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Ok, I have this good friend, a guy named Tom. We've been friends for 10 years, actally since the first day of college. Tom is awesome. He's a little goofy, sort of clumsy, but very hilarious. In fact, I've never met a person who didn't like him. Which makes the story I'm about to tell that much more incredible.

See, no one had heard from Tom in a few weeks. Not uncommon. We're all busy and none of us are 15 year old Girl Scouts (anymore). So I get a call from a friend last week. There was a Tom sighting. And the conversation began like this: "Hey dude, sorry I never called you back a few weeks ago, but I have a pretty good reason ... did you happen to see the Red Sox/Royals game a few weeks ago where Mirabelli hit that 3-run homerun?" Now, that's a great way to start a conversation. At this point, the story could go anywhere. Literally anywhere. From "I got into a fistfight with Mark Loretta's wife to I was kidnapped by Jeremy Affeldt to I caught syphillus outside of Gate D." Already I was intrigued. This is what happened.

Apparently, Tom was at Fenway, sitting in the left field grandstands watching the game. It was the 7th inning and the Sox had just tied it. Curious if anyone was warming up, he glanced over towards the bullpen tucked behind the short right field wall. Just as he looked, there was a crack of the bat. Almost instantly, people in his section started scrambling. Immediately, he looked back at the playing field. And as he described it, saw "the fastest moving object I've ever seen in my life heading right at me". Like a Tie Fighter approaching the Millenium Falcon, a screaming line drive foul ball, lasered off the bat of Manny Ramirez, flew right at Tom ... and hit him squarely in the face. I wish I was kidding. I can only imagine the pain one experiences when a projectile, traveling approx. 687 miles an hour, smashes you directly in the face. When my friend asked he what went through his mind when he saw the ball, Tom said, "I saw the ball coming and I thought ... ha, what are the odds of thi ... WHAM!"

Pretty good, I guess.

So, the first question I asked (which is the first question I'm sure all of our friends will ask) was "Did he get the ball?" And sadly, he did not. While Tom sat there, bleeding to death in the roomy seats of Fenway (wonderfully comfortable if you're 3'5" tall) some selfish dirtbag kept the ball for himself. Acutally, a similar thing happened when I was at Fenway a few years ago, in the left field grandstands, watching the Yankees play the Red Sox. Nick Johnson laced a line drive into our section which went off a railing just in front of us ... directly into a womans face. While this gal clutched her face and bled everywhere, some fat disaster of a woman a few seats down lept up and down screaming "I got the ball! I got the ball!". Wonderful. Funny coincidence, Tom was at that game with me.

You might be wondering, is Tom ok? And yes, aside from a nasty gash above his eye which required 30 stitches, having his eye swell shut (did I mention the ball hit him right above the eye?) and missing a week of work, he was fine. Here's the great thing ... Tom never blacked out. And while blood poured out of his forehead all over the front of his shirt, he kept insisting to everyone that he was fine. The EMT's didnt believe him. In fact, they insisted on carrying him out of stadium in a stretcher, which (now that I know he's fine) is incredibly hilarious, especially if you know Tom. So, he actually walked to the stretcher, laid down on it, and they took him away. As they carried him out, like a fallen warrior, he recieved a rousing standing ovation from the crowd. And rightfully so. I only wish that he gave the obligatory dramatic pause/thumbs up.

Ok, so while he was at the hospital (yes, they took him to the hospital) John Henry came by and made a visit. Which is both nice and incredibly creepy at the same time. Nothing like squinting out of one eye and seeing the blurry figure of a wax doll, wearing an expensive suit, trying to shake your hand. Actually, John Henry really sounded like a great guy. He actually gave Tom's parents (who were at the game with him) a ride to the hospital. And he called Tom the next day to make sure he was fine. Really nice gesture. The call was probably easier to digest than in in-person visit. Of course, a visit from Manny would have certainly made the whole thing worth it. Although he probably would have just walked in, smiled, pointed at him with both hands and walked out.

(By the way as an added parting gift, continuing with the nicest-guy-in-New-England theme, John Henry sent Tom two baseballs autographed by Manny. Ramirez, not DelCarmen. Although that would have been a hilarious plot twist.)

So, now that I know Tom is ok, I have to say that the whole thing ... completely awesome. Sure, there's the pain and the swelling and all that. But seriously, how amazing is the whole thing? Think about it. What are the odds of catching a foul ball in a stadium? Incredibly slim. Now, what are the odds of getting smashed in the face by one, off the bat of your favorite player no less? That's damn near impossible. And not to mention, a story you can tell forever.

Prior to the sneaker companies solidifying their death grip on burgeoning basketball talent in New England, if you wanted to see the best the region had to offer, you went to church. Really. CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) basketball was a premier showcase for young talent. Forget free sneakers, dry wick shirts, jerseys or logo bags. CYO had chaste women, polyester uniforms, saints, sinners and sweet redemption from eternal damnation. Provided you could consistently knock down the fifteen foot jumpers, of course. When I was a kid, I swore Genesis got it wrong, God didn't rest on Sunday, he took Saturdays off. It was the only way to explain the language Father Nick reserved for Father Joe and St. Peters, one of our more intense rivals. I still don't trust that St. Peter. Or St. Timothy, for that matter. Old passions die hard, even when they involve beatific beings.

