Some of the best of Emmitt Smith

I don't have cable, so when I watch football it's usually either at the bar or a friend's house. Either way, I don't get to hear a lot of the analysis, so it's relatively news to me how well Emmitt Smith's analyst career is coming along. Here, for your tonguetwisting pleasure, are some recent TV highlights from one of the NFL's greatest-ever players.

Bananas:



Trickelates:


Having a fun day:


He's said some other cool stuff, too.

I can be a real dick sometimes

Hi. Thanks for reading. If you are actually reading this, that is.

So. I hadn't written a column in a while after writing the last two. And for some reason, the first 40 or so hadn't received much a response from readers than the last two did combined. So. Blog-time, yah?

So. It's one thing to have an opinion. It's another to so be comfortable with it, so in charge that you can say exactly what it is and why in a level-headed reasonable manner. Recently, I really missed the boat on that last one.

I don't have any misgivings about what I said in my last column -- which was, in a few words, that people can be mean and ugly in front of little kids -- but looking back on it, some of the language was cheapjack crap. Way too much petty name-calling -- which is a really unfair thing for someone in my position to do with a newspaper column. Not my place. Not setting a good example for kids, either, if that's what I'm going to try and be all high and mighty about. For that, sorry.

Other than that I'll stand by it. People -- all people, coaches and columnists alike -- do dumb stuff.

I do like to think that most all people, even those prone to meanness, are at their cores alike. Let's all try to be cool, yeah?

UPDATE: Tuesday evening
So after spending about 20 minutes chatting with a select group of parents who think the column was aimed directly at them -- sorry, it wasn't (really), I don't do that (not yet, anyway) -- I'm going to add another thing or two.

What I wrote was something that'd been stewing in me since 2005, after watching games played by each and every one of the three youth organizations in town, as well as some over in Manteca and Ceres. Yes, I have done all that. Yes, I have seen a lot of bad stuff from all sorts of parents, on all sorts of sidelines.

I didn't name any people, teams or organizations because I felt -- and still do feel -- that people who act like buffoons in front of little kids are a small minority, and I didn't -- and don't -- want to cast any wide dispersions on an organization. I'm not in that kind of business.

That all being said, if someone was offended by what I wrote, and angry about what I wrote, maybe it is they need to watch what they say and do in front of little kids.

Like yelling at a reporter in the dark for about 20 minutes, complaining about coverage, whining about cheap shots, and even playing the race card. Where'd that come from? Are we reading the same paper?

Someone told me today it's a free country. Another person told me they, as a paying spectator, are free to do and say what they want. Sure, but if you're a parent, you have a responsibility. If your kid is watching you act up, you're throwing your responsibility out the window. Your choice, but don't act like someone's railroading you when you get called on it.

The track we call home

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For a town its size, there's not a lot Tracy lacks in the sports department.

Yeah, people are clamoring for "sports fields" and "aquatic centers," but all the pool complexes and green green developer grass of home can't compare to what we got. Manteca can have their Big League Dreams, the other side of The Hill can keep its ice rink, we got history on our side. We got windy and cold or miserably hot: we got The Altamont.

Seriously. This place is cool -- and it's unique, too. The only half-mile paved oval in between Roseville and Irwindale is the Altamont. Oh, and the Rolling Stones played an epochal free concert there in 1969. We're talking cosmic-wave type ish.



Now, the people who go here are Racing People, that is, they are different from those who aren't Racing People. Racing People, much like the NASCAR they like and the cigarettes they inhale, among with the 1000 other sundry gas and rubber fumes in the air, are acquired tastes.

Eccentric or inscrutable to an outsider, Racing People reward patience, interest and hard work when you try to get to know them -- the same creed their Racing World's moral code relies on. You could become a Racing Person very easily. You could show up tomorrow, and be offered tips, tools, support. But you need to put in the work.

Anyway, here are some pictures, of racing cars, not racing people, mostly, that did't get published in the paper. You like?



During a yellow flag caution, the cars bunch up and drive slowly, making a decent shot child's play even for idiots who don't know how to use their cameras.

An Endorsement: This Dude's Leg, by Nike

Best leg tattoo -- ok, only leg tattoo -- seen Saturday at the Tracy Raiders.

How much does calf space go for these days, I wonder?

Roger Clemens, circa 2057

Ha ha, this very funny.

The best part about youth baseball playoffs..

...is not home runs by kids who were blessed by early puberty, nor is it over zealous coaches who preach situational hitting to 10-year olds, nor yet is it the ever-present potential for a parent-on-parent brawl.

It's this dude:


This is Ron, who worked the snack bar at the Babe Ruth finals, offered me the use of a bat when some 12-year old kid half my size swore at me (it's cool, he'll be 6'2, 200 and easily able to murder me when he's 16), and told me that he's had said haircut since he was a little kid. In short: dude's been rocking a mullet HIS ENTIRE LIFE.

OH AND THIS TOO

I played lacrosse in high school but I wasn't very good. This meant I spent a lot of time on the sidelines watching rather than always playing in practice. And in games, too, for that matter, but I digress. A fun way to keep the mind and body active during inactivity in practice was for us not-very-gooders to take turns hitting each other full on in the face. Facemask, that is, with a gloved lacrosse hand. It hurt like a mother, jerked your neck back and made your head ring, but no blood/no foul = no problem, right? All fun until Coach makes you stop, which happened when Simon Lassel and Justin Flynn took it too seriously and had to be pulled off of one another. Being so creative, we called the non-violent-Simon-and-Flynn-version "helmetboxing."

I learned today that what I thought was pure chemical-free enterainment back in 1997 is a "dangerous new craze for teens" in 2007.

Behold!

From the story, by CBS-2 in New York City:

Helmet boxing is an underground sport that's just beginning to surface, especially on Internet video sites such as YouTube. To play, each individual dons a helmet with a face mask, along with a pair of gloves, and then each hits each other in the head until someone passes out, a helmet gets knocked off, or someone simply throws in the towel.

