The Free Agent Summit That Should Have Been

Alas, it has finally come. July 1, 2010. A date the importance of which, despite Stuart Scott's well-honed talent for delicate understatement, defies hyperbole. The date on which the greatest assemblage of free agents in the history of the NBA (and Rudy Gay) are allowed to choose which uniforms they will don next season and thereby reshape the course of world history for centuries to come. Or, as Scott puts it, "D-Day, the moon landing, the Kennedy assassination, the invention of the combustible engine, the day I first dropped 'boo-ya', the Lincoln assassination, the advent of agriculture-based civilization, the fall of Rome, and the day I officially retired 'boo-ya' all rolled into one of the illest days ever."

Lebreezy. Wade. Bosh. Dirk. Johnson. Amar'e. Not to mention Craig fucking Smith, who is a total homie and who we should re-sign but won't.

July 1, 2010 has been the sole reason Knicks fans have gotten up in the morning for the last three years--that reason evidently to reunite the the 2004-2005 Phoenix Suns, with less depth and no Steve Nash (don't worry Knicks fans, I'm sure it was worth it). It's the reason Cleveland-area vasectomy clinics are booked for the entire summer, as no self-respecting Cavs fan could in good conscience bring a child into a world where he will be forced to choose between Mo Williams and Antawn Jamison jerseys for his first Cavs game.

It's the reason Clipper fans such as myself have replayed Lebreezy's Larry King interview over 400 times on their DVRs, trying not to weep when the words "They have a lot of nice players. Kaman, Baron Davis..." left those sweet, messianic lips. It's the reason Clipper fans have also failed to rid themselves of the self-delusion that even if Lebreezy does sign with us, which there is absolutely no chance of happening, that within fifteen minutes of his on-court debut he would be forced to amputate both legs and lose sight in his right eye after a freak on-court accident involving Penny Marshall and a rogue Zamboni left over from a Kings game. (We still do have the best goddamn supporting cast out there, if you're reading this Lebron. Also, Chris Kaman smokes the dankest, if you're interested...)

But despite what will certainly be an off-season just as enthralling, engrossing and dramatic as an actual professional basketball game (punctuated by massive 360 windmill Chad Ford breaking news reports), I have to confess I'm already a little disappointed. The much ballyhooed Dwyane Wade-sponsored free agent summit never really took shape the way I imagined it would. Dinners with Gabrielle Union and Chris Bosh in LA Live sound nice enough, but I wanted what Wade originally intended: a true summit, in which every major free agent was invited and where each would have an opportunity to lure others to their preferred destinations.

I imagine it would go something like this...

Scene: A gorgeous summer day at Dwyane Wade's lavish South Beach estate. More of a fiefdom than a mansion, the sprawling complex screams Miami ostentation: reggaeton remixes blare from Wade's collection of Ferrari drop-tops; supermodels in thongs adorn an Olympic-sized swimming pool filled with nothing but Grey Goose; flamingos in cutoffs scamper playfully on a private golf course; Cuban refugees drown while attempting to cross Wade's "bay of Bacardi" moat.

Chris Bosh drives up to the estate's secured gate, punches in 712010$$ as the security code and then continues up the platinum-encrusted driveway to Wade's house. Confused yet vaguely impressed--mostly because he had never seen a keypad with dollar signs before--he somewhat diffidently knocks on the front door. As the door opens, he hears...

Wade: Lebreeeeeezy, right on time!!!! I knew you would come.....

The door opens fully. Wade, shirtless and wearing matching pairs of Dolce and Gabana shorts, sandals and sunglasses, looks up blankfaced. After looking up and down Bosh's 7-foot frame several times without a hint of recognition, Bosh decides to break the ice...
Bosh: Sup Dwyane.

Wade [over-excitedly]: Oh shit, my bad Chris! With the Florida sunlight this bright, sometimes it takes me a second or so for my eyes to adjust. Sun always shines in Florida, Chris. You'll get used to that. Glad to see you could come man!!!
Bosh: No problem, I'm just happy to get the invite. I know it sounds corny, but I really am honored to be considered good enough to help one of ya'll win a championship. Thanks man.

