KOBE v LeBron

How do you measure the enduring success of a professional athlete? Personal records? No. Biggest contracts? No. Most commercials? No. #1 Selling jersey? No. Bling, posses, cribs, clubs and hoes? Not really. Then what? Rings and titles that's what. Yeah, baby! Kobe Bryant has 5 rings with the same team, the LA Lakers. The media's darling, LeBron James, has 0 rings after 7 seasons. But that's just not all of the player contrasts between these two.

Kobe is a proven leader and certified winner on the hard court. LeBron wants to be the man and is a certified whiner. Kobe makes everybody around him better ala Michael. LeBron makes his teammates disappear for his "my moments" ala Chad Ochocinco. Kobe wins with others "hand-me-downs". LeBron's strategy for winning is being on all-star team. Results v Potential. You pick.

For my money, I'll take Kobe anytime. LeBron is simply a great individual player...a human highlight film. Kobe is an exceptional individual player with freaky ability and an intense passion to win within the delicate context of team dynamics. LeBron is inebriated with the exuberance of his own singular bball skills. Call it, self-love. Powder and all. Kobe believes not only in himself but in his cast.

Since the conclusion of the regular NBA season, the media's frenzy of LeBron's free agent journey has amped up trebled and become something akin to the papparazzi unveiling Tiger Woods's sordid sex exploits. The media thinks we can't have enough news about Tiger and now LeBron. I don't know about you but excuse me, I've had enough of both for several lifetimes. Please Chris Broussard, ESPN bball guru, the season is over...take a vacation.

Headline after headline asks the question of the ages: where will LeBron end up? What lucky(?) franchise will pull the winning ticket for the LeBron sweepstakes. Yawn. Frankly, whomever gets LeBron can have 'em. As Kobe shines his rings in the OC during the off season, LeBron shines his teeth in front of the highest bidders. Will Lebron ever achieve Kobe's pro success? We'll see.

Basketball is the ultimate team sport. 12 players on the team and 5 players in harmony on the court with one goal in mind...winning. Kobe understands that. LeBron doesn't! You see, LeBron is all about LeBron. No suprise there, right? He not so tacitly demands from his new boss to sign pricy all-stars and hire a compliant big name coach as part of his deal package. LeBron's thinking is simple. All-star talent on the same team SURROUNDING ME = ring(s) and that will validate my rightful position in the pantheon of the NBA superstars. However, there is one problem...LeBron himself. Unless he changes his MO from individual to team, he will likely become the modern day version of Dominique Wilkins...incredible talent but no ring.

So let's show some respect to a real champion with warts and all, Kobe Bryant. Kobe, enjoy the off season, hang with the kids, rest up and play some golf with the fellas at Pelican Hill on the Newport Coast because next year wherever LeBron ends up he'll be gunnin' for you with this new crew. What's that? You're not worried? nahhhhh!

Stevie Flying Commercial

Looks like Stevie Williams, Tiger's "caddy for now" had to fly coach somewhere after Woods's US Open failure. That's Stevie waiting alone for a plane in the Monterey Airport last Sunday evening after the final round. Guess Tiger didn't have room for Stevie in the G5.

That's what happens to you when you give Tiger the wrong info, Stevie. That three wood on the 6th tee was a no-no. The circle of trust was broken. Punishment: G5 is good for me...coach for you. C-ya.

Tiger made a brief comment after his disappointing final round and said, "three mistakes cost us a chance to win the Open."

This latest flap in Tiger's camp begs the question, will Stevie be flying coach on United to St. Andrews? If so, United charges extra for bags.

Who Are These Guys?

Have you been one of a couple of billion people in the world watching on TV the every four year monthlong snoozefest called the World Cup? You know the soccer tournament being staged in South Africa where scoring in 90 minutes is almost as rare as a 45 day bank loan closing. If you have been watching then you have seen three things and heard one thing.

What you have seen are: superior teams playing inferior opponents, like Brazil v North Korea; tremendously gifted athletes like Kaka of Brazil and Messi of Argentina; and, lastly, those bumbling pitiful referees who hand out yellow cards like candy to belly-flopping kids while missing obvious calls on the biggest of plays.

