Bleacher Report - Articles by Ryan Alberti

Just Saying, Is All... | What Might Have Been for Ricky Williams

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 10:09:46 -0500

Real men don’t ask hypothetical questions.

Ricky Williams is easy to criticize. He’s also hard to condemn. In an on-again, off-again NFL career, the Miami Dolphins running back has succeeded in nothing so much as tumbling short of expectations—which would be worse news if tumbling short of expectations weren’t such a wholly human pastime.

Potential chases the illusion of tomorrow.

Disappointment, on the other hand, faces the truth of today.

I’m not suggesting that Williams was fated to flop in the pros. There’s a fine line between social anxiety and self-indulgence, and Ricky’s psychological struggles have undoubtedly been compounded by a failure of will. But then again all wills fail against the determinism of the past. In a league where nothing can change after the last whistle, the only meaningful postgame analysis is that which accounts for the final score.

You can’t unspill your milk.

You can’t unsquander your talent.

If there’s a lesson in the Williams saga, it’s simply that there’s no use crying over what tears won’t fix.

Football fans love to wonder “What if?” Coulda, woulda, shoulda—it’s a vocabulary of speculative nostalgia, language fit for remembering things that never were. The catch, of course, is that the center doesn’t snap the ball in the subjunctive tense. Draft experts will argue that Williams had as much upside as any prospect in history. I’d counter that upside only exists in an eternally ahistorical future.

It’s good to be gifted.

It’s better to be grounded.

Williams may not lead your team to a Fantasy championship, but at least his example shines a clarifying light on factual defeat.

Ours is the best and worst of all possible worlds. An option becomes a mandate as soon as it’s selected; an outcome becomes inevitable the moment it arrives. What might have been for Ricky Williams is beside the point, because no veteran role player can be any more or less than what he has to be. Every hero sets out in pursuit of the goal line. The one who stumbles at midfield can’t but choose to find peace in the essence of the grass.

Job never violated his employer's marijuana policy, but he did know how to be mellow under fire :

Naked I came from my mother's womb,
and naked I will depart.
The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away;
may the name of the Lord be praised.

Which is a sensible creed for any mere mortal.

Because grace and glory are equally fleeting, and anyone who laments the loss too loudly is either jonesing for his first post-retirement joint or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Why I'm Thankful for Kobe Bryant

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 09:16:27 -0500

The most authentic Pilgrim is the one who never stops sailing.

Kobe Bryant is a hopeless perfectionist. He should also be an honorary Puritan. When our forefathers came ashore at Plymouth Rock, they sowed the seeds of history’s mightiest civilization—which would have been better news if they’d taught their children how to drop anchor and savor the harvest.

Satisfaction means relishing the new ring on your finger.

Success, on the other hand, means reaching for the next rung on the ladder.

I’m not suggesting that Bryant has anything left to prove. His résumé speaks for itself, and his passion for the game is beyond question. But it’s precisely that passion which prevents him from basking in his own glory. In a league where complacency so often breeds mediocrity, the best players are those who refuse to settle for mere excellence.

You can’t always get what you really want.

You can’t ever find what you really seek.

If there’s a lesson in Kobe’s questing, it’s simply that the pursuit of happiness is an endless trip.

NBA legends aren’t conditioned for contentment. Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird—they were pathological champions, competitors whose most lasting peace came in the conflict of competition. The implication, of course, is that restive longing can be its own reward. Critics of American culture will argue that Bryant’s inherited inquietude is symptomatic of a national disease. I’d counter that national dis-ease is the single most important source of this country’s resilient health.

It’s good to count your blessings.

It’s better to lick your chops.

Kobe may go to bed hungry on this and every other Thanksgiving, but at least his ravenous dreams will always whet his appetite.

Satiation is the enemy of human progress. Food in the stomach inclines a man to old habits; fire in the belly drives him on to New Worlds. I’m thankful for Kobe Bryant because he’s as American as ambition and apple pie, and because we all ought to be more appreciative of those cravings that won’t stay quenched. Every pilgrimage is born with a prayer for blissful days in the future. The one that’s still vital after almost four centuries owes its endurance to the curse of restless nights in the present.

Scott Fitzgerald never sat courtside at Staples Center, but he did know a thing or two about the plight of chronic yearners:

Kobe believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning—

Which has been the wind in the sails of every American ship since the Mayflower.

Because the Home of the Brave will forever be a bit further upstream, and anyone who argues for yielding to the current is either OD'd on tryptophan or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | In Defense of Rick Pitino

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 08:56:46 -0500

Winners are always vindicated.

Rick Pitino is a moral failure. He’s also a statistical success. As the young Louisville Cardinals gear up for the '09-'10 season, their disgraced coach can’t exactly lecture them on the importance of character—which would be worse news if character were more important in the grading system of college basketball.

Virtue means having to play by someone else’s rules.

Victory, on the other hand, means getting to write your own.

I’m not condoning Pitino’s behavior. Marriage is the most sacred of institutions, and Moses wasn’t kidding about the Seventh Commandment. But let’s not forget that fidelity is a relative concept. In a competition that rewards one contestant for stepping over another, you can’t fault a heel who’s only faithful to himself.

A corrupt tree bears evil fruit.

A corrupt profession breeds evil men.

If Pitino has a fatal flaw, it’s simply that he lives by the letter of his job description.

College hoops history is pocked by scandal. Recruiting violations, academic fraud, the life and times of Bob Huggins—it’s a parade of errors, a case study in sleaze. The reason, of course, is that boosters pay for ends before means. Bible-thumpers will argue that Pitino’s sins reflect poorly on his program. I’d counter that the riches of absolution are just a Final Four berth away.

Purity is good.

Performance is better.

Pitino may be rotten to the core, but at least he keeps things clean in the loss column.

We’re all creatures of circumstance. Conduct is guided by conscience; conscience is grounded in context. The truth is that Rick Pitino doesn’t need me to defend him, because the ethics of his profession have already done the deed. Every scoundrel is selfish in undermining the values of his community. The one with a seven-figure salary should be excused for overestimating the worth of his conceit.

Hermann Goering never brought home a Big East championship, but he did know a thing or two about the perks of triumph :

The victor will always be the judge, and the vanquished the accused.

Which suggests that Pitino ought not have flinched in the face of Karen Sypher's full-court press.

Because the best defense is a good offense, and any floozie who denounces a .737 career winning percentage is either extorting a cheater or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Brett Favre's Worst Nightmare

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 09:14:06 -0500

It takes a grown man to make a graceful exit.

Brett Favre is a living legend. He’s also a dying hero. After a tumultuous offseason, the born-again Viking seems to have made a fresh start in Minnesota—which would be better news if that fresh start made the bitter end any less inevitable.

Glory means defying the sands of Father Time.

Greatness, on the other hand, means embracing the dust of Mother Earth.

I’m not out to criticize Favre. His passion for the game is beyond reproach, and he certainly has a knack for persevering against impossible odds. But there’s a fine line between perseverance and perversity. In a league where clock management wins championships, you’ve got to question a quarterback who runs his final two-minute drill for three consecutive years.

You’re only as old as you feel.

You’re only as wise as you act.

If there’s an inference to be drawn from Favre’s indecisive behavior, it’s simply that No. 4 is still a kid in his own head.

NFL stardom is a state of perpetual childhood. Daily study sessions, weekly play dates, annual trips to summer camp—our idols have followed the same routine since preschool, as if life were an exercise in infinite repetition. The truth, of course, is that youthful illusion can’t last forever. Favre fanatics will argue that Brett’s eternal boyishness is endearing. I’d counter that boyish endearment is a rather poor substitute for adult endurance.

It’s good to hold on while you can.

It’s better to let go when you must.

Favre has every right to cling to his career, but his résumé won’t be complete until he finds the courage to lose his grip.

Fear is the essence of maturity. To be young is to believe that there’s nothing to be scared of; to come of age is to learn that nothing is the scariest thing of all. Brett Favre’s worst nightmare is the one where he wakes up unemployed on a Sunday in autumn, and discovers that the real terror begins after the dream is over. Every mortal is haunted by the specter of permanent retirement. The savvy veteran understands that his angst won’t be soothed by anything so juvenile as another temporary comeback.

