The Hustle by Danny Russell

Hustle Into A New Decade

2010-01-04T13:41:00.000-08:00

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

2009-07-16T11:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-07T13:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-13T10:40:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-13T23:59:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-18T10:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Summer Reprint: Ode to Vin Scully

2008-06-29T10:52:00.000-07:00

Hey all ya Hustlers,

Sweet, sweet summer has finally arrived and if you've been keeping up with The Hustle then you know that my predictions were almost perfect.

As in almost perfectly WRONG.

Oh well, what can I say? I am a rookie blogger after all, let's chalk it up to first year jitters. But don't worry, I'll get 'em next time, just like those Chicago Cubbies. (Okay one more: I predict this is their year! I just can't stop pulling for underdogs.)

As for the past year, I've had the privilege of working at the fantastic Village Glen West School teaching autistic children. It was an amazing, rewarding experience and tons of fun. I am looking forward to this summer to work on a few projects, do a little traveling, and basically just hang out with my foxy wife, April Grace. (Who, by the way, recently guest-starred on the Ghost Whisperer and Grey's Anatomy and also has two movies coming out - American Son starring Nick Cannon and Bolden! starring Anthony Mackie. Stay tuned Hustlers.)

Lately, we've been busy caring for our cute little dog, Bubby, who is almost 19-years-old now. (That's 133 in dog years. Wow!) The Bubbster is nearing the end of his rainbow and we're savoring every little moment with him, which led me to choosing "Miss You Before You're Gone" as my 1st Summer Reprint.

I recently received a call from the office of the number one selling sports author in the U.S. for the past five years, Rich Wolfe. They interviewed me about my following piece on the one and only Vin Scully for Wolfe's upcoming tribute book about Mr. Scully.

So, take a moment and give a listen to a Dodgers game. You'll be glad you did.

Enjoy the summer and I bid you all adieu until The Hustle returns in August.

Love,

Danny, April, & Bubby

* * * * *

Miss You Before You're Gone

In less time than it takes to wait in line for a plain frozen yogurt with blueberries and kiwi at Pinkberry, the Los Angeles Dodgers will begin their 60th and final season of spring training at Vero Beach. After more than half a century of sweat, morning thunderstorms, fungos, and Sandy Koufax pitching tips under the hot Florida sun, the artists formerly known as the Brooklyn Bums will lace ‘em up for the last time from the Atlantic coast.

Bummer dude.

The boys of summer sever yet another tie to their colorful Trolley Dodger heritage and fly the coop from the city that serves as headquarters for the Piper Aircraft Corporation after 55 seasons in Holman Stadium, which opened in 1953.

Adios Dodgertown. Later Grapefruit League. See ya snowbirds.

Next spring, they head to the Wild West to christen a brand new 10,000 seat $76 million facility in the Phoenix suburb of Glendale, Arizona. The 2009 Dodgers will share their fresh digs with the Chicago White Sox. Did I just say share? It seems kind of weird for a team with such a storied and prestigious past as the Dodgers to be sharing their training facility with another team.

It’s sort of like time-sharing a new convertible with your mom. Or like wearing someone else’s BVD’s. Eew… Yuck.

Don’t get me wrong, team owner Frank McCourt has plenty of reasons for heading west, in fact, millions of them. For instance, televised Cactus League games will most likely attract more eyeballs because they’ll finally be playing in the same time zone. And southern California hardball nuts will be able to daytrip to camp or take off for a weekend vacation to check out their beloved former Brooklyn Bridegrooms.

And, of course, there’s nothing like that new stadium smell. Ahh. But still. What about tradition? Heritage? Loyalty? Your own parking spot?

I never liked the Lakers and Clippers or the Jets and Giants playing in the same buildings. It doesn’t seem right. But that’s only a small reason why I’m waxing so un-poetically about the past.

The real reason I feel so nostalgic about the Dodgers leaving the tropical confines of Vero Beach is because it reminds me of something very sad (besides steroids) that looms over all of baseball – All too soon, and much to my sorrow, the Dodgers will have to say goodbye their richest, greatest, classiest link to their majestic past - Vin Scully.

Mr. Scully enters his 58th season and, who knows, maybe his last season as the voice of the Dodgers. God forbid. He turns 82 on November 29th. And, just like I still hope for kids everywhere that Santa Clause is real, I hope for our sake that the Bronx native Vincent Edward Scully never retires. Future generations ought to be able to get to know him too. But even fairytales have a conclusion. All seasons come to an end. And, despite his amazing longevity he is, after all, only human. Sadly, at some point the bell tolls for all of us and inevitably Vinny will have to vacate his magical position behind his microphone. At most, he’ll step down within a season or two.

As Vinny says, "I caaan't believe it!"

So, here’s some friendly advice for anyone within earshot. And this goes for all you Dodger haters too. We know you’re out there. Take a little time from your hectic life and catch Sir Vin calling a game or two with his gifted smooth voice before it is too late. Put down the crackberry, (but not the Pinkberry) stop texting, get off those whacked websites, and find an afternoon or evening to just sit back and listen to Vin weave his fanciful yarns before he’s gone. Listen to him, stream him, podcast, him, watch him, steal him off your neighbors basic cable; no matter how you get him, just promise yourself one thing – you’ll try.

Wash the car, head to the beach, go driving, jogging, whatever; as long as soothing Vin accompanies you. Your stress will melt away with each golden syllable. The still red-headed Mr. Scully’s perfect style is somehow both erudite and folksy at the same time. He can work in world history, Hollywood tales, a player’s family tree, Shakespearean sonnets, a birthday wish here and there, and yet never misses a single pitch. Then, between innings, you’ll hear his long running Farmer John commercials that, I know for a fact, have converted countless starving vegetarians back to meat. No one can resist his enticing and endearing Dodgerdog promos.
Mmm…Dodgerdogs.

Trust me, listening to the words, wisdom, and poetry of the former Fordham University standout will add rings to your tree and put a smile on your face. And, as a bonus, for the first time since 1988, the Dodgers actually have a shot at getting back into the Fall Classic. This is one of the most anticipated seasons in years for Big Blue. But much more on that later this season.For now, I’m happy I found you, or you found me, and I hope that you take my counsel to relax a spell with Saint Vincent before his honeyed voice goes silent. He’s the sweetest man on the airwaves.