The Boston Globe had an interesting three part series this week on sneaker companies and their increasing influence on youth basketball. The first two parts are not all that eye opening if you have even a passing interest in basketball. It really is as bad as you probably imagine. It is notably however for how many people the reporter managed to get on record. One reason for the openness is probably how little regulation there is for the activities. The NCAA can't do anything and neither can high school athletics since it's outside the school year. While I'd like to see the NCAA crack down on "prep" schools, where they have some weight, it's clear that when industries are springing up to scout ten year olds that something is going to have to be done. Part III of the series, specifically looking at the recruitment of younger and younger players, the expectations, exposure and pressures is the best read.

Other interesting reads from the week:

How will the Patriots stay on top in the NFL? What does Belichick have up his sleeve this year? What slim edge will he exploit? The Boston Herald is betting on the two tight end set.

The Christian Science Monitor looks at the Braves's Faith Day and in the increasingly sanctioned relationship between sports and spirituality.

Get your 2007 NFL mock draft here. Really, this is getting out of hand.

HBT has some analysis and results of the mid-season blockbuster trades of the last decade.

King Kaufman puts out his platform if he were to succeed Tagliabue as NFL commissioner.

So Harold Reynolds is gone, eh? That's too bad. I kinda liked him. He usually made some good points, knew what he was talking about, stood by his opinion and actually wore suits that didn't look like they came from Sears. Amazing what a little alleged, unsolicited hug can do. What an unfortunate way to go. Although, I am curious how it all transpired. How does one just go in and hug a co-worker? If it indeed happened, he had to have read the signs all wrong. Maybe opted to go for it mid-conversation. How awkward must that have been? "Hey Harold, what time is our meetin ... ????? ... Did you just hug me? ... And, is my bra undone?" I don't know. All speculation on my part. But it's unfortunate that he's gone.

As it is, ESPN doesn't exactly have the best on-air personalities. The days of Patrick, Olberman, Mayne and Kilborn are over. Most of the current cast is either forgetable or douche-chill inducing. Baseball Tonight was one of those things that I felt ESPN was still doing right. But now with Reynolds gone and with Gammons on the shelf, Karl Ravich must be ready to hurl himself onto an electrical tower. Because, like the rest of us, I don't think he has the highest confidence level in John Kruk or any of the other replacements they'll be trudging out. If they were smart, they'd get Buster Olney out there more often. Maybe even drag Geraldo Rivera's brother, Jayson Stark, out from behind his computer once in a while. Although I can't wait for the cross-pollination effort to take place. You know, where we see the inevitable Stephen A. Smith guest appearance. That'll be a treat. Maybe even get Sean Salisbury to jump on the panel too. Throw in John Kruk and I think we might tune in from a commercial break and catch Ravich drinking bleach straight from the bottle.

So one of ESPN's few good shows just got a little worse. No big deal, I guess. I'm sure they'll come up with a good solution. In fact, maybe they can have the ESPN mobile phone be the new guest anchor. That would be great. It can be up on the desk and everyone on the show can talk to it, the same way crack addicts talk to pigeons in the park. Only it won't respond back, because, you know, it's a phone. Then, without script or orders from their superiors, the remaining cast can have an honest, candid conversation about how awesome the phone is and how they don't miss Harold Reynolds at all. It'll be instant success for ESPN mobile. That is, until it tries to dry hump Linda Cohn at the summer party. Then we'll be right back where we started.

There is no doubt in anyone's mind that Alfonso Soriano will maybe get definitely traded to the White Sox, possibly. It's just a matter of time. You'll see. He's certainly probably going there. And all it will take is Brandon McCarthy or Scott Podsednik or Javier Vazquez or Freddie Garcia or Lance Broadway or Brian Anderson or Ryan Sweeney or Josh Fields or some other guys. Guaranteed. It's obvious that the possibility of this might be 100% in the bag. It's true. This might definitely happen. How do I know? Because ESPN keeps telling me. Every 30 minutes.

"Hello mindless consumer. How's it going? This is ESPN. Hey, Soriano might be going to the White Sox. Did you hear? But he might not though. Although he totally will. But we're not quite sure. Jayson Stark says maybe, but you can read him for free. So, you know, grain of salt. But if you were an ESPN Insider, you'd definitely know where Soriano was going. Even though he's definitely going to the White Sox. Maybe. Also, buy our cell phone. Thanks."

It all makes a lot of sense too, because the White Sox need Alfonso Soriano badly. When your team leads the majors in runs scored, can you stop there? I submit that you can not. Who needs pitching? Certainly not the White Sox. Pitching is for individuals who are weak minded and lack courage. And while I like the White Sox as much as the next guy (which is absolutely not at all), going out and getting more offense totally makes sense. Because nobody would expect that. Totally genius.

But my favorite thing about all the White Sox/Soriano propoganda is the theory that the White Sox are only in it to raise the price for Detroit. Although, I'm not quite sure how that is working. "Can we have McCarthy?" No. "Can we have Broadway?" No. "Can we have Fields?" No ... But we will give you Podsednik ... yeah, THE Scott Podsednik ... plays outfield ... Pods ... hello?

Try and top THAT Detroit.

Anyway, the deadline is less than a week away and one can really go a little silly trying to follow all of the rumors. So my strategy is simple. Wait for the close-up shot with the photoshopped hat. Once you see that on ESPN, you know the trade is official. No turning back after the hat is photoshopped. Just can't happen.