Wade: Ahh shit Chris, don't be modest!! You were damn good in Helsinki. I just invited you down here so you could get warm and get a tan, man. Half the time we played up there I couldn't tell the difference between you and Bargnani.

Bosh: Hahaha, yeah I know its cold up there. I played in Toronto, for the record. Pretty good city actually.

Wade: Toronto, Helsinki, whatever man. If it ain't South Beach, it ain't worth learning the name.

Bosh: So New York, LA, Chicago...

Wade: Never heard of them.

Bosh: You grew up in Chicago.

Wade: So I'm told. Come on in man, my Mojito is getting room temperature.

Wade and Bosh make their way into Wade's living room, where all four walls are covered with 72 inch plasma flatscreens. The north wall tv is playing Scarface; the west and east, Bad Boys 1 and 2, respectively; and the south is playing Burn Notice.

Bosh: Ahh man, I love Burn Notice.

Wade: I know, right? Michael Weston is the shit. You know where it's set? Only stuff like that can happen in one place: Miami....

Bosh: Right, right. I think they film that in Vancouver, but whatever, I'm picking up on the theme. So who else is supposed to show up to this thing?

Wade: Ahh man, everybody. Amar'e, Carlos, Dirk, hell we even invited David Lee. Of course Lebron, although he hasn't been returning my text messages today for some reason. Probably shitty reception in Cleveland. Joe's already here, he's standing right next to you.

Bosh looks up to find Joe Johnson half an inch from his face, avoiding eye contact.

Bosh: Oh shit! Damn Joe, you scared me. I didn't hear you come in at all, how long have you been standing there?

Wade: He's been there this whole time!!! I know, its crazy. Dude never makes a peep, he's like a Prius or some shit. Go ahead and put your ears to his lips, you can't hear inhaling or exhaling.

Johnson sits down on a leather sofa across from Wade and Bosh.

Bosh: How you been Joe? That postseason was rough, but hey at least you got there man. Fuck I wish I had Al Horford.

Johnson takes out a small notepad, scribbles something on it, tears out a page and hands it to Bosh.

Bosh [reading the note]: "I'm good. Gettin' paid." Yeah, man. We all about to get paid.
Johnson shakes his head, scribbles another note.

Bosh [reading the new note]: "No. Gettin' paid right now. By Wade."

Wade [looking sheepish]: It was the only way he would come, man. Shit, it's the only way he leaves his studio apartment. For anything.
Bosh looks disapprovingly at Wade, who shrugs. Suddenly there's another knock on the door. Wade gets up excitedly to greet the new arrival.

Wade: Ahhh shit, he always makes a grand entrance. The man himself, Lebree....Oh. Hey Dirk.

Dirk: Hello Dwyane. Hey Chris, Joe.

Bosh: Hey Dirk. Oh, Joe's writing something again. He wants to know whether Dirk is getting paid for this too, and how much?

Dirk: What?

Wade: Nevermind, man. Just come on in. Hey, before we start, I just want to say no hard feelings from 2006. I'd love to bring you here to be my 4, mostly so I can stop pretending Udonis Haslem doesn't belong in Greece. Plus, not only would you be playing with a champion, but you'd be living in M-I-A-M-I........That spells Miami.

Dirk: Thanks, Dwyane. I'd love to play alongside a true star like you, and I've always dreamed of having Pat Riley bitch me out publicly for being soft. But I'm not so sure about moving to Miami.

Wade: "WHAT!?!?!!?" "WHAT?!?!?!?!?!"

Bosh: Yo man, I can understand that. It's always tough to move family, leave friends. Plus you got a ultra-loyal fan base like in Toronto.

Dirk: No, it's not any of that. I could give a shit about our part-time Cowboys fans. It's, uh....it's the women.

Wade: "WHAT?!?!?!?!?" "WHAT?!?!?!?!?"

Dirk: There's something about them here I'm just not attracted to. They're too, I dunno...effeminate. They're just not my type.


Wade continues to stare uncomprehendingly at Dirk. Johnson scribbles another note and passes it to Bosh.

Bosh [reading]: Dirk's into that Ali Larter from Obsessed type, except replace the justifying hotness with more crazy.