Vinny, I miss you before you’re gone.

* * * * *

On a personal note – I look forward to you coming back to my little feature, The Hustle. I promise to be honest, share my feelings, think before I write, and tell you everything I know about all things sports. You’ll get my humble opinions, ridiculous rants, and silly tirades. Cockamamie theories, new ideas, and half-baked predictions; in other words, the very best I have to offer. I know you won’t agree with my perspective all the time, hell, you might not ever agree with me, but I truly welcome your comments, complements, and critiques. Just try to be fair and informed.

Remember, stayed tuned to Vinny, please read The Hustle by Danny Russell, and give peace a chance.

Very Funny... NOT!

2008-05-25T09:49:00.001-07:00

Let's get one thing straight - I love the NBA. I mean truly love the game. I watch as many games in HD as my life allows and I have the astronomical DirecTV bill to prove it. I've witnessed 95% of all LeBron's games as a Cav and I can count the number of Laker games I've missed on one hand since moving to L.A. in 1990. I surf the tube nightly for the best games and always find at least one game in each time zone worth watching.

The Association has the world's best players competing at the highest level in the universe but the networks (ABC, ESPN, TNT) are slowly trying to kill the game because as the NBA playoffs heat up, the broadcasts cool off and the coverage gets worse and worse. And their over commercialism has been going on for years. Especially after Rupert's FOX came into existence and the Mickey Mouse led Mouseketeers bought ESPN.

Don't get me wrong, there's still some great broadcasters, announcers, color commentators, and personalities out there like Hubie Brown, Dick Stockton, Doris Burke, Ernie Johnson, Kenny Smith, Steven A. Smith, Charley Barkley, Bill Walton, Mike Tirico, and tons of others but more and more each season the lazy, money-grubbing, corporate networks seem to be trying to ruin the game.

The proof is in the pudding.

Try and make sense of the discombobulated out-of-sequence replays or ignore the endless mind numbing promos for their mostly unwatchable and ridiculous programs. Or just try understanding their dizzying distracting graphics, which usually have nothing to do with the action on the floor, and hardly ever make any sense.

Secretly, I think the big wig network execs hate and resent the league (just like the corporate newsies hate Obama) because the fact is sports (and now politics) are dominated by African American men and almost always beat out their pitiful mostly white counter programming in the ratings (See PGA w/o Tiger and stay tuned to the fall election).

The status quo simply can't resist the profitability of the NBA and sorry Hillary, McBush, and all you corporate newsies - ya'll nothin' but straight playa hate'n. Period.

During the regular season and early rounds of the playoffs, local broadcasters are still contractually allowed to show road games to regional audiences and their coverage of the games are actually telecast as real sporting events. The games aren't just entertaining marketing backdrops or a ploy to get more eyeballs and exposure for more lame ass crappy network programing.

TNT is the least guiltiest network but lately they've fallen into the transparent practice of making broadcasters such as the talented, cool, entertaining, and former NBA great Reggie Miller say, "Very funny," after in-game spots for TBS and TNT's line-up of buffoonerish sitcoms masked as passable comedies.

Gimme a break. Have you seen any of these shows Reggie?

Please.

As Charles Barkley says, they're "turrr-ble."

But, by far, the worst culprit is ABC. Which, by the way,stands for Anything But Color and although it's another column I must ask - Whatever happened to all the black characters on Lost? Why have they all but disappeared from the island or suddenly died? (See April Grace) And where's George Lopez? Hmmm. I wonder... But I digress.

Empty talking heads, like the daffiest corporate shill of them all, Mike Breen, act as if the game is an interruption. ABC strategically places two-bit actors in the crowd so they can be shown sitting courtside then Jeff 'Beetlejuice' Van Gundy works them into one of his off-the-wall conversations. Man, will somebody please hire Van Gundy and Doug Collins just to get them out of the booth. I'll tell ya, I'm so sick of network company men and their greedy resentful sponsors pimping out the game that I love so dearly that I'd pay damn good money just NOT to hear them blabber on about another season finale of Dancing with the Stars or the premieres of The Mole and The Bachlorette.

Who watches this crap anyway? I'll stick with Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, David Letterman, Bill Moyers, Amy Goodman, Lil' Bush, and The Boondocks, thank you very much.

Another one of my big beefs about NBA coverage on ABC is their mistimed replays and overuse of strange camera angles, including the Floorcam and Skycam angles used throughout its coverage. If I wanted to see the game at some crazy angle from nosebleed seats I'd go to the game and sit in the rafters. Jeez.

The networks are so concerned about getting reaction shots of celebrities like Eva Longoria, Jack Nickolson, or David Beckham rather than actually showing us the damn game. Okay, I can sort of understand Jack, he's a Laker lifer. And Eva? Well, she is married to Tony Parker and she is pretty hot. But Becks? Aw, come on already. He can't even get the L.A. Galaxy to win two futbol matches in a row. Shouldn't he be at home practicing "bending it" with Posh Spice.

Although, I wouldn't mind seeing her up close on the Poshcam... Zing!

Oh noooo... It's like their afraid that I might actually get to see a well-timed replay of a critical play in sequence. I might be able to tell if a ref's call was legit or not. Well, maybe that's exactly what the corporations are covering up. Maybe they're hiding corrupt, bought off refs who are shaving points but we'll never really know.

They won't show us the evidence!

If they'd cover the game a little more closely and truthfully and show us then there would not be any doubt. Can you hear me Mr. Stern? And this goes for all sports commissioners. But maybe that's what they're all afraid of. Maybe we'd get to really see why Rasheed is always so damn pissed off. Maybe we'd get to see that our favorite stars really foul out in the 3rd quarter. Maybe the Patriots are a fraud. But that doesn't matter 'cause - it's time for more promos and graphics. More, more, more...

Well, Here's my simple solution. Can you say pay-per-view?

I'd do it in a heartbeat because my short time here on Earth is worth it. If I could I'd watch the Finals on C-Span like I watch my politics - unfiltered, raw, and with as few talking heads as possible, I swear, I'd do it.

But that's not a reality... yet.

For example, take the Lakers broadcast team of Joel Meyers and Stu Lantz. They are really two of the best broadcasters out there and to be honest most of the announcers aren't bad - it's the corporate goons who make the all these greedy decisions that are tarnishing the game's brilliant luster. Joel & Stu enhance the game's brilliance. They're the epitome of professional broadcasting.

