The Right Choice

Ken Griffey, Junior is coming back home.

He's pitched Pepsi before, so let's call it the 'Right Choice.' Needless to say, as a lifelong Junior fan with the Nike Swingman tattooed on my right arm, I am exceedingly happy.

Shoot, one of the deciding factors in my relocation to Seattle was Griff and the Mariners. I've been watching Reds and White Sox gamecasts online for years. I've poured over the stats. I've read almost every quote ever to come out of Junior's mouth.

Mildly obsessed? Majorly.

When all the Garret Anderson or Griffey talk was going on, I was flabbergasted. I thought Seattle front office blunders would again reinforce my hatred for the organization.

They let Griffey go the first time by not inking him to a long-term deal. They never make trades for the post-season run. Never.

But then, Griffey chose the Emerald City and the clouds over the Seattle sports scene have begun to break up.

The future is wide open. Of course, I'm not expecting 60 homers and 150 RBI. I'm realistic. But realistically, I can see Griffey putting 30 over the fence and driving in 100.

He might be the missing piece that galvanizes the 100-loss team.

Harold Reynolds' insight into Griffey's agonizing decision-making days were the most in depth I've seen. Reynolds had it right, Seattle has a more realistic chance of being a contender than the Braves have of overtaking the world-champion Philadelphia Phillies or the New York Mets.

The pitching is reinvigorated. Are you watching 2007 first-round draft pick Canadian right-hander Phillippe Aumont in the World Baseball Classic right now?

Get him in the show. The guy is big with heat, and he can break one off. I would love to see him in Seattle before the all-star break.

Miguel Batista will refire. Erik Bedard with put the 'K' back in his name.

Griffey will unite the clubhouse.

Garret Anderson caught the injury bug Friday, hurting soft tissue in his calf. I feel for him, but thank goodness we didn't sign him, we've got a mission.

The American League West is not out of the question. The Mariners have penciled in some of the answers.

After all, the champions on paper are rarely hoisting the World Series trophy come October.

Honorable Mention

I haven't given up hope.

I know.

Deep down in my soul, I can feel Ken Griffey, Junior's tormented mind as I write this.

He too, knows.

He's long envisioned his epic return to the Emerald City. The hero-like welcome. The old friends. Announcer Tom Hutler booming out his name for all to cheer. Naughty by Nature. The media swirl. The House that Griffey Built.

The sphere of his youth beckons. His heart is pulling him back to the Northwest.

Griffey's visions, however, also include wondering how his family members would be impacted if he moved to the other side of the country. He wonders what it would be like to fail in Seattle while his supporting cast is missing theirs.

With Griffey, it's always been family first. Always. He and father Ken, Sr. and brother Craig defined the baseball family.

Family first. Whether it was winter workouts or contract negotiations, family always came first for Junior.

His departure to Cincinnati?

For family.

All the homers on Mother's Day and Father's Day and family birthdays?

For family.

His heart tugs him to Atlanta.

The man is choosing his fate. Indeed, it is not a life-or-death choice, but his decision has the power to make his wife's day. It could also disappoint thousands of Mariners fans and even more baseball fans across the country.

Junior, your wife will forgive you, she has to.

I don't know if the fair-weather bunch that populates the peanut galleries and Internet forums of the Seattle sports scene would.

We've been abandoned by the Sonics. The Seahawks missed the playoffs. The Husky football squad? Skunked.

We need that storybook ending to be the beginning of a new era of Seattle sports. We need our boy-king to return a man wanting no more than to get a chance to play for his people.

We need that smile.

A friend of mine said to me one time while we were golfing, "Shoot arrows into the clouds and they'll go away."

It worked.

I'm doing everything I can with no clouds to actually see. I'm mentally pulling back the bow and launching off arrows to Griffey's thoughts of playing in Atlanta.

The Mariners aren't the Braves, they are much more. Baseball is about the ring. Of course it's about winning, but it's also about nostalgia.

In Seattle, it's about a teenager that came to the show, joined his father and went on to blast the Mariners out of the Kingdome and onto the baseball map. Way back when, The Kid was the best in the game. He had his feisty, standoffish side and his inviting smile.

In my eyes, the story will end. It will be OK no matter what Junior chooses, but for my own personal sake, my own personal greed, I hope he chooses Seattle.