Dirk: Exactly! That's why I've already signed a max deal with the Nets. The women there are as mentally ill as they are handsome. Can't wait to play in Newark.

A long, uneasy silence is interrupted by the doorbell ring--which is not a traditional doorbell at all, but an all-instrumental rendition of LMFAO's "I'm in Miami, Bitch". Wade gradually makes his way to the door, still recovering from the exchange with Dirk.

Wade: I don't remember inviting you guys.

The door opens to reveal Paul Pierce and Ray Allen. Both are wearing FUBU tracksuits, while Allen is listening to a Sony Walkman CD-player.

Pierce: Sup Dwyane. We figured with the way the playoffs worked out, you'll have to do what the media is doing and reluctantly consider us still relevant. Plus, we didn't want to go to the summit Shaq and AI were hosting. Shit gets depressing when you see the same Mystikal music video girl at every party since 1997.

Wade: Fine, I guess you guys can come in.

Pierce: Sweet! We'll make it worth your while, man. I brought some of my favorite episodes of Martin. You got a VCR, right?

As soon as the door closes behind them, they hear what sounds like someone attempting to ring the doorbell but missing the ringer and instead hitting his finger on the door. After several instances of this, LMFAO finally starts playing and Wade opens the door to find Amar'e Stoudemire and Steve Nash, with Nash holding Amar'e's finger inches from the doorbell.

Wade: Amar'e! And Nash! Why are you here Steve? I thought you were tethered to Phoenix until you retire or they accidentally deport you.

Nash: Amar'e got lost at the airport and couldn't find his way here, so he called me to help him out. Happens every now and then.

Amar'e: Steve's just got a good sense of direction. I mean, I could have made it here without him, but it was quicker for him to fly down here and help me out.

Wade: Well, the more talent the better! Maybe we can work out some type of package trade deal. Come on in, we're just getting started.
Amar'e: Yeah, that sounds great! I'd really like it if Steve and I could still play together. Not that I can't win by myself. I'm Amar'e. But just to give Steve another shot at a championship.

Amar'e and Nash make their way over to the sofa where Johnson is sitting. An unopened bag of Doritos lay on the coffee table. Amar'e picks it up and attempts to open it, but even with his massive 6'11 frame can't seem to get the job done.

Nash [obviously used to this]: Here, Amar'e let me take care of that for you. Don't want to have another Dorito-related eye injury.

Nash opens the bag effortlessly, and hands a chip to Amar'e. Amar'e raise the chip above his mouth and repeatedly tries to drop it in, but misses the target each time. Nash, who has moved to the other side of the couch, finally grabs the chip and effortlessly tosses it into Amar'e's mouth from about four feet away.

Bosh: Yeah, a package deal sounds best.

Wade: Alright, let's start this already. Riles tells me we have room for two max contracts in Miami. Who wants to be Phillip Michael Thomas to my Don Johnson?

Bosh [reading another Johnson note]: Who the fuck is Phillip Michael Thomas?

Pierce [while attempting to shove one of the video cassettes into a blue-ray player]: Detective Ricardo Tubbs, dummy. Shit man, you don't want watch Miami Vice? I got those on VHS too, can get them over here real quick.

Bosh: Look, I'm down to play with either you or Lebron, I feel like I can win a championship with either of you. But to be honest, I think Chicago has more talent around us and can still afford two max players, so why not there?

Wade: Chicago? Seriously? I'll tell you why, M-I-A-M....oh wait up. I'm getting a text from Lebron.

All noise and action in the room comes to an abrupt halt, and everyone in attendance looks intently at Wade's blackberry.

Wade: Looks like he's not coming. I guess Jay-Z and Prokhorov are throwing some party in Moscow, he's taking the Concord....

Before he can finish his sentence, everyone in the room vanishes except for Bosh and Johnson.

Wade: Fuck. Joe, you're off the clock, I ain't paying...

Before can finish his sentence, Johnson bolts, then quickly returns to grab the half-empty Doritos bag and vanishes.