UPDATE: Rotoworld has a quick update that now seems unlikely Soriano lands on the White Sox because of Kenny Williams reluctance to trade McCarthy or Fields. We doubt ESPN believes them.

When my parent's basement flooded this spring I had a few seconds of heart wrenching light headedness as I imagined the pernicious water lapping at the helpless cardboard mementos of my childhood. Namely my Topps and Donruss sets circa '84 -'91. The moment passed when I remembered the Triton 5000 series filing cabinet I asked (pretty much demanded) for my twelfth birthday was both fireproof and waterproof. I wish I were kidding. For my thirteenth birthday my parents suggested a therapist. Not that I blame them. What else where they to think when their normally level headed son scrounged for hours in gutters and rugged woodlands for cans and bottles that he could convert into coins to buy a wax pack or two that would add another inch to the growing mountain of cards that needed their own storage wing in the basement. Not that I was alone mind you. I can't remember a neighborhood friend I had that didn't do the same. The competition for those recyclable can deposits were intense. No crying Indians in the Cedarfield development. Our neighborhood was a conservationist's wet dream.

Being a staunch traditionalist, I was a Topps man as much as my Grandfather was a Ford guy and I only begrudingly accepted Donruss and Fleer when the market started dictating I collect some or be left with a weak bargaining position in trades. I never came around on Upper Decks. Too flashy and hipster for me. And forget that Bowman line they tried to revive. Saw right through that ploy. I'm sure there is a thesis waiting to be written on the impact of Beckett's Baseball Monthly on the math and investment skills of a legion 1980's teens. Calculating and trumpeting my collection's worth was a favorite pasttime. Of course deep in my heart, I knew I would probably never sell any of my cards. Heart was my problem. I worked too hard and got too dirty collecting rusty Narragansett cans to simply hand over my '85 Topps Sixto Lezcano to some overweight 40 year old retail jockey. He was a complete stranger. God knows how he would treat Sixto.

Yup, baseball cards reigned supreme in the late eighties and early nineties and that actually became the problem. It became so big people started to take notice. Profit potential and opportunity created a tulip bubble by the mid-nineties. Soon the number of brands, product lines and special sets exploded. Soon after that, the bottom dropped out. Slate has a good article today about the flat lining of the card industry and the relative worthlessness of most cards today.

"Baseball cards peaked in popularity in the early 1990s. They've taken a long slide into irrelevance ever since, last year logging less than a quarter of the sales they did in 1991. Baseball card shops, once roughly 10,000 strong in the United States, have dwindled to about 1,700. A lot of dealers who didn't get out of the game took a beating. "They all put product in their basement and thought it was gonna turn into gold," Alan Rosen, the dealer with the self-bestowed moniker "Mr. Mint," told me. Rosen says one dealer he knows recently struggled to unload a cache of 7,000 Mike Mussina rookie cards. He asked for 25 cents apiece."

I can't remember why I stopped collecting exactly. There was never a magic moment where the sight of one more Phil Plantier card sent me over the edge. Certainly I remember a frustration over the proliferation of sets, but more likely it was puberty, a used car and a girl named Megan. Not that I shed my geek cape completely, as the mid-nineties was also the burgeoning era of improving graphic cards, cheap RAM, SimCity and CompuServe. Though I have a feeling one day when I hand down the key to that fireproof filing cabinet to little Mike D, I'll probably go with the puberty and used car theory.

With Greg on a trip up into the mountains with his French and Indian War club colleagues for their annual reenactment weekend, I was left alone and bereft for a Saturday and Sunday of sports viewing with nary a Sidney Ponson rant or an off color goat joke. Fortunately, I had an excellent couple of days of sports viewing, so I set up my mint collection of 1992 Starting Lineup figurines on the couch to keep me company, popped the tab on a grape Fanta and settled in for some British Open, Tour de France and female beach volleyball. The, ahem, attributes of beach sports aside, it was an excellent weekend for Americans overseas, as both Tiger and Landis ran roughshod over European soil like doughboys in the summer of 1918.

Speaking of WWI, that looked to be the last time Holyoke was watered. I'm all for the links style and public courses on the Open rota and I love a good chocolate brown palette as much as the next guy, but at times it looked like the players could have putted from a hundred yards and the ball would have had a good shot of rolling over the hardpan onto the "green." Certainly the conditions didn't make it easy on the BBC cameramen who would constantly lost balls forcing the viewers to wait till the player was over his next shot to find out where he'd hit it. Not that that the camera shots were all that great when they did know where it was. Perhaps it was course restrictions, but I found most of the shots lacking. If they weren't bumpy or searching for the ball, they were wide shots that added little to the viewing. In the booth wasn't much better. Nick Faldo, after the soap opera with Tiger, seemed hesitant to say anything and the BBC's Peter Alliss called Tiger's mom "Oriental" and then seemed to mix up his golf history quite badly. And while I'm complaining, what was with all the nice, sunny, almost tropical weather? The wind kicked up a little on Sunday, but no horizontal rain, no cutting wind and little teeth to the course. Surely Carnoustie next year will make up for it's almost quaint cousin.