Dylan Thomas never got teary at a farewell press conference, but he did know a thing or two about the desperate pain of parting :

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a Green Bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Which is a fitting dirge for a gunslinger determined to go down shooting.

Because tomorrow is always a little bit dimmer than today, and anyone who claims to be unafraid of the dark is either shining in the Metrodome or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Real Problem with Rich Rodriguez

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 08:47:16 -0500

Be careful what you wish for.

Rich Rodriguez can’t get a break. He also can’t gripe about it. As his Wolverines continue to struggle on the field, Rodriguez is catching hell from his critics in the media—which would be less fair if the University of Michigan coach weren’t the architect of his own damnation.

Privilege means having your way.

Responsibility, on the other hand, means having to pay for it.

I’m not trying to dump on Rodriguez. Regime change is never easy, and it’s absurd to expect a spread-option revolution in a mere season-and-a-half. But absurd expectations are part of the job description at Michigan. In a program that worships historical excellence, there’s no more unforgivable sin than contemporary mediocrity.

You reap the harvest you sow.

You receive the cross you seek.

If Rodriguez is looking to lay blame for his crucifixion, he can start by cursing the self-made martyr in the mirror.

Elite college football coaches are victims of their own prestige. Charlie Weis, Bobby Bowden, Rich-Rod Himself—they’re hyper-visible scapegoats, guilty of nothing so much as occupying the spotlight. The irony, of course, is that the great ones are great because they covet the scrutiny. Conservative career consultants will argue that Rodriguez should have embraced his home-state hero status at West Virginia. I’d counter that no hero worthy of the title could resist the siren song of Michigan Stadium.

It’s bad to bite off what you can’t chew.

It’s worse to spit out what you can’t swallow.

Rodriguez may well leave Ann Arbor with a bitter taste in his mouth, but karma and contract law demand that he eat the meal he ordered from the menu.

Ambition is its own worst enemy. Those who dream huge always aim high; those who aim high often fall hard. The real problem with Rich Rodriguez is that which he created for himself, by daring to take his act to the Biggest House around. Every egomaniac is shameless in pursuing the fame he desires. The one who finds disgrace at center stage should be gracious in accepting the fate he deserves.

Jesus of Nazareth never called the shots on a Big Ten sideline, but he did know a thing or two about onerous blessings :

From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.

Which doesn't bode well for a play-caller burdened by the keys of the kingdom.

Because there's no hotter seat than a messianic throne, and any monarch who requests authority without accountability is either reigning in Morgantown or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Untold Story of the 2009 World Series

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 10:31:20 -0400

Old glory never dies—it just repeats itself into oblivion.

The World Series isn’t what it was. It’s also, thankfully, still what it is. As America limps its way out of the Great Recession, there’s reason to doubt whether We the People will ever regain our position of global preeminence—which would be worse news if we couldn’t at least find peace in the praxis of our national pastime.

Habit is what you do without thought.

Ritual, on the other hand, is what you do to stop thinking.

I'm not trying to oversell the Series. Nielsen ratings don't tell lies, and we’re all too old to pretend that Game One was as relevant on Wednesday as it was 50 years ago. But there’s a fine line between maturity and cynicism. In a world where tomorrow is less a promise than a threat, the savviest veteran knows well enough to enjoy today before it’s gone.

Permanent ignorance is bliss.

Temporary ignorance is a blessing.

If you need an excuse to tune into Game Two, let it be that there’s so much else you want to tune out before Game Three.

Baseball fans are notorious for living in the past. Bill Mazeroski, Kirk Gibson, Joe Carter—we remember World Series icons with obsessive clarity, as if they were forever rounding the bases in triumph. The truth, of course, is that heroic champions are no less perishable than hegemonic civilizations. Realists will dismiss our nostalgia as a form of escapism. I’d counter that escape is the only realistic option when you have nowhere to go but down.

It’s good to dominate the stage.

It’s better to appreciate the performance.

We Yankees may never again swing the Big Stick like we did in our prime, but that shouldn’t stop us from speaking loudly about our favorite New York sluggers .

Tradition is the best remedy for the pain of decline. Even our children can show us how to celebrate victory; only our ancestors can teach us how to survive defeat. The untold story of the 2009 World Series is that our games continue to matter, if for no other reason than that we continue to play them. Every waning superpower is haunted by the specter of history’s last out. The one with a robust sporting culture can at least look forward to the spectacle of tonight’s first pitch.

Ezra never got burned by a subprime mortgage, but he did know a thing or two about the tenuousness of sacred houses :

And all the people gave a great shout of praise to the Lord, because the foundation of the house of the Lord was laid. But many of the older priests and Levites and family heads, who had seen the former temple, wept aloud when they saw the foundation of this temple being laid, while many others shouted for joy. No one could distinguish the sound of the shouts of joy from the sound of weeping, because the people made so much noise. And the sound was heard far away.

Which is a fitting introduction to this year's Fall Classic.

Because some collapses preclude the possibility of rebuilding, and those whose fate it is to live amidst the ruins face a choice between mourning in vain or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Best Reason To Root for Joe Paterno

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 10:34:27 -0400

Half of success is showing up. The other half is sticking around.

Joe Paterno is a doddering coot. He’s also a deathless icon. After several millennia at Penn State, Paterno is so far over the hill he can’t remember having ever reached the summit—which would be worse news if the journey itself weren’t so worthy of our respect.

Glory means blooming while you can.

Greatness, on the other hand, means withering when you must.

I won’t pretend to be a Paterno apostle. There’s a fine line between seniority and senility, and JoePa is an adult diaper joke waiting to happen. But occasional incontinence doesn’t diminish decades of dependability. In a game where clock management wins championships, you’ve got to admire a coach who’s so determined to make every minute count.

Youth is wasted on the young.

Existence is wasted on the extant.

If there’s a moral to Paterno’s story, it’s simply that longevity ought to be celebrated as an end in itself.

College football fans fixate on freshness. New recruits, new playbooks, new uniforms—we want the future and we want it now, because the season’s too short to wait until next Saturday. The irony, of course, is that the most effective innovators are those who manage to postpone their own expiration dates. Critics will argue that Paterno has outlived his usefulness. I’d counter that outliving one’s usefulness is the hallmark of a well-pursued career.

It’s good to go out on top.

It’s better to hang on at the bottom.

Paterno is certainly past his prime, but at least his haters can still heckle him in the present tense.

Vital signs are undervalued. To age is inevitable; to abide is a gift. The best reason to root for Joe Paterno is that he’s here to be rooted for, in defiance of decline and decay and all the other indecent destinies of mankind. Every earthly wanderer knows where he’s going. The one limping on his second pair of hips should be forgiven if he chooses to take his sweet damned time in getting there.

John Milton never won a Big Ten title in his 80s, but he did know a thing or two about the merits of resilience :

For who would lose,
Though full of pain, this intellectual being,
Those thoughts that wander through Happy Valley,
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost
In the wide womb of uncreated retirement,
Devoid of sense and motion?

Which is a pertinent question for an impermanent species.

Because survival is the first and final goal of the human race, and any mortal who scoffs at mere endurance is either sitting in the Michigan section or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | What Shaquille O'Neal Should Teach LeBron James

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 10:21:05 -0400

World-beaters can’t take themselves seriously in the 21st century.

Shaquille O’Neal is an aging conqueror. He’s also an eternal clown. After 18 NBA seasons, LeBron’s oldest teammate still has a young man’s funny bone—which makes him a most opportune role model for the maturing King James.

Wisdom means seeing your sins through a glass darkly.

Wit, on the other hand, means sensing your grace by simply lightening up.

It’s not that LeBron is incapable of humor. Those puppet commercials were a riot, and he darned near has me sold on a State Farm life insurance policy. But no one does contemporary comedy quite like Shaq. In a league where Sternness is literally next to godliness, only a cutting-edge cutup could lampoon the Lord and live to laugh another day.

The imitator bestows the sincerest form of flattery.

