Thursday, May 31, 2007


So I'm checking my e-mail at lunch today and there's a message from my brother Jeff. It give a link to YouTube and the text of his message is this:

"Oh. Dear. God."

Of course, I can't check YouTube at work (something about productivity in the workplace). But he seems duly impressed, so I ask for a little more detail. And back comes the message:

"Let me give this teaser...Sir Mix-a-Lot...three white guys...accoustic."

Well, if your curiosity was a piqued as mine was, take a gander over here...

Now, that was pretty funny, but I don't think I fell into any sort of hysterics over it. However, this one never ceases to crack me up


Sunday, May 27, 2007


Post-September 11, there were a lot of amazing stories that came to light that had the potential for a real impact on those that heard them. One that struck close to home for those of us in the women's basketball coaching ranks was the tale of Notre Dame coach Muffet McGraw. She was scheduled to be on the flight that hit the South Tower of the World Trade Center. It was only at the insistence of one of her assistant coaches that she drove with him to Providence, RI to catch a different flight so they could travel together.

While this hit close to the mark for me as a basketball coach, it also brought back a close call for my own family this weekend 30 years ago. That was the night that popular entertainer John Davidson was scheduled to make an appearance in the Cincinnati area. Members of my general, if they remember him at all, probably would recognize him from his hosting duties on That's Incredible! and Hollywood Squares. However, he also has released over a dozen albums and was a successful recording artist in the 1970's. My mom was a fan and my parents had tickets for the 9:30 performance at the Beverly Hills Supper Club in northern Kentucky, just across the river from Cincy.

One problem that day--my younger brother Jeff was six weeks old and had a terrible case of colic. It had come and gone, but on this particular day he was in bad shape. Kokomo was a solid three hour drive away from Cincinnati and ultimately they decided that it wouldn't be smart to be that far away from Jeff if things worsened for him (nor fair to a sitter to deal with an extremely colicy baby).

So they stayed at home. And thus avoided one of the most tragic night club disasters in American history. 165 dead as a fire broke loose in the building, with nearly 80% of those in the main hall where my parents would have been. A fast-moving inferno, too few exits, a massively overcrowded room, with no sprinkler system or audible fire alarm.

I can't fathom how differently our lives would have been if my folks had attended that night and been among the victims. Would we have gone and lived with our grandparents (both of whom would pass away within a decade)? Move to Chicago with my aunt and uncle? My youngest brother would never have been born. It's amazing to think how radically changed my life could have turned. Luckily, we never had to find out; others in my position weren't so fortunate.

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Friday, May 25, 2007


Several months ago, I wrote about frivilous lawsuits. Kind of tongue in cheek stuff...but then I see garbage like this and it sends me through the roof.

When St. Louis Cardinals pitcher Josh Hancock was killed in an auto accident last month, it initially seemed like a horrible tragedy (it still is, regardless of circumstances since). Now, four weeks later, his idiot father is suing everyone.

Sue the bar for serving Hancock! Sue the tow truck that his son drove into! Sue the owner of the stalled car that spun out on the interstate, necessitating the tow truck! Sue, sue sue!

Never mind that your son a) was drunk, b) was speeding, c) was talking on a cell phone at the time, d) was in possession of marijuana there in the vehicle, e) had already been in an alcohol-related vehicular accident within the previous week, and f) wasn't wearing a seatbelt.

If dad wants to be pissed off at the world, perhaps he should look in a mirror first and ask if he could have been a better parent, if he could have taught his son better, maybe he would have been a much better decision-maker and not met this terrible fate. But instead, let's play the blame game and try to reap some financial reward. Sick. And I guess I'm not the only one that feels this way.

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Thursday, May 24, 2007


Well, not a college coach, anyway. The idea of eventually being a high school boys coach was always percolating somewhere in the back of my mind. Probably by my junior year of high school, it was the career path I knew I'd eventually pursue (and, of course, never did).

Before that, though, I was going to be a writer. A sports writer, to be more specific. While a student at Hazelwood Junior High I had a fantastic 7th grade English teacher who was extremely encouraging of my writing. Two years later, I had her again for Mass Media, where freshmen students published a weekly newspaper as well as the yearbook. Needless to say, I became the sports editor, much to my delight. The following year, much more to my amazement, I was one of three students who became the first sophomores ever at New Albany High School to join the newspaper staff. Considering the company of the other two, I was pretty honored by that...

And so, as a sophomore in high school, I started thinking about my career. And I knew exactly what I wanted to do. It was during that year that The National started. The venerable Frank Deford was the editor and he assembled a Dream Team of writers from newspapers around the nation as well as Sports Illustrated. This was what I pointed towards. Two more years of high school, four years of college, then work my way onto the staff. The National was an all sports daily newspaper that would appear in ever major U.S. metro area. All sports, all the time. Pre-internet, pre-ESPN domination, this was a radical idea.

And then, as quickly as it captured the imagination, it was no more. Maybe it was idea whose time was too soon, maybe the logistics were just too fantastic. But after only a year, it shut down for good. And my dream died with it.

That same year, Elizabeth moved to Muncie, another tough blow. I considered her my superior writing-wise and everything I did was to push myself to be as good as her. With my peer gone and my goal shattered, I lost a lot of interest in sports writing as a career. Thoughts of coaching took center stage, although it would take several twists and turns before I wound up working with college women.

Maybe one day I'll take up writing seriously again. I have all sorts of potential book ideas I'd like to explore. But there's still a part of me that wishes I'd taken a different path fifteen years ago and tried to join people like Bozich, Lupica, Ryan and Albom.

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