Hustle Into A New Decade

Hello and Happy Twenty-Ten to all you Hustlers!

Welcome back to The Hustle. We are all geared up and ready to go for an all new hi-def, wi-fi, digital decade and hope you are too. Say goodbye to the "noughties" and hello to the "teens."

EXTRA EFFORT POINT

First up. Ray Guy.

That's right, that punter dude from the 1970's and member of the NFL's much-ballyhooed 75th Anniversary Team. He invented the coffin corner kick and hang time. He is now on a list of 17 former players nominated to make it into the Hall of Fame. His great career includes three Super Bowl rings. Guy was the first punter ever taken in the first round of the NFL draft (after leading the NCAA in punting yardage for Southern Mississippi), and he was named a Pro Bowler six consecutive seasons.

There are exactly zero punters in the Hall of Fame. Electors could do a heck of a lot worse than to put in an all-time Oakland Raider great. And coming from a Steeler fan you know I'm being objective.

Bottom line - Elect Ray Guy into the NFL Hall of Fame.

Ray Guy4 out of 5 Doctors Recommend This For Snapping Your Hamstring.

TMZ SPORTS? OH NO!

Apparently hearing, "Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!," was the last and only thing Ron Artest can remember about his holiday tumble down the stairs carrying boxes in his Beverly Hills home.

Maybe he was partying with Charlie Sheen and Santa.

I know Harvey Levin and his team of TMZ'ers will get to the bottom of all this right after they finish showing us the blow by blow dismantling of Tiger Woods.

So let me get this straight. Ron can go toe to toe with Dwyane Wade and is nimble and talented enough to match Kobe Bryant in practice but can't walk down a staircase? Hmmm. Probably a little too much Christmas cheer.

By the way, Hennessey needs a spokesman and Ron loves to be on camera. I smell an endorsement.

Kobe Bryant & Ron Artest Test Their New Men's Fragrance - Krazy Night

Will Ron snap? Will Kobe lose his patience? How will Phil manage his next dynamic duo?

Bare-Footin' Craze & Born To Run

I recently devoured a phenomenal book by Christopher McDougall called, Born to Run - A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen.

It is a MUST READ. Especially if your are a runner.

And being an avid jogger since I was a kid running barefoot through the Walker Woods in Toledo, Ohio this book was a Godsend.

Seriously.

As I've aged and continued running a 7-mile-run 4 or 5 times a week my feet began hurting, my ankles cracked, my legs became stiff and inflexible. My hips tightened. My back ached. My left big toe throbbed. And even my balance seemed off. All the while I was wearing conventional (and not to mention expensive) running shoes.

But then I read Mr. McDougall's wonderful tome.

At first, while reading Born to Run, I tried running barefoot wearing only my socks. After I had almost finished my run, I'd take off my shoes and carry them for a quarter or half mile while running on a strip of grass that runs along the Santa Monica Beach. It was blissful.

Something magically started happening.

I felt free. Like a kid again. Closer to the earth. I glided along, my heals barely touching the ground, gripping the grass with my toes. I loved it. So, I decided to try the Vibram Five Fingers Shoes mentioned in McDougall's book.

Now, I've been using them everyday on every run for over four months and they are amazing.

But be warned: There is a transition period.

I bought a pair and immediately tore off running like the wind. I ran so fast and was so exited. I really pushed it. Big mistake. The next TWO WEEKS were terrible. I was so stiff and could hardly move.

But I am stubborn and kept running.

My calves hurt like hell, but the muscles eventually adjusted with time. I had to slow down and rebuild and strengthen the muscles in my atrophied feet, weakened ankles, and unused calves. I had to retrain my long ignored core muscles. It is amazing to think how much damage I've already done by heel striking through the years. I hoped there wasn't too much permanent damage done.

McDougall is a great story teller weaving varied tales together as they intertwine into one great book.

The book starts with McDougall's journey into Mexico's Copper Canyon that began with the question, "Why does my foot hurt?" In his quest for remedies and answers, McDougall discovers the Tarahumara Indians, who are quite possibly the most intriguing and greatest distance runners on the planet. Their real name is "Raramuri" which translates into "The Running People".

The Tarahumara are literally born to run. From an early age, Taramuhara children play running games which continue well into their old age. It is not uncommon for 80-year-old Tarahumara to run literally all day long through rough, mountainous terrain on little more than a mouthful of Chia seeds and Pinole (a corn mixture used as a type of superfuel.). Not only are the Tarahumara excellent runners, they are also known for incredible health, long lives, serenity, and their peaceful and reclusive nature. They are the planets Zen runners.

Born to Run tackles many issues, including why are so many runners injured every year (some data suggests as many as 80% of runners get injured every year). McDougall exposes the questionable science and business practices of the running shoe industry and colorfully takes his readers into the entertaining and somewhat bizarre world of ultra-marathons.

Trust me, runner or not, if you're a human being, you'll love this book.