As for Tiger's performance, it was simply jaw dropping. Funny how players complain about his length advantage, but then he goes out and stomps them without taking his driver out (never his strongest club anyway). After ridiculous accurate long and short irons, it will be interesting to watch if it might affect his strategy off links courses. On Saturday, after toying with the field like Mickelson over a cherry cheesecake, Tiger seemed to invite someone, anyone to step up. Sergio and his banana suit crumpled, again. Els just didn't have it yet. Mickelson was in the clubhouse by lunch. DiMarco finally did on the back nine, but it was too little too late. After curling in a eagle at the turn, Tiger iced it with three straight birdies to take any drama out of the finish. I guess he's focused again.

Meanwhile over in France, Floyd Landis continued to piss off arrogant French waiters everywhere by keeping the American stranglehold on France's prized trophy, despite a degenerative hip. The first post-Lance Tour got off to a dubious start, but the last five stages provided some excellent drama. I've written before how cyclists can make just about any MTV reality star appear mentally stable. Well, Floyd Landis is pretty much their poster boy. His oddness is legendary among even cyclists. Daniel Coyle has a nice feature in Outside on the former Mennonite mountain biker, including this quote that pretty much sums him up: "There's only one rule: The guy who trains the hardest, the most, wins. Period. Because you won't die. Even though you feel like you'll die, you don't actually die. Like when you're training, you can always do one more. Always. As tired as you might think you are, you can always, always do one more."

As if things are not bad enough at ESPN or had not gotten embarrassing enough for its employees, the worldwide leader is now running some sort of contest where you can win Chris Mortensen for your fantasy draft. At least I think they are. I can't find the link at the moment so this might all be a questionable sushi induced dream, but bear with me.

Okay, this isn't a horrible idea, but even if I won, I think I'd turn down the Mort. It's not that I don't think he's not intelligent or doesn't know his football. I like his reporting and think he's one of the saner persons on ESPN's NFL coverage even though he borrows Jimmy Johnson's hair. I also commend ESPN for not picking Salisbury because between prepping his football for women symposium notes and trying to think up John Clayton insults, you just know he was available. Still, I remain dubious about Mort's ability to help me.

Yes, I'm sure he knows the waist sizes of each guy on KC's line and has probably baptized assistant coach's sons, but this behind-the-velvet-rope knowledge isn't going to help me and will probably only muddle my thinking. I don't need Mort whispering about Rod Smith's soft hands, charming charisma, uncanny consistency and swell breakfast nook. I'm sure Rod's nice and a great interior decorator, but personal feelings are for the weak. Yes, we all have our draft binkies that seem to make it on our team year after year, but I don't need mine and Mort's. Plus, why do I need Mort when I have the collective, obsessive hive mind of the Internet. I like my draft "experts" to be anonymous at best, and a blurry, geeky thumbnail, at worst. I need the fallacy of thinking these guys are scouring the Net at all hours of the day like albino miners, getting carpal tunnel hitting the refresh button on the waiver wire and running KUBIAK projections through a Plinko machine of variables to give me an ironclad ranking list. I don't need someone chatting with coaches and players and primping for television spots. Then again, a lackey to get refill my icy stein of Tab on draft day would be nice. Maybe I would take Mort.

Other interesting sports links this week:

Can Coach K and his tiny mouth restore the US National Team to respectability?

The fitful engine that is ESPN's E-ticket seems to be running again with a three part look at the death of Pat Tillman. A good read, as most of the E-ticket pieces are, except maybe that one about chess boxing.

The Sports Guy's recent columns have returned to form a bit and his column about picking an EPL team is quite good. It will be interesting to see if we get updates from time to time. His audience is certainly large enough to have an impact on soccer's perception in the States.

In yet another move that will not make me watch: instant replay comes to tennis. I would tune in to a match where the players had to use rackets circa 1975. Maybe that would restore some of the rallies, strategy and drama to the sport. As it is now, most of the players, men and women are too strong and too fast to make it very interesting to watch.

Since 2000, 18 ex-Steelers have died. Weird, sad and spooky.

A great story from the Guardian about Maurice Flitcroft's attempt to find fame and fortune at the Open. After a 49 over par, he found one.

It seems to be a foregone conclusion that the East's dominance of the AL Wildcard is going to end this year. After the rumors about Joe Morgan, Joe Buck, some mushroom tea and Jeanne Zelasko, it seems to be the most common quip making the rounds in the media and especially in broadcast booths. Every national telecast has someone talking about the resurgent Tigers or White Sox taking the traditional Red Sox playoff slot. Really? Sure, the Tigers are a neat story and most days I want to take them home and hug them like a velour plush toy, but the beauty (or curse) of baseball is that it's a long, long season. People seem to look at their great start and be predicting future results. Things sure seem to have gone pretty well for Leyland and Le Tigres so far, huh? Pudge, Mags and Guillen have kept limbs attached. Bonderman's erratic scale seems to be tipping more towards good than bad and Verlander has been as good as advertised. Even Rogers has kept his asshole-ishness in check to have a sterling first half. But have you ever looked at his second half numbers? Can everything go right for the upstarts in the second half? Sure. Is there a better chance they don't duplicate their first half? Absolutely.