The joker betrays the trendiest form of sincerity.

If LeBron really wants to honor his Big Elder, all he has to do is get with the times.

Basketball fans of the 1900s expected severity from their heroes. Bill Russell, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan—they were zealous champions, adherents of a creed that equated victory with virtue. The catch, of course, is that our ambivalent era demands an ambivalent orientation towards excellence. Cynics will argue that Shaq’s lighthearted frivolity is symptomatic of civilizational decline. I’d counter that LeBron’s generation has seen too much evil to cast an unwinking eye on the good.

It’s bad to lose your physical ability.

It’s worse to lose your psychological balance.

Shaq’s best years are certainly behind him, but at least he has enough poise to go down grinning.

Greatness burdens those who believe in it unequivocally. To be incomparably dominant is both a blessing and a curse; to be ironically detached is the single proven remedy. Shaquille O’Neal should teach LeBron James how to win without wallowing in it, because there’s no more important lesson for a postmodern megastar. Earnest triumphalism has been passé since the last day of the Cold War. What that means for the superpowers of tomorrow is a punch line satirists and social scientists will have to write on their own.

David Foster Wallace didn't have much of a post game, but he did know a thing or two about pleasing a jaded audience:

The scholars and Foundations and disseminators never saw that his most serious wish was: to entertain.

Which is the first and final calling for an elite performer in the third millennium A.D.

Because there's no room for reverence in a culture grown old, and any idol who claims otherwise is either jesting at his own expense or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Ugly Truth About Stephon Marbury

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 10:07:37 -0400

We become what we consume.

Stephon Marbury is a troubled soul. He’s also a troubling social phenomenon. Two months after broadcasting a nervous breakdown on UStream.tv, Marbury at least seems to have stabilized—which would be better news if it weren’t such a disappointment to all the gawkers in cyberspace.

Empathy means feeling the pain of others.

Voyeurism, on the other hand, means making the injury your own.

I won’t pretend to be totally uninterested in the Marbury saga. Everybody loves a train wreck, and it’s hard to turn away from a disaster in progress. But sometimes the hard viewing choice is the right one to make. In a world of infinite programming possibilities, the only decency standards are the kind we establish for ourselves.

A mirror reflects the face of the looker.

A clown reflects the heart of the laugher.

If you stare too long at Marbury’s antics, you’re liable to see a whole lot more than you bargained for.

Sports fans are pathological spectators. National spelling bees, World’s Strongest Man reruns, whatever filler they happen to be running between commercials at ESPN Classic—we watch because it’s on, and because watching what’s on is what we do. The problem, of course, is that habituation tends to breed callousness. Psychologists will cite Marbury’s behavior as evidence of a damaged mind. I’d add that our response to it is symptomatic of a diseased culture.

It’s bad when one fool loses his marbles.

It’s worse when a million find it entertaining.

Marbury may be as crazy as a loon, but it’s the rest of us who have to wear the albatross.

Pity the people that makes a spectacle of itself. To shun lepers is a natural instinct; to spotlight them is a destructive impulse. The ugly truth about Stephon Marbury is in the eyes of his audience, where a single man’s suffering becomes an entire community’s shame. The Internet provides an unprecedented window on the idiosyncrasies of the human condition. What that means for the quality of our human experience is a riddle realists and rubberneckers will have to solve on their own time.

Bob Dylan never ate Vaseline in front of his laptop, but he could talk for days about alienating audiences:

You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, "How does it feel
To be such a freak?"

Which is an apt question in this age of unfiltered Webcam footage.

Because something is happening here and YouTube knows what it is, and anyone who claims immunity from the revelation is either waiting for the video to load or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Michael Vick's Darkest Secret

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 10:14:59 -0400

How much insight is too much insight?

Michael Vick is an infamous quarterback. He’s also a popular talking point. In the wake of Vick’s return with the Philadelphia Eagles, the blogosphere is brimming with polemics and apologies—which would be happier news if quantity were even loosely correlated to quality.

Curiosity means learning as much as you can.

Intelligence, on the other hand, means learning as much as you should.

I’m not suggesting that the Vick story is unimportant. We read because we care, and the demand for nonstop Vick coverage speaks volumes about our collective values. But more commentary isn’t necessarily better commentary. In a media market where the consumer is always right, there’s no critic who gets paid to tell us when we’ve all got it wrong.

Knowledge is power.

Discretion is virtue.

If you want the real scoop on Vick, you have to tune out every voice that promises to deliver it.

Sports fans thrive on opinion. From experts, from amateurs, from the guy sitting next to us at the bar—we collect viewpoints like trading cards, as if enlightenment were merely the sum of all sound bites. The catch, alas, is that no one else can teach you how to think. Google addicts will argue that the final revelation about Vick is out there waiting to be found. I’d counter that one more Web search is exceptionally unlikely to show us whatever it is we’re looking for.

It’s smart to get the facts.

It’s smarter to get the truth.

Vick may deserve scorn, sympathy, or every s-word in between, but the only sentiment worth sharing is the one you select for yourself.

The human mind is nature’s most potent content filter. To aggregate is the limit of machines; to scrutinize is the labor of mankind. Michael Vick’s darkest secret is for you to discover on your own, after the Yahoo! Buzz has subsided and the Digg voters have drifted away. Every student is enriched by the resources on his desk. The one with a high-speed modem should be careful not to invest too heavily in the data at his fingertips.

T.S. Eliot never had a Twitter account, but he did glimpse the perils of free online publishing services:

Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?

Which are apt questions in this age of cheap and instant communication.

Because babble is the mother tongue of cyberspace, and anyone who professes boundless faith in a user-generated gospel is either preaching on the Open Source Sports Network or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Problem with Kobe Bryant Fans

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 10:02:07 -0400

It’s never easy to get the one thing you ever asked for.

Kobe Bryant fans are obsessively loyal. They were also, until very recently, habitually disappointed. After half a decade of frustration, Kobe finally won an NBA title without Shaquille O’Neal in 2009—which would be better news if it didn’t cast so much doubt on his most faithful supporters.

Celebration means reveling in the moment.

Satisfaction, on the other hand, means living with what comes next.

I’m not out to criticize Kobe’s Krew. They’ve stood by their man through thick and thin, and they have every right to savor last summer’s success. But the warmth of June isn’t much help against the chill of September. In a league where one season’s championship is voided by the next season’s tip-off, no true fan can afford to be happy after the autumnal equinox.

You can’t fill a bottomless pit.

You can’t win an endless fight.

If Kobephiles were content with just one conquest, they wouldn’t deserve to wear the colors.

The anguish of defeat is supposed to amplify the thrill of victory. Watching, waiting, wishing—they’re the Stations of the Sports Nut’s Cross, rituals by which we sharpen our suffering and sweeten our salvation. The catch, alas, is that Earthly rapture is notoriously fleeting. Buddhists will argue that Bryant Backers should transcend the numberless lusts of cyclic existence. I’d counter that Phil Jackson Himself seems to believe he can count his way to nirvana.

Deprivation is hard.

Deliverance is harder.

Kobe and the Lakers may well repeat in 2010, but one more ring isn’t likely to close an infinite loop.

Man is a desiring animal. To want more is the way of the world; to have enough is the promise of heaven. The problem with Kobe Bryant fans is that they can’t possibly love a winner like they loved a loser, because the pursuit of triumph is so much more pleasurable than the thing itself. Every pilgrim is sworn to seek the Promised Land. The one familiar with modern dopamine research should be forgiven if he does a bit of foot-dragging on his way through the desert.

Jay Gatsby never netted a Larry O'Brien Trophy, but he did a know a thing or two about the perils of hope:

Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Kobe tumbled short of his dreams—not through Kobe’s own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond Kobe, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a fan will store up in his ghostly heart.

Which may mean trouble in the cheap seats at the Staples Center.

Because there's no bigger letdown than an answered prayer, and anyone who claims otherwise is either lighting candles for the Cavs or only just saying is, all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Joe Torre's California Dream

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 10:25:01 -0400

Everybody wins under blue skies.