As I relearned how to run in my Five Fingers my speed and endurance increased. My aches and pains disappeared. I quit using Aleve. I bought some Chia seeds and used them in my oats, smoothies, and salads. My balance and flexibility increased and my core strengthened. My throbbing big toe improved and even my 4th and 5th toes gained "wiggle-ability." My arches are now tough and my back straight. Even my Grandmother commented on how "tall, trim, and healthy," I looked over the holidays.

Now I am looking forward to running my 28+/- miles per week again like I used to before I got hurt and worn down from wearing Asics/Mizunos/Nike/Brooks/NewBalance/Adidas/Etc.

I run on sand, grass, cement, and asphalt. Each surface requires a quick fine tuning as you adjust your foot strike to the surface. You must always remain mindful of landing on the balls and outer edge of your feet and toes instead of on your exposed and tender heels. I recently made my wife get a pair and she loves them too. She now has two pair and is starting to see positive effects.

To go barefooting as much as possible is the best thing you could do for yourself to start the new year and decade.

After all, aren't we are all "Born to Run" by our very nature, history and bio-mechanical makeup?

"You don't stop running because you get old, you get old because you stop running." - Born to Run.

Vibram Five Fingers Shoes - The KSO (Keep Stuff Out) Model Retails Around $85+/- Be the First On Your Block - If You Can Find A Pair

Thanks again in 2010 for reading The Hustle and remember... Give Peace a Chance!

Canary in the Mine Shaft by Dave Zirin

President Barack Obama throws out the first pitch

at the 2009 All-Star game in St.Louis.

Hey Hustlers,

Summer. Ahh, what a wonderful thing.

Ever since I was a lil' hustler, I've basically tried to make my summer vacations about two things:

1. Enjoying life with no schedule.

2. And baseball.

So, in other words, instead of writing, I'm probably out at the beach or barbecuing or drawing or jogging or doing whatever until the Dodger game starts. Then I'll lazily doze off to the voice of Vin Scully and another win for Big Blue... hopefully. But just because I'm taking the summer off doesn't mean one of the greatest writers in the world hasn't been busy.

This Big Time Hustler is always hard at work saving the world through his masterful prose and one-of-a-kind hard hitting style. His work is a perfect blend of sports, real life, and politics.

He's a genius and his name is Dave Zirin.

His weblog, Edge of Sports, is among the many featured links on The Hustle that I hope you've had the chance to peruse between my infrequent pieces. These are all some of the most immensely talented sports scribes in the business but this young fella is already an All-time great. And that's why Mr. Zirin has been chosen by The Hustle to step into the huge void left in your life due to my hiatus.

HustleNation, I am able to keep my eyes on the prize because guys like Dave Zirin always does.

So... until I am forced to return from more endless summer bliss, I bid you adieu.

Thanks for reading The Hustle and remember... Give peace a try.


"Canary in the Mine Shaft"
By Dave Zirin

Last Tuesday night, there were as many African-American presidents at the All-Star Game as players in the starting lineups.

Only the fourteen-year veteran Derek Jeter represented people of African descent. (Jeter, like Obama, is of mixed heritage.) Eighteen percent of the players in the All-Star Game were African-American, including game MVP Carl Crawford, but none were voted in by the fans to open the contest. Jeter is also the only African-American player in the starting lineups of the two marquee teams in Major League Baseball, the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. The Red Sox in particular have become so bleached in recent years, you wonder if Red Sox Nation has a Whites Only sign on the front door. This is particularly notable considering that the Red Sox were the last team to integrate in Major League Baseball.

It sends a message throughout the land that America's Pastime has reinstituted a de facto color line. Yes, Jackie Robinson's number is retired in every park, but also retired seems to be the historic place baseball has had in the African-American community. As African-American star pitcher C.C. Sabathia said in 2007, "I go back home to Vallejo, and the kids say, 'What's baseball?' It's not just an issue for my hometown, it's an issue for the whole country. I think Major League Baseball should do something about it. I don't know exactly what they could be doing, but I know it's not enough."

In the mid-1970s, African-Americans made up 27 percent of the players in the league. Today it stands at just over 8 percent. In the NCAA only 6 percent of the nearly 9,800 Division I baseball players are of African descent.

Every year I write about this issue, because every year the media assess this problem and get it terribly wrong. Jayson Love wrote on Bleacher Report, "More of the African American athletes whose future is in sports seem to opt for football or basketball over baseball, possibly because the sports have 'more action.' "

Gerald Early, an African-American scholar, wrote, "Black Americans don't play major league baseball so much these days because they don't want to."

Ed Wojtkowski, district administrator of Greater Bethesda/Calvert/Waldorf Little League, said, "You have soccer. You have lacrosse. You have the Internet. You have Nintendo.... Kids have a lot of choices these days."

Seattle's Garfield High baseball coach Tom Riley said, "Right now, if you're a black guy, it's not hip to play baseball."