As an ESPN graphic showed last night during their tilt with the Pale Hose (it always reminds me of an off Broadway drag revue when people call them that), the Tigers record is a bit of a happy mirage, like pulling a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch off the shelf and finding only sugar dust and a coupon left. Sure, you can lick your fingers and get up most of the crumbs, but it's not exactly filling. The Tigers are a combined 26-4 against the Royals and the NL and 4-11 against Boston, NY and Chicago. To their credit, the old Tigers would have never even beaten up the lesser sisters of the league and they are 7-2 against Minnesota (all wins prior to Minny remebering they were supposed to be a baseball team). The good news is that they have 6 more games against KC, but the next one isn't until August 22nd. The bad news is they play the Twins and White Sox a combined 21 more times, not to mention another swing through Boston and NY and no trips to the NL rejuventator. With the Gamblers second half numbers barely treading the waters of respectability, lots of innings piling up on young arms, the injury bug just slavering to cut someone down at the knees and many players never before in a pennant race, I'm still betting the East holds the wildcard in October.

Speaking of wildcards, is anyone really all that surprised that the Say Shea Kid went Milton Bradley in Toronto? He'd been quiet and content for too long. Remember, this is the guy that called Theo a "fag" when he was traded for BK Kim. So the fact that he had some issues with management isn't all that surprising. What is surprising to me, besides that he was allowed to adopt a kid, is the way the Blue Jays seemed to bungle things. Weren't the Blue Jays supposed to be the Tigers this year? A new sheriff with an open wallet was in town and they were going to challenge the perennial division powers in the East. Well they have admirably kept up so far, but one has to wonder if this is the first hole in the dam and the floodgates on a second half collapse are about to open. Maybe it's an isolated incident, but the clubhouse seems more dysfunctional that a taping of the View, Chacin is on the shelf, Halladay and Burnett are formidable but seem one curveball away from a Tom Browning and they just released a .300 hitter. Yeah, I'm still betting on the East for the wildcard. Though there is always the chance that Ted Lilly alone could sink the Red Sox. I hate that guy.

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.

I decided to surface my submersible craft, Law School Bullshit, in order to dispatch this important news over the wireless:

Wednesday's game between the Astros and Cubs featured a first in major league history.

When Roger Clemens (342 career wins) faced off against Greg Maddux (325) at Wrigley Field tonight, it was the first time in major league history where both starting pitchers had at least 325 career victories. Think about that for a second. Baseball has reached an era in which so often stated that pitchers "can't win 300" anymore that it's cliche, and here we have the first time in baseball history when such longevity and success has graced each's team's time on the mound.

And it's not as if either one is just punching a clock to the feed the kids, either. Clemens was, as you'll recall, arguably the best pitcher in the NL last year (no disrespect intended to Chris Carpenter or Dontrelle Willis) at 13-8, 1.87. And this abbreviated season, he's 2-3 and sports a strong 2.43 era, going went six scoreless Wednesday night for the win. Maddux is 7-10, 4.92 on the year--certainly not the numbers from his glory days of the sub-2.00 era, but not terrible either, especially considering his 1.29 WHIP.

It's an amazing thing for two of the all-time greats to battle it out against one another in the twilight.

You remember the twilight.

When the ball keeps getting a little harder to see, the mosquitos buzz in your ears a little bit louder, and everyone playing knows that pretty soon somone's going to get called in for the evening, and the game will have to end. There's a chill that wasn't there when the sun beat down on the reddened faces. Each at-bat takes on a renewed importance. This could be the last out. There comes a moment in the twilight when no one can any longer deny that the ball is hard to see, that it's probably time to call it a night. But especially in the summer months, when the days run long and hot and can seem to stretch out like a lifetime, there's a little something in all of us that wants the game to go on a little bit more, even if it's not quite the game that it was in the bright sunshine of the afternoon.

That's what went on tonight at Wrigley.

If you tried checking the site the past two days, you may have noticed that SportsBlah was down. I don't know much about the magic of computers, but I can confidently say that we were experiencing some "technical difficulties". I tried fixing it myself. By that, I mean, I kept emailing Mike D. telling him to fix the site. After a little investigation, we found out there was a mix up with our hosting company involving an expired-but-not-really expired credit card, a dildo (something called "the Jackhammer"), 3 lbs. of ham and a flute. Sounded pretty run-of-the-mill to us. So we waited it out.

Anyway, SportsBlah hasn't gone anywhere. If you're reading this, you can see for yourself. See. We're here. Hi. We're not selling sporting goods (as the fake this-site-is-down page that was up for two days might have suggested.) We're back posting about nothing with regularity. We'll have new stuff up all this week. So, you know, tell your friends.

By the way, before we were back up and running today, we learned that the site was completely fine and fully functional in Ohio. Yes, Ohio. I don't know. While I'm sure LeBron James and AJ Hawk were thrilled, it seems like an odd place to have the site working. But hey, you know, whatever. I have no point here. Just thought it was interesting ... the same way a woman blowing a goat on a life raft is interesting.

So anyway, things are back to normal. Thanks for coming back. And if in the future it looks like we've gone away, we probably haven't.

Not much time for dick jokes today. Here are a few links to help you forget how terrible I am at writing a few stupid words a day.

The Hater Nation is fired up about Notre Dame's chances of winning the national championship this year. No wait, he's not.

With the trade deadline approaching, RotoAuthority talks baseball, potential trades, your fantasy team and you.

Do you watch The Office? If not you're either a poor judge of good television, a foreigner or both. But if you do, you'll be happy to know that they're airing short "webisodes" featuring the fringe characters during the summer. But you probably already knew that.

Check out this dipshit from the Home Shopping Club.