Fearless journalism, this.

While the American Academy of Pediatrics has no "official stance" on helmet boxing, (Doctor Guy They Used For the Story Doctor) Gregory said they do consider it to be on the "same playing field as regular boxing," which has been deemed unsafe for "young children with developing brains."

Blah blah, right? Well, not exactly. I found this on YouTube (and it looks a little bit too much like BC for comfort):



These dudes are too serious to be helmet boxers. These animals are more helmt pit fighters, methinks.

There was also a YouTube made by some 13 year olds, with entrance music and etc., about their fights but it's kind of sickening to watch "BRADY, 5'3, 100 LBS" do battle with "KEITH, 5'4, 95 lbs."

Forget helmet boxing. I think YouTube is the dangerous new craze.

Addendums: "Oh....right" & "Batteries"

Also, when I sat down to write finally at around 10:10 p.m. I found that my voice recorder ran out of batteries. That is to say, no quotes from players and coaches in my stories except for what I could remember. That is to say: dammit.

I see the irony in this -- another thing I forgot to mention is how bad it is for the end result when something like a story is crafted under such crappy conditions: rushed, stressed, haven't eaten for nine hours, I know that sounds whiny, but you get it, surely. Your mind is still working fast just to process stuff as you put it down in writing for other people to take as "Truth." Eesh. You forget stuff. You read it when deadline's over, you want to change stuff.

This means A LOT OF WHAT I WRITE IS ERROR PRONE.

Just today for example.
1. In my baseball story, I said Justin Evans made a "backhanded" catch. He made a really ridiculous catch while running full on to his left, reaching across his body. Does that mean backhanded? I'm dumb.

2. I'm sure there's more.

When Things Go Really, Really Bad: Section Softball Edition

Hi.

So today was Day 2 of the Section softball tournament; the annual prize for high school softball's elite, the second dsy of tournament play way up in the scenic North Highlands of Ye Olde Sac-Towne. What is exactly the reward for a season's labor? Bake in Suicide Saturday heat, then play two more days of double elimination game-in-the-sandlot-where-the-bases-are-a-lot-closer against fearsome 16 year old girls with "a mean riseball." Intense.
True, the naysayers may say, "Bah, it's only softball," to which I reply, "No, it's also covering softball."

OF WHICH IS THE CONTENT OF AND IMPETUS FOR THIS BLOG ENTRY

Covering softball meant a long but rewarding day Saturday, where I got to work on my photography and not write a story, the Tracy Press not publishing until Tuesday, which means the story doesn't need to be in til Monday (though it really ought to be written before then). Here are some photos I took that didn't get published.


West's Caitlyn Girard against Modesto.


Taking photos is much different than writing. "Duh," you say, but they're both forms of expression. Is what I do normally with words any different artistically than what photographers do with a machine?

Tracy's Jessica Riconscente. This picture is much bigger for some reason.


Tracy coach Greg Smith's head. Around when I took this is when I thought to myself, "What a weird thing it must be, to try and play a softball game while some dork takes pictures." I felt creepy.


West's Stephanie Tornio batting.


Like most of the things I cover, I've never actually played softball like these girls do, so I have no idea what exactly their athletic feats entail. I have a fairly good understanding of what it means and what it takes to run fast, tackle somebody or shoot a basketball. Not so much here. How fast these softball are thrown and how hard they're hit can surprise you. All in a really small infield, too.

Another West hitter, not sure who this is.


In softball, it seems, a pitcher is vital much more so than in baseball. You pitch the whole game, strikeouts more common, a hit so much more dangerous. This is the face of one of the Section's most dangerous pitchers.


Tracy High's Jenni Holtz.


On Suicide Saturday, real reporters -- that is, reporters with deadlines every day, instead of almost-every-day like me -- have to suffer through the heat AND file a story all in the same daily cycle of the sun. This is a real reporter:

The San Joaquin Herald's Dave Campbell.

Who is the subject of my Really, Really, Really bad story. He and I, that is.

So Dave and I are both covering Monday's games, so he offers the day before to drive us both up to Sacto. I'm like, "Yeah." Smaller environmental footprint and all, you know? So I agree.

On Monday, as usual, I'm running late. Didn't get everything written, didn't meet Dave in time to not beat traffic, laptop battery dead so can't work on stuff in traffic, getting to 5 p.m. games -- of which there are two, that is, two games going on simultaneously for which I am responsbile -- around 5:15 p.m. No problem.

The plan was to use the wireless internet at a nearby Denny's -- the same place I used to emergency-file-in-a-hurry during the 2006 playoffs -- to e-mail all the stories in by 10 p.m. at the latest. Eat some awful food while doing it, get home by 11 p.m. with all the work done. Easy.

So 5 p.m. games end, both teams lose, which means they play again at 7 p.m. Two games, again, at the same time. No problem. I can't use the laptop in between games to work on stuff because it only works with an AC adapter. No problem. One goes to extra innings. Also, no problem.

9 p.m. rolls around. We are done, finally. Time to go to crappy restaraunt and e-mail stories in so we can have a sports section. Denny's no longer does WiFi. Didn't check on that beforehand. Ok, so let's try this motel parking lot. Free WiFi there. No, the nice man behind the counter says "Go away, we close at 10 p.m." even though it's 9:30. Won't have lots of time to work on stuff now, but alright. It's been worse. Go back to softhall field to use their hookup, nice softball people are closing and going home right now. Sort of a problem. Actually, big problem. How am I supposed to send my story in now? And as a real reporter, Dave's in a worse predicament: his deadline's 10 p.m., while I have as close to 11 p.m. as I want. In short: we're fuct.

But somehow Dave knows of an office -- in Rancho Cordova -- we can use. Ok. So I drive his car down Watt Avenue, looking for Highway 50, while he bangs furiously at his laptop in the passenger seat. Lots of construction. Onramp closed. It's 9:50.