All well-meaning commentaries; all wrong. It's not a question of action. It's a question of access. Baseball players now tend to come in two groups. There are Latino players, scouted before they are 10, signed into baseball academies before their sweet 16 and imported along a global pipeline until they are cast aside or make the majors. Then there are white players, who largely come from suburban backgrounds and college programs. Baseball--in the US context--has gone country club. Like golf and tennis, or their hemp-addled cousins in the X Games, they are sports that require serious bank for admission. In addition, you need parents with the leisure time to be involved. These sports just don't fit the reality for today's working families, black or white.

Leland Barclay wrote a sterling article for the Times Record of Fort Smith, Arkansas, in which he observed,

Baseball on the youth level has become an elite sport. Hand-picked, all-star caliber traveling teams have taken over the sport, and playing on one of those teams isn't cheap. Upfront costs for uniforms, personalized bat bags, name-brand cleats and air-brushed batting helmets quickly reach several hundred dollars before the season even begins. Add in road trips two or three weekends a month, entry fees to tournaments, motel rooms, meals and gas and costs skyrocket even more....

"It is very expensive," said [Coach Johnny] Young, who also coaches a traveling 11-and-under baseball team. "We have a sponsor that pays for our $300-a-tourney entry fees, but the parents are still out a ton of money."

Major League Baseball has attempted to address the access question through a program it runs called RBI (Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities), but it has been like shoveling sand in the ocean. The greater problem is that our cities have become shells of their former selves. I live in Washington, DC. I get to travel to places like Milwaukee, Cleveland and Detroit. The story is the same: deindustrialization, shuttered community centers and home foreclosure signs that pepper the streets the way American flags did after 9/11. In Tom Riley's Seattle, a tent city formed in the shadow of Microsoft headquarters. Five schools are closing and a $200 million jail is being built.

Each city is also the site of a sparkling new baseball stadium, paid for in part or in full on the taxpayer dime. The irony has become a collective noose: fewer African-Americans play baseball because our cities are being strangled; our children are being fast-tracked to a ravenous prison industry; and no one has the time, money or will to organize a good old-fashioned game of baseball.

As sports sociologist Dr. Harry Edwards told me, "You have three out of five young African-American men in places like California and in most of our urban centers to some degree under the control of the courts. You know they're either under indictment or under arrest, incarcerated, on probation, on parole.... We're jailing, burying and disqualifying our athletes. Well, what's happening with the educational institutions? What's happening with the social institutions? So the athlete is truly the canary in the mine shaft that tells us that something is terribly wrong in the youth culture of black America. And that's an American problem. That's not just a black problem."

For African-Americans the national pastime is now past its time. The canary in the mine shift has fluttered to the ground. It would behoove us to notice.

***EXTRA EFFORT HUSTLE POINTS***

Random Thoughts, Tidbits, Trivia, &

Other Stuff In No Particular Order

Dennis Rodman is a Hustle Hall of Fame Hustler.

I miss The Worm.

Dennis Rodman was as entertaining as any NBA legend ever. Hey ABC, how about doing a "Where are they now?" piece on Rodman during the Finals?

My money says he's somewhere in Vegas right now.

Trevor Ariza needs a nickname or at least the Lakers need to name a play in his honor ala Michael Cooper's "Coop-a-loop." I believe the former UCLA Bruin will earn it organically through his play during the Finals. Maybe the Ariza-loop? Or possibly Tre' Ariza? As in 3. Or finally, Trevor A-Three-za. We'll see...

ZenMaster Phil Jackson unleashes Ariza defensively like a smaller version of Scottie Pippen. Kobe has bought into the ball hawking style too. They attack opponents like hungry Dobermans.

I can imagine Phil channeling Mr. Higgins from Magnum P.I. "Zeus! Apollo! Attack!!"

110%

Kobe Bryant is living up to the Michael Jordan comparisons. He sounds like him, plays like him, and now he has developed Jordan's steely assassin's mentality. I think Kevin Garnett taught Kobe his last and best lesson.

Carpe Diem or else!


Syrupy smooth Lamar Odom needs his own candy bar. Obviously, it would be called the "Lamar Bar." Evidently, he has a serious sugar tooth and really knows his sweet treats. I see an endorsement deal in L.O.'s future. Snickers? Gonna be a while? I think not.

I plan on grilling and enjoying hot dogs on the 4th of July while watching Manny Ramirez's return to Dodger baseball. I am eager to hear what Vin Scully has to say. How will Vinny handle it? I wonder if he will express his opinion. I doubt it. Class act.


How do I feel about roids? What do we tell the kids?

Well, I feel the same way regarding Manny as I do about most athletes using (Performance Enhancing Drugs) PED's. It's a teachable moment. Tell the children the truth. Most PED's are medically unsafe, morally wrong and/or illegal, dishonest, and selfish. Who knows what these drugs will cause in 10, 15, or 20 years from now. What about grandchildren? Yikes! It's not worth it to possibly shorten your life.

Manny, I ain't mad atcha. And Baseball is nowhere as bad as football. Oops. SHHHH! The NFL and steroids are never to be spoken of or written about... It's Verboten!