They frequently have in-game conversations with celebrities and hardly miss a beat. Their pertinent replays are in sequence within the context of game flow and they work their sponsors into the mix with taste and class. There's no crazy camera angles or fish eyed wide shots during game action. The graphics are relevant, seamless, and with a touch of high tech coolness.

I'd definitely pay to hear them in a New York second rather than being force fed the three amigos on ABC.

It's a damn shame basketball loving purists have to be subjected to the above mentioned clueless networks and their over-commercialized version of the last two rounds of the playoffs. I wish we had a choice of who brings us the Finals. The networks would have to go head-to-head with each other so that WE could be the ones who determine who's the best. Just like that God awful American Idol, where the fan's vote might actually count.

But then again, we've already proven that we aren't so great at counting votes either - Watch you back, Barack;-)

The Hustle's Bottom Line Truthiness: I really do not concern myself too much about the broadcasters or their opinions. For the most part, I could really give a rat's ass about what they are saying and here it is in a nutshell - All I really want is for them to show me the damn GAME! I want to see the Finals broadcast with as much honestly, integrity, and professionalism that it is played and coached with... Period.

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

Hey Joe

2008-03-18T09:43:00.000-07:00

While lounging around after brunch on the patio I occasionally glanced up from the newspaper to the TV as the possible but unlikely Grapefruit League champion Los Angeles Dodgers were beating up on the real world champion Boston Red Sox. I watched the game with the volume muted (sorry Vinny) as L.A.’s new manager Joe Torre sat quietly in Holman Stadium’s breezy dugout trying to figure out just exactly who are these unfamiliar boys in blue. He scratched his head pondering how to create an identity for his hodgepodge team of misfits.

Last year they were a bit too young and a bit too old and their laid back skipper, Grady Little, was a little too much like the skipper… from Gilligan’s Island.

Lest we forget, their season ended in more confusion than an episode of Lost.

The boob tube was muted because I was listening to a digitally remastered box set of the still futuristic sounding Jimi Hendrix Experience. Forty years later and his music still makes the hair on my arms stand up with his soaring solos and magical riffs. I was engulfed in a purple haze when Jimi wailed, “So-uh, are you experienced? Have you ever been experienced-uh?”

That’s when it hit me – Experience. Jimi explained it all in song.

Experienced professional veterans. That’s who Joe will lean on early this season to send a message to his gaggle of talented young wanna be stars. Admittedly, some of the Dodger vets are long-in-the-tooth vagabonds but not so long ago they were decent professional ball players. Except now, in the twilight of their careers they're forced to listen to Joe not only because of his multi-championship past but because they really have no other choice.

Bad play or behavior will get you cut or traded lickety split in 2008. Trust me.

Unlike last year, when the team divided into factions between youngsters and vets, this season will carry severe consequences for such stupid behavior and selfish comments. The front office finally went out and hired a truly respected, capable manager who has the stature and knowledge to assemble the winning clubhouse needed to forge a championship attitude.

Now I would have preferred that Frank McCourt snatched up the effervescent Bobby Valentine from exile in Japan instead of Torre but that’s another column.

So, like every training camp in March 2008, hope springs eternal. Each and every team says, “this is our year,” but there’s something different going on down there in Dodgertown. Maybe it is a sign of the times because there’s real change in the air. This being the Dodgers last camp in Vero Beach is a part of it. And maybe even because of the groundbreaking and unprecedented presidential campaigns of Barack Hussein Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton there is a feeling of true renewal, actual change, and hope. Whatever the reason – it is real. And one thing that is for sure is that change is greatly needed in both the Whitehouse and in DodgerNation. The Dodgers are famous for making change, like when they integrated MLB with Jackie Robinson, and now they have to embrace change in order to break their twenty year championship drought.

The status quo isn't and wasn’t working.

Joe Torre suddenly became available during the off season and the Dodgers instantly gained a leader who commands respect, demands maximum effort from his players, and gets both. His resume alone is too damn impressive for any player to ignore. A guy like Jeff Kent, who can be a major league curmudgeon at times can still play ball in that old school Ty Cobb kind of way and is a good fit for Torre’s style. Also expect lovable but fragile Nomar Garciaparra and bloated question mark Andruw Jones to both give their best efforts for their new boss and have bounce back years. And expect a big trade or two by the 4th of July, especially if infamous hypochondriac Jason Schmidt doesn’t pan out. He’s been great in the past but he’s a head case. Dodger fans must rely on a miracle of modern medicine to repair his elbow and Torre’s best Dr. Phil imitation to save Schmidt’s fragile psyche.

General manager Ned Colletti has a lot riding on that big right arm too. He really rolled the dice on the former Giant ace and it’s not working out so far. I am very glad Colletti showed some patience and grande cohones by not trading away future all-stars Matt Kemp, James Loney, Russell Martin, or any other of their talented blue chippers like Andy LaRoche, Jason Repko, Andre Ethier, and Chad Billingsley. But, I suspect Repko or Ethier or both might be dealt away for a lefty. Especially if Andruw Jones proves to be sound and healthy.

Experience is what old Joe will lean on when the Dodgers begin playing real games this spring but his Dodger kids will be tested early because of nagging injuries. Kent and Garciaparra are banged up, heal slowly, and both remain creaky. As the season wears on into the dog days of summer Joe will depend and demand a lot from the Dodger youth, riding them hard so they'll be ready to perforn into autumn when each pressurized game grows in importance. If you can remember all the way back to the mid 1990’s, Torre, a true hometown hero who had grown up in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, led his first championship New York Yankee team with young, unproven talents like Derek Jeter, Bernie Williams, and Jorge Posada then leaned on vagabond vets in the fall like Jim Leyritz, Cecil Fielder, Paul O’Neill, and Luis Sojo.

Recently, the Dodgers brilliantly tapped into their most experienced and wisest baseball resource by incorporating the great Tommy Lasorda back into the clubhouse. I expect a great season at Chavez Ravine and can’t wait to see Joe Torre ask Tommy Lasorda for his input. We might even see Tommy sitting right next to Joe in the dugout offering a little of his experience ala Don Zimmer.