What you have heard is the constant hum of biblical-sized swarms of African bees circling the stadiums...not really. It sounds like angry hornets or something with a stinger but it is really 80,000 spectators blowing a plastic horn nonstop called a vuvuzela. It's been reported by Wolf Blitzer that when the vuvus are blasted in unison simultaneously in all the stadiums, the space station can hear them.

But this blog really has nothing to do about the players, the teams and the vuvuzelas but has everything to do with the referees and FIFA, the governing body of the World Cup, and their seemingly total cluelessness.

First of all, where did FIFA find these guys, the referees? At the local Home Depot parking lot early in the morning. But their problems aside and there are many, the main officiating issue rests not with the pathetic referees but with FIFA. Who are these FIFA guys? Picture the Dr. Strangelove table assembly or the Wizard of Oz behind the curtain.

There have been more blown calls in this tournament in two weeks than MLB's umpire Jim "I blew a perfect game call" Joyce missed in twenty plus seasons. Why is this the case? Because FIFA in its infinite wisdom refuses to employ instant replay on anything performed on the pitch (field) for the 90 minutes. Because of FIFA's antediluvian mentality, the ill-equipped referees have become THE story in this World Cup and that is not good. It is apparent that FIFA is techno-phobic, tonedeaf or just plain stupid...probably all three. I bet they don't use email.

So we're left with these poor yellow-shirted referees enforcing toothless FIFA rules with no safety net. They run up and down the 110 yard field following a ball being bandied about by 22 players at sometimes warp speed. They see half the action at best. In the goal area, they impersonate Ray Charles. Outraged players get in their faces. Nobody has their back. They are the loneliest men on earth. Even with unemployment high around the world, who would want that job? OK, maybe Rod Blagojevich.

On top of that, ESPN and the talking heads are the referees worst nightmare because they give the billions of fans watching on TV a dozen angles via videotape of how the ref blew it. Video doesn't lie. ESPN rubs it in ad nauseum ad infinitum.

Today's game, England scores a goal against Germany which was disallowed by the ref who was typically late in catching up to the action...breathlessly. The replay clearly showed the ball landing two feet behind the goal line after hitting the cross bar. A goal for England? Not so fast mister. The side judge was summoned for verification, what did he see?...he was no help. He didn't answer. He couldn't hear the question because of the vuvus. Keystone cops redux.

Meanwhile back at FIFA headquarters in Krackpotistan, they defend the overmatched and harassed refs, "FIFA is proud of having good referees, the level of these referees is very high. Nobody can say the credibility of football is, let's say, in doubt." Say what?

Mr. FIFA, football aka soccer is not in doubt but your mishandling of this mess sure is.

The only thing now that can save this World Cup is what most football fans want, that is, an Argentina and Brazil final. Just one thing FIFA, give your refs the night off and have ESPN ref.

The Near Perfect Union

Perfection is not of this world. But near perfection is all around us.

In nature, is there anything more near perfect than the Monterey Peninsula? The sea, the coast, the mountains, the vegetation, the sounds, the smells and the weather all contribute mightily to a landscape on earth that is unsurpassed anywhere.

In marriage (not including my own), was there a more near perfect marriage than Nellie and John Wooden? No explanation is needed. Read previous blog.

In government, is democracy as exercised in the USA as near perfect a form of government as there is anywhere or at anytime? Yes. As Alexis de Tocqueville said, "Democracy and socialism have nothing in common except one word, equality. But notice the difference: while democracy seeks equality in liberty, socialism seeks equality in restraint and servitude."

In religion, is there a more near perfect faith than belief in Jesus Christ as Lord and Saviour?

In the female sex (not including my wife and daughter), is (was) there a more near perfect lady (grace, brains and looks) than Sophia Loren in her prime and even now? Cate Blanchett/Grace Kelly/Audrey Hepburn, are close.