Somehow we get to this medical office in the middle of nowhere right before 10 p.m., he files by 10:05 and sits and stews while I cram what should have been 2 hours worth of work into 40 minutes. Somehow, it all gets done. No problem.

More softball tomorrow. I've been working alot. See you later.

Drifting is the lamest name ever, but here's a blog on it just the same

Hi. Been a while. What's new?

For a journalist, even for one who spends most of his time back in high school, there's nothing much worse than being beat. Not physically, of course, but getting beaten to the punch on a story. Someone else has your news. Someone did your job better than you.

It's nice when and if a bigger news outlet has a story, you at least have a similar one the same day. You may not be "beat," per se, and at the least you can learn something from it.

Here's a Tracy story from an Oakland TV outlet.

http://www.ktvu.com/video/12957065/detail.html

I have a story on this same situation, but mine is different. Personally, I think Patti Lee's story would have been better if she read some of my stuff on the track -- though she did get some details I didn't. And then again, she made some mistakes I wouldn't have made (John Condren is the operator, not the owner of the Altamont, and drifting is hardly new or unknown), so no one's perfect.

Here's the basic gist of the story.

There is a meeting this afternoon in Oakland. The Alameda County Board of Supervisors is going to rule on an appeal that protests a a decision made by the AC East County Board of Zoning Adjustments in March. That board voted 2-1 on an issue put on its agenda at the last second, an issue forcing a vote on whether or not to specifically allow drifting at a racetrack. It was appealed and is an issue now because almost all of the racetrack's neighbors are fighting it for a host of other reasons, and since the neighbors' lawyers feel the track violates all laws by racing anything at all, they are going to say so at today's meeting.

All this is less clear when you watch the news story.

Again, if you please:
http://www.ktvu.com/video/12957065/detail.html

But then mine --- www.tracypress.com, should be on the front --- doesn't necessarily tell the whole story, either. It's important to know that this isn't supposed to be a blanket decision on drifting per se. It has nothing to do with drifting. It's a decision on how the BOS are going to interpret a point of law. But that doesn't make good TV.

Yet I wish I had seen the TV clip before I wrote my story. I would be beat by default -- I can't get my story out the same day I do it -- but it would be better. Not because I beat Patti Lee, but because I would have been able to use her information and add it to the pile of "best information available" and -- by default -- write a better story.

Ergo, Better Journalism. A Very Good Thing for all, indeed.

One of the worst things I've seen in a while

I think the youth football teams in town do a good job. It's hard to do -- sometimes there are some bad apples around. I don't know where this clip came from, but it's a good reminder of what can happen sometimes. Let's keep it real this spring/summer, youth baseball parents. Real civil, that is.

WARNING (in case anyone actually reads this): some dude really gets it. Like, hopefully he actually did something wrong, it's so bad.

http://www.break.com/index/pop_warner_parents_brawl.html

When goons go wrong

A few weeks ago I blogged about a hockey fight. That fight, like most fights, was more spectacle than anything else. Shoving, grabbing, some hitting here and there. No one was seriously hurt, no one required anything more than superficial medical attention. The fans cheered, the fans went home. Blessed be the name of the NHL.

Hockey fights are more often that not instigated by hockey goons, one-dimensional players whose speciality -- and, in many cases, sole reason for being in the leauge --- is to hurt people. Not permanently, of course, but to intimidate. Rule by force, as it were.

Chris Simon, a 12-year veteran of the league, is a hockey goon. With more longevity that most, too, because in addition to being a big mean slab of meat Chris Simon also has a decent shot.

But last week, like many of us now know, Chris Simon did something Very Bad.



Yeah. Not supposed to hit someone in the face with your stick.

To be fair, the man he hit is Ryan Hollweg, who is a completely one-dimensional goon, with the stats -- one goal, one assist, one hundred penalty minutes -- to back it up. He's also from LA. (begin obligatory 'joke') Lucky he didn't have his GUN (end obligatory 'joke').

Chris Simon was suspended 25 games for the hit -- which came exactly three years to the day after this one.



Todd Bertuzzi, the aggressor above, received an identical suspension for the hit. Steve Moore, the man Bertuzzi tried to kill, is still out of hockey because of it.

Bruins fans like me remember this hit all too well.



McSorley was done with hockey after this hit, a stain on an otherwise solid career. Don Brashear was back on the ice being a nuisance after not too long.

So which is worse? Who's more wrong? Who deserves the lifetime ban? Which incident proves violence has no place in organized sport?

I want to hear peoples' answers, but consider -- you still stand more risk of serious, permanent dehabilitating injury as a football player -- and that's on routine plays.

All I ever seem to blog about...

....are YouTube videos.

It makes for much easier posting, though I'd imagine it would make for less interesting reading.

But there it is -- I have nothing interesting to say. And here's some women in Lithuania taking a knee to the head! AHAHAHA



As seen on www.deadspin.com, as usual. Man, even when I plagiarize I'm predictable.

Come on, you Reds

I like Red things. Red Sox, Red Scares, Red rum. So it only stands to reason I would support the footballing Reds.

I like United things -- the United States, United Airlines, the United Nations. And while I don't mind Manchester (N.H), even though it, like Concord (N.H.) means certain death to anyone allergic to boredom, when Manchester and United become conjoined I feel a certain wrath.

I hate Manchester United Football Club.

On Saturday, the Reds -- that is, Liverpool Football Club -- take on Man Spew at home. Manch-vegas is 16 points ahead of LFC in the Premiership standings; a win would help us in that regard, but moreover, it would mean Man U losing. So come on, you Reds!!

This time, he's serious

AL East, look out.

If his spring training is any indication, Manny Ramirez is gon take all y'all by STORM.

Know how I know? He showed up to Spring Training --- THREE DAYS EARLY.