Jimi Hendrix was, is, and forever will be a mind blowing genius. I just didn’t know he was able to foresee the 2008 Dodgers return to glory by speaking for Joe Torre to me from the grave as they practiced under the Florida sun but apparently he can because I could hear Joe’s thoughts resonating in Jimi’s 40-year-old lyrics:

So-uh, are you experienced?

Have you ever been experienced? (-uh)

Well, I have

Uh, let me prove it to you, yeah

Trumpets and violins I can-uh, hear in the distance

I think they’re callin' our name

Maybe now you can't hear them,

But you will, ha-ha, if you just

Take hold of my hand

Ohhh, but are you experienced?

Have you ever been experienced?

Get ready Dodger fans; this year promises to be a mind blowing experience. Summer 2008 is going to rock a lot like the late sixties and so are the boys in blue.

So, have you ever been experienced?

Indeed.

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

Smallball

2008-02-13T10:10:00.000-08:00

I'll admit it, I've lied before. I'm not proud of it but it's true. And I would bet the farm that you've lied too. We've all lied. Only most of us will never have to tell lies while testifying in front of Congress on national TV with our life's work and reputation at stake like baseball great Roger Clemens chose to do today.

I feel bad for him but he did lie. He failed to tell the truth.

Besides shooting B12 into his powerful backside, the Rocket also shot tons of cash into the pockets of slick sleazy attorneys who turn lies into murky half truth innuendo. He retained them to make his lies go away or even turn his untruths back into the truth.

But he’s not alone.

Clemens’ former trainer, Brian McNamee is also a liar. He saved five-year-old used needles, syringes, and bloody bandages as evidence against Clemens but nobody really knows if the evidence is real. This guy is unbelievable. And he's a weasel.

He makes former LAPD detective Mark Furman seem like Serpico.

McNamee told people including Clemens that he was a doctor with a PhD. It turns out his PhD stands for piled high and deep. Suspiciously, Clemens still kept McNamee employed even after he found out his bizarre trainer injected his wife Debbie with human growth hormones. What a strange relationship indeed.

It’s all a mess.

Today’s hearings made me sick. I feel sad for both Clemens and McNamee because they're both being used as scapegoats much like Barry Bonds. I don't have an agenda for or against Clemens, McNamee, Major League Baseball, or any athletes and trainers.

I think it’s important, appropriate, and necessary that Congress investigates all professional sports. But who will investigate Congress? When did the truth join a political party? I guess the only way Congress could find the truth is if it was a campaign contribution. I thought they’d really investigate this case and get to the bottom of corruption and performance enhancing drugs in sports but all Congress did during their hearings was scapegoat. Where are the owners? Where is the Players’ Union? Where’s Bud Selig?

All M.I.A.!

But stay tuned. This story has the drip drip effect of Watergate.

I love sports and want baseball cleaned up. We need all sports cleaned up. No more fixed games, gambling, fighting, spying, or fleecing U.S. citizens for billions of dollars because we all pay for it. We pay for it with our taxes. Usually a week or two after MLB’s opening day is when I pay mine. And it is our taxes that pay the salaries of Congress and subsidize all these giant new stadiums that our stars play in.

We ought to stop paying for these rich owners’ new mega stadiums, which take money directly from children for building more libraries and schools, and demand for their accountability.

No more free lunches on the backs of ordinary tax paying citizens.

I’m sure the truth will come out - it always does. But until then, MLB, Congress, Roger Clemens, and Brian McNamee and all of sports look small.

Very small.

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

Hail to Commander-in-Chief ZenGambler

2008-02-10T22:15:00.000-08:00

Long ago he was named the ZenMaster. Before that his former Knick teammates referred to him as Head and Shoulders. It was the 70’s after all. Some of his current almost-too-young-to-shave-players call him P.J. Occasionally, one of his fiercest competitors, former coach, now ESPN analyst, and still-hasn’t-beaten-him-in-the-playoffs-yet Jeff Van Gundy, mockingly labels him as Big Chief Triangle. In Montana during high school he was Bones. Whatever the nickname: Action Jackson, the Mop, or the Human Coat Hanger – there is one undeniable moniker this former hippie maverick has earned – the best NBA coach ever.

Okay, this should be easy… Can you name him?

Who is Phil Jackson, Alex?

Yeah. Phil Jackson indeed.

The mystical roundball sage, well known and world famous as the game’s best coach, is the most successful bench conductor since the late great Boston Celtic coach and outspoken Jackson critic Red Auerbach. Only Phil has as many championships as legendary Red, who dominated the game while stoking his stinky stogies along the sideline. He blew plenty of smoke into the rafters while hoisting up trophies in arenas everywhere.

Red's image was synonymous with the NBA for decades. Today, most NBA coaches are practically anonymous.

Outside of maybe Pat Riley, Auerbach, Jackson and a few others I’d bet most people do not even know the name of a single coach in the NBA. Quick, name the coach of the defending 2007 world champion San Antonio Spurs. Give up? Time. His name is Gregg Popovich. That’s right, even though straight-laced Coach Pop is one helluva good coach and his Spurs have won four rings, he isn’t nearly as famous or successful as best selling author, kooky oddball, and commercial pitchman Coach Jackson.

Jackson has become a coaching icon. And quite an eccentric one at that too.

Phil has several eclectic interests ranging from film, literature, traveling, politics, to spas and spirituality. His unique blend of Eastern philosophies, Native American traditions, and hippy demeanor mixed with his strict Pentecostal upbringing is legendary. He's known to burn sage in a locker room to fend off bad spirits during losing streaks. The technique is called smudging, which is the burning of certain herbs like sage, cedar, and sweetgrass to create a cleansing smoke bath that purifies the space.

Whoa, that's groovy, dude.

And by the way, politically, he says he’s backing Barack Obama. That could be good news for Obama, because Phil knows a winner when he sees one.

He jokes that he prefers not coaching All-Star games anymore. Even though the Lakers currently do not have the best record in the West, Phil responded to questions about whether he’d like to coach in the All-Star game by saying, "Well, it's an honor representing your team. But God help me if I have to go to the All-Star game. I really wouldn't want to do that. There are a lot of young coaches. It would be great to see them there. I think I have reservations somewhere, a place to relax and retreat during that period of time.” Coach went on to say, "But Kobe (Bryant) told me a week ago that, ‘we’re going to send you there regardless.’ So, I'm trying to do my best to stay on top of it."