FLOOR BURNS

I am hoping for a seven game Stanley Cup Finals so Pittsburgh and Detroit businesses can make a little cash but I'm always amazed at how poorly the NHL markets itself. Why did the NHL schedule their games at the same time as the NBA Finals? It is so stupid. Hello. Stagger the games so more people can watch your wonderful game. Duh.

The only active NBA player who might know the Triangle Offense better than Kobe is Derek Fisher. D-Fish is a Hustle Hall of Fame Hustler, no doubt. On the court, he has plenty of bruises, floor burns, and has taken enough charges to prove it. And off the court, Derek Fisher is a role model extraordinaire.

Derek Fisher (above) is a Hustle Hall of Fame Hustler.

Big Ben Roethlisberger is looking as big as ever. He is enjoying the off season and has matured into a pretty cool, down to earth kind of guy. It seems he has the same diet as I used to have but Ben's young enough to burn it off in training camp... until he turns thirty. Then he'll need a nutritionist.

Big Ben at the Cavs/Magic game

The Van Gundy brothers (Stan & Jeff) could make extra cash as celebrity look-a-likes. Stan and that mustache look like Ron Jeremy and Jeff will always be Beetlejuice to me.

Jeremy or Van Gundy?

Finally, LeBron James is better than Kobe but the Cavs are not as good as the Lakers. Kobe is the Master and LeBron is still Grasshopper.

Speaking of David Carradine and Kung Fu, he was one groovy Zen dude. RIP brother, you will be missed.

David Carradine as Kwai Chang Caine on Kung Fu.

Thanks for reading The Hustle and remember... Give peace a chance.

White House becomes Champion for Malaria

NOTHING BUT NETS ARE WORKING!

KEEP IT UP HUSTLERS!! Become a MVP!!!

The celeb and non-profit worlds are still abuzz with recent commitments to fighting malaria, but now there are new Champions getting into the game.

The Obama administration announced a commitment to spend $63 billion over the next six years to fight global diseases and provide more aid for children’s health in developing countries.

Read this statement commending the announcement from the UN Foundation’s Vice President of Global Health, Dr. Daniel Carucci.

This is great news for Nothing But Nets.

Some of that money will be going towards malaria, and we are so excited to know that we’re not in this fight alone! We’ve seen in recent months that malaria prevention is a high priority for our government, as shown by President Obama’s statement on World Malaria Day and a congressional resolution to commemorate April 25.


Mostly, it’s exciting seeing MORE people want to help, and that our goal of covering Africa with bed nets is not so far off! The more MVPs and Champions we can gather for our cause, the better – don’t you think? And remember, it's easy to make a difference as an individual, too!

Just a $10 donation sends a net and saves a life.

Also... The T-shirts are VERY COOL. Donate, get a shirt, and be the envy of the neighborhood.

Thanks for reading The Hustle and remember... give peace a chance.

http://www.nothingbutnets.net/

TORN

Hi De Ho Hustlers… Happy Seis de Mayo!

Yes, it has been a while and I am truly AMAZED some of you have inquired about The Hustle. I'm also very humbled, grateful, and genuinely welcome each and every one of you back to Casa de Hustle.

Thanks.

Well first off, I'm pleased to report all things in Hustletown are absolutamente perfecto. The actress wife is acting and the writer husband is writing and this Obama kid seems to be working out. Still, winning feels a little awkward. I think I’ll have a Dos Equis just for the experience. Stay thirsty my friends.

Meanwhile, here in sunny socialist Santa Monica, we are all just twittering and dribbling with playoff joy as two of my surrogate "sons," LeBron James and Kobe Bryant, careen towards one another on a collision course in the 2009 NBA playoffs. One thing is for sure, NBA Commish David Stern and all his subtle yet lovable corporate sponsors are salivating like Pavlov pooches for this year's bone crunching monster mash-up possibility.

So, how’s each team doing? Let's start in the east.

As for LeBron’s Cleveland Cavaliers, their playoff games have about as much drama as NBC has on their new fall schedule for the 10 PM time slot. Zero, zilch, nada. No drama Obama. (Jay Leno? Really? How about maybe giving Stephen Colbert or God forbid… a woman like Amy Goodman five hours of prime time network airtime but I digress.)

Back to the playoffs. Playoffs? PLAYOFF?!

Those young and feisty Atlanta Hawks still haven’t learned to fly and neither the Orlando Magic nor the Boston Celtics are deep enough to withstand the wave of Wine & Gold flowing from the North Coast (Northern Ohio). One caveat though - If Kevin Garnett’s knee miraculously heals, Boston becomes a legit threat to the Kingdom. But, if no miracle cure in Beantown for KG, then The Mistake by the Lake becomes The Best Location in the Nation and the North Shore rules the East once again.

What about west of the Mississippi?

Kobe’s Los Angeles Lakers cakewalked into the Finals last spring and woulda coulda been champions if not for the old school thumping they took from their arch nemesis, the great but thuggish world champ Celts. And unless a 7’6” Houston Rocket named Yao Ming and his wacky cosmonaut sidekick Ron Artest somehow stop Kobe & Company or perhaps golden Nuggets Chauncey, Melo, & The Birdman can outscore the Lakers, then the Western Conference will once again be adorned with purple and gold.

