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?