Phil usually gets what he wants so chances are he won’t be coaching in New Orleans over the All-Star weekend and Obama will be President. And if I were a betting man, I’d wager that the ZenMaster will be enjoying a nice sabbatical filled with rub downs, mud baths, and meditative sunsets at his favorite spa, the Golden Door Spa & Resort in Escondido with girlfriend and Lakers owner Jerry Buss' daughter Jeanne Buss. I hear the spa is spectacular. As in spectacularly expensive.

Some say the nature of being an NBA coach is a lot like being President of the United States. And if this is true then Phil Jackson is Franklin D. Roosevelt. They share many similarities. For example, the NBA doesn’t have a 22nd Amendment, so just like FDR, Jackson isn’t hamstrung by term limits like good ol’ Bubba Clinton, but I’m sure he relates to Slick Willie a little bit because, just like Hillary, his girl, Jeanne, is also poised to someday be President of the… Lakers.

Presidents have voters; coaches have fans and both positions are subject to public opinion. The only thing that matters more than public opinion are results. Phil gets results big time. He changes opinions by his deeds. Coaches are not measured by elections or votes they are measured by wins, playoff appearances, and bling. Championship rings. And Phil owns tons of hardware. His diamond rings are forever. His rock collection is so bright the bling could blind Paris Hilton.

In 2008, one-of-a-kind Coach Jackson is serving long into his fifth term after leading generations of players to 9 NBA titles. Just like Roosevelt, he too has resided over the Greatest Generation of all time – the Chicago Bulls. And now, he has his perky young Los Angeles Lakers seemingly assembled for a deep run into the Western Conference playoffs and beyond.

He magically ridded himself of Kwame “The Pink Hole” Brown with help from much maligned but recently resurrected Lakers GM Mitch Kupchick when the former North Carolina Tar Heel pulled off The Spanish Acquisition - Pao Gasol.

Ole' Mitch! That was one Pao-erful move. Badump bump.

I already hear Jackson’s deep bellow, “Fresh water for my horses, and paella for all my men.”

For years, critics have claimed Coach Jackson was too impatient and could never build a team from the ground up or turn around perennial losers like Larry Brown. Well, there’s no one like Coach Brown and newsflash - when he's won, he's had talent. All great coaches need great players. Period.

There is a grain of truth to the fact that Jackson became head coach of the Bulls after owner Jerry Reinsdorf assembled all the players and of course he signed on with the Lakers after former Laker GM Jerry West pulled off the Shaq deal. But to me, his career choices show that in reality, Phil is a good judge of talent, knows what he does best, and is smart enough to choose how to be in the right place at the right time.

He knows when to show 'em and when to fold 'em. Call it Karma. Call it psychic energetic prairie wisdom. Call it whatever you want. The dude’s got good Chi.

But now it’s different. He came back gambling on the franchise that was reeling after an implosion of egos and age. He needed time off to recover from drama overload. He had to have two hips replaced and a heart surgery. He looks more limber, healthy, and fresher then the day he signed on for his first stint with the Purple & Gold Gang back in 1999.

Way to go Jeanne.

Finally, for Kobe’s sake, the pieces are all there for the new Lake Show. Only it’s going to require some patience in LakerNation because there are some pretty big "IFs." The biggest is IF phenomenal center Andrew Bynum can return to full strength as expected in March. Also, there's IF mercurial Lamar Odom regains his usually reliable shooting touch. And IF slashing defensive ace Trevor “The Razor” Ariza heals his broken foot. And IF Pao Gasol along with his 18 points, 8 rebounds, 1.5 blocks a game can all gel.

IF they do - It could be parade time in June again down on Figueroa Street.

As Chicky baby used to say, “The door's closed, the light's out, the eggs are cooling, the butter's getting hard, and the Jell-o's jiggling!

Coaches, like Presidents, are officially the leaders of their people but Jackson is also part riverboat gambler and part nonconformist gunslinger similar to the fictional character in Kenny Rogers’ song, The Gambler. Except in real life, if Jackson were to hang out with a country star, he'd probably perfer hanging out with Willie Nelson on his bus more then with Kenny in Laughlin or Reno, if you know what I mean.

Irie, mon.

LakerNation, don't forget that you read it here first in The Hustle: If healthy, the Lakers will beat Boston in seven games to become 2008 NBA champions in an classic for the new millennium.

That's right, I believe that, barring injures, the smart money has already shifted onto Jackson and his built-from-the-ground-up, self-nurtured young Laker team. These talented kids will allow Coach Jackson to pull yet another ace from his sleeve and set him alone on the NBA mountaintop for his record 10th championship.

And just to make Red Auerbach rollover in his grave, I predict not only will these young Lakers beat the old but rejuvenated Boston Celtics, but they are nowhere near finished helping P.J. collect more shiny hardware and rings. Yes, these new Lakers are so good that the ZenGambler will not be able to cash in his chips and ride off into the sunset until, well,

I imagine Kenny singing now…

There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealins done.

Commander in Chief Phil Jackson might earn yet another nickname – The ZenGambler.

* * *

Remember, please read The Hustle and give peace a chance.

Let's Honor Our Military & NFL Vets Everyday

2008-02-03T00:29:00.000-08:00

Boy, we sure can heap tons of patriotic attention and hoopla onto our military veterans during holidays and championship football games. Sometimes, I'm amazed by how we celebrate their greatness. We honor our veterans with uniformed marching guards, giant flickering flags, nationalistic songs, and speeding jet fighters roaring overtop sparkling new capacity filled stadiums.

For over half a year on every Sunday we worship our gridiron greats as they sacrifice their bodies and souls for the game we love in the country we love – all for our entertainment.

But what happens after the last whistle? What’s life really like when the lights go out? What ensues after the very last satellite truck rolls out of town? Where do we go after the championship and welcome home parades are over?

We go shopping at the promenades and malls of America trying not to see the homeless military vets living in the alleyways. We step over men and women sleeping in the streets on our way back to the car with our new toys that we really can’t afford. We kick the homeless to the curb while holding our breath to avoid inhaling the stench of urine then speed away into the night driving gas guzzling SUV’s with “Support Our Troops” bumper stickers.