Ho-hum.

The Hustle has been predicting this colossal match-up between The L-Train and The Black Mamba for many a year but something funny always happens on the way to democracy. But now, finally, their day has arrived. THE inevitable confrontation is here... well, almost.

And I still don’t know what to do, what to feel, or how to react.

Don’t get me wrong Hustlers, I love the Lakers but truth be told, when my pasty fresh face hit the L.A scene way back in 1990, I was a LakerHater (GASP! Say it ain’t so, Joe.). You see, my people come from Indiana. I was born and raised in Ohio. And as a whiteboy/basketball nut in the Midwest, go figure, I was a Larry Bird fan. It was almost automatic. I was a die hard Hick from French Lick disciple upon my arrival but quickly realized hating the Lakers gravely cut into my tips as a bartender in Tinseltown.

Slowly, night after night, season after season, the sweet songs and rapid fire delivery of legendary Laker announcer Chick Hearn (Miss you Chicky baby!) and Jerry West's shrewd acquisitions of Shaquille O’Neal, Kobe Bryant, and Zen Master Coach Phil Jackson cemented my love for the Purple & Gold. Even after The Big Nickname (Shaq) bolted the Lake Show in favor of the tranquility of the Miami Heat and DeWayne Wade (Not to mention the Sunshine State's tax codes)- I STILL loved the artists formerly known as the Minneapolis Lakers. They were my team in my new adopted home.

For the record, I have ALWAYS had nothing but love for Magic Johnson. My brother and I used to watch him at Michigan State back on the farm in the pre-cable days with a high powered antenna that picked up his games on WKBD out of Detroit.

But then one night at the end of the Clinton era, I saw something I've never seen before.

It was on late night cable. It was a force of nature. IT was a 30-year-old-man-trapped-in-a-16-year-old-linebacker-point-guard-body named LeBron James. He was this over-hyped, super talented, phenomenal, Ohio state champion basketball/football playing man/child without a father who was touted as the next basketball Jesus. His games were already on national TV and he was only in high school. He was bigger than Maurice Clarett.

Let's just say my basketball life changed forever.

I grew up a couple hours west of Cleveland in Toledo so you might think I’ve always been a closet Cavs fan, right? Not a fat girl’s chance on America’s Next Top Model. (Where is Susan Boyle when you need her?)

Since the Cavs inaugural season in 1970 and basically all the way through the 90’s, this was the only franchise who made the Clippers look like winners. Even when the Cavs had decent teams, they would either get crushed by the likes of the Da Mighty Bulls or crumble under devastating injuries.

Once, drunk at Frosty’s Family Bar on Put-In-Bay Island off the North Coast, I slightly remember watching His Airness (Michael Jordan) destroy the Cavs and Craig Ehlo with “The Shot” (One of his first buzzer beaters) in Cleveland in 1989. If the Cavs didn’t break your heart, they surely were guaranteed to mismanage their way to a lottery pick only to blow the draft year after year.

I cruelly laughed off the Cavs and never considered them a serious sports franchise. I definitely wasn’t a CLEVELAND fan of anything. They haven't won a championship in ANY sport since I've been alive. Talk about a long cold streak, the only thing hot enough in Cleveland to catch fire when I was growing up was the river. Even the FM rock station (100.7 WMMS) was called the Buzzard. I'm telling ya, the scene was dying, man. NFL Hall of Famer Jim Brown was their last champion in 1965.

Until… King James. His bright burning star has brought this town back to life.

In fact, he shines so bright and lively it really didn’t matter where this kid was drafted to perform, I was going to watch him play wherever, whenever, and as much as possible. At the time he came into The Association, I was bartending at various establishments who aired most every NBA game so I got to watch him AND get paid. That was nice. Now we live in the satellite/Tivo/Internet era, and I hardly miss either LeBron or Kobe play. I do miss getting paid to watch b-ball while drinking booze for free.

Trust me, I am an expert on Kobe and LeBron and one thing is a given: LeBron and Kobe are the two best players on the face of the planet. Period. Their comparison is unavoidable.

So finally, after long deliberation, countless hours... years of studying, dissecting, enjoying, and witnessing 99% of both of these virtuoso hoopsters' games, including their Gold Medal winning Redeem Team effort in the 2008 Summer Olympics, I have painfully come to my conclusion.

Here it is - The Hustle’s OFFICIAL OPINION on Kobe and LeBron:

I am torn. Truly.

I love them both but Cleveland has suffered long enough. The Hustle believes the basketball Gods will bless the Cavaliers, LeBron James, and the entire city of Cleveland with their first championship in 45 years when The King raises the Larry O'Brien Championship Trophy in June.

But still, all this does NOT help me know how I am supposed to FEEL. And there's still so many unanswered questions.

Will their match up be like Bird and Magic? Jordan and Malone? Jordan and Barkley? Russell vs. Chamberlain? Or maybe Cain and Able?

Oh, I'm so conflicted who to pull for.