A real post, with actual thought put into it, will be up on Tuesday.

First, I applaud EPSN, Make A Wish and all the teams involved in helping those kids, but my God, huffing and puffing through my second mile on the treadmill, at 6:20 in the morning, it is a little tough to take. I have enough trouble keeping it together during VH1's Power Ballad special, nevermind watching these kids live out their dreams. Judging by the reaction the last few days in the gym, a whole lot of sweat seems to get in people's eyes at the same time. Manna to the heart, but hell on my respiratory system and split times. Of course, I'd take these stories over the blunt, emotional blackmail of Extreme Home Makeover, but I can just see ABC trying to make these segment into a weekly show.

Anyway, while you're waiting for the next twist and turn in the gripping Barbaro story, here are the sports posts I found most interesting this week:

The Mighty MJD has a letter from Chris Berman's dog.

The Polo Grounds has a photo recap and commentary on the ESPYs. "It was at this moment that Lance Armstrong suddenly realized he had 2 more peaks to climb."

The Brushback on Jeff Weaver's NL debut: "In an incident that further illustrated the talent gap between the American and National League, pitcher Jeff Weaver, who had a 6.29 ERA in the American League, struck out all 27 batters in his debut with the St Louis Cardinals. Weaver also went 4-4 at the plate with 2 home runs."

Football Outsiders, yes with my fantasy team in the tank it's time to start soaking up football info, with an interesting FO Mailbag. The answer to the team with the most drops is intriguing. Not a lot of surprises on the most, but an interesting entry for the least. Also, a review of EA's Head Coach game.

Hardball Times with an in-depth look (warning stats) on whether the AL really is superior to the NL. (part 3)

HBT also had an interesting graphical comparison (sue me, I'm a systems analyst, stats, graphs and cause and effect is like catnip to me) and conclusions of Felix Hernandez versus Francisco Liriano.

Cubdumb on the classy act that was Mickey Mantle. Perhaps he was really just being honest.

Probably the oddest, and to me wrongheaded, justification of Zidane's headbutt.

Beside the archetype competitive guy, another one that everyone is familiar with is the lunch table pariah. You never outgrow this one. From kindergarten to college to the corporate cafeteria, there is always one guy, one co-worker that just makes eating lunch like watching a long, intimate sex scene with your parents. A combination of BO, facial tics, open mouth chewing and endlessly opinionated, yet absurd, ramblings are his hallmarks.

Through a combination of fatigue, hunger and resignation I was stuck with the unenviable seat across from him yesterday. My usual strategy is to go Easter Island and just chew quickly, play mute and look straight ahead before suddenly remembering a meeting and bolting back to the relative safety of my desk. Yesterday was going fine, I was paying my dues and almost out of there when he veered onto the topic of sports. Now it wasn't even all that interesting of a topic, but I had to open my yap and put my tender ankle in the beartrap. Snap.

My lunch table pariah (LTP) was convinced that Bonds, likely soon to be getting the Al Capone treatment, was getting targeted because he is black and Lance Armstrong, in a similar situation was getting a free pass simply because he was white. It was quickly apparent that my arguments were falling on obstinately deaf ears, but when all else fails, write it on the Internet. Now, this being America I don't think race can ever be completely disregarded, we're all racist to some degree despite best efforts. Still, in this discussion, I don't think it's the biggest elephant in the room. Not to be cute and mnemonic but I think race, relevancy and relationships all have a role in the situation. Putting the creeping spector of centuries of bias and discrimination aside, I think relevancy of the respective sports and relationships, both those with the media and those with the general public, are the larger factors influencing both athletes' treatment.

At first blush, Bonds and Armstrong look like polar opposites, but the more you read about them, the more similar they really appear. Both are extremely driven and have healthy egos. Both are controlling to a T and had some interesting relationships with nefarious health care professionals. The acute difference is that Armstrong is smart enough (or has smart enough handlers) to put on a happy face for the public and at least say the right cliches. Bonds, on the other hand, seems to go out of his way to have the temperament of a little kid that's lost his balloon. He seems to hold a little black book of grudges and transgressions and will remember them to the grave. It also can't be overlooked that Armstrong carries the cancer survivor card and the public want to believe in him and his story. Having him exposed as a cheat bursts not just a man and his accomplishments, but a myth, as well.

Second, like other scintillating and popular Euro sports that have made the jump across the Atlantic, such as open wheel racing and soccer, not a whole hell of a lot of people care about cycling. Huge in Europe, a general, sometimes curious, shrug in the States. The last big bike race held in the US was American Flyers. Not a great track record. It's a fact: People just care a hell of lot more about baseball than they do about guys riding bikes. Have you ever tried to strike up a conversation in an all night diner about cycling with an overweight trucker shoveling down the blue plate special? Trust me, baseball is much more relevant.

Now, neither athlete has ever failed a publicly administered drug test yet the court of opinion in Europe has largely indicted Armstrong of something, just as the court of opinion in the US has largely convicted Bonds of something. Why is that? Is it that both men were taking aim at prestigious records? Or both were surrounded by circumstantial, if compelling, evidence and persistent rumors? Is it that both men continue to file libel suits against all comers. Wait, that's just Armstrong, Bonds remains curiously quiet. Hmmm. Or is that both men were making deep and unprecedented grooves in sports with long cultural histories in the region? I don't really know. Maybe it is simply easier to tear down than believe.