Los Angeles baseball fans are notoriously apathetic. They’re also blissfully tolerant. As the regular season winds down, Joe Torre and the Dodgers are widely expected to make a run at the World Series—which might entail some serious pressure if Southern California were as stormy as New York City.

Passion is the burden of those who thrive on their own heat.

Passivity, on other hand, is the blessing of those who can live with the world’s warmth.

This isn’t exactly a tribute to Angelenos. There’s a fine line between cool and catatonic, and it’s hard to root for the home team when you don’t show up until the fourth inning. But I don’t hear Torre complaining. In a league where the manager is always at the mercy of the ticket-buyers, it must be a relief to trade the bitter yahoos at Yankee Stadium for the bronzed yawners at Chavez Ravine.

A true believer never doubts his priest.

A true fanatic never jeers his coach.

Before we condemn the SoCal faithful, we’d be wise to rethink our definition of piety.

Hardcore sports nuts play by a perverse code of ethics. Anguish, heartache, bilious outrage—they’re badges of honor, proof that the wearer has earned his place in the cheap seats. The irony, of course, is that pastimes are supposed to bring pleasure to those who pursue them. Some zealots will argue that laid-back Dodger lovers aren’t Dodger lovers at all. I’d counter that St. Paul himself said love doesn’t curse its friends in the dugout.

Sloth is bad.

Wrath is worse.

LA isn’t quite as serene as heaven, but at least the locals are relaxed enough not to put their idols through hell.

Contented indifference isn’t a cardinal sin. To seek the Way is the task of an enlightened mind; to go with the flow is the mark of a suntanned soul. Joe Torre’s California dream is the one where nothing really matters and no one really cares, because it’s too darned nice outside to worry about anything other than the weather. Every public performer longs for a night on Broadway. The one familiar with New York tabloids will generally settle for a day at the beach.

Randy Newman never worked for George Steinbrenner, but he does know a thing or two about the Bronx Blues:

Hate New York City
It's cold and it's damp
And all the people dress like monkeys

Which isn't half as bad as when they boo like pale-faced sociopaths.

Because life's too short to lose sleep over a game, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either suffering from a Vitamin D deficiency or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Why the NFL Needs Terrell Owens

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 10:03:38 -0400

Pariahs make the world go ‘round.

Terrell Owens is a premier talent. He’s also a perennial troublemaker. Between now and the end of the season, the six-million-dollar Bill is a safe bet to perpetrate some species of outrage in Buffalo—which would be worse news if outrage weren’t so instrumental in his employer’s PR strategy.

Decorum means pleasing the customer.

Deviance, on the other hand, means making him appreciate how nice it is to be pleased.

I’m not writing in defense of Owens. The huddle’s no place for a runaway ego, and No. 81 is a certified prima donna. But sometimes prima donnas are the best teammates. In a league so desperately seeking positive role models, there has to be room for a guy who sets such a reliably bad example.

Day is day because it isn’t night.

Right is right because it isn’t wrong.

If Owens were more inclined to walk the line, his coworkers wouldn’t know where not to follow.

Football fans love to loathe their favorite villains. Owens, Pacman Jones, the Artist Formerly Known As Chad Johnson—they’re magnets for criticism, and lightning rods for scorn. The reason, I think, is that we affirm what we like by attacking what we don’t. Moralists will argue that Owens undermines traditional values in loving his neighbor less than himself. I’d counter that his lack of principles ultimately makes us more sure of our own.

It’s bad to be unscrupulous.

It’s worse to be uncertain.

Owens is a notorious bridge-burner, but one man’s bonfire is often another man’s beacon.

Identity is an exclusionary construct. What you are is dependent on what you’re for; what you’re for is defined by what you’re against. The NFL needs Terrell Owens because Terrell Owens is precisely what the NFL doesn’t want, and because desire is unintelligible in the absence of revulsion. Every self-absorbed hero is doomed to fall by his own hubris. The one with the reality show is at least considerate enough to be a cautionary spectacle on the way down.

Warren Zevon never got flagged for an excessive end zone celebration, but he did know a thing or two about unsportsmanlike conduct:

Well, he went down to dinner in his Sunday best
Excitable boy, they all said
And he poured the popcorn all over his chest
Excitable boy, they all said
Well, he's just an excitable boy

Which isn't a sin until someone commits it.

Because the righteous are born to rail against the wicked, and anyone who preaches virtue without damning vice is either filming a United Way commercial or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Tim Tebow's God Problem

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 10:02:37 -0400

Only a fool doubts the obvious.

Tim Tebow is a publicly zealous Christian. He’s also, by all accounts, a pretty happy camper. On the eve of Florida’s 2009 season, the God-loving Gator stands as a living testament to the merits of faith—which would be better news if he weren’t testifying in a country full of mindless skeptics.

Conviction is the blessing of those who choose to walk with the Father.

Contempt, on the other hand, is the burden of those who opt to go it alone.

I won’t pretend to be wholly enamored of Tebow’s holy-rolling. Piety is an art best practiced in private, and no casual press conference watcher likes having the Holy Spirit shoved down his throat. But let he who’s heard a more fulfilling sound bite cast the first stone. In a media culture so fraught with empty rhetoric, it’s hard to fault a celebrity for wanting to spread the one Good Word.

A city on a hill can’t be hidden.

A light in a heart can’t be dimmed.

If Tebow encourages others to follow him, it’s only because he’s sure he’s found his own personal Way.

Sports nuts are supposed to worship success. Touchdowns, trophies, national titles—they’re markers of virtue, proof that whoever’s running the show must be doing something right. The irony, then, is that so many fans mock Tebow for his beliefs. Atheists will argue that it’s silly to seek favors from an invisible man who lives in the sky. I’d counter that Tim seems to have received everything he ever asked for.

Naiveté is bad.

Nihilism is worse.

Tebow may be wrong about the Pearly Gates, but his critics are the ones shut out of heaven on earth.

Pity the people that forgets the value of values. To obey tradition is the essence of ancient wisdom; to ridicule obedience is the epitome of modern hubris. Tim Tebow’s God problem is merely that his contemporaries refuse to recognize real salvation, no matter how brightly it lights up the scoreboard. For two thousand years mankind has found hope and refuge in the commandments of Jesus Christ. Whether there’s literal truth beyond the spiritual fact is a riddle hair-splitters and hell-raisers will have to solve on their own.

St. Paul never had to test his chastity on a campus full of man-hungry coeds, but he did know a thing or two about discipline under duress:

All things are lawful for me, but all things are not expedient; all things are lawful for me, but all things edify not.

Which is sage advice in this age of agnostic promiscuity.

Because everyone loses when anything goes, and anyone who damns Tebow for winning by his creed is either praying to Bobby Bowden or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Bill Belichick's Dirty Secret

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 09:59:31 -0400

Sometimes it’s better to be hated than loved.

Bill Belichick is an established guru. He’s also, by some accounts, an Evil Genius. As the Patriots gear up for the 2009 season, their coach is suffering the typical slings and arrows from his critics in the blogosphere—which would be worse news if the barbs weren’t so integral to his master plan.

Popularity means appealing earnestly to the crowd.

Power, on the other hand, means answering exclusively to yourself.

I won’t pretend to harbor any fondness for Belichick. The surly press conferences speak volumes, and there’s something distasteful about a grown man in a hooded sweatshirt. But maybe distastefulness is precisely the point. On a stage where every hero is a slave to his audience, the most liberated actor is the one who embraces the role of the villain.

A tyrant rules by his own authority.

A pariah lives for his own applause.

If Belichick were more inclined to seek our approval, he wouldn’t be the high-achieving sociopath we’ve come to despise.

Success breeds contempt in the sports world. Belichick, Kobe Bryant, whoever’s pitching for the Yankees—we fans tend to lash out at habitual winners, especially when we find ourselves on the wrong side of the scoreboard. The irony, of course, is that those figures most worthy of our ire are generally the most indifferent to it. Psychologists will argue that Belichick’s icy persona is symptomatic of an obsessively singular focus. I’d counter that the mightiest champions are those for whom warmth is just another unhealthy distraction.

Boos are bad.