In baseball, is there a more near perfect baseball city in America than St. Louis where appreciative St. Louisans even cheer the opposition on good plays? Boston, a close second.

And in golf, is there a more near perfect union of hands on a putter shaft than PGA professional Steve Stricker's as pictured above? I don't think so.

So, what's near perfect in your life?

The Lady Defends Par

The great amateur Bobby Jones wrote in Down the Fairway, "...the toughest opponent of them all on the golf course is Old Man Par." He realized after several failings in competitive golf that if he was to succeed he needed to beat in order: par, himself, the golf course and lastly, the competition. He learned how to win...and win he did. 12 Majors in 8 years.

On this Sunday past at the 110th US Open at Pebble Beach, Our Lady of the Shrine of Golf, protected par for four days from the best golfers in the world. Those in pursuit of the holy grail of professional golf, the US Open Championship, should have read Bobby's words prior to the Open. Instead the elite forgot about maintaining a par mentality and frankly looked mentally unprepared and emotionally naive for Open conditions, particularly on the final day. Dustin Johnson, the third round leader by 3 and the author of the clumsily stupid score of 82 (11 over) for the Sunday climax, is Exhibit A. Score big for the Lady with a heavy assist from USGA course set-up man, Mike Davis.

On Pebble's grand stage, Davis conspired with the Lady to present an environment for championship golf that would negate the advantages of juiced up balls, swing coaches, new age equipment, exercise regimens, psychologists, flat tummies, G5s, money beyond measure and light winds. Davis's deft touch of our Lady's cleavage defended par till the 72nd hole on Sunday evening. Which begs the question, is the simple recipe for protecting par: one part "graduated" rough, two teaspoons of water and three parts skinny fairways? Is that all that is needed to protect par at these grand venues? That seems to be the USGA's current trend since The Open returns to a "shorty" 6900 yard Merion CC in 2013. Heck, with Davis in charge of course set-up, alot of old golf course gems could be pressed into service for hosting future Opens. You see for Davis, the Open course set up is a brilliantly conceived agronomic exercise executed by the green staff.

This simple recipe made the talented field look inept and totally off their game. Sunday's overall performance from the field was atrocious. But how delicious it was for those of us who love the course venues more than love the field. In the end, the course endures while the players fade away. But the players didn't sit quietly.

As usual, we heard the customary bellyaching from the usual suspects during and after the championship. The greens were "terrible." The approaches were "like concrete." The added bunkers were "unnatural and unnecessary." #14 green was "unplayable." In some circles...all true. But it sounds like sour grapes to me. The players moaned, sans one, while the Lady silently demurred. She murmured "scoreboard."

On the 72nd green on Father's Day every year, the best of the golfing field is recognized and that is what an USGA's mission is. To identify the best in the field. There can be only one Open champion and Graeme McDowell was that champ this past Father's Day. His score? He was even par for the tournament. He was contemplative, strategic, skillful and respectful. All the ingredients needed for Open final success. Did you expect anything less from an Irishman (albeit Northern but same island and same musical dialect)?

So the 110th US Open is over. The bruised players bugged out of town as fast as possible on their private jets except for one. Graeme, his Dad and his Irish clan we're slugging down River Liffey water while belting out Danny Boy at Brophy's with trophy in hand...in ecstasy. While back at Pebble, the Lady slept peacefully awaiting another wake-up call in nine years for yet another assault across her loins. She yawns.

The Graduate

In the 1967 movie, The Graduate, featuring Dustin Hoffman as Benjamin, there is a scene with Benjamin, the new graduate from college, with his neighbor,Mr. McGuire. At a graduation party, McGuire whispers to rudderless Benjamin, "I want to say one word to you. Just one word. Are you listening Benjamin?" Benjamin responds, "Yes, I am." McGuire unloads, "Plastics." Benjamin asks in return, "Just how do you mean that?"

Recently, our #3, a son, graduated from college. And for some strange reason, with each passing graduation I tend to think of that movie. I recall that line about "plastics" and frankly cringe. With each passing graduation that line becomes more irrelevant. For the event of graduation seems to me to be more about a young person starting a journey of self discovery in lieu of starting a journey of becoming stale and nonviable quickly.