Yes -- the man some have labelled "a hitting savant," "baseball's Owen Meany" and other vile stuff showed up for camp THREE DAYS before the team-dictated March 1 deadline. Nevermind position players have been in camp for almost a week -- Manny just did something out of pure DESIRE. For the Red Sox, no less.

I am giddy. To celebrate: Let us bask in Manny's suavity and style.

Next up -- Manny levels the city of New York with one flick of his wrist; Manny eats the Toronto Blue Jays for breakfast -- that is, SECOND BREAKFAST, hobbit-style; Manny cures cancer; Manny runs the four-minute mile; Manny balances his and all of his teammates' checkbooks.

(One of the many reasons) Why I love the NHL

For those who don't know, www.deadspin.com is the finest sports blog on Ye Olde Internets. Since they blog for a living, and since I don't have TV or Internet in my home, they were all over this one.

There are many, many Great Things about hockey and the NHL, but the organized institutionalized violence that is a Hockey Fight is certainly way up there on my list.



If there were hockey in Tracy -- I mean other than the Stockton Colts youth team -- this would be fine fodder for a column.

Feb. 22: "The Chief"

Is it a step toward equality, or a pointless knee-jerk that’ll bring nothing?

Wednesday, under significant pressure from the NCAA, the University of Illinois ended an 81-year tradition.

If the university wanted to host events like lucrative regional tournaments, it had to put a stop to The Chief.

The Chief in question is Chief Illiniwek, who since 1926 has performed during halftime of Illini basketball, football and other official Illinois-sanctioned sporting events. And he wasn’t the only one. 16 other schools using mascots deemed “patently offensive,” like the Florida State Seminoles or the North Dakota Fighting Sioux, were told to change their nickname or never host a postseason game again.

And even though Chief Illiniwek is a tradition, and not an official mascot, Illinois’ board of trustees chose to fold to pressure from the NCAA and student and activist groups. The Chief’s last dance was last night, when the Illini beat Michigan.

Never mind that a pro football team and about 75 high schools across the country continue to use the term “Redskins” as a mascot, and several hundred use Braves, Indians or some other Native American-related theme. Didn’t matter. The Chief had to go.

The argument is that some fool in a headdress banging a drum and going “Hey-ya, Hey-ya,” at random is akin to me putting on blackface, talking in an ersatz accent, and dancing some soft shoe.

It’s not meant to honor or celebrate the culture. It’s ignorant, foolish and offensive. I’d kick my own rear — and face — if I did that.

But is that what the Chief means? For that matter, is that what any mascot is supposed to mean?

Certainly not if it’s like most. For instance, Tracy High chose to go with “Bulldogs” in the 1920s — about the same time the Illini chose The Chief — because it sounded tough and intimidating, not because the student body wanted to make fun of dogs. No dog owners I know of complain, and fine institutions like Yale and Fresno State have called themselves the Bulldogs without a problem for years.

With West, it was even more democratic. When the school was built, the incoming freshman and sophomore classes elected to go with Wolf Pack, choosing it over similarly wild names like Timberwolves. Not to make fun of Wolves — but because the school wanted to be called the Wolf Pack.

And it’s probably true that The Chief wasn’t borne out of racism or ignorance — at least not intentionally. An Eagle Scout based the dance and costume on his studies while in the Scouts, and the current costume and headdress were sold to the university by an actual chief of another tribe. Again, not because he hated American Indians, but because he wanted something “cool” for his school.

I suppose the issue in question is if the mascot refers to a living group of people who don’t appreciate having their image used in that way. But for some reason, this only seems to happen with native-themed names.

For instance, I have yet to see someone of Swedish or Norwegian descent complain about Edison High using a hairy white guy with a shield and a sword to depict their Vikings (I personally prefer what the wrestling team prints on their shirts: “The Soulvikes”).

Likewise, no one from the Catholic Church has said much about the University of San Francisco Dons or the Providence College Friars.

For The Chief’s supporters, the flap is even more maddening because those protesting aren’t Illiniwek. The Seminole Nation, still alive and well in Florida despite Andrew Jackson’s best eradication efforts, gave Florida State the OK. But the Illiniwek Confederacy was, like most Native tribes, scattered to the four winds after a series of wars, treaties and broken treaties and relocated to Oklahoma.

The Peoria tribe is the closest living relative, and this is what one of their real chiefs, Ron Froman, had to say about Chief Illiniwek in 2000:

"I don't know what the origination was, or what the reason was for the university to create Chief Illiniwek. I don't think it was to honor us, because, hell, they ran our (butts) out of Illinois."

And that’s the kicker. For some, Chief Illiniwek was a harmless dance and tradition, something fun and original to know Illinois by. But there he is at a Western university, with schools and fields and buildings built on what was at one point tribal land. The reason why there’s a football field in Champaign-Urbana — or anywhere in the U.S. — begins with war, thievery and oppression.

The United States’ history with native tribes is a long, sad story. It’s clear that there’s still a lot of healing left to be done. And if removing a painful reminder of what used to be is the first step, tradition or no, then so be it.

Craig Bellamy just don't care

Meet Craig Bellamy.


Craig, or "No-Neck" as some of us call him, is a striker (this means goal-scorer) for Liverpool Football Club, my favorite soccer team.


Craig has himself quite a reputation. For goal-scoring, you might ask? Not so much: for fighting with teammates on and off the field, and for sending text messages to managers and team officials informing them that he "doesn't play for s*** clubs." He was kicked off of Newcastle United a few years back for fighting with a teammate -- during a game. Nice lad.


Meet John Arne Riise.


In addition to enjoying tearing his shirt off, Riise is a bad-ass defender for the same Liverpool football club. While it's rumored Riise also enjoys hanging out with a Norweign (male) dancer, Riise's big reputation is for putting the hurt on opposing team members who stray too close to Liverpool's goal. In other words, he's been known to wreck a fool.

But it also appears he doesn't like karaoke.