Since this is a sports column, I won’t get political but it must be pointed out that it is us, the American public, who pays for and subsidizes all of these new mega sports venues with our tax dollars while already rich owners fleece us and get richer. Our tax dollars are also supposed to provide excellent medical care for military vets but something has gone very wrong. The next time you get the chance, go check out and visit your local VA hospital. Most likely, the buildings are old and crumbling, the medical equipment is outdated, and the entire program is mismanaged and woefully under funded.

I’ll just mention one more fact about military veterans then back to sports – according the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs almost one-third of the homeless population have served their country in the Armed Service. Enough said.

Meanwhile, many NFL vets will never stroll along the promenades or malls of America because they can no longer walk. Many NFL vets can’t even step up high enough to get their foot onto the curb.

So, what happens to 300 pound men who live with constant pain and can’t go to the bathroom without help or reach down to tie their own shoes? They sit in darkened rooms losing their minds while popping pain pills that they’ve paid for by pawning off all their belongings because their insurance and pensions has evaporated.

And what happens when they can’t pay the rent and lose everything including their families? They fall through the cracks and join the ranks of the homeless right next to their fellow homeless military veterans living in tattered sleeping bags.

This must stop! These insane, cruel, shameless heart breaking stories must change immediately.
Most of us have heard horror stories about the mental and physical problems of former NFL players and how they suffer yet somehow we still believe that our former football gods must be fine and are doing pretty well since they played in the richest league in the world. After all, they are paid millions for doing something they love. They are treated like stars for the rest of their lives and their families are set for generations, right?

Wrong.

The battle between players and both the NFL and the Players Union over pensions and disability health care has been raging for decades. Only way too recently has the taboo subject bubbled up in the news because of the advocacy of a few brave outspoken former players like Hall of Famer Mike Ditka, former Pro Bowler-turned-often-injured journeyman Kyle Turley, and celebrated tough dude former St. Louis Cardinal lineman Conrad Dobler.

Dobler recently spoke in front of 30 former players including Ditka, Turley and among others Hall of Famers Mean Joe Greene, Carl Eller, Harry Carson, Willie Davis, and Gale Sayers. Also present was past Super Bowl playmakers Don Maynard and Thomas "Hollywood" Henderson.

Dobler says he's paid for his playing days with 17 surgeries and five knee replacements. He is 90% disabled and struggles to make ends meet on an NFL pension that pays players of his era – a lousy $100 a month for each year of NFL service. Dobler started applying for and being turned down for disability when he was 42.

Today, Dobler is 57-years-old.

During a recent press conference Dobler, who made the list for dirtiest-player-ever half-joked, half-groaned, "I've been turned down more than all the sheets at the Marriott."

Recently, a dear friend of my wife, actress Tara Joyce, who by the way, appears in the new Joan Rivers play in Westwood at the Geffen Theatre, called and asked if I’d seen the latest episode of HBO’s Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel about the nightmarish lives of two wives and one ex-wife of former NFL players who struggle daily with their husbands’ physical and mental problems. I had watched the heart wrenching segment intitled Family Burden by correspondent Jon Frankel and it was extremely moving.

We discussed the terrible events and how after the NFL the wives lives are far from glamorous or wildly successful. All three players careers in the report ended because of physical and mental ailments caused by injuries and pain.

One player, former Kansas City Chief Joe Phillips, began drinking heavily after realizing he could no longer live without playing. Now, the former United Way spokesman is a wanted fugitive in multiple states for drinking and driving. When he was ordered to appear in court, he simply disappeared into thin air.

That’s a pretty good trick for a 6’5” 300 pound man.

His wife Cindy Phillips said, "...that while he played his compulsion was working out and staying in shape but after retiring his compulsion quickly turned into bad and destructive habits. It was like he snapped and replaced the thrill and violence of playing with drugs and by hanging out with people he’d never associate with before." She said he became verbally, physically, and sexually abusive too. Cindy and their three kids haven’t seen him for the last two years.

Another story tells of Brandi Winans, the ex-wife of former Super Bowl champ Jeff Winans and how she has lived in fear for years after Jeff’s mind turned cloudy and dark after being knocked out 11 times from suffering concussions. He too became abusive and violent and experienced black-outs after downing painkillers by the bottle to deal with his constant pain.

And then there’s the sad tale of Autumn DeMarco, the wife of 35-year-old former Michigan State standout lineman and five-year NFL veteran Brian DeMarco. She tearfully recalls the time she and her family were forced to live in a storage unit. And how Brian can’t even use the bathroom without Autumn's help. She saved his life when she found him trying to hang himself with a belt after he became hell bent on collecting a life insurance policy because he thought he was worth more dead than alive.

It’s not only former players and their wives that suffer – its entire families.

Take the unfortunate story of Garrett Webster, the son of the late great former Hall of Fame Pittsburgh Steelers’ center “Iron” Mike Webster, who testified in front of Congress that his father had suffered from mental illness that was widely attributed to head injuries.

"I would give my life to never see another family end up like mine," Webster said.

Hopefully, by exposing the tragic truth of these former NFL veterans' lives, we will no longer sweep their stories under the field turf. Like our homeless military veteran brothers and sisters - they have been ignored.

Tara, a native Chicago Bears fan, ended our conversation with a great idea. She wondered what if every NFL fan could give a dollar to a fund that helps the former players. I told her it was a terrific thought and I’d look into the subject. It turns out she is on to something because there is such a fund. It’s called the Gridiron Greats Assistance Fund, an organization founded by former Green Bay Packer Jerry Kramer to give help and financial assistance to retired players who are in dire need.

I doubt the NFL, the Players Union, or the owners are able to feel shame but maybe, if each one of us gives a little donation to the men and thier families who sacrifice so much for our entertainment, we can put an end this ridiculous situation.

~ ~ ~

By the way, I already sent a donation to the Gridiron Greats. Now I can enjoy watching the Super Bowl with a slightly less guilty conscience.

The link to Gridiron Greats Assistance Fund is: http://www.gridirongreats.org/

If you subscribe to HBO, try watching Real Sports w/ Bryant Gumbel. It's a great show.

The link for Real Sports w/ Bryant Gumbel is: http://www.hbo.com/realsports/index.html.

Enjoy Super Bowl Sunday.

Please read The Hustle.

And remember... give peace a chance.