Finding Nate Robinson on Youtube's Birthday

I missed the dunk contest.

Between acquiring huge, pink, amazing smelling tiger lilies and taking care of the everyday business of being the world's best boyfriend, I had my hands full.

Well, I may not be the world's best boyfriend, but shucks, I try to be.

Yoda would say, "There is no try, only do," to which I would reply, "I am doing oh wise, green creature."

I didn't even remember this was NBA All-Star Weekend. My love and I hit the gym for 'bring in your significant other so we can lock them into a contract day,' and then we together for the first time ventured into a Pho joint for the highly touted noodle soup.

I recommend it, but soup never really fills me up. Get extra vegetables. Careful with the Sriracha.

To chop a long tale short, I didn't even watch ESPN this weekend. Busy is the man who loves. Or maybe it's just me. Sometimes, I am rather beaver-like.

Anyhow, the dunk contest.

I had to log on to youtube to see the dunks. Coincidentally, this has only been possible since four years ago today.

Happy birthday youtube. Man, the site kicks butt. You can find anything on it. Want to see some funny stuff? Search for Chris Farley, the late funny man also born on this day. Farley was some good clean fun. Sort of.

But, back to the dunks.

Nate Robinson is the short man's hero. I am a short man.

Holy cow, the man can leap! Wish I had those ups. Not my hero, but I'm sayin'!

While I do think the whole Superman/Kryptonite was a total setup, that didn't really dampen the performance. Nate can fly. The green shoes? Super dope.

Go Nate. Now, if only New York could get rolling (for Nate's sake). You gotta love the hometown alumni.

Speaking of the hometown, Nate isn't the only baller representin'. Jamal Crawford, Brandon Roy, Martell Webster, Spencer Hawes, and others are showing the rain can grow some NBA players, while the college ranks are filled with Seattlites.

Today I saw the future.

I had the opportunity to mill around, eat snacks and drink G2 while the best high school players in the area (from bottom to top in height) had a photo session and interviews at the P-I.

These kids have no idea how lucky they are. So young, so talented. Future so wide open. Watch out for Josh Smith world. Peyton Siva makes plays. The rest of the squad isn't a drop off.

It's a sign that Washington basketball as a whole is taking off. The Pac-10 is a tough conference (thanks to many Seattle-area players) and guys are getting serious looks from major D1 programs. Seattle U is actually one of them and they're actually not too bad.

Go Seattle. Who needs the Thunder anyhow?

In closing, go youtube seattle high school basketball players and check out some sick plays. When you're finished, find Farley and laugh a little.

Or laugh a lot. Life is short. So am I. So is Nate.

Nate can dunk...so I can dunk? Wait a sec!

Cheated on, on Valentine's Day

I won't lie to you, I follow my heart.

I've got a mind that gets me into all kinds of trouble sure, but the real trouble, that comes from the heart. The issues are too many to list. Let's just say that in all areas of my life, I am a romantic. Most of the time, at the cost of common sense.

On this holiday loathed by men everywhere and loved by all women, my heart is again aching. The pain is agonizing. It's out of my control.

It has nothing to do with relationships.

The Atlanta Braves are in the mix to sign Ken Griffey, Junior.

Say it ain't so, Kid!

As a lifelong, mostly obsessive fan of Junior's and an equally lifelong hater of the Braves, I would like nothing more than for Bobby Cox's squad to fall off the face of the earth while Griff signs on with the Mariners and magically puts up 35 and 100 en route to World Series MVP.

It'll be just like the Kingdome days. Hip Hop Hoo RAYYYYY! HOOOOOOOO! HAYYYYYY! HOOOO! We'll all party like it's 1995 and Naughty by Nature will release a new album.

In reality, my heart will dictate that no matter where Griffey goes, I will have to love it. I will root for the Braves if I have to. It hurts to even think about it.

Since I can remember I was forced by Ted Turner to watch the Braves and nothing but the Braves. I could strangle the announcers. Dale Murphy, Tom Glavine, Greg Maddux, Dave Justice, Salty, Andrew and Chipper Jones and the Tomahawk Chop all make me violently ill. I am not and never was Fonda Jane.