Most normal people only do karaoke in the throes of a drinking bout. Liverpool are no exception. This past weekend, out on a "team-building" excursion in Spain to prepare for Wednesday's cruical UEFA Champions League match with (Champions League champion) Barcelona, Riise and Bellamy found themselves out at a karaoke bar.

Bellamy, it would seem, enjoys karaoke -- so much so, in fact, that he wanted Riise to go up and sing. Riise refused. Bellamy asked again. Riise refused! So on and so forth.

The two apparently got into a scuffle at the bar over John Arne's refusal to belt out "Walking in Memphis," but were seperated and the entire team left to go back to the hotel. Over and done with, right?

Not so.

So incensed that Riise wouldn't be his mockingbird, Bellamy goes looking for him. In the middle of the night. With a golf club.

Here's the scene to which their teammates and their coach are subjected: No-neck beating down Riise's door with a nine-iron and going to town with same golf club -- on his legs. Riise's a soccer player, mind. He sorta needs those.

Neither camp denied anything, and Riise's agent issued a statement saying he's ok, so you know it happened.

Bellamy got fined two weeks' pay, and the entire team had to put it aside to play Barcelona last night. One of the best teams in the world. Easily the biggest game of the year.

So what happened?

Both Bellamy and Riise score goals, and Liverpool wins 2-1. But the best part is how Bellamy chose to celebrate his.


The great unknown, got 300 yards to go, he's going to use about a 2-iron...

Fore! That's right -- Craig Bellamy just don't care.

Feb. 15: "The twist of fate"

Are some things just meant to be? Or not to be?

For high school athletes, timing is everything. You’re only there for four years, and there’s no telling where you’re going to be in terms of physical or mental development during that span.

To wit: I weighed 135 pounds as a high school junior on the lacrosse team when I really (and I mean REALLY) could have used some bulk, and then, as a collegiate ultimate Frisbee player, when sleek and svelte were the watchwords, I was pushing 160. Wrong place and wrong time, but there was nothing I could do about it. Trust me: I even tried creatine.

In sports, there’s an unwritten rule about paying your due, and getting your due once it’s paid. For most high school seniors, what you’re due is to get a starting role on the team in your final year there. It’s only fair, right You paid your dues. Time to collect.

Well, life doesn’t work like that, and neither do teams. Just because you’re in 12th grade and pushing 18 doesn’t mean some 16-year-old can’t take your spot.

When that happens, you have to choke down something that’s tougher to swallow than a Frisbee: your pride. But if you’re serious about playing a team sport, and serious about your team doing well, you do it.

Take Tracy High’s Matt Furtado and Darrell Reed. They’re both seniors and started some games as juniors. They probably worked hard all summer and into the fall preparing for the spotlight, to finally take their turns as the team leaders and star players. Reed’s even one of the Bulldogs’ captains.

But it wasn’t meant to be. Tracy coach Paul Demsher thought his team would be better off with someone else playing those starting roles. So much for that plan.

But what did the two do Pull a Terrell Owens and pout Figure they were better than the team and storm off? No way. They swallowed their pride and accepted their roles wholeheartedly, without a word.

And what happened? The team is much, much better than it was last year. And, if we’re to believe what we’re told about life and life lessons, those two young gentlemen are going to be much better off because of it.

And you know what? Sometimes it’s meant to be. Ask Reed, Furtado or classmates Chris LaMadrid, Michael Ligon or Matt Silva how they feel today, only a few hours after upsetting Lodi on Senior Night.

But what do you do if you have no control over your fate? What do you do when you deserve the spotlight and the attention — and something beyond your control takes it away from you

That’s what happened to West High’s Justin Phillips. This guy played on the West High basketball team for three seasons. He made the playoffs as a sophomore and had that taste of what could be teasing him through a dreadful junior season. It motivated him. It drove him. It pushed him to become, as a senior, the Wolf Pack’s leader as they marched toward a playoff berth.

Not only that, but Phillips was on pace to become the team’s all-time single-season scoring leader. He had all that going for him when, with two weeks left in his last season playing hoops for his high school, he came down with a bad virus. His teammate Bryan Tilos had a twist of fate take him out, too, when out snowboarding on the last run of the day he hit a trick but messed up his back. When his team needed him most, he couldn’t play, and there’s not anything he — or anyone else — can do about it. They both came back last night, but lost time is lost time.

So, what do you do?

Someone once said you have to accept the things you can’t change. It’s clichéd, but it’s true. Is it fair? No. But that’s how everything in life works. Sports, business and family.

You won’t like it, and you won’t always be able to do anything about it. But you do what you can, you push through it, and, eventually, you’ll get over it.

That’s called growing up. That’s called maturity. And if someone can get that out of playing a game, I’d call that a successful season no matter what else happens.

Feb. 8: "The grim slide"

As far as slopes go, I suppose this isn’t the slickest — but if we’re not careful, we could easily be headed toward the grimmest of slides.

Headlines were made across the world last week when an Italian soccer match between two rival teams turned ugly. If you’re familiar with the sport, you know I’m not talking about the play on the field.

At a match between Sicilian sides Catania and Palermo, the fans — or hooligans, or “ultras,” or whatever you want to call them — rioted.

Predictable enough.

No problem.

Happens all the time.

But somehow, someone tossed what the newspapers called “an explosive device” into a car. How or why someone brought a bomb to a soccer game is now irrelevant, because 38-year-old police inspector Filippo Raciti, one of the people on hand to ostensibly protect the peace and make sure no one is hurt, was killed in the explosion.

In our society, killing a cop is about as bad as it can get. This whole business would be less newsworthy if it were an 18-year-old kid with a criminal history who died, but that’s just my cynicism talking. It’s a big bad deal no matter what. An authority figure in a civilized country was killed at a freaking game. That’s bad.

It’s still uncertain how the sport or the Italian League is going to go forward. For now, they’re doing what they usually do — holding meetings and outraged press conferences, unveiling flower displays and playing what matches haven’t been suspended in empty stadiums, away from the threat posed by the paying public.