Vanilla Mamba

[A BOP/Chris Kaman Swagger Co-Production]

At first glance, Kobe Bryant's photoshoot and interview with Los Angeles Times Magazine (read this first so you get the jokes!!!) seems troublingly bizarre, inexplicably humiliating and vaguely Islamic. The photos have already generated a whirlwind of criticism and parody, even prompting Mormons to risk sitting behind a black man not named Howard Eisley just to take a cheap shot at Bryant.

Sadly, this isn't the first time the Lakers superstar and secondary scoring threat has fallen victim to a massive public misunderstanding of his actions. When this happened, Kobe suffered unfair criticism for choking away his team's postseason while denying more proven teammates the opportunity to take clutch shots. Little did we know, at the time Kobe was suffering from a unique form of vertigo you can only contract from prolonged contact with R&B singer Brandi's forehead, his date for high school prom. This is also the explanation behind Mekhi Phifer's career trajectory.

Luckily, Bochy's Oversized Pillow and ChrisKamanSwagger have obtained the full, unedited transcript of the LA Times Magazine interview, which provides indispensable context for the now infamous photoshoot. After reading the interview in its entirety, the notion that Kobe is a self-obsessed sociopath with the world's worst publicist seems ridiculous. He is simply a humble, salt-of-the-earth, average helicopter-commuting Los Angelino, with the fashion taste of a Pashtun Mark Twain. Enjoy:

It’s almost 4:30 in the afternoon. In the vast Blossom Room of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, everything is in place for Kobe Bryant’s cover shoot: The photographer and his three assistants have been here since 8 a.m. creating a set for the shoot that is swathed in black duvetyn. There is even a Kobe stand-in for adjusting the lighting: Smush Parker, who is also part of the catering crew and between drink orders offers me a delectable mushroom quiche.

There’s a stylist and a seamstress, a groomer and a manicurist, sneetches with and without stars, assistants and publicists galore. Smush is trying to sweet-talk a woman from Harry Winston here into purchasing one of the gold-plated Casios he carries underneath his work uniform.

There’s just one thing missing—Kobe himself. He’s running late...actually, not running at all. Flying. In his helicopter. Made of platinum. From his home in the O.C.-- Olympus County, the gated community around the Acropolis in Greece, home to only Kobe, George Soros and the sun god Ares.

“I knew he’d be late,” says the creative director, completely unfazed by the fact that he now has barely two hours to pull off a job that normally takes at least four. And there’s no wiggle room: Bryant has to leave by 6:30. He’s doing the Kimmel show tonight, and needs at least an hour to come up with some bullshit story about him being friends with his teammates, probably involving Derek Fisher.

Suddenly, there he is—long, lean, in shades and simple gray sweats made of black pearls and caviar, a small entourage in tow. Bryant ambles over, smiling and exchanging hugs, handshakes and fist pumps with Toto, his aboriginal body man and the only person allowed to make physical contact with Kobe. The stylist shows him the clothes, and they chat easily in Italian while deciding on the first ensemble.

Tom Murray: I have to ask, When you’re in that chopper, do you ever look down on the city, pinch yourself and say—
Kobe Bryant: How lucky am I that Chris Wallace is the general manager of a professional basketball team? Absolutely—every time.

But this is some dream s--t. Wardrobe that’s all white? This just doesn’t happen. Not for me. This is crazy.

Looking confused, the stylist tells Kobe he has several different colored suits, mostly black and navy, none that are all white. Bryant replies that he brought some of his own threads, and yells at Toto in Italian to fetch him his clothes.

Hmmm...You’re very relaxed. Of course, we’re talking as you’re getting a manicure and a facial before you have your makeup put on. Is this a side of your personality you’d like more people to see?
I think people, especially here in Los Angeles, are starting to understand me a lot more in terms of what I’m like personality-wise. I’m relaxed, laid back, pretty funny, smartass, humble. But if you're asking whether I play without putting foundation on first, the answer is never.

But people don’t often see that relaxed side of you...
When they turn on the TV or go to a game, that’s not the side of me they want anyway. Know what I’m saying? Most of the time when they see me, I’m in that golden armor. When I'm walking around LA LIVE, in my chainmail.

You take heat because of your demeanor in postgame interviews, especially if you lost.
Well, everybody gets upset. But if I’m being short, I’m being short. It’s not like I’m telling people to go F-off.