Losses are worse.

Belichick won’t make many friends between now and January, but the all-time greats aren’t concerned with anything so trivial as friendship.

The lead dog always walks alone. To be the best is to beat the world; to beat the world is to invite its scorn. Bill Belichick’s dirty secret is that he likes being the bad guy, because bad guys don’t have to give a damn about public opinion. Every conqueror claims to want the affection of his subjects. The shrewd one knows that all he really needs is the loyalty of his troops.

Bob Dylan never got busted for stealing signals, but he did learn a thing or two about the sting of popular rebuke:

Well, they'll stone you when you walk all alone.
They'll stone you when you are walking home.
They'll stone you and then say you are brave.
They'll stone you when you are set down in your grave.
But I would not feel so all alone,
Everybody must get stoned.

Which suggests at the very least that Wild Bill is in good company.

Because the road to the top is lined with rock-throwers, and anyone who boasts about making the trip unbruised is either as gorgeous as Tom Brady or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Final Word on Barry Bonds

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 10:19:24 -0400

Old pariahs never quit—they just fade away.

Barry Bonds is a living legend. He’s also a dead issue. As MLB contenders tweak their rosters for the stretch drive, the still-not-retired Home Run King is a conspicuously undesired commodity—which wouldn’t be such tragic news if anyone cared enough to notice.

Penance means paying for your sins.

Perdition, on the other hand, means having your checks returned to sender.

This isn’t a plea for sympathy. Hell hath no fury like a sporting public duped, and Bonds cemented his infamy one lie at a time. But let’s at least acknowledge the force of the rebuke. In a league where attendance numbers are the ultimate benchmark of performance, there’s no uglier end than the one that nobody’s around to watch.

The essence of the grape is in the wine glass.

The purpose of the star is in the spotlight.

If MLB owners really want to punish Bonds, all they have to do is let him wither on the vine.

Jocks need fans more than fans need jocks. Jersey sales, Twitter visits, even obnoxious paparazzi—they’re markers of status, metrics of worth in a Me-centric market. The irony, of course, is that he who values glory too dearly is liable to shame himself in pursuing it. Sophocles would argue that Bonds is a victim of his own hubris. I’d counter that all hubris betrays a fundamental deficiency of pride.

Selfishness is bad.

Dependency is worse.

Bonds will be remembered among baseball’s all-time egomaniacs, but his greatest conceit was pretending he didn’t want to please the crowd.

The opposite of love is indifference, not hate. To be loathed is to inspire passion if nothing else; to be ignored is to matter less than nothing itself. The final word on Barry Bonds is unprintable, because no keyboard can convey the sound of silence. Every hero fancies himself a champion of the people. The disgraced one ultimately finds that he’s all on his own.

Moses spent his entire career with a single team, but that didn't stop him from feeling the pain of an unwanted free agent:

You will live in constant suspense, filled with dread both night and day, never sure of your life. In the morning you will say, "If only it were evening!" and in the evening, "If only it were morning!"—because of the terror that will fill your hearts and the sights that your eyes will see. The Lord will send you back in ships to the Winter Meetings on a journey I said you should never make again. There you will offer yourselves for sale to your enemies as male and female designated hitters, but no one will buy you.

Which is a fitting curse for a fallen idol.

Because every contract is an implicit covenant, and he who bears false witness before the paying customers is doomed to a fate worse than only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Human Side of Tiger Woods

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 10:05:28 -0400

Good sportsmanship is maladaptive.

Tiger Woods loves to win. He also, obviously, hates to lose. During a six-hole collapse at the British Open, Tiger’s behavior was anything but genteel—which would be worse news if gentility had anything to do with greatness.

Decorum means playing by someone else’s rules.

Dominance, on the other hand, means living by your own.

I’m not defending the Tantrum at Turnberry. A master craftsman ought never blame his tools, and Tiger’s five-wood wasn’t the one shanking all those shots in Scotland. But let’s not get too bent out of shape over a few mangled clubs. In a competition where they don’t award Claret Jugs to failed organisms, it’s only natural for a primate to go bananas when he comes up short of the cut line.

A leopard can’t change its spots.

A Tiger can’t dull its fangs.

If Woods were less inclined to go for the kill, he wouldn’t be the predator we’ve come to admire.

Sports pundits tend to forget that victory has nothing to do with virtue. Woods, LeBron James, Sidney Crosby—we criticize them for being undignified in defeat and intemperate in triumph, as if the Great Scorer weren’t merely a figment of Grantland Rice’s imagination. The truth, of course, is that no one ever earned points for politesse between the lines. Moralists will argue that Tiger’s vulgar passion sets a bad example for young fans. I’d counter that the best role models are those who teach kids what it takes to thrive as adults.

Etiquette is good.

Evolution is better.

Tiger won’t make any friends on the course at the PGA Championship, but real champions aren’t bred to give a damn about friendship.

There’s no honor code in the Law of the Jungle. Civility is a social conceit; boorishness is a biological imperative. The human side of Tiger Woods is the one you see on the 18th green, where all men vie for the banner of the species. Our ancient ancestors were conditioned to eat or be eaten. What that means for our modern table manners is a conundrum Charles Darwin and Emily Post have left unresolved.

William Blake never defaced a tee box, but he did know a thing or two about destructive animal instincts:

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Which is a question that answers itself.

Because the most intelligent design is that which conquers all comers, and he who bemoans the connection between ferocity and fitness won't survive long enough to be only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Road Ahead for Tom Brady

Ryan Alberti — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 12:52:09 -0400

Growing up is hard to do.

Tom Brady is a grizzled veteran. He was also, not so long ago, a glittering golden boy. After 12 months of setbacks and false starts, Brady is finally set to return from reconstructive knee surgery—which would be better news if he were still the invincible kid of yesteryear.

Youth means believing you have nowhere to go but up.

Adulthood, on the other hand, means knowing you have nowhere to arrive but down.

It’s not that I doubt Brady’s resilience. His resumé is beyond reproach, and he has a knack for beating the odds. But let’s be clear about the scope of the challenge here. In a league where physical health is the coin of the realm, it’s hard to bet on a quarterback who owes his leg to modern science.

You can’t unpop a bubble.

You can’t uncut a scar.

If Brady wants to run the show exactly like he used to, he’ll have to limit himself to pushing the Play button on the highlight reel.

Sports fans always root for immortality. Heroes and Legends, Idols and Gods—we speak of jocks in a timeless language, as if the seconds weren’t ticking ever away between the lines. The truth, of course, is that even the mightiest champion is subject to sudden death. Bookies will argue that Brady’s uncertain status makes the Patriots a risky pick for victory. I’d counter that the only safe gamblers are those who put their money on the inevitability of defeat.

It’s bad to be hurt.

It’s worse to be human.

Brady may win a few more Super Bowls before he’s through, but the rings will only prove that he had the guts to go down swinging.

You can’t measure a man until his back’s against the wall. To win and repeat is a matter of talent; to lose and rebound is the mark of greatness. The road ahead for Tom Brady is that which we all travel eventually, when life stops being a given and becomes something we have to fight for. Every old pro longs for the grace of his first season. The mature one makes peace with the rigor of his last.

Bruce Springsteen never tore an ACL, but he does know a thing or two about tenuous recoveries:

Well now everything dies baby that's a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back

Which is no less a threat than a promise.

Because every game ultimately amounts to a roll of the dice, and he who speaks lightly of good fortune is either married to a supermodel or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Best Reason To Root for Vince Young

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 09:59:05 -0400

Failure is endearing.

Vince Young is easy to criticize. He was also, once, impossible to love. In three NFL seasons, the Titans quarterback has yet to fulfill his collegiate promise—which would be worse news if his flaws didn’t make him so much more deserving of our empathy.

Potential is a curse before it arrives.

Disappointment, on the other hand, is a blessing after the fact.

I don’t mean to sugarcoat Young’s shortcomings. The numbers speak for themselves, and the off-field theatrics haven’t helped. But let’s not miss the sunny side of the story. In a league where victory is so often confused with virtue, it’s edifying to remember that defeat can happen to the best of us.