I’m bringing this up now because of that last bit. That’s what’s going to happen — kids playing basketball games in empty gyms — if local basketball fans can’t control themselves.

I’m still a relative newcomer to town, but I’ve been told that for years, trips to places like Franklin and Lincoln meant something more than just a basketball, baseball or football game. It meant hard words and even some hard hits. Just part of the game.

But it’s not just a problem in big-city Stockton’s hard-time public schools (which, of course, does not include Alex G. Spanos-bankrolled Lincoln).

Last month, a game between Fremont and everybody’s favorite St. Mary’s turned even uglier — as if the lopsided score wasn’t enough — when a fracas between two players in an already-decided preseason game spiraled into a gym-wide brawl.

At the Tracy-Bear Creek girls game Tuesday, a parent told me the Bulldogs had to get a police escort to their bus upon leaving the Yellowjackets’ gym during a Jan. 30 game at Franklin.

I couldn’t get any Tracy coach or administrator to talk to me on the record, but Franklin principal Scott Luhn told me the game was nearly called off by the poor maligned referees because of the unruly crowd. On both sides.

The Stockton Unified School District Police escort (does TUSD have their own cops with Glocks and nightsticks) was just to get the refs in and out of the gym in one piece.

I know it’s a long way off from murders in Sicily, but consider: If things keep getting worse, our own local teams might face the same empty stadiums because of some senseless violence.

“Quite honestly, we’d clear the gym (if it got worse),” Luhn said. “Everyone else is out if they can’t behave.”

“We try to teach our kids sportsmanship,” he added. “The crowds need to behave, too.”

Which would be fine with me. I can handle a couple elbows thrown in waning seconds or a hard foul here and there, but routine brawls? Parent-on-parent-on-student fights? Police escorts? In high school?

If that’s what I have to put up with just to watch kids play, I’m staying home.

Feb. 1 "The Tragedy"

This is last Thursday's column. Forgot to post it up on here until now. Mea culpa.

"Learning to cope"

Every blade in the field,

Every leaf in the forest,

Lays down its life in its season,

As beautifully as it was taken up.

— Henry David Thoreau

It’s never easy in any situation. For a lot of us, it won’t matter one way or the other, but what happened Saturday night makes this perhaps even more difficult. For high school kids — and for many of us younger than 30 — there are fewer concepts more abstract than death. And especially for young, comfortable, suburban Americans, there are fewer situations for which we are so ill-prepared. High school prepares you for one thing: Life. Living.

The seemingly endless expanse of time just ahead seems filled with limitless opportunity. Anything and everything can happen. That’s why you’re in school, getting an education. There’s a life to be lived, things to be done.

I think many would agree life never feels more vibrant, more real, more full than in youth. One’s entire life lies ahead, one’s physical condition is generally at its peak. Opportunities are endless, freedom is limitless. If anything, one feels invincible — certainly not vulnerable, certainly not at risk. Certainly not how many of us feel after Saturday.

I think that’s why it’s universally tragic when someone still preparing to live his or her life loses it. Obviously, those who were close feel the most, but you didn’t have to know Michael Ucci to feel pain or loss. Nor do you have to know Bret Clifton, Marie Ucci or Justin Baker to feel anguish and sympathy.

It won’t be any consolation to many, and it might be offensive to some, but I think there’s some solace to be taken in the accident itself, because the four kids in that car Saturday were feeling alive. All of us have been in similar situations — Saturday night, enjoying youth, maybe driving a bit too fast — time and again. Why You feel the wind. You feel the night air. You feel alive.

But how do you cope

I don’t have any answers to that question. When I was a sophomore in college, I lost one of my high school classmates to suicide. We all struggled with our own demons in our own way. I remember walking past Tony’s casket at the funeral — not the high school reunion any of us had expected — and I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. Why didn’t I do something Why didn’t I call him Why wasn’t I a better friend in school Why didn’t I figure it out Look what happened!

But that’s not healing. That’s torture.

I’ve come to know what could be called “the flower” of Tracy’s youth through my professional station, watching and reporting on young men and women in peak physical condition performing feats I can only dream of doing.

For what it’s worth, I think how the same young people so unprepared to handle what they’ve been dealt this past week are conducting themselves in manners beyond their years. Everyone’s doing it differently — wrestlers writing Michael’s name on their arms; basketball players, many of them former teammates of Michael’s and Bret’s, wearing black armbands for the rest of the season; others observing moments of silence or quiet prayer.

And going forward. That’s the most important thing.

One of West High’s coaches told me he considered postponing a game Tuesday but didn’t because he and the team felt that’s not what Michael would have wanted. It’s cliché, but he’s right: the best way to remember, to cope and to heal, is to do what the four were doing Saturday and would be doing now if bad luck or fate hadn’t interceded: Live.

The (Super) Party Pooper

Not since the first Gulf War.
Not since Arsenio was on the air.
Not since the other Bush was in office.
Not since I encountered hormones.

For the first time in, oh, roughly 17 years, I didn't watch a single down of the Super Bowl. I glanced at the tube while popping meatballs (not sexual or drug-related, I swear) during the seven or so days of pregame "coverage," but not a single punt, pass or kick of the Forty-First Giant Orgasm of Commercialism.

During kickoff, I was at the beach (or actually the liquor store, probably). During halftime, I was on a roller coaster. While the rain poured down, I was playing frisbee. And while millions of Midwesterners edged closer to apoplexy, I was... I think I was checking to see if Liverpool had won (0-0 to Everton :( ).

What can I say? I'm the party pooper.

If a Bear fails in Miami and I'm not there to see it, does it make a .... never mind.

Far be it from me to cast judgment on something I didn't see or witness firsthand (funny, to be a history major AND a journalist), but from all accounts I didn't miss much.