Spector Questions Destruction of Spy Tapes

2008-02-01T13:13:00.000-08:00

Friday, February 01, 2008
The Associated Press
WASHINGTON -- With the Super Bowl fast approaching, a senior Republican senator says he wants the NFL to explain why it destroyed evidence of the New England Patriots cheating scandal.
"I am very concerned about the underlying facts on the taping, the reasons for the judgment on the limited penalties and, most of all, on the inexplicable destruction of the tapes," said Sen. Arlen Specter, R-Pa., in a letter yesterday to NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell.
Mr. Specter, the top Republican on the Senate Judiciary Committee, said the matter could put the league's antitrust exemption at risk.
"Their antitrust exemption has been on my mind for a long time," he said in a Capitol Hill news conference.
The matter may not compare to the CIA's destruction of interrogation tapes, Mr. Specter said, but he added, "I do believe that it is a matter of importance. It's not going to displace the stimulus package or the Iraq war, but I think the integrity of football is very important, and I think the National Football League has a special duty to the American people -- and further, the Congress -- because they have an antitrust exemption."
"It's a league matter," New England Patriots coach Bill Belichick said today during a news conference. "I don't know anything about it."
The Patriots play Sunday in the Super Bowl against the New York Giants.
NFL security confiscated a video camera and tape from a Patriots employee during New England's 38-14 victory over the New York Jets. The employee was accused of aiming his camera at the Jets' defensive coaches as they signaled to players on the field.
Mr. Goodell fined Mr. Belichick $500,000, the maximum amount, and docked the team $250,000 and a first-round draft pick. It was the biggest fine ever for a coach and the first time in NFL history a first-round draft pick has been confiscated as a penalty.
After its investigation, the NFL said it destroyed all materials it received from the Patriots.
In a Jan. 31 letter to Mr. Specter that the senator released today,
Mr. Specter said the explanation "absolutely makes no sense at all," and blasted the commissioner for failing to respond to his inquiries on the matter for more than two months. Mr. Goodell said in his letter that he just became aware of Specter's questions yesterday.
"There's a credibility issue here," Mr. Specter said.
Copyright 2007 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
First published on February 1, 2008 at 2:08 pm

It Goes to 11 - The Super Bowl

2008-01-26T22:39:00.000-08:00

As several frigid winter storms pulverize the usually tranquil Santa Monica Bay into a cauldron of churning, un-swimmable, bacteria filled garbage consommé; the Super Bowl hype machine ceremoniously amps up its bloviating about New England Patriot greatness all the way past ten - it goes to 11. The frenzied national beast known as the media are busy selling an all too accepting American public the likely crowning of the first undefeated champion since 1972. What sheep dip!

I’ve been watching the pigskin on the boob tube since my satellite HDTV was a rabbit-eared B&W TV. Back when the only time you heard the word satellite was when Walter Cronkite was reporting from the Kremlin on Sputnik. For God’s sake I can remember when the competition was played in mid-January. I recall the halcyon days before SportsCenter, NFL Today, Sunday NFL Countdown, Football Night in America, Monday Night Countdown, Total Access, and PTI. I remember when Around the Horn actually meant around the horn.

In other words, I’m old.

And to quote the famous line from my favorite 70’s movie, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

Well, I’m done. Call me nuts because I don’t buy into the New England Patriots. Label me a conspiracy theorist because I see what’s really going on – the truth.

First of all, I’ve been highly skeptical of the red, white, blue, and silver clad Bostonians ever since 2002 when they catapulted to their first Lombardi trophy with the help of the infamous “Tuck Rule.” That call is still horse hockey. And why are there so many damn phantom holding calls against their opponent week after week conveniently right after a team takes a lead or rips off a big run? It’s like clockwork almost every time: tweet, the ref blows his whistle, the play begins, a little yellow hanky drops onto the turf, and bam, 1st and 20. Instant drive killer. If only there were replays to check the referees’ calls then I could stop writing and give the Nor’easters their props. But there are no replays. The networks force feed us promo after promo for their rotten reality programming like the God awful KidNation or American Idol instead of showing us an instant replay as visual proof. Even Tivo is useless to help you see what they won’t show.

Next, spotless Tom Brady, with more time in the pocket than the Artful Dodger and Fagin from Oliver Twist, picks apart another secretly video taped secondary as his 325 pound linemen grab hold of 325 pound defensive linemen’s jerseys like they are plus size partners on Dancing with the Stars. But still, there are no flags. There just isn’t enough time during the 4 or 5 hour broadcast for replays to show the appalling non-calls that actually could (but I doubt) exonerate the already proven guilty Billicheats.

The endless stream of sound effects, graphics, charts, clips, tables, indexes, game breaks, updates, promos, interviews, text message requests, and robotic overhead crowd shots are dizzying.

Who has time to squeeze in a replay of a boring little holding call?

I’ll admit the Pats are a talented bunch. They seemingly manage every aspect of the game quite well. The front office shrewdly pulls the right strings like letting an over rated Deion Branch go, stealing the brilliant Randy Moss from Dictator Al Davis, or bringing back the cagey Troy Brown every year. And their coaching staff tries very hard. I’m far from alone when I agree with Chargers running back LaDainian Tomlinson after he needled the Hatriots during their videotaping scandal by saying they live by the credo, “If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying.”

Amen, brother. Can I get a witness?

The Pat players are good, maybe great, but we’ll never really truly know because NFL commissioner Jolly Roger Goodell destroyed the Spygate evidence so fast that Tricky Dick Nixon is still spinning in his grave and Trickier Dick Cheney is chortling in his crypt. Those tapes must have been pretty damning. All apologies to Robert Craft. Sorry Chowderheads. Your team will forever live with suspicion, doubt, and tarnished trophies.

But don’t feel bad for the Unibomber coach and his merry men of Foxborough Forest because Mr. Monotone will quickly recover his $500,000 slap on the wrist fine during the off season from one of his many endorsements and speaking engagements for corporate thievedoms everywhere. And even though the team deserves having their seventh pick in the draft stripped, the league did nothing and Bellijerk will hypocritically make the rounds on the talk shows or lecture circuit preaching to high schoolers, college graduates, and executives on the finer points of sportsmanship, ethics, and how to win (at all costs) as long as no one asks him what was really on those tapes.

I can deal with the Patriots success and somewhat appreciate their perfect season and I promise I don’t hate them but only if I am allowed one question: May I please get a replay?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Remember...

Give peace a chance.