As a father of four, college graduation day is one of my proudest moments. Graduation is not only a gift to our sons and daughter but a gift to me as their Dad. It marks a milestone and is one of the true joys of fatherhood.

Graduation represents the hard work for the student and mutual support of the student and parents. There are shared successes and failures. But at the end of the road, the graduate has something that can never be taken away from him or her. A diploma signifying study, accomplishment, responsibility and promise.

So, heartfelt congratulations to our son. With an Engineering degree in hand, he heads East for two years of service. He will be working with the Jesuits at Cristo Rey High School on the Hispanic West side of Chicago.

You see plastics can wait. But the adventure of living fully continues.

God speed, Jack.

U$C

Recently, the NCAA has imposed a two year bowl ban on USC. In it's report, the NCAA recited among other things "a profound lack of institutional control" within Heritage Hall the home of USC Athletics and the private fiefdom of Athletic Director and SC Heisman Trophy winner, Mike Garrett. Mike holds the purse strings and the "Kim Jong-il-like" power of a $75M+ annual budget. Obviously, this picture of Mike was taken during happier times. Today, Mike's not smiling. He's angry! Not at himself but at everybody else.

Since 1993, it appears that Mike has been playing the college athletic game by his own rules. Or as my young researcher, Danny, has voiced over the years, "SC's program is the present day version of the U (University of Miami under Jimmy Johnson in the '80s)." And that is not a compliment. It is the anti-Paterno method of college athletic governance. The U was defined by thugs, no rules, no academics, winning games and filling up the coffers. Kinda sounds like a modern day SC.

As long as Mike won games, his accomplice, University President Steven Sample, looked the other way. Well now with the NCAA sanctions coupled with Sample's timely retirement, Mike has become more vulnerable and even more testy with the media than normal. His normal distaste for the media on a good day, goes something like this, "No comment. Don't bother me." Then tells his people, "Don't talk to that guy. He's the press."

Recently, as the NCAA story broke, the media asked Mike about the report. Mike said with a full bank of microphones in front of him, "Everybody wishes they were all Trojans." Regarding the penalty, Mike said, "...we're (SC) bigger than life."

Sadly, Mike appears to be yet another victim of monumental hubris. There is his reality which is always right. And your reality which is always wrong. His behaviour is strangely similar to, of all people, Saddam Hussein before "shock and awe". I fear the conclusion of Mike's story will end similarly to Saddam's. In a dark place, alone, pathetic, dreaming of the past while still defiant.

Undoubtedly, Mike's past has caught up with him and it has sullied the reputation of SC. A fine University. Hopefully, the new incoming President, CL Nikias, will have the gumption to "clean house" in Heritage Hall, start anew and bury the ghosts of Mike Garrett and his kind. Hear that Lane Kiffin?

As TJ Simers of the LA Times wrote, "Another day passes without SC demanding Mike Garrett's resignation. Shameful."

Mike, you're 66 years old, it's time for you to move on from your alma mater and put your Tommy Trojan bobblehead away.

Nellie and John

For Nellie, you are with me always. These words were written by John Wooden and dedicated to the memory of his dear wife, Nellie, in John's book, Wooden, A Lifetime of Observations and Reflections On and Off the Court. His Nellie was the "wind beneath his wings." And he soared in life because of her.

John Wooden died on June 4 four months shy of his 100th birthday. He was vital to the end. Bill Walton visited him at the hospital before he passed and remarked, "Coach's mind is sharp as a tack but his body was very, very frail." Nellie, his wife for 53 years, died on March 21, 1985 of cancer. John writes of her, "I had the greatest co-coach working alongside me, by the name of Nellie."

Young Wooden met his future wife and best friend for life, Nellie, at a carnival in Indiana in 1926, while in high school. Picture a Frank Capra movie. Became high school sweethearts. Marriage in 1932 and two children thereafter. They were the original American Gothic without the pitchfork. Both farm raised, Christian, hard-working, honest, modest, moral, family-oriented, funloving educated folks from the heartland. Their's was a real love story.