One very good team and one pretty good team. One very, very good offense and one pretty good defense. One borderline-great quarterback and one borderline-crap quarterback. In the miserable, sliding, sloppy rain. That last addition usually makes for good football, but let's not forget one potent fact: the Super Bowl's not about football.

How many people told you over the past week, "Oh, I'm just watching it for the commercials?" That's essentially all the game -- and, by slight extension, the NFL -- is: one gigantic paen to BUY SOMETHING!! NOW!! FAST!! NOWWHYDIDN'TYOUBUYITYETWHATISWRONGWITHYOUAREN'TYOU AMERICAN!!

Ahem.

Not that I'm saying I'm above the 93 million Americans who did watch the game. For many, the Super Bowl is a holiday, and like anyone who knows me knows, I dig a holiday. The more time spent amongst family and friends carousing and not chasing the almighty dollar the better.

But let's call everything by its proper name. The Super Bowl hasn't been about football for a long, long time, and the most recent installation of this Recent Grand American Tradition was even less so.

I didn't waste my Sunday afternoon watching pitch after corporate pitch; how was yours?

Barry

Well, it's official: The San Francisco Giants are American sport's most spineless organization. They went ahead and brought back the biggest cancer in recent baseball history to sit in or hobble around play left field. d

Did anyone expect anything else? Of course not. Giants owner Peter Magowan is, as SF Chronicle columnist Ray Ratto told us, Barry's ATM and Barry's leather recliner. It's disappointing, it's frustrating -- and it's the only thing that could possibly have happened one way or the other.

Seriously. Look at the hard-on the franchise has for BB, who would be challenged to crack the lineup in an average AL East team (who would you rather have as DH -- BB or David Ortiz?).
It's a chubby the size of the Bay Bridge, one rivaled only by the fawning Giants fans. I was there when he hit 715 out in May, and you would have thought it was the Second Coming. At a 75 percent off sale. With naked waitresses. Or something. You get the idea. The place went completely ape.
Within seconds, the club unfurled these giant banners in the outfield (replete with silhouettes of The Man himself, which you can see to the right), and within minutes, were hawking via the Jumbotron "Official Barry Bonds 715 packages -- yours for $32.99." Sickening.
I coped by hiding my head in my hands or my beer cup for the rest of the afternoon, and then exacted my revenge in August by cheering heartily when Bonds got thrown out of the game mid at-bat in the ninth inning.
Bonds was, at a time, one of the top 10 baseball players of all time. But he has also been, from day one, a capital a-hole. That's been chronicled time and again. Half the people I've met on the West Coast have some terrible story of Bonds being a jerk to kids, kicking puppies or beating up nuns or whatever. And he used steroids -- but honestly, I could care less about that. That's the beauty of it.

The only thing keeping Bonds on the field (other than $16,000,000 to nap in the clubhouse, limp around left and keep the Bay Area tides in check with the gravitational pull of his giant swollen head) is Hank Aaron's record. He just HAS to have it -- and he very well might. But it'll be hollow -- pure masturbation. Everywhere he goes for the rest of his life, he won't be Mr. Home Run Record. He'll be Mr. Jerk-ass Cheater -- and it'll tear him apart. Karma's a bitch.

Jan. 25 -- "The (local) fans (or lack thereof)"

These girls are good — where are the fans?

It’s an ancient basketball scene, one repeated on courts from here to Springfield, Mass., and on to Lithuania and back again.

A player steps to the foul line. Bounces the ball once, maybe twice. Lifts it up, takes the shot — when the graceful motion is interrupted by a shrill scream of “BRICK!!” from the stands. The ball goes up, the ball goes down. Miss.

Familiar enough, right? Well, not exactly. This happened to West High’s Whitney Howard on Tuesday — in her own gym.

Granted, it was a Tuesday evening, and the Wolf Pack were playing McNair — not exactly a Tyson-Ali matchup, but still a league game West needed to win. For whatever reason, the freshman and sophomore McNair players hanging around the gym — just waiting for varsity to end so they could go home — outnumbered West’s home fans, so whatever they felt like saying, they said. And it was heard. With an echo effect.

West went on to win the game by over 30, and the Wolf Pack’s attention wasn’t so diverted that they couldn’t hit 25 free throws, but if I were on that team, I’d be royally annoyed. We’re supposed to be at home, right? I’m guessing the favor is returned when West goes on the road, but still. That ain’t right.

This phenomenon is less marked across town at Tracy High’s Swenson Gym, but then only because it’s smaller. You can hear almost everything during timeouts during some Bulldog games, but West’s Den is like Carlsbad Caverns when it’s empty. Or like a Ricola commercial. You get the idea.

“We don’t seem to have that many fans,” Howard told me yesterday. “It doesn’t really bug me as a player when people yell during free throws, but it bothers me when the team doesn’t have that much support.”

“I know when we win more, we seem to get more and more fans,” she added. “I think people like to see winning teams.”

And that’s the rub. Home court is supposed to mean something. West is on a seven-game winning streak, and there’s 3100 kids in the school. What’s it going to take?

n Power to us
The CIF Sac-Joaquin Section released its first playoff basketball power rankings (now there’s a mouthful) of the season Monday. It’s still early, but there’s some legit hope for postseason hoops in our fine little town — the Wolf Pack girls sit at third, and the Bulldogs are close behind at sixth. Both won their first games this week but face big tests tonight.

For the boys, it’s a little less likely — the Tracy boys sit at 22nd, and the West boys are at 14th, but a strong finish would mean nothing but good things.

Food for thought: the top team is Modesto, whom the Bulldogs came within nine points of upsetting in the Winter Holiday Classic.

There’s a lot more hoop left to be played, but here’s hoping for some playoffs.

n It’s in the books — somewhere

Tracy sophomore Marlene MacMillan put up another double-double Tuesday against Chavez in Stockton. She had 12 points — and a ridiculous 23 rebounds. No one seems to know for certain if that’s a school record, but all agree if it isn’t, it’s darn close. So, I guess we won’t know until I spend a week or two digging through decades and decades of newspaper archives — or until Marlene hauls down 30. Guess which is more likely?