Lately, I've empathized with Archie Manning (Father of NFL quarterbacks Payton & Eli, who are both Super Bowl champions) because I too am unable to choose a favorite son. My emotions are as a tortured as a Shakespearean character or something (“To be or not Kobe?” Or maybe, “The play’s the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King").

King LeBron James indeed.

During the 2009 NBA Finals, I might resort to taking long drives up the PCH listening to books on tape or start a bird watching club because I just can't stand to see either player or team lose. I just can’t face it. Who do I want to win? Who do I want to lose?

I DON’T KNOW!

One thing I've decided and know for sure is this - I’m going to buy each one of my “sons” jerseys then find a tailor to split the jerseys in half down the seams and create two hybrid jerseys so I will never have to lose again.

Bottom line: I’m torn.

Thanks for reading The Hustle and remember, give peace a chance.

Catch The Express!

Lately, I haven't been particularly excited or motivated about running out and seeing Hollywood films like I once did. Frankly, life is quite busy now and my well worn living room is far more convenient, comfortable, affordable, and enjoyable than most modern movie going environs.

What can I say? The movie biz is a dog eat dog world and we're all living in a wait for the used DVD era.

Being a broke as a joke armchair sportswriter and a bit of a homebody has made it pretty tough to beckon me out from my humble but cozy abode. Leaving mi casa means fighting through Los Angeles traffic, enduring rude audiences, sticky floors, snooty attendants, and exorbitantly loco cineplex prices all to experience a picture the old fashioned way... on the big screen. It has become a rare event.

But every now and then a certain film bursts through the minutia to call me out and force me to enter one of those El Grande I-MAX theatres.

One such film had me at hello - The Express.

Ernie Davis’ amazing life story is not only poignant in regards to football, race, and the American past - it also reflects today's America in respect to the central issue of the 2008 Presidential election - racial prejudice.

The film wisely explores some of the same questions white Americans faced nearly 50 years ago about football, the Heisman Trophy, and tolerance that we are dealing with today in politics.

Is America ready for someone other than a white man to cross the color line and become a hero? A Heisman Trophy winner? A President?

Ernie Davis’ life history is germane to the history being made by Barack Obama today.

Some stories must be told. Catch The Express!

Viewing this inspirational tale though a prism of our current, “take off the gloves” angry mentality that some people are expressing right now at this very second about Barack Obama are some of the same exact feelings expressed in reaction to Ernie Davis being the first African-American to win the Heisman Trophy. Those old racist feelings of days gone by seem to mirror the irrational resistance to Barack Obama that we’re witnessing today.

This picture was worth every penny of my hard earned (but depleting in value) cash. As a son, brother, citizen, uncle, and most importantly as a teacher I was pleased that I'd plopped my overworked underpaid butt down at my local megaplex. It was worth it for the history lesson alone. As an avid amateur sports historian who's read a sports page everyday since I could read, I was shocked that I had never heard of Ernie Davis until now. For the record, I grew up despising the Browns.

Some stories are not told because they are the too truthful. Catch The Express! It is a must see.

Growing up in a typical rust belt city like Toledo, Ohio, we were taught that everyone in America was and is equal. But I never had a Black classmate in grade school. I was never taught about the great Cleveland Browns running back known as The Elmira Express and how he was drafted by the NFL but never made it onto a professional field because tragedy struck the star before he ever got his chance to shine.

I didn’t know that the myth of equality taught in school was just that... a myth.

Ernie Davis, among countless other African Americans from generations past, have already shattered and crossed color lines time and time again but Barack Obama and his supporters find themselves up against some of the same types of fear, hatred, and bigotry once again.

My beloved Ohio childhood in the 1970's and 1980's was sadly marked with my own confrontations with fear, ignorance, and racial insensitivity. I was raised in a house and neighborhood that referred to African Americans in the crudest of terms and had little or no real interaction with Black people. We did watch people of color on TV (Sanford & Son, Chico & the Man, The Jeffersons, Good Times) and in movies (Blazing Saddles, Beverly Hills Cop) but they weren’t real. They were only allowed to be funny. My first real interaction with African Americans didn’t happen until Junior High.

In 7th grade, I tragically betrayed my first and very cool Black friend when he walked into the gym locker room from behind and caught me saying the “N” word to another white boy. I was trying to be funny but wasn’t. I turned around and saw my unnamed friend’s face. He was horrified, hurt, and frozen. His eyes cut right through me. I melted away awash in shame. This moment still shakes my soul and leaves me humiliated and is always with me. I knew I was wrong.

I didn’t have anything against Black people but I had fallen prey to that insidious monster mental disease known as racism. Right then, I promised myself I’d change. I knew I didn’t feel any differently about my Black friends than my white friends so, why be an idiot? I didn’t hate anyone. Never have, never will. I was being a follower and decided to become a leader.