The stylist approaches again with a selection of ties. Bryant tells her to fuck off, and then proceeds to wrap what seems to be some kind of braided napkin around his head. He asks Toto if its "poppin", and Toto assents.

But wouldn’t it benefit you if the media in L.A. saw this side of your personality more?
It probably wouldn’t be helpful for them, because they have to write and sell stories. And you can’t have everybody saying positive things all the time. It’s just not going to work, even though this is, like, my city when it comes to sports, you know what I mean? You gotta have people on one side of the fence and people on the other, people who do the sexual assaulting and people who get assaulted, ya know?

How do you like to enjoy L.A.?

We go to restaurants, things like that. I love Koi, Flamingo, Zebra. Most of the time, after a game, I go across to the L.A. Zoo and they just let me have what I want. Got a pretty big tab over there.

So, what else can you tell us about yourself?

I love dogs, I hate bees, I love snakes, hate human connection. And I hate dog s--t. I absolutely hate dog s--t.

So what do you do when dogs poop in front of the house?
Call Smush. Ain't that right, Smush? Nah man, I don't want your fucking Casios.

You’re playing Guitar Hero at an event with Baltimore Raven Ray Lewis after this. You play a pretty mean air guitar?
Oh, yeah, man—everybody can play a mean air guitar! I’ll be rocking out! We'll also be playing "Avoiding a Felony Conviction Hero" on Kimmel.

Any songs or bands you like?
“Hells Bells”—a little AC/DC never hurt anybody. Dropkick Murphys get me going, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Nirvana...yeup, that's about all the white people music I can think of. But really I've been a huge Juggalo since Chris Mihm took me to a concert a few years back.

It’s time for Bryant to head to the set. Insane Clown Posse pounds and lights flash every few seconds, and when he’s finished, there’s time for just a final few questions out by the pool.

Do you think about your basketball mortality at all—that one day you won’t be able to do everything you can now?
I feel invincible out there, but it’s a different kind of invincible than when I was younger, like a superinvinciability, or kobinvicability. Can I jump over two or three guys like I used to? Yes. Am I as fast as I used to be? Yes. Probably faster. But does it matter when I go 8-25 from the field? No.

Have you thought about what you’d do after your playing career that would get the juices flowing as much as basketball?
Basketball really isn't my career, it's a means to an end. It's a way for me to gain money, power, social-standing, and a blind devotion from the retarded masses of Los Angeles. Also, I get to kick it with Ryan Phillipe whenever I want.

Do you think you might stay involved in the game?
I’ll stay in the game as long as I damn well please. I can jog up and down the floor and shoot free-throws until I’m 29 Kobe-years, or 356 human years.

Time’s up. Bryant has other commitments, then it’s back to the chopper. “What do you think about while you’re up there?” Kobe is asked, as he winds through a throng of Chris Kaman’s admirers.

“I think about a lot of things,” he says. “I think about driving around the streets of Philadelphia as a kid. And then I fast-forward, and here I am, riding the coattails of a 7-foot Mexican stork to a championship in a city I’ve graced with my presence for 14 years, while only threatening to leave or implode the team for 12 of them.

“I think about all the fans we have, the houses I’m flying over. Especially when I’m heading to a game, I’m like, How many will watch us play for the next two hours and be pulling for us? That helps motivate me. But most of the time, I just poke people on Facebook."

Pope unveils "infallible bracket"

Vatican City--Pope Benedict XVI publicly unveiled his "infallible" March Madness bracket yesterday, expressing what he called his "most sincere and heartfelt" regret for the belated timing of the bracket's release.

At an impromptu press conference held inside St. Peter's Basilica, the Bishop of Rome and physical representation of God's will on earth analyzed his strategy behind successfully picking the winner of every single game in the 65-team tournament, a feat which experts pegged at a probability of less than one half of one percent.

"Yeup, I had Duke and West Virginia in the Final Four, those were locks as far as I was concerned," he said. "Butler in the finals? Who saw that coming?"

"Oh, I guess I did."