After Nellie died, John was very distraught. His faith and family comforted him, not his work. His work and his incredible success were just parts of his life. He was not defined by banners or accolades foisted on him by others but by his enduring love for Nellie and his family. Even after Nellie's death, some 25 years later, John on the 21st of every month would visit her grave and would write a love letter to her. The letter would be placed on the pillow she slept on during their life together. Does our world even recognize this kind of tenderness anymore?

Keith Wilkes visited Coach at the hospital shortly before he died. Wilkes stated that he saw "that little glint" in his pale blue eyes. While there, Wilkes saw Coach's son, shave his father. Why fuss with shaving at such a somber time? The son, upon seeing Wilkes bewilderment, said, "my Dad is getting ready to see Nellie (has to look proper)."

In John's aforementioned book, it is written, "Folks think Nellie and I had a perfect marriage but it was because we worked at it. There are rough patches in any marriage. Very early we understood that there would be times when we disagreed but there would never be times when we had to be disagreeable. We kept to that rule for over half a century. Nellie and I have great love for one another, but we understood that even love takes work."

Nellie and John truly lived a Love Story. Contrary to Hollywood's meaning of love as "never having to say your sorry", the Woodens demonstrated that saying your sorry is not only okay but vitally necessary, human and enduring for a loving relationship.

Well done Nellie and John and thank you for your wisdom. I am pleased that you are together for eternity.

May God bless you both.

Two Peas in a Pod

Does our president look worried? The gulf, a national treasure, is a growing environmental disaster with no solution to date. The economy continues to languish. New jobs are not forthcoming. Deficit and debt are spiraling out of control. North Korea sinks a South Korean ship. Iran marches confidently forward towards obtaining the final solution, nuclear weapons. Israel is growing impatient with its neighbors. Jihadists live amongst us. Osama is still breathing. Two stubborn wars continue to sap our strength and resolve. And states in the union are actively and openly defying him. Heck, even his own party from Spike Lee to James Carville to the no opportunity college graduate are turning against him.

But it's good to know he can still relax and kick back with one of his pals amidst all the problems. Sir Paul McCartney pictured above with our President was feted at a recent White House gala. (By the way how does one get the coveted "Sir" label in the UK? Answer in Wikipedia "by mucho brown nosing".) The androgynous dye-haired ex-Beatle McCartney had this to say upon receiving some meaningless award from our President, "After the last eight years, it's great to have a president who knows what a library is." An obvious attack on you know who. Excuse me, he said what in our White House....with our President flashing his pearly whites? Outrageous! Unbelievable! The interloping Salahis were better behaved in the WH than these two.

First of all, who does McCartney think he is? He's a commoner from Liverpool who got lucky with a guitar and a pretty face. He comes into our house and disrespects all of us with smug verbal recklessness. Whatever anybody thinks of W, he still deserves a certain modicum of respect, particularly, in our house. McCartney did not show that. That was totally wrong. What made his gratuitous comments even more offensive was our current President tacitly approving by offering nothing more than a toothy smile.

Mr. President, you have been in charge now almost 18 months. When are you going to lead all of us, bring us together and do something? And for you McCartney, to quote one of my alltime favorite writers, Dr. Seuss, take your sirship and "...just go. I don't care how. By foot. By cow. You can go on skates. You can go on skis. You can go in an old blue shoe. Just go, go, GO!" (And if our President doesn't start governing, you take him with you.)

PS. I always liked Mick Jagger and the Stones better anyway.

Rickie Lost His Number on 12

To borrow from the 1974 Steely Dan hit, Rickie Don't Lose that Number, "...its the only one you own, you might use it if feel better...when you get home." I don't think Rickie Fowler will be too happy when he gets home after surrendering a three shot lead in the final round at Jack Nicklaus's annual lovefest called The Memorial Tournament. The sickest number for Rickie was a 5 on the par 3, 12th hole. His tee ball found a "watery grave" after a very loose swing. One of his rare bad swings over four thrilling days in weather-plagued central Ohio.