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Every bust has a golden moral.

If Young had starred in Tennessee the way he did at Texas, we wouldn’t ever have had cause to question the guts beneath the glitter.

Sports fans tend to get bogged down in data. Touchdowns, interceptions, completion percentage—we score our idols on the basis of output, as if productivity were the root of all value. The catch, of course, is that you can’t hug a statistic. Fantasy football junkies will argue that Young’s passer rating is a liability. I’d counter that the most precious assets are those which show us ourselves as we really are.

It’s great to be great.

It’s better to be genuine.

Young may never live up to his billing, but the most authentic things in life are rarely as good as advertised.

There’s no shame in being mediocre. To succeed is to rise above your peers; to stumble is to land among your people. The best reason to root for Vince Young is his colossal fallibility, because colossal fallibility is the common fate of humankind. Every burnout is haunted by visions of the flame he used to be. The bright one is smart enough to find solace in man’s ill-lit brotherhood of ash.

Walt Whitman never got benched in favor of a has-been, but he could still sympathize with folks whose lot it is to ride the pine:

Vivas to those who have fail'd!
And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea!
And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!
And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!

Which is a fitting dirge for a Fallen race.

Because no Son of Adam gets it right all the time, and any mortal who claims to be perfect is either playing in the Rose Bowl or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Real Problem with Alex Rodriguez

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 10:04:48 -0400

Pity the hero who doesn’t fit the profile.

Alex Rodriguez is easy to praise. He’s also, unfortunately, hard to like. In 16 big league seasons, the Yankees slugger has posted sensational stats between the lines—which would be better news if stats were all that counted with the folks in the cheap seats.

A paragon is loved because he defines the lovable.

A pariah, on the other hand, is loathed because he defies the loathers.

It’s not that A-Rod’s critics lack empirical ammunition. Winners are as winners do, and even Bill James would concede that created runs are no substitute for World Series rings. But the prevailing disdain for Rodriguez is far less about October production than it is about year-round performance. In a league where leading men are supposed to be strong silent types, there’s just no place for a socially awkward pretty boy.

Actions speak louder than words.

Style shines brighter than substance.

If A-Rod really wanted to be embraced, he should have retired before the advent of TMZ.com.

Baseball fans have always swooned for inhuman idols. Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle—they were both larger and smaller than life, knowable only through the narrow lens of a friendly press corps. The catch, of course, is that there’s nowhere to hide in this age of Tabloid Tyranny. Image consultants will argue that a simple rebranding can cure what’s ailing Alex. I’d counter that we’ve already seen too much flesh to forget the mortal beneath the makeover.

It’s bad to be guarded.

It’s worse to be honest.

A-Rod gets faulted for manipulative aloofness, but his only unforgivable sin was showing the world his true colors.

You can’t will your way to popularity. You’re either with it or you aren’t; you’ve either got it or you don’t. The real problem with Alex Rodriguez is that he is what he is, and not what we want him to be. Modern media has made cool a nonnegotiable commodity. What that means for modern misfits is a question Brian Cashman and Kate Hudson will have to answer on their own.

Bruce Springsteen never had much trouble pleasing his audience, but he still knows a thing or two about impossible expectations:

She said, "Now don't try for a home run, baby
If you can get the job done with a hit"
Remember, "A quitter never wins and a winner never quits"
"The sun don't shine on a sleepin' dog's ass"
And all the rest of that stuff
But for you my best was never good enough

Which would be a fitting epitaph for A-Rod's Cooperstown plaque.

Because public approval is always a matter of personal taste, and any star who appeals to the masses on the merits of mere talent is sure to wind up only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Truth About David Ortiz

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 09:53:40 -0400

All outcomes are arbitrary.

David Ortiz is an established star. He was also, briefly, a flickering light. After a moribund start to the season, the Red Sox first baseman is finally showing signs of life—which would be better news if vitality weren’t such a fragile and fleeting thing.

Success means understanding how you won.

Salvation, on the other hand, means seeing that you could have just as easily lost.

I won’t pretend to know what the future holds for Ortiz. He’s still within slumping distance of the Mendoza Line, and anything can happen between now and October. But a collapse wouldn’t be any more revealing than a resurrection. In a league where the best hitters fail 70 percent of the time, it’s silly to infer too much insight from a handful of marginal outs.

A liar deceives with words.

A box score distorts with numbers.

If you want the real scoop on Big Papi, you’ve got to look past the data they print in the papers.

Baseball fans tend to equate performance with essence. Studs and Has-Beens, Heroes and Goats—we assign labels on the basis of productivity, as if statistics were more than mere guesswork. The problem, of course, is that even Bill James can’t quantify the whims of fortune. Crash Davis would argue that the difference between .250 and .300 is one extra flare a week. Cal Ripken would add that a few missed signs can jeopardize a whole career of hard work.

It’s bad to dwell on the past.

It’s worse to bet on the present.

Ortiz may not regain his old form, but his struggles don’t prove anything beyond the fallacy of all proofs.

Fate never needs a reason. Virtue doesn’t guarantee victory; defeat doesn’t indicate desert. The truth about David Ortiz is the same as it ever was, plus or minus a few hundred points in the batting average column. Every mortal takes his cuts against the boundless caprice of the universe. The brave one keeps swinging until destiny pries the bat from his cold dead hands.

Whoever wrote the Book of Ecclesiastes probably never went 149 at-bats without a home run, but he did know a thing or two about the fickleness of umpires:

I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

Which suggests that one oughtn't judge a slugger by the content of his stat line.

Because the Divine Papi giveth and the Divine Papi taketh away, and anyone who claims to find permanent meaning on the receiving end is either riding a hot streak or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Best Reason To Root for Manny Ramirez

Ryan Alberti — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 09:41:53 -0400

Sometimes you really do reap what you sow.

Manny Ramirez is a blissful idiot. He’s also no one’s fool. After serving a 50-game drug suspension, Manny still maintains that he didn’t mean any harm—which would be less plausible if it weren’t such a fitting sign of the times.

Negligence means turning a blind eye to the rules.

Nihilism, on the other hand, means turning a deaf ear to the truth.

I’m not suggesting that Ramirez is clean. An innocent man never equivocates, and Manny’s fuzzy denials speak for themselves. But let’s not be too hard on No. 99. In a league where all values start with the ticket-buyer, you can’t expect a slugger to be more scrupulous than the suckers who pay his salary.

A mirror is only as pretty as the face that beholds it.

An idol is only as holy as the culture that begets it.

If we’re going to fault Manny for being Manny, we should also fault us for being ourselves.

American sports have always mirrored the American psyche. Teamwork, accountability, fair play—these are national virtues, the tenets of our civic faith. The problem, alas, is that Baby Boomers have spent the last four decades worshipping at the altar of unrepentant individualism. Hippies will argue that Manny should be free to follow his conscience. I’d counter that even Kris Kristofferson called freedom just another word for nothing left to lose.

It’s bad to automatically embrace tradition.

It’s worse to categorically reject convention.

I’d like to condemn Manny for his crimes, but condemnation is strictly prohibited by the bylaws of our brave new world.

Everyone is damned when no one is damned. A life without norms is a life without limits; a life without limits is no life at all. The best reason to root for Manny Ramirez is that he’s so very much like us, in his shameless conceit and his conceited shame. The children of the 1960s decided that right and wrong were open to personal interpretation. What that means for the adults of the 21st century is a question burnouts and Birkenstock fans will have to answer on their own.

Crucifixions are passé, but the last enhanced performer to die for our sins offered a pretty apt recap of the Ramirez Debacle:

Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.

Which applies to the judges no less than the judged.

Because a people without principles is a people without guilt, and anyone who claims to speak with moral authority in 2009 is either bearing false witness or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | What Might Have Been for Brett Favre

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 09:48:46 -0400

Graceful exits are overrated.

Brett Favre can’t quit. He also can’t help it. Once upon a time, the ex-Packer might have ridden peacefully into a Green and Golden sunset—which would have been a happy ending for everyone but the ender himself.

Passion means doing what your heart suggests.

Pathology, on the other hand, means doing what your brain demands.