The ceremony marked the 12th consecutive official bracket the papacy has released, with each unveiling occurring well after the national championship had been decided. Pope Benedict, a self-described hoops fanatic who has repeatedly lobbied for ESPN bracketologist Joe Lunardi's sainthood, reassured his faithful that next year the brackets would finally precede the games.

"We have some other issues pressing, as you're probably aware," the former German archbishop said. "Retrofitting the Sistine Chapel, making draconian statements on AIDS, the NBA playoffs. Shit gets busy."

When asked why teams from Catholic universities such as Georgetown and Notre Dame fared so poorly in the tournament, Pope Benedict responded, "Dude, everyone knew Harangody was fucking trash. Oh, and something about straying from Catholic values..."

Vatican officials were elated with yet another example of the pope's infallibility on earth, as well as with Gordon Hayward's boyish handsomeness.

Locura de Marzo--The Jorge Gutierrez Bracket Remix

Despite a white-hot love affair with Olympic hockey and a lifelong soft-spot for curling jokes, Bochy's Oversized Pillow is incredibly relieved that a real sport with a real postseason looms only two days away. But before I move on to justifying a UCSB-Wofford championship game, I feel strangely compelled to confess the following about the Winter Games:

• The Olympics are a great reminder that hockey goalie helmets are by far the coolest functional athletic equipment in all of professional sports. I would buy this in a heartbeat if it was under $50 and wear it to every sporting event, grad school reception and professional development conference I attend for the rest of the year, and to every wedding I attend for the rest of my life (including my own). With all respect to Goldberg and my beloved Kelly Hrudy, Ryan Miller is now officially the only goalie I would sleep with. Obviously, he has to wear the helmet the entire time.

• I miss Michele Kwan: I'm a sucker for moley Koreans on ice. Yes, there's a porn subgenre.

• Pistons-Heat games are more compelling than short-track speed skating: Apollo just doesn't do it for me. Halfway through the race where he set the all-time American winter medal count, I flipped over to TNT to see if Charlie Villanueva looked any less terrifying on our new television. He does, but that's only because our new TV is framed with cardboard cutouts of Popeye Jones' head.

There's already enough ink spilled over how terrible February and the first few weeks of March are for sports fans, so I'll move straight to the much-anticipated bracket picks. First though, the requisite Nate Silver methodology disclosure:

1) As a formerly middle-class, mildly athletic white male, I naturally gravitate towards the following types of teams: underdogs, teams who are undersized, teams with "true" point guards who look pretty passing the ball, teams who do nothing but shoot threes, and teams who would look good in the One Shining Moment montage.

2) Any team with a truly unique mascot will warrant significant attention. For UC's, this includes teams with walk-on Asian-Americans.

3) For all toss-ups, I go with Jay Bilas--college basketball's taller, blacker version of Peter Gammons.

4) I always make perfectly rational decisions.

The Dirty Dirty (South):

(1)Duke vs. (16)Arkansas Pine Bluff/Winthrop: Whenever I see the 1 seed lined up against the play-in winner, I always think it would make more sense if they just let both play-in teams combine forces against the one-seed, 10 on 5. Wouldn't that be more entertaining than the non-event drubbing these games almost always turn out to be?
Winner: Duke

(8)Cal vs. (9)Louisville: Fuuuuck...Cal gets in the tournament again and pulls a Big East team with an athletic interior scorer and a point guard capable of exploiting undersized defenders. Could have been worse--we do have the weakest 1 seed in Duke--but could have been better also. Am I the only one who rather have UW's draw from the 12 seed? A tough call.
Winner: Cal by 300. Gutti goes for 30, Theo for 75, Chris Kaman grabs 420 boards...deliberately.

(5)Texas A&M vs. (12)Utah State: Ahhh, the much ballyhood 5-12. On the one hand, I empathize with any mascot with shoulder hair; on the other hand, the infallible Bilas has Texas A&M winning. Tiebreaker--Deandre Jordan, the Wilt of backup Clipper centers (sorry Cherokee Parks), has eligibility left.
Winner: Texas A&M

(4)Purdue vs. (13)Siena: The non-upset upset.
Winner: Siena

(6)Notre Dame vs. (11)Old Dominion: I hate the fighting Irish, and Luke Harangody is a lock to play Lenny in any off-Broadway production of Of Mice and Men, but I don't see ODU beating them.
Winner: Notre Dame

(7)Richmond vs. (10)St. Mary's: Holy shit Richmond's mascot!!!Winner: Richmond. And my mom for sewing that mascot costume for my 2nd grade play.