Nonetheless, it was exhilerating for us golf fans to see a 21 year old rookie perform like a veteran in front of the golfing world on such a grand stage. This kid is so refreshing for a sport that sorely needs refreshment. Sure #1 in the world is still lurking around with that sullen mien in the continuation of his "annus horribilis." And he attracts the curious. But the real story is with the fast ascending #32 in the world, Rickie Fowler. And he attracts the hungry golf fan.

In case you're keeping score, here are Rickie's numbers after 16 events this year: 5 top ten finishes, #12 in Fedex Points, #12 on the money list with $1.98M. And it's only June.

Notwithstanding Rickie's lofty position and numbers in the world of golf, he still has to qualify for the US Open at Pebble Beach next week. That's the beauty of professional golf. Nothing is just given to you. You have to earn it. You have to perform. There are no days off. There are no guaranteed contracts. You are alone. And you have to perform month after month away from home. Glamourous? Not really.

So, Rickie heads off Monday for a 36 hole Open qualifier somewhere in Ohio. Last month, he missed qualifying for The British Open in St. Andrews. Sadly for the the Brits, they will be denied seeing this young golfing phenom this time. I have a feeling they will see him soon, probably, at Celtic Manor in Wales for the Ryder Cup in September.

The grandest stage for golf in our country, The US Open at Pebble Beach, needs Rickie. He is singularly special, as is our country. He's as all-American as a #2 animal style In and Out Burger. He's as exciting as a game 7 Stanley Cup Final.

It's GO TIME on Monday. May the force be with you at qualifying, my little friend. You are one cool little dude with a filthy golf game. See you at Pebble next week...I hope. The lady awaits you...I hear she is partial to orange.

The Lady Awaits

Those are three lovelies in the above picture, my wife, my daughter and Pebble Beach Golf Links. What do they all have in common besides their obvious comeliness? All three command and deserve respect. They have earned as much.

In the case of "our lady of golfdom" Pebble Beach, 156 expert golfers will tee it up in 17 days in a herculean attempt to earn the majestic crown at the 110th US Open Championship. It will surely prove to be a stern test for the courageous field.

On a regular resort day, the lady makes grown men and women simultaneously sing her praises while singing the blues. Between the mercurial winds off the Pacific, the distracting drop dead views, teeny greens and not so teeny $500 greens fees, she always protects par. But when The US Open comes to town, the lady readies herself in a manner only seen every ten years.

In anticipation of this edition of The Open, penal bunkers have been added...seems like everywhere. About 200 yards were added to the links by creating new back tees. In the case of #10, an already stout par 4 along Carmel Beach, a new back tee added 50 yards to the hole, now measuring 495 yards. And the grass. Whew! I ran into Chris Dalhammer, the superb superintendent in charge of the course, who told me the primary rough will be 4.5" long. A golf ball is 1.68" in diameter. An almost 3" differential. So once you find your ball in the rough, the ball will be barely hittable out of thick-bladed damp rye grass. (Note to players, bring wrist supports and Advil.) But that's just half the grass story.

The strategic turf change the brainiacs at the USGA have implemented across the lady's countenance is that they have grown the rough up on the left side and moved the fairway lines to the cliff edge. On ocean fronting holes #6,8,9,10,18 the centerlines of the golf holes have moved in some cases 25 yards towards the cliff edge and ocean below. The Pacific is now in play. The fairways are "pinched" by penal rough left and by "bye-bye ball" runoffs to Japan. A dandy move. (Check out the photo above and notice the "fairway trees" on #18 now bordering the rough. Typically, fairway is on both sides of the trees.)

Frankly, is there a better site for a major golf tournament in our country than Pebble Beach? Augusta in April is great but Pebble in June is pure brilliance. Even in the June fog, Pebble still represents.

So whomever wears the crown on Father's Day at The Open, remember this, the lady rules with a strong assist from her strongest ally, mister wind. After hosting four US Opens, she has earned her rightful lofty position. Enjoy the greatest show on grass.