It’s not that I’m rooting for another comeback. There’s a fine line between a soap opera and a train wreck, and Favre’s legacy was in much better shape 16 months ago. But let’s not delude ourselves with wishful retrospection. In a league where every quarterback is limited by his playbook, it would have been silly to expect anything less than a go-for-broke audible from No. 4.

Faith is hope beyond logic.

Love is need beyond reason.

If Favre were able to make a clean break, he wouldn’t be the idol we’ve come to believe in.

Zealous champions always have trouble saying goodbye. Willie Mays, Michael Jordan, Jerry Rice—they were guilty of irrational ardor, of clinging to joy in defiance of common sense. The problem, of course, is that old dogs can’t unlearn their most meaningful tricks. Conventional wisdomites will argue that Favre should have known when to leave well enough alone. I’d counter that the all-time greats are ignorant of every truth except the only one that really matters.

Dignity is good.

Desire is better.

A lesser legend would have settled for pride, but Brett is Brett because he wants what he wants.

Human nature abhors a vacuum. To exist is to drift ever into darkness; to thrive is to rage against the retiring of the light. What might have been for Brett Favre is beside the point, because all that’s left is that which has to be. Every mortal is fated to lose his fight with eternity. The crazy one is at least sane enough to go down swinging.

Ernest Hemingway wasn't shy about letting go , but he could still sympathize with folks more inclined to hang on:

"Oh Cheeseheads," Brett said, "We could have had such a damned good time together."

"Yes," the Cheeseheads said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Which is as crisp a coda as any flawed hero could hope to write.

Because closing on a good note means having the balls to walk away, and those who claim to be unafraid of conclusions are either buried in Ketchum or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Most Important Lesson for LeBron James

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 09:48:20 -0400

Excellence is its own education.

LeBron James is a force to be reckoned with. He's also, apparently, a subject to be pontificated on. Three weeks after the Upset in Orlando, the blogosphere is still buzzing with unsolicited counsel for the King—which would be better news if wisdom weren't such a solitary pursuit.

Inexperience means listening to every voice that shouts at you.

Maturity, on the other hand, means hearing the only one that whispers.

It’s not that the peanut gallery is ill-intentioned. All nosiness is born of empathy, and most would-be gurus really do care about LeBron’s future. But a well-meaning blowhard is still a blowhard. In an age of instant and unthinking information exchange, the only intelligence worth sharing is the kind that can’t be beamed through an Ethernet cable.

Talk is cheap.

Advice is free.

If LeBron’s in the market for valuable input, he can’t afford to buy the rabble’s two cents.

Sports fans are notorious know-it-alls. Armchair quarterbacks, barstool analysts, shamelessly self-referential keyboard jockeys—they’re founts of errant guidance, wells of obtuse insight. The problem, alas, is that two heads are very rarely superior to one. Populists will argue that LeBron should heed the logic of mass opinion. I’d counter that the only smart crowds are those peopled by discriminating individuals.

It’s good to lean on your friends.

It’s better to stand on your feet.

LeBron has plenty of supporters, but some journeys have to be made without a crutch.

There’s no carpool lane on the road to the top. To be the best is to lead the pack; to lead the pack is to walk alone. The most important lesson for LeBron James is that which he’ll have to learn by himself, because no priest or publicist could ever teach it to him. Every pilgrim sets off on the path of his predecessors. The righteous one ultimately finds a way to call his own.

Rudyard Kipling never saw his face on a billboard, but he did know a thing or two about self-discovery:

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run—
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man my son!

Which is a sound game plan for any impressionable young icon.

Because every star gets an earful from his audience, and he who can't trust the expert in his heart is liable to fall for some hack who's only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Next Step for Kobe Bryant

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 09:49:35 -0400

Enough is never enough.

Kobe Bryant has everything a guy could ask for. He also lacks the one thing he really wants. After a triumphant march through the NBA Finals, Bryant is still hunting for the final piece of the puzzle—which wouldn’t be such bad news if he had any hope of ever actually finding it.

Desire means chasing your dreams.

Need, on the other hand, means fleeing your nightmares.

It’s not that Kobe is alone in his longing. Every pilgrim is haunted by visions of the Promised Land, and the only goals worth having are the ones you never quite reach. But the all-time greats are prone to a special kind of desperation. In a league where success so often sires complacency, the best players are always those who never get comfortable with the status quo.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Unrested beats the heart that seeks a throne.

If Kobe’s serious about ruling the NBA, he can’t afford to grant himself a decent night’s sleep.

Sports stardom isn’t a satisfying experience. Passion, commitment, focus—these are symptoms of distress, of abiding displeasure with ordinary accomplishment. The problem, alas, is that pathological determination can’t simply be turned off. Buddhists will argue that Kobe should transcend the illusory lusts of temporal existence. I’d counter that even Phil Jackson Himself couldn’t meditate his way to early retirement.

Enlightenment is good.

Evolution is better.

Kobe’s a proven winner, but proven winners aren’t bred to settle for anything less than one more victory.

Natural selection favors neurotic organisms. It’s healthy to obsess about survival; it’s dangerous to relax before you’re dead. The next step for Kobe Bryant will be the same as the one before it, and the one before that, and so on and so on back to the birth of the species. Undying hunger drove man to the top of the food chain. What that means for his pursuit of satiation is a question dope fiends and Darwin fans will have to answer on their own.

Bob Dylan never won an NBA title, but he does a know a thing or two about grandiose ambitions:

Someday, everything is gonna be diff'rent
When I paint my masterpiece.

Which is every high achiever's personal pipe dream.

Because contentment is the mortal enemy of excellence, and any virtuoso who claims to be happy with his work is either coming off a champagne buzz or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Problem with Albert Pujols

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 09:57:28 -0400

Faith is a fragile thing.

Albert Pujols is the real deal. He’s also too good to be true. Ten years ago, Pujols would have been embraced by an adoring and ingenuous public—which says less about the Cardinals first baseman than it does about the folks who’ve declined to do the embracing.

Naiveté means failing to ask the hard questions.

Nihilism, on the other hand, means refusing to hear the hard answers.

I don’t mean to minimize the sins of the Steroid Era. Institutional integrity is serious business, and the MLB brand will be cheapened by asterisks for years to come. But let’s at least acknowledge the cost of dwelling on the past. In a league where every slugger is presumed guilty until proven otherwise, the heaviest penalty falls on the judges sentenced to buy the tickets.

Cheaters never prosper.

Skeptics never cheer.

If there’s a reason to dislike Pujols, it’s merely that he wasn’t honest enough to be born a decade earlier.

Baseball fans are victims of their own lost innocence. Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds—they made us wary in our bones, and suspicious to a fault. The problem, alas, is that incredulity is an infectious disease. Jaded historians will argue that Pujols can’t but bear the baggage of his predecessors. I’d counter that his most onerous burden is the one we seem determined to impose upon him.

It’s bad to celebrate the wicked.

It’s worse to scorn the righteous.

We’re all too old for youthful illusions, but that shouldn’t stop us from accepting the world as it is.

Perception always shapes reality. How you live depends on what you see; what you see depends on where you look. The problem with Albert Pujols is that there is no problem with Albert Pujols, that he’s a genuine hero in an age of tarnished idols. A man learns to believe in himself by daring to believe in others. What that means for we generation of atheists is a puzzle drug-pushers and dope-preachers will have to solve on their own.

Ralph Waldo Emerson didn't live to see the advent of HGH, but he did know a thing or two about old-fashioned human potential:

Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly and they will show themselves great.

Which is bad news for a people who've come to doubt their favorite pastime.

Because cynicism ultimately destroys more than it defends, and anyone who claims to prefer the loss is either rooting for the Cubs or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Why Michael Vick Can't Have a Second Chance

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 10:03:57 -0400

Evil is a cultural construct.

Michael Vick is a callous thug. He was also, once, a sensitive kid. Between then and now, Vick grew up on the wrong side of Newport News, VA—which ought to give Roger Goodell reason for pause as he ponders the fate of the former Falcon.

Free will means being the master of your future.