So, who watched the Home Run Derby? I did. I'm such a baseball dork. I told myself I wouldn't do it. That I'd use the time to do something productive like read a book, do some writing, push a midget, shave a goat's balls. Instead, I sat in front of the stupid tv, shirtless, eating Kashi Crunch dry right out of the box. Yes, not only am I sexy, but I also excel at time management.

But you'll be happy to know that while I did watch the Home Run Derby, I had the presence of mind to mute the television from the second round on. "Did you really?" Yes, I really did. There's only so much of Chris Berman's bullshit I can take. Nothing like hearing "Backbackbackbackback...GONE!" on endless loop to make you want to hurl yourself into oncoming traffic. It's like the drunken muttering of an alcoholic Cadbury Bunny. All he needed was a couple dozen "Bwoops!" and a Brown University reference and "Home Run Derby" would have quickly rivaled "My Super Sweet 16" atop the Org-chart of Annoyance. Chris Berman for two hours? Or thirty minutes of spoiled, rich, whores complaining that they aren't getting a pony and a Porsche for their stupid twatty birthdays? Like I said, I hit mute. So there I was, a shirtless weirdo eating cereal with my bare hands, watching a fake baseball contest with no sound, in the dark. I know I've mentioned this before, but I'm a hit with the ladies.

As for the Derby, Ryan Howard won 5-4. Yes, it was as exciting as it sounded. I can only imaging the barrage of sound effects and nicknames I was missing during that nailbiter of a finish. "It's up to David Wright Brothers now ... rumblin', bummblin', stumblin', ... Ryan Ron Howard the Duck... David Two Wrongs Don't Make A Wright ... Christian Okoye ... bwoop! ... backbackback ... GONE! Ugh, shut the fuck up. What was cool was the fact that Howard hit the game winning home run directly into the Mastercard banner. You know, those stupid "hit it here" contests where no one ever hits it there. Well, some lucky duck won 500 round-trip flights from Mastercard, courtesy of Ryan Howard. 500 flights. One person. That's not excessive at all.

But I will say, one of my favorite parts of the derby was watching all those crazy bastards in their kayaks outside of the stadium, paddling furiously towards the balls hit into the bay or river or tributary or whatever the shit PNC is built along. The best was when people just dove in and swam after the ball. No, I'm serious. They just dove in and swam. Right in the water. It was incredible. Then they got the ball and waved it in the air and were like, "Heeeey, I got the ball. Hooray!" And then they'd show more home runs. Oh man, it was an awesome. People totally swimming. One arm in front of the other. Right in the water. At a baseball game. Yeah, that's what All-Star Week is all about. Awesome.

Since it's that annual trivia day where we get no professional sports on television, unless you count Floyd Landis and his bone on bone action a sport, I'll get meglomaniacal and use my final, fleeting thoughts on the World Cup as blatant filler. Greg has continuously promised to fill this humble space with ethnic slurs, Portuguese nationalism and biting commentary on the quality of French hookers at some point so I can't say this is the final time you'll hear about soccer for awhile, but judging from Greg's slothful posting habits, it will probably be the final time this year. No worries, tomorrow we'll be back with insightful commentary on the All-Star homerun derby, or as I like to refer to it, Chris Berman sports water torture. Now back, back, back to futbol.

In short, I liked the World Cup '02 better, though that is probably swayed by the US's run. Certainly I liked having the matches on during the daylight hours, but the US flameout, the diving and the dearth of scoring opportunities (it looks like this Cup is going to go down as the second lowest scoring/match in history next to Italia '90) really put a damper on things for me personally. Ironically, the record number of cards is something FIFA sought out by having the refs crack down on hard tackles and forward's theatrical skills. But rather than act like a deterrent, the mandate seemed to throw lager on the fire. It will be interesting to see if this is just an (unfortunate) adjustment period or a bigger problem. Euro '08 should be telling.

In the aftermath of the penalty kick result yesterday, there was the typical wailing and teeth gnashing from the mainstream America press. I agree that penalty kicks is rather arbitrary, but there are a few other rule changes I'd put higher on the list. One, why can't we add a second referee? It seems ludicrous that we constantly complain about the calls, but ask essentially one man to cover 110 yards by himself. Listen, there will always be one side crying foul, especially with many of the calls so subjective, but four eyes has to be better than two, right? Maybe a second ref would have been in better position to not award the penalty kick to France yesterday. For me, the problem with a vast majority of pk calls is that, similar to the NFL pass interference rule, the reward seems completely disproportionate to the crime and only ends up encouraging more theatrics in and around the box. If you want to call a foul in the box, and it is not a clear cut takedown that realistically prevents a goal, why not award possession, instead of a free kick from 15 yards.

Second, why are there only three subs allowed? I'm not saying make it unlimited, but maybe increase it to five or six. Surely some fresh legs might have pushed the Italians out of their shell or at least saved us from the mind numbing second half and extra time. We kept hearing about how deep teams like Brazil, Italy and Argentina were. Well, how about letting us see it.

Third, after the group phase, why are cards still cumulative? If you end up with a red, I have no problem with a one game suspension, but carrying the cards forward seems silly and results in some uneven and tentative play.

Fourth, okay this isn't a rule change, but who the hell designs the logo/mascots for these events, like the World Cup or the Olympics? Why do they always look like the drug induced ravings of a kindergarten teacher that's had a pychotic break after one too many snack times. It's always bright, sometimes furry, primary colored characters with big eyes and bigger smiles.