Even though Turner doesn't own the Braves and they aren't force fed to the nation any longer, it just hurts. But the Braves do have a shot at the postseason, so that would take the sting away somewhat. Man, love stinks. Trading pain for gain?

Just yesterday I was loving the press coverage Griffey was getting here under the needle (both front page banners!). The reunion was on. I was planning a spring training stop in Peoria and envisioning the naysayers choking on Griffey's Louisville Slugger after another sweet swing, and here I am today floored by the news he might sleep with Atlanta.

Cheater!

Jesus, it is like a relationship! How many of us have had that crush on someone that considers us firmly and forever in the friend zone? You know, the one that has no idea you even have feelings for them and they act independent of you and totally irk you just by being?

Please hear me Ken. Please. Please, please, please don't go to the Braves.

My heart would heal, but the scars would never leave.

Speaking of leaving, I left the blog world for a year. It's been stressful out here. There have been many events since I last wrote that just took over my life. No longer. I've got some catching up to do.

Since I seem to be the only one reading these posts, I'll be catching up with myself for the next few weeks with blogs concerning the year prior and the future of man. I hope I don't bore myself.

Go buy your mom some flowers, take a trip to the old folks home and dance with some ladies and have a great Valentine's Day people!

On This Day: Warning Signs, Fireside Chats and Carr Cashes in

It was only six years ago today that the USA started using colors to alert its residents of the terror threat level.

What a joke.

If George Orwell was still around, he'd be all over those things. Alas, he'd probably be buried by our corporate-owned media anyhow, so really what does it matter?

What I'm wondering is when they're going to have neon warning signs for our drinking water? Boy, that story really blew me away. Millions of Americans are sipping up prescription and illegal drugs with every gulp of their eight glasses of water a day, and no one seemed to think we should know about it until now?

Turns out they don't clean out all of the drug residue when they recycle our water, and tiny, tiny amounts of it reach the population. Who knows what kind of problems this has already caused? How many more will arise?

I never realized that Roger Clemens' steroids weren't just his, or that every time Daryl Strawberry was partying away the 1980s, we were too (sort of)!

I'm hoping they find a way to remove the drug residue, but who knows? Here we thought water was safe. It's our pride and freedom. It's a symbol of life, and humanity has damaged it. To what extent, we don't yet know or understand.

We could really use a father figure calming us with his friendly fireside demeanor. But would it do any good?

On March 12, 1933 Franklin D. Roosevelt gave the first of his famed fireside chats in the midst of the Great Depression.

"Good evening friends," he said. 'Trust the banks. Pass my New Deal legislation.'

Things haven't changed.

Here we are on the brink of recession after another round of irresponsible banking and I wonder what good the New Deal really did. I mean a 'broker state' is fine if you're into your government juggling the spheres of your society and organizing them by financial importance (as opposed to actual importance).

Around this time Roosevelt also ordered people to turn in their gold. It was a brilliant move on the government's part. Now, we all slave to their paper.

Speaking of paper, David Carr signed a million-dollar, one-year contract with the Super Bowl champion New York Giants.

Lucky guy. He gets to back up one of the NFL's worst quarterbacks that won't get benched any time soon. All the ex-Carolina Panther Carr has to do is study and practice and he gets the dough.

Nice. If Eli Manning goes down, he gets performance bonuses, so all of his bases are covered. For the Giants, they think they're getting a steal, and they just might be.

I hate Eli. I can't say he can't play, because obviously the guy can scramble, avoid the sack and deliver in the clutch, but I can say he is inconsistent at best. At worst, he's terrible. If the Giants can unlock the mystery that is Carr since he was drafted in the first round, he just might end up helping them.

Today's terror color? For me, it's gray. The future is unclear on many fronts.

On This Day: The Death of Chris Wallace and the End for D Wade, VCU

It was a dark day.

On March 9th, 1997 Christopher Wallace was shot and killed in a drive-bye shooting.

The loss of Biggie signaled the end of a hip-hop era and the genre was never the same. Gone were the days of lyrics. The days of cheesy, dancing beats and empty rhymes were on the horizon.

Wallace's life was a tragedy. He was a huge, larger-than-life personality spit out by the game he helped create. As far as he and the music he lived had seemed to come was as far both really fell.

The industry pushed negativity on a public that was eating it up. The responsibility of artists to make music they believed in didn't cross their minds when the money was flowing and the party was on.