Determinism, on the other hand, means being a slave to your past.

I’m not suggesting that Vick’s actions weren’t heinous. Pit bulls are people too, and all violence is deplorable violence. But deplorability doesn’t necessarily imply guilt. In a league where success so often starts with the coach, it’s hard to fault a quarterback for the failings of his playbook.

A puppy can be trained to fight.

A child can be taught to hate.

If Commissioner Goodell really wants to be fair, he should remember that aggression is invariably a product of breeding.

Sports fans cherish the myth of individual responsibility. Winners and Losers, Heroes and Goats—we assign labels according to outcomes, on the assumption that every jock controls his own destiny. The catch, alas, is that culpability is rarely so clear-cut outside the lines. Behaviorists will argue that Vick is defined by his crimes. I’d counter that a mens rea is better understood as the symptom of a malnourished brain.

Animal cruelty is bad.

Human misery is worse.

There’s no justification for what happened at Bad Newz Kennels, but let’s not forget how the project got its name.

We are all our fathers’ sons. To be bad you’ve got to know good; to know good you’ve got to be raised well. Michael Vick can’t have a second chance for no more or less a reason than that he never had a first chance, at least not by any conventional standard of opportunity. Modern science shows that the adult mind is shaped in the crucible of adolescence. What that means for modern morality is a question dog lovers and defense lawyers will have to answer on their own.

The Judeo-Christian tradition is big on personal accountability, but even Moses understood that wickedness tends to be a family affair:

For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.

Which proves that the Ancients knew a thing or two about developmental psychology.

Because every man bears the mark of his birth, and anyone who ever claimed immunity to Original Sin was either formed from the dust of the ground or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | What You Don't Know About the Kansas City Royals

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 28 May 2009 09:53:54 -0400

Always bet on uncertainty.

The Kansas City Royals are perennial cream puffs. They’re also, suddenly, potential contenders. Back in March, most bookmakers had the Royals pegged as prohibitive long shots in the AL Central—which goes to show that real life can’t always be counted on to unfold by the numbers.

Regularity means the best man usually wins.

Randomness, on the other hand, means even the losers get lucky sometimes.

I’m not suggesting that the folks in Kansas City should start saving up for playoff tickets. There’s a lot of calendar between now and October, and Zack Greinke can’t be Steve Nebraska forever. But let’s at least savor the moment. In a league where the Red Sox and Yankees are typically presumed champions until proven otherwise, it’s edifying to remember that the inevitable tends to be anything but.

Faith repels the cynic.

Doubt rebuts the statistician.

If the Royals defy the odds and bring home a title, it will only do damage to those who worship the power of data.

Sports pundits hate surprises. Upsets and comebacks, collapses and flops—they’re affronts to conventional wisdom, assaults on expert analysis. The irony, of course, is that a fluke is only a fluke before it happens. Empiricists will argue that the Royals have no business at the top of the standings. I’d counter that the most reliably predictive evidence is the kind you gather after the fact.

Hope is good.

Chance is better.

Nothing is guaranteed for Trey Hillman and Co. in 2009, but that alone should be enough to keep butts in the seats at Kauffman Stadium.

Probability is a measure of human ignorance. We speculate because we’re limited; we’re limited because we speculate. What you don’t know about the Kansas City Royals is the most important information of all, because every observable detail is merely academic. An omniscient mind really would be able to read the future in the past. Those of us with mortal brains are more suited to second-guessing what we write in the present.

Most baseball eggheads stake their fortunes on sabermetrics, but the hardcore nerds know that the hottest action's in chaos theory:

An almost-intransitive system displays some sort of average behavior for a very long time, fluctuating within certain bounds. Then, for no apparent reason whatsoever, it shifts into a different sort of behavior, still fluctuating but producing a different average.

Which is news that ought to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted.

Because it's an awfully quick trip from the penthouse to the cellar, and anyone who claims to run the elevator is either spending George Steinbrenner's money or only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | The Final Word on Kobe Bryant v. LeBron James

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 21 May 2009 09:32:45 -0400

Only false idols need to be defended.

Kobe Bryant is the best player in the NBA. LeBron James is the best player in the NBA. As the KB-LBJ war rages across the Internet, most combatants have pledged themselves to proving one of those two sentences false—which would of course be an awful shame if it so happened that each of them were actually right.

Argument is the seeking of the head.

Agreement, on the other hand, is the finding of the heart.

It’s not that I’m numb to personal preference. Kobe and LeBron are different flavors of excellent, and I’d be lying if I told you my tastes ran evenly between Los Angeles and Cleveland. But the mere fact of having an opinion isn’t cause for opining. In a league where stardom is always subjective, only blind men and blowhards make the mistake of judging one heavenly body against another.

A guilty man pleads his case.

A doubtful fan screams his logic.

If you’re really sure your guy’s No. 1, you shouldn’t have to raise your voice.

Conflict is the lifeblood of the sports blogosphere. Fan forums, Twitter feeds, groundbreaking open-source free-for-alls—they thrive on tension, on My endless desire to shout down My neighbor. The irony, alas, is that self-assertion tends to be self-defeating. Absolutists will argue that Kobe and LeBron can’t both be supremely sublime. I’d counter that their only limitations are the ones their supporters impose upon them.

Applause is good.

Appreciation is better.

It’s natural instinct to root for the home team, but the sweetest victories are always won in silence.

Some disputes aren’t worth resolving. To speak out is human; to shut up is divine. The final word on Kobe Bryant v. LeBron James is yes, only and utterly and infinitely yes. Every zealot believes in the truth of his calling. The righteous ones recognize that salvation wasn’t meant to be a zero-sum game.

Lao Tzu never won an MVP award, but at least he understood how to carry himself along the Way:

He who knows does not rant in the Comments section.
He who rants in the Comments section does not know.

Which is a dead-sure clincher in any debate.

Because it's always wiser to bask than to bloviate, and I for one would rather enjoy the show than waste my breath only just saying, is all...

Just Saying, Is All... | Shaquille O'Neal's Last Stand

Ryan Alberti — Thu, 14 May 2009 10:22:01 -0400

Old age isn’t hell—it’s purgatory.

Shaquille O’Neal has seen better days. He also has some Diesel left in the tank. As the setting Sun weighs his options this summer, he’ll ultimately face a choice between hanging on and hanging ‘em up—which might be a dilemma worth debating if the right answer weren’t so exceedingly obvious.

Decline means admitting that you aren’t what you were.

Defeat, on the other hand, means accepting that you are what you have to be.

It’s not that I’m rooting for O’Neal’s return. Time makes benchwarmers of us all in the end, and Shaq’s long-term career arc is most notable for its negative slope. But let’s not kid ourselves about the relevant calculus here. In a league where every possession is a race against the shot clock, no star is going to give up the ball before he hears the buzzer with his own two ears.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Youth is in the mind of the believer.

If Shaq really thinks he can still help a team win an NBA title, all the criticism on Earth won’t be enough to chase him off the court.

Sports fans always beg their idols to go out on top. Willie Mays, Michael Jordan, Brett Favre—we hold them up as cautionary examples, proof that greatness isn’t quite as great without a graceful exit. The catch, of course, is that a well-preserved legacy is no substitute for a well-lived life. Rationalists will call Shaq a fool for following his heart. I’d counter that the real folly lies in counseling any other course of action.

Realism is good.

Resilience is better.

O’Neal may be delusional about his eroding skills, but some lies are more edifying than the truths they conceal.

The past doesn’t have to be the enemy of the present. What was pales next to what is; what is is far less important than what’s yet to come. Shaquille O’Neal’s last stand will be the one he makes in front of a mirror, where all men are measured against the might of their memories. Vanity makes some mortals cling to their virtue. Passion helps others purge out their sin.

Shaq fancies himself the Big Aristotle, but by my reading Ulysses seems to be the apter classical allusion:

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to settle for a cushy studio analyst gig.

Which is as sweet a swan song as any old conqueror could hope to sing.

Because no veteran is washed-up until he concedes it in his head, and he who's too timid to argue with destiny is doomed to spend his Golden Years only just saying, is all...