Last, I don't have an answer to the penalty kick conundrum. Funny how people don't like pk's but are okay with a coin flip to decide possession in NFL overtime. Actually, I was surprised nine out of 10 made it yesterday. They made it look a bit easier than it actually is. I'm also not sure anyone watching yesterday wanted to watch more of that sluggish mess. Playing till they drop might be the fairest way, but the Italians sure looked content just staying in their half and watch the French chase the clearances. Maybe if some of the Les Blues started collapsing they would have ventured back onto the French side.

Well, that was awkward, and thrilling, and boring, and bizarre. In a World Cup that will be remembered probably as much for all the cards, as it will be for Italy's victory, we couldn't get through the last match without one more stunning red. This time I doubt even French supporters will be blaming phys ed teacher/Fifa ref Hector Elizondo. I kept waiting for ABC to find a replay that somehow, if not justified, then at least explained Zidane's suddenly losing it, but it appears it was more death by a thousand cuts than any one thing. It certainly screwed up ABC and Dave O'Brien's script. After withstanding an hour and half of gushing platitudes while waiting for the Les Blues to send Zissou off into the sunset, Zidane became "that guy" and suddenly turned heel faster than a two year old that's missed his nap. Unlike his header near the end of regulation, this one didn't miss. Really, really weird. I can't even think of a comparison. Maybe if one time someone like Clemens in the World Series took a broken bat and chucked it at another player. Oh.

The match itself, by that point, had turned into a quicksand affair, with the French carrying the play and the Italians just sitting back exhausted, apparently confident in Buffon's ability to stop everything, including PKs (which oddly he didn't get his hand on even one). The Final started off hot and heavy with two quick goals and lots of attacking runs from both sides. But after the Italians woke up and tied it, they seemed content to use their iron clad defense to defuse attacks to the sidelines and laugh through their long, sweaty hair at the French. The French really carried the play, even down a man. After an even end of the first half, the French came out in the second like they'd been promised the finest Parisian chocolates and call girls if they won. After a few perfunctory parries by the Azzurri, the Italians just seemed to tire and continuously blunted attacks but only to send the ball long. The French deserved to win. Even Barthez, maligned by just about everyone, seemed rather calm and collected today. Balboa tried to pin the goal on him and maybe he should have come out, but that was a beautiful header and the defender was completely pinned. In the end, carrying the play wasn't enough and the roulette wheel of penalty kicks came up blue.

My only remaining question now from the World Cup, besides why they bother with the third place game, is what exactly Adidas's Jose +10 campaign means?

Driving in from the airport this morning, I found myself having a divided Jekyll and Hyde reaction to this innocuous NPR story about a guy running a summer baseball league for kids that doesn't keep score, provides life lessons, pep talks and the satisfaction of playing for just the love of the game. Part of me wanted to run out and find some toeheads in need of a father figure and a proper Walt Reniak batting stance, the other part of me wanted to drill Coach McCarthy in the ear for his sappy, everyone get along, Mitch Albom league.

I started playing sports at a young age. Anything, it didn't matter. I organized endless games of pickup basketball, ruined my parents yard with inning after inning of Wiffleball and became almost preternaturally good at table tennis. I also played in organized leagues and on all-star traveling teams. I think there are times to keep score and times to just play until it's too dark to see. There are lessons to be learned from all of it. Obviously, having fathers brawling in the stands or parents berating the refs or coaches using any edge, however suspect, to win is not a good thing, just ego and competition run amok. Still, I believe competition has a place in childhood (for the kids, adults should get their rocks off other ways), but it's a slippery and complex beast to tame.

In weak moments, usually surrounded by my Care Bear collection, I sometimes wonder if I had pushed myself or been pushed by someone a little harder along the way if I could have gone a little farther or reached another level. Much of this feeling is probably just getting older, having life grind you down a bit and envisioning missed opportunities like a sappy Springsteen song, but sometimes you can't help thinking about it. Then again, what would have been the result? One more season or two? An extra plastic trophy? A spot in the Wiffleball Hall of Fame? No matter the result, I think know what the cost would have been. I would have had to embrace "that guy." I was competitive as a child. Some would say, too competitive. There were some legendary neighborhood meltdowns. Vicious and intricate arguments about games of HORSE. I still have a problem with board games sometimes. Just ask Greg about that pie shaped scar on his neck. But I wasn't that guy. At least not for very long.

You know who I mean. That guy now comes to Sunday softball with his own bats, eye black, three gloves and mixes his Skoal with grape Big League Chew. That guy dresses like Brian Cardinal for rec basketball and plays like he'll be disemboweled if he loses. That guy slide tackles from behind and yells Spanish slurs in the pregnant woman's face during the corporate indoor soccer league. He needs to win. He needs to beat someone else. He needs there to be a loser, a vanquished foe, even if it makes him a hated pariah who drinks alone after the game. He must win. It's like a drug.

As disgusting as it sounds, I think that sort of competitive zealotry is often what separates the good from the great, those that make it and those that don't. It might also separate those with friends and those with friends on a payroll. And if that's what it would have taken, I think I ultimately made the right choice. Good to great, at least in sports, wasn't worth it for me, but man, it makes sticking it to that guy every once in awhile all that much sweeter.