Jan. 18 -- "The Tuck"

I’m not one to perpetuate stereotypes, but there’s at least one group in the Bay Area with a generalization that’s hard to deny: Raiders fans.

They’re nuts.

I come from the Boston area, and while we can get worked up over the Red Sox, it’s nothing — NOTHING — compared to what Oak-town fans do. I’ve never once worn facepaint or a skull mask to a game, and I didn’t know anyone who has — or even thought about it — until I moved out here.

And you don’t need to go to the Black Hole on a Sunday to know it’s true. Just look around town. People wear their gear, sure, but it’s all over their cars and houses, too. Flags, garage doors, you name it. Some of it is stuff I didn’t even know you could merchandise.

So Raiders fans are passionate. Raiders fans are dedicated. But are they forgetful? Are they vengeful? Or maybe, Zen?

Five years ago tomorrow — Jan. 19, 2002 — was the day of the now-infamous AFC divisional playoff game between the favored Raiders and the upstart New England Patriots.

As all of Raider Nation knows, the game hinged on a Charles Woodson hit on Tom Brady. The ball popped loose and the Raiders recovered, but the apparent fumble was ruled an incomplete pass thanks to something called the “tuck rule.” The Pats went on to win, thanks to an Adam Vinatieri field goal through the swirling ice and snow.

Since The Tuck, the Pats have won three championships (and are on their way to a fourth). The Raiders made it to the Super Bowl a year later but got stomped and have slid into the role of AFC laughingstock.

So, I wanted to know what The Tuck means to the Raider faithful five long years down the line. So, I went out and asked some Raiders fans. Every one I could find, actually. Here’s a sampling of what I heard, and their Raider cred, when available.

Lance Wills, Tracy Raiders dad: “Oh, it was a bogus call. It was a serious bogus call … but I’m not totally mad about it. I live and learn. Really, that was the break the Raiders needed to get to the Super Bowl, but other than that, I don’t trip much off of it. I still think about it occasionally, though … when 49er fans bring it up, it makes my blood boil.”

Jesse Gregory, 58, season ticket holder since 1970: “Oh man … well, you know, it’s whoever the NFL wants to win … but oh God, that was stupid. What a stupid call. Charles Woodson knocks the ball loose … and then the call. Yeah, right. Tuck this!”

Matthew Palomino, Raider jacket and Raider polo shirt: “It sucked. That was our year. We should have won the Super Bowl. Everyone knows it was a fumble.”

Rich Vaccarezza: “That’s when it all changed … you can compare it to Bill Buckner’s ball through the legs.” (He HAD to bring that up, didn’t he So will anything erase the pain) “Win the Super Bowl, or maybe a .500 season. Maybe.”

Josh Alvarez, 19: “God, that got me so mad. Honestly, I believe it was a setup. As a Raiders fan, I don’t think I’ll ever get over that one.”

Ray Brown, 37, Raider hat, jacket and silver-and-black do-rag: “I said, ‘Oh man, we won the game — we’re going to the championship.’ Then they came with the new rule. I’ve been watching football since I was 4 years old — I never heard of that a day in my life. That’s some crap.”

Joe Daniel: “Don’t remind me … It’s been five years already Damn. I remember that day well … seems like we haven’t been able to get that curse off of us.”

Ben, 9, perusing baseball cards at Target, wearing a Lamont Jordan jersey: “I don’t think the Raiders are cursed — they just need to get rid of Randy Moss.”

(True story: Right after I finished with Ben, two young men, 16 or so judging by their attempts at moustaches, came up to me and demanded to know what I was doing. I explained — and thought I was in luck, as one had a Raider hat on, but he refused an interview. He even refused eye contact. So I walked away. Five minutes later, I saw one giving a description of me to Ben’s mother — “Yeah, he had a notebook and everything” — and the other doing the same to Target security. So, apparently I look like a child predator.)

So, there you have it. Raider fans: angry about The Tuck. Raider fans: don’t forget about The Tuck. Raider fans: care about little kids.

Becks

Only in America is a washed-up has-been worth $250 million. And only in America is that not so bad a deal, actually.

Once upon a time, to be sure, David Robert Joseph Beckham was one of the world's premier footballers. But so was the Model T one of the world's top automobiles. Right this second? Not so much.

The man had a dreadful World Cup, two years after a dreadful European Championships. He's started only eight of his current team's 31 season games -- of which the team lost six. He's shanked key kicks, was red-carded in 1998, and fucking wept through England's crash-out in the Cup last summer, to be summarily dismissed from the England squad a month later.

But he's still the only Englishman to score in three World Cup finals, he was part of a treble-winning team, and he is quite possibly the best there ever was -- the G.O.A.T.!! -- with free-kicks.

So. After 15 years in football's top ranks, on football's top teams -- Man U and Real Madrid, both of whom are as despicable as the New York Yankees -- Becks is cashing out. But in style.

Rather than attempt to resuscitate his standings, he's opting for a full-length paid vacation in Major League Soccer. MLS is more respectable than it was, but it's still akin to driving a Volkswagen to work instead of a Ferrari. And instead of playing in Europe or in Asia, where his fame rivals that of Jesus and the Prophet Muhammad, he'll go to LA, where he'll have to compete with Tom and Katie, Paris and Nicky, and whatever other shit the gossip rags treat as legitimate news. In short -- he's copping out.

But what a cop out. $250 million, which is probably what the whole of MLS would fetch at auction.

Still, it's savvy. Becks' name alone is a marketing super-conductor. Merch and ticket sales should go through the roof. And if they do, the washed-up 31-year old, well past the prime of his career, will take home $1,000,000 a week. For five years. For playing soccer. Even in the offseason. When he's not actually playing. Soccer.