I just realized there's no prayer of me completing this for every region before the tourney starts, so here are the highlights.

Although I Still Prefer Jasmin to Cinderella in Terms of Raw Sexuality:

(13)Wofford over (4)Wisconsin--You have to feel sorry for the Big-10. I read somewhere that now over 70% of Big-10 undergraduates are laid-off GM employees who couldn't get into nursing school. But Wisconsin plays the ugliest brand of basketball in the history of recorded sport, and should be punished for it.

(14)Sam Houston State over (3)Baylor: There's only room for one sleeper Bear in the South, and he's old and arthritic.

(13)Murray State over (4)Vanderbilt.


My Elite 8 Sleepers:

(7)BYU: Storming Mormons will play in Salt Lake City if they make it this far. That's like if Columbia made the tournament and played their opening round matchup inside Katz's Deli.

(12)Cornell: I'm buying the Big Red. Plus, it's my favorite gum. Although if they played Orange Tic Tac State, I'd have a true dilemma on my hands.

(8)Cal: Yes, I just Plaxico'd my bracket.


My Final Four:

Kansas, BYU, West Virginia, Nova

Championship: Kansas, Nova,

Winner: Nova---I love teams consisting entirely of brutally physical tweeners between 6'4 and 6'8 who can jump out of the gym and play no defined position other than "the guy that scares the shit out of the opposition". And they can all shoot. And Scottie Reynolds is a homie.

SF Giants and performance enhancing drugs: Kent admits to career long abuse

In the wake of Mark McGwire's shocking admission that he used steroids throughout his homerun-record-shattering career, another admission has been made. Jeff Kent, former MVP and silent force behind the San Francisco Giants golden era of the late 90's, admitted earlier this week that throughout almost the entirety of his 10+ year career in major league baseball, he had been high on ecstasy.

Recently retired after 13 years as the starting second baseman for the New York Mets, San Francisco Giants, Houston Astros, and for his last 4 seasons (2005-2008), an obscure, nazi appreciation league team, Jeff Kent was arguably the top offensive middle infielder of his time, and notably, in an era clouded in steroids controversy, Kent stood apart as a role model who had apparently played the game clean.

That is until yesterday when Kent announced at a press conference, "I would wake up after day games, around 7:30 in a pool of sweat, my hair in rubber bands, and I wouldn't remember anything from the last 12 hours." Kent continued, "from early march 'til mid november, I don't think I ever took off my E pants. you know? The really baggy ones that have all those zippers that don't do anything? I'd wear them under my baseball pants, in the shower, and then I'd go straight to the raves. I couldn't hit the next day if I didn't roll that night." 

The demand of professional sports has driven many athletes to great lengths, and in the summer of 1997 Jeff Kent had given into the pressure. "You show up to the bigs and it's a different game. It's faster, it's mean, everyone's out to get you and you'll get trampled if you don't keep up." He recounts "I had been hitting alright in New York, mostly just staying on first base after I'd ground out and counting on the umps not noticing. But Cleveland was a wake up call, and when I was traded to San Francisco, well, I knew it was now or never, and there was a PED culture on that team. Danny (Darwin) was the first to offer it to me." Darwin, a starting pitcher, 20 year veteran, and noted Japanese night club owner, was perhaps the league's most infamous E user, and it didn't take long until Kent became dependent on the drug, admitting "It was like night and day, I would wake up in my own sweat, take 7-36 pills, and I wouldn't feel any pressure. I'd be in the on deck circle, bouncing, screaming "macarena" lyrics with my eyes closed and my tongue out and the ball looked like the size of jupiter. I couldn't have done what I did with out it."