Later that year, I invited my Black basketball team mates to my house so they wouldn’t have to hangout at the school waiting for practice to start for two hours after classes let out. They lived too far from school to make it all the way home and back again. We became close friends and I realized I had changed. It felt right and true. Although my Granddad, who was a bit like Archie Bunker, did embarrass me by telling them that they were two of the nicest “colored boys” he’d ever met while giving us apples. I yelled, “Granddad, people don’t say colored anymore, it’s Black.” He said he was sorry. They didn’t seem upset. How could they be? It was an all-white neighborhood. He was a man. They were kids.

When I was a freshman our high school had a predominantly white student body. The racial make up was 85% White to 15% Black. But by my senior year the ratio was closer to 60% White and 40% Black. I witnessed several incidents between my white brethren and Black soul sisters and brothers that have permanently seared my memory like acid. Our school bussed Black kids in from the inner city and a lot of the white kids didn't take too kindly to outsiders and accept them with warmth. Most of the incidents were simply kids being badly informed kids but that does not mean racism and white privilege didn't rear its ugly head.

We were very segregated at lunch, in our bands and clubs, and inside the locker rooms and class rooms. Very few of the AP (advanced placement) or foreign language classes had Black kids enrolled in them even though two years of a foreign language were required to get into college. That’s systematic institutional racism!

Sorrowfully, the most memorable clash happened during my senior year in 1984. It was a very ugly name calling incident in which a close friend and fellow white football team member who was my starting center (I was the quarterback on the team) was asked in front of our entire classroom why he didn't like a particular classmate who happened to be Black. Our class had already been forced to sit in a circle facing each other by our teacher, counselors, and dean to defuse the tense altercations and work it out.

Our verbally assaulted Black female class mate also happened to be a gifted basketball player who led the girl's team in scoring despite having only three fingers on her left hand. She was very cute, nice, and well liked by everyone - Black and White. My former white classmate, buddy, and the guy who's ass it was I had to put my hands under when he snapped the ball to me, sat back, crossed his arms, smiled, then calmly stated in front of everyone exactly why he didn't like her.

He said, "Because, she's a stupid nigger bitch."

We heard the words as they just hung in the air for what seemed an eternity. The room fell silent in shock. I saw an awkward teen sitting there with a stupid, smug, stubborn look on his face who didn’t care what anyone thought. I saw the dean, a very wise dark Black man in his late fifties with graying hair and bloodshot eyes, maintain his control and teach us how to react. He looked into all of our eyes and then turned to my former buddy. We heard him calmly say, “Come with me, please.” We watched them disappear towards the office. Our classmate was suspended and forced to write an apology to the girl and her family. We watched him apologize to the entire class upon his return but I knew he really didn't mean it. Witnessing these events opened our hearts and minds to the destructiveness of racial hate.

I tried forgiving my friend but I never forgot. It was never the same. Nothing ever is after something like that.

The Express once again proved to me that history never dies.

Right now, in this very pregnant moment in American history, we must all embrace our differences in order to change, grow, and learn as a country. We must overcome our past and seize this moment which has been thrust upon us and not let anyone throw it away or steal our history. If you have a friend or family member who is still afraid of facing change and is reluctant to move forward and cross the color line then take them to see The Express. It will help them look back and understand that we've already been here so many times before.

We've been duped. By the news media, by politicians, and by false promises of movie makers. We've all trusted those slick studio trailers designed by Ivy League marketeers who can manipulate our emotions. We've believed boatloads of charming celebrity pitches on Letterman between witty jokes and repartee only to walk out halfway through another disappointing movie scratching our heads asking why we went to see that piece of junk. But this story - steeped in history - has risen up and piqued my jaded interest and found my shrinking but surprisingly vulnerable sweet spot. I think it is my soul. Something from the past triggered that little voice inside my brain and kept telling me to go see this incredible true story about football hero Ernie Davis.

There it is again. Catch the Express! Did you hear it?

Don’t be left behind standing at the station. Besides, my team has a bye week.

By the way, the beautiful woman in the above photo is April Grace, my beloved wife of nearly 17 years. She appeared in the critically acclaimed movie Finding Forrester, which starred Sean Connery and Rob Brown in his movie acting debut. Mr. Brown is the actor who stars as Ernie Davis in The Express and delivers an Oscar winning performance. April says he was a great kid too.

Thanks for reading the Hustle and remember… Give peace a chance.

Love, Danny

Eight Is Enough Already

Ladies & Gentlemen,

The Hustle happily returns from a glorious summer break to present to you... wait for it... wait...

Your 2008 United States Olympic Swim Team:

Nathan Adrian, Ricky Berens, Ian Crocker, Mark Gangloff, Matt Grevers, Brendan Hansen, Larsen Jensen, Cullen Jones, Klete Keller, Ryan Lochte, Jason Lezak, Aaron Peirsol, Scott Eric Shanteau, Gil Stovall, Peter Vanderkaay, Erik Vendt, David Walters, Mark Warkentin, Garrett Weber-Gale, and Ben Wildman-Tobriner.

Oops, almost forgot one.

Last but not least there's some human/fish hybrid kid from Baltimore named Micheal Phelps too. (Applause here.)

Ahh, drink them in folks. There they are. Love them all.