Miss You Before You're Gone - Vin Scully

2008-01-21T13:38:00.000-08:00

In less time than it takes waiting in line for a plain frozen yogurt with blueberries and kiwi at Pinkberry, the Los Angeles Dodgers will begin their 60th and final season of spring training at Vero Beach. After more than half a century of sweat, morning thunderstorms, fungos, and Sandy Koufax pitching tips under the hot Florida sun, the artists formerly known as the Brooklyn Bums will lace ‘em up for the last time from the Atlantic coast.

Bummer dude.

Adios Dodgertown. Later Grapefruit League. See ya snowbirds.

And, of course, there’s nothing like that new stadium smell. Ahh. But still. What about tradition? Heritage? Loyalty? Your own parking spot?

I never liked the Lakers and Clippers or the Jets and Giants playing in the same buildings. It doesn’t seem right. But that’s only a small reason why I’m waxing so un-poetically about the past.

As Vinny says, "I caaan't believe it!"

So, here’s some friendly advice for anyone within earshot. And this goes for all you Dodger haters too. We know you’re out there. Take a little time from your hectic life and catch Sir Vin calling a game or two with his gifted smooth voice before it is too late. Put down the crackberry, (and Pinkberry) stop texting, get off those whacked websites, and find an afternoon or evening to just sit back and listen to Vin weave his fanciful yarns before he’s gone. Listen to him, stream him, podcast, him, watch him, steal him off your neighbors basic cable; no matter how you get him, just promise yourself one thing – you’ll try.

Mmm…Dodgerdogs.

Trust me, listening to the words, wisdom, and poetry of the former Fordham University standout will add rings to your tree and put a smile on your face. And, as a bonus, for the first time since 1988, the Dodgers actually have a shot at getting back into the Fall Classic. This is one of the most anticipated seasons in years for Big Blue. But much more on that later this season.
For now, I’m happy I found you, or you found me, and I hope that you take my counsel to relax a spell with Saint Vincent before his honeyed voice goes silent. He’s the sweetest man on the airwaves.

Vinny, I miss you before you’re gone.

On a personal note – I look forward to you coming back to my little feature, The Hustle. I promise to be honest, share my feelings, think before I write, and tell you everything I know about all things sports. You’ll get my humble opinions, ridiculous rants, and silly tirades. Cockamamie theories, new ideas, and half-baked predictions; in other words, the very best I have to offer. I know you won’t agree with my perspective all the time, hell, you might not ever agree with me, but I truly welcome your comments, complements, and critiques. Just try to be fair and informed.

Remember, stayed tuned to Vinny, please read The Hustle by Danny Russell, and give peace a chance.

I Am Brett Favre - Brett Favre

2008-01-21T13:23:00.000-08:00

When you are willing to kill your last few remaining brain cells watching the Jimmy Kimmel Show and he introduces Gene Simmons as his next guest but you still keep watching – it might be time to get a life. For reasons unknown, I continued watching Mr. Tongue hold court with Mr. ABC promoting the fact that he was fired off the reality show, Celebrity Apprentice. There’s something about The Donald’s existence in the universe that defies the laws of gravity, style, logic, taste, and common sense. By the way, I have never seen the show but just the thought of its cancellation somehow makes me very happy. I was tired and began nodding off.

Suddenly, I perked up. The old Kisser had actually said something interesting. He was bragging about how rich and smart he is and went on to explain that he is a brilliant marketer and an advertising king. He went on pontificating that he was the genius who thought up all those branding promotions for businesses like Kodak, the NHL, and he came up with the “I am Indy” campaign for Indycar.com. He said the art of selling is all about taking brands down from their big lofty ivory towers and making them emotional. He claims to have started a wave of these “I am…” commercials. “I am Starbucks, I am the NFL,” and blah blah blah. What’s next, I am Preparation H?

And then it hit me. I know why virtually everyone in America loves Brett Favre. Most football fans have developed a deep emotional connection to him. He doesn’t exist way up in an ivory tower; he exists in all of our collective hearts. Our attachment to all things Brett made us desperately pull for him. We needed him to get one last shot at going out on top but the New York football Giants and the other Manning ruined it for all of us. In actuality, the Packers defeat was caused by Brett’s self inflicted wound – that’s what really made it hurt. Unless, of course, you’re reading this within a fifty mile radius of the Big Apple, then you probably went to bed with a little smile. However, the rest of us hit the pillow slightly depressed that he hadn’t led the Cheeseheads to a storybook overtime victory.

We’re all connected to our favorite greybeard this side of Letterman because for so long we’ve seen him pull rabbit after rabbit from his magic helmet and we’ve come to expect it. Fans have witnessed him do everything from celebrating miracle finishes on the field to mourning life’s tragedies off it. I must admit, watching Green Bay lose the NFC Championship at home last night because of Favre’s overtime pickoff stings almost as badly as his probably frostbitten nose.

For people over thirty years of age, he proves that, as we age, we are still able to perform at or above the level we used to when we were younger. Heck, he’s even improved, so maybe we can too. And for you kids under 30 years of age, Favre is a true living legend. He’s your link to history. Someday, you’ll be telling stories to your kids about watching him play just like Grandpa used to tell you about Joe Namath, Terry Bradshaw, and Joe Montana. Although, none of the afore mentioned Hall of Famers would have thrown an interception in overtime. Well, okay, maybe the Blonde Bomber might have.

We all lived and breathed through Favre on the field Sunday night and now it feels like a little piece of us died out there on the frozen tundra. But I’m sure old # 4 will be back next year to give it another valiant effort. I sure hope he comes back just so I can still say, “I am Brett Favre.”

Right now, I’m going to watch Peter Chriss make frittatas with Rachael Ray.

Give peace a chance.

The Hustle by Danny Russell

Hustle Into A New Decade

Canary in the Mine Shaft by Dave Zirin

***EXTRA EFFORT HUSTLE POINTS***

White House becomes Champion for Malaria

TORN

Catch The Express!

Eight Is Enough Already

Summer Reprint: Ode to Vin Scully

Very Funny... NOT!

Hey Joe

Smallball

Hail to Commander-in-Chief ZenGambler

Let's Honor Our Military & NFL Vets Everyday

Spector Questions Destruction of Spy Tapes

It Goes to 11 - The Super Bowl

Miss You Before You're Gone - Vin Scully

I Am Brett Favre - Brett Favre

EXTRA EFFORT HUSTLE POINTS