When asked why he finally came out about his years of performance enhancing drug abuse Kent said it was Darwin's death that made it important to come clean. "It was Darwin's death that made it important for me to come clean" Kent says, "When he collapsed from dehydration at his hall of fame induction last year, we all knew that it had gone too far and that we needed to make amends to our fans. Also, playing with the Dodgers. The two low points in my career were my best friend dying in front of everyone, and having to play in Los Angeles. They were both equally loud wake up calls that my entire life had been a waste."  

Jeff Kent is now the latest in a string of athletes to have his reputation tarnished by ecstasy. Whether or not the baseball world ever forgives Kent or sees him the same way is still to be seen.

Randy Wolf starting to suspect new contract incentives exist only to mock him

2009: A Year

Dec 15, 2009: Randy Wolf starting to suspect new contract incentives exist only to mock him

Milwaukee, WI--After signing a new three-year deal with the Milwaukee Brewers earlier this month, former Dodger starting pitcher Randy Wolf has become increasingly convinced that many of the provisions in his incentive-laden contract exist simply to insult him.

Wolf, who enjoyed one of the best seasons of his career last year as the Dodgers' most reliable and least physically intimidating starter, said he began to suspect a cruelly ironic tone in his contract after giving it a thorough read-over late last week.

"Let me first say that I have great respect for [Brewers general manager] Doug Melvin and all he's done for this organization," said Wolf. "That's why I'm confused as to why he would offer me his entire life savings and sex with his wife if I win the Cy Young."

Wolf cited other performance incentives that seemed vaguely derisive, including: renaming Miller Park "The Wolf Cage" if he is named National League starter for the All-Star Game; diplomatic immunity from state and federal law if he wins three postseason games; and a bonus of 80% of US GDP if Wolf breaks Nolan Ryan's single season record of 383 strikeouts.

Reached by phone, Melvin said not all of the bonuses were so wildly out of reach.

"Everytime he breaks 92 on the gun, tell him we'll get him his own jetliner," said Melvin, laughing hysterically. "Shit, make it 91. I bet he can crank it up to 91 once a season."

Wolf also said he was upset that despite the seeming excess of incentives and bonuses in the $30 million deal, he would receive no compensation yet again for winning MLB's "Bonaduce" award, given to the player in each league who both physically resembles Danny Bonaduce the most. Last year's AL winner, CC Sabathia, received a $10 million bonus from the fucking Yankees.

Stafon Johnson recovery increasingly embarrassing for USC, Stafon Johnson

2009: A Year

Bochy's Oversized Pillow is kicking off the new year by steadfastly refusing to acknowledge the passage of time and instead maintaining the delusion that 2009 never ended (we borrowed this strategy from Frank McCourt's mission statement for the winter GM meetings). Here are some of the most underreported sports stories of the year, starting with the fall of Troy. Kudos to Ms. Alexa Vaughn for help with the pic. If you'd like to contact Alexa, you can reach her at reevesnelsoncreepyorhot?@ucla.edu.

Sep 30, 2009: Stafon Johnson Recovery Increasingly Embarrassing for USC, Stafon Johnson

Los Angeles, CA--University of Southern California students, faculty and administrative officials are growing increasingly concerned that the recovery of running back Stafon Johnson has become embarrassing for both Johnson and the university.

Johnson, who crushed his larynx during a freak weightlifting accident just two games into the season, can no longer speak and has thus relied on writing on a legal pad to communicate with everyone around him. This has presented unanticipated problems.

"We can deal with the occasional misspelling or grammatical error, that's to be expected," said USC Athletic Director Mike Garrett. "But everytime he puts something down on paper, it's at best incoherent, and at worst with ampersands instead of vowels. Thank God nothing like this ever happened with Maualuga, we'd be fucked."

The issue has also become something of a setback for Johnson's rehabilitation efforts, according to USC speech coach Kenneth Bloomquest.

"One day he held up his pad and it said, 'whatah, pleeze'. And I looked at it, and was naturally confused and asked what he meant. And then he wrote down, 'H40 dummy, wtf?!?!?!?!' Turns out he wanted water. This was very frustrating."

Sources close to Johnson say the running back himself has felt more self-conscious about his recovery, and is more and more reluctant to write out his responses. When he approves of something or wishes to respond affirmatively, he now simply flashes the famous USC "V" with his fingers. When he disapproves, he headbutts whoever is closest to him.