It's as much a tragedy that the music didn't change after the loss of Wallace and Tupac Shakur as the losses themselves.


Throughout America, the violence persists. But, really, there's nothing we can do.

So we do sports.

They take us away from the drama. Or at least the real drama. Then again, they too, have a stake in drama.

Dwyane Wade got shelved by the Heat today. As courageous and heady a basketball player as there is, Wade fell victim to his own attacking attitude.

He doesn't lose his life.

But still, Wade has the pain and agony of surgery, recovery and rehab before he gets to give it another go next year. Have you ever had surgery? It sucks. Big time.

For his sake, hopefully he'll fall back on his jumper more often, and maybe Miami can fix the mess that is their team.

There is no fix when you don't get in the big dance.

Virginia Commonwealth's shot at an automatic bid ended Sunday. The victim of William & Mary's "Cardiac Kid's" third and final last-second miracle now has to wait to hear from the committee.

I hope they don't get in. Freeze them out like UDUB last year. Who cares about the winner of the CAA? Don't get it twisted, I really don't like Eric Maynor or the rest of the Rams, after they dropped Duke last year.

Not that I like Duke, not one bit do I like Duke, but me and gambling run into each other now and again. Usually, I end up leaving the meeting lighter in the wallet. This time was one of those times.

In summary, today I'm reminded that everyday is a gamble. You could win big, or you could lose big. Some losses are bigger than others. Some wins, meaningless.

Brett Favre Takes an NFL Generation With Him

It's over, or is it?

If Brett Favre really has chucked his last off-balance, ill-advised pass down field into three defenders and an opening the size of a kicking tee while being draped by two hoggies thrice his size, somewhere there's a fat lady singing.

You can bet it's not Sonny & Cher's "I got you babe." No, the Groundhog Day that was Favre's career, is according to No. 4, over. Green Bay no longer has it's beloved, brash signal-caller. For my money, the large lady is probably busting out the Who's "I'm Free."

Wisonsinites, the NFL and football fans everywhere won't be singing along.

He gets to go home. He can go play touch football in his jeans on a farm somewhere. But we get left behind without a maverick. Football and the NFL have transformed into an American game of Roman proportions since the Atlanta Falcons decided it would be a smart idea to shop Favre. His retirement officially signifies the end of a forgotten football era.

For us left behind, we might just hear an overweight female singing a sad rendition of The Doors "The End."

But the end of what exactly?

The late 1980s through the mid 1990s were the glory days of football. It was before Spygate, before these annoying two- and three-back systems, before coaches tried to freeze kickers mid-snap and before unnecessary quarterback controversies overplayed by the vulturous media.

Remember when Joe Montana, then Steve Young passed the 49ers and Bill Walsh into the national spotlight? Jerry Rice was a superstar. He was no Randy Moss, then again he also was no Randy Moss! John Taylor, Roger Craig and Tom Rathman were studs.

How about Bo Jackson? What a player. There won't be another like him.

Barry Sanders, ditto. How many backs get the chance to carry the load anymore? The day of dizzying spin moves isn't over, but the day of devotion to one runner is.

How 'bout them Cowboys? For my money, as much as you can hate Troy and the 'boys, they weren't half the boring team Tom Brady and the Patriots are. Sure they score a lot of points, but Asante Samuel was no Deion. Laurence Maroney is surely no Emmitt Smith, and who is the Pats' Leon Lett?

Even the hapless Buffalo Bills, perennial playoff letdowns, are a type of team that won't be seen again.

Favre is not and never was an enigma. He was an above-average athlete that got to play through his personal shortcomings on the football field. It will never happen again. Never.

His records wouldn't be if he were starting today. He'd be killed by the media. Rex Grossman anybody? Give a guy a chance, he just might turn into a legend, but chances cost too much money nowadays.

How long till Tony Romo loses his starting gig? No, this is not the NFL's glory days. This is the end of them. This is when the NFL, like every other sport, over-markets its superstars (and unproven draft picks), over-hypes its games and forgets what made them great.

Favre was the underdog that always stood a chance. It was 17 years of you never knew what was coming.

This chapter of NFL history is now closed. It was glorious, and it flew by all to quickly. Adieu Brett, thanks for the memories.