to sell records.

Bonds expanded muscles. Hendrix expanded minds.

Both used the building blocks of their forefathers to pursue their own personal ambitions. And both used innovative elements to help enhance their own personal legacies.

All were effective in the games in which they played, but the games they played were in very few ways the same.

A family friend and I were having one of those “sports debates” several months ago. I’d prefer to call it a discussion. You know what I’m talking about — one of those talks you have to pass the time.

Over a nice cold beverage on the eve of my brother’s wedding, I asked him, all right Paul, “Top-five pitchers of all-time.” 

This guy is a baseball wiz. He makes Peter Gammons look like Peter Pan. He’s like Albert Pujols’ age — the best kept secret in baseball.

He began rambling off names:  Walter Johnson, Warren Spahn, Christy Mathewson…

Having been born in the 20th century, I cut him off, asking”What gives old man? No Greg Maddux, Roger Clemens or Nolan Ryan?”

Those were all pitchers I had actually witnessed perfect the craft, and they were on the top of my brain when I asked the question. Of course, this was a few months before the Roger Clemens saga began.

He said, “Well, there’s no comparison. Johnson won more than 400 games and had a career ERA under 2.50 …

I cut him off.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “But pitchers started far more games back then, giving them more opportunities to earn victories than modern-day pitchers. Not to mention, in Johnson’s day you didn’t have to worry about the long ball quite as much, considering they were playing in bigger ball parks and HGH didn’t exist.”

Silence. Look of contemplation. And the following words:

“OK,” he said. “You bring up the fact that pitchers made more starts. Granted. But doesn’t that also mean they were overworked? Isn’t a pitcher’s durability something to consider when measuring greatness? There weren’t middle relievers, set-up men and closers in Johnson’s playing days. There weren’t five-man rotations back then. Pitchers had to come up throwing off two-days rest — sometimes less. Bigger ballparks meant more space to cover for outfielders. More doubles, more triples, more inside-the-park home runs. The game was different back then.”

Hmm … although Paul was making many good points, he still wasn’t solving the riddle. I mean, who’s to say Maddux and Clemens couldn’t compete back in the good old days of baseball? Who’s to say they wouldn’t shatter records?

So I ask the question?

“Top-five, Paul?”

“There’s no comparison,” he said. ”That’s what I was trying to tell you. There’s no way to compare players from different generations.”

Hmm … point well taken Paul.

Maybe we shouldn’t be so obsessed with how different players and other popular figures rank in their respective professions, but rather appreciate them individually for what they have contributed to the world. Maybe if baseball historians weren’t so obsessed with numbers, we wouldn’t have players cheating to chase down records.

Maybe it’s supposed to be about the impact of the moment, and not about the numbers.