Better love them now because by October neither you nor I will probably be able to remember their names. But don't feel bad because they will soon become a surefire winning bet in sports bars across America everywhere. Here's how it will work - Just sip your beer and ask:

"Can someone, anyone, name four members of the 2008 U.S. swim team?"

Then sit back, order an appetizer, maybe another brew, and get ready for the cash to roll in almost as fast as it does for Phelps. The drooling Madison Avenue advertisers are fighting over the rights for his image to assault us with. Sure, someone might remember two swimmers, maybe three, but don't worry, you'll clean up. So, remember those names because other than Phelps, once these amphibian boys return stateside, it will be the last time you'll hear their names. All but a few are certain to return to obscurity or selling insurance.

"The help from these guys made it all possible." That's what Phelps said after his record eighth gold medal. Sadly, just as 1972 seven time gold medal champion Mark Spitz before him, Phelps will probably be the only swimmer that everyone remembers. Trust me, the rest of the guys will do okay because winning a gold medal is worth its weight in lifetime financial security. But unless they can dance on TV like Emmit Smith, then their 15 minutes of fame might last as long as the U.S. Women's soccer team. Who? Right.

I have to admit, I did not catch Olympic fever. Although I did catch some fencing at two in the morning that was strangely enjoyable but made me wonder how did fencing become an Olympic event anyway?

I watched a couple of the U.S. "Redeem Team" basketball games to see Kobe & company but mostly, I chose baseball, preseason NFL games, and even DVDs of the old 1950's TV series "Playhouse 90" over watching the terrible NBC Olympic coverage. Why? Too many damn commercials, too sappy, and NBC hardly ever broadcast events I wanted to see live on the west coast. I knew the results and found it quite boring without the built-in drama of real time. I wasn't alone. Many people have pointed this out. Bret Lewis, a local sportscaster said, "I don't want to complain about NBC tape-delaying the events, but last night I watched a swimming race. And the winner was Mark Spitz."

Meanwhile, in real time, the world keeps spinning.

Russia and Georgia went to war, which is a major deal, but our President was too busy to come home because he was having a merry time in China on our dime playing grab ass with our women volleyball players. Hey, Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh are hot, but come on, it was just too much to stomach.

Pepsi sprinted to lead the pack of wild western corporations lining up to pander to the Chinese government for a chance to "brand" a billion Chinese consumers by painting giant soda cans all red.

Are consumers now cattle? What, drink a Pepsi for Communism?

By the way, I have not and will not drink any soda drink until every soft drink company gets rid of the corn syrup that they sneak into their unhealthy products. It is making American kids fat and diabetic. Even sugar is healthier than disgusting corn syrup, which is very hard to digest and chokes arteries. Plus, do Chinese people really need KFC, Starbucks, and the Golden Arches?

How about first helping the victims of the Sichuan earthquake before getting a Burger King.

Democracy Now with Amy Goodman, one of the best sources for truthful news and information, reported before the Olympics that Tibetan protesters were going to be shut down in China and they were. But you didn't see it if you watch the mainstream media. They didn't air those monk loving peaceniks, who were silenced faster than a gay wedding here in one of our "red" American states.

Rosie O'Donnell, Ellen Degeneres, and their sexy trophy wives better watch out.

The mainstream media was quick to condemn the Chinese women's gymnastic team for being under age but still loves and praises the man responsible for the terrible trend of younger, skinnier gymnasts - Béla Károlyi. This nut job has abused young girls for decades and according to acclaimed sports author Dave Zirin, Bella called the Chinese gymnasts "half people."

Maybe they do need the Big Mac.

The Chinese responded to allegations of their girls being too small, thin, and young by simply suggesting that maybe U.S. athletes are bigger, more muscular, and stronger because they are all on steroids.

Ouch!

But the number of athletes breaking world records is higher than the number of hot dogs Joey Chestnut can eat at Nathan's in Coney Island. And their record times do raise my steroid antenna. Sorry, the same thought crossed my mind in 1998 when Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa were filling up a swimming pool full of home runs and look how that turned out. And the list of fans being sunk by steroids is long. Olympic experts said the amazing swim times are because the pool is deeper and the outside lanes were not used. And every swimmer in the world is suddenly faster than Aquaman? Something seems a little fishy to me and reminds me of the Tour de France. Paging Lance Armstrong and Floyd Landis. Table for two. (For the record, I love Lance Armstrong but there are questions.)

Supposedly, Olympic testing is very thorough and cheating is impossible but where have we heard that before? I wonder. Maybe we should check the international swimmers' feet for gills or water wings. Or maybe they all should pee in a cup and not just not the pool. Either way it is time to pull the plug.

That said, if Michael Phelps is clean, and I truly hope he and his swim mates are all drug free, then his story is one for the ages. Amazing. He's up there with Jesse Owens, Bruce Jenner, Edwin Moses, and Carl Lewis.

He's an instant American icon. That is, until American Idol returns. Basically, I can sum up the summer sports season with two words:

FINALLY. FOOTBALL.

Welcome back Hustlers.

Remember, please give peace a chance.