Bleacher Report - Articles by Jeff Pearlman

Billy Collins: Assault in the Ring

Jeff Pearlman — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 22:45:08 -0400

I’ve been a journalist for 15 years now. If one were to ask me which stories stand out, I’d name three:

1. When I was 23, The Tennessean asked me to profile a Nashville couple, Warren and Lynn Thompson. She was in her mid-40s and dying of cancer. To honor her memory, the two were working on a garden together. It was haunting stuff.

I’ll always remember sitting next to Lynn and asking her whether she feared death. It was around the time that Forrest Gump had just come out, and she had seen the film with a friend. During the scene when Jenny dies, the friend apologized to Lynn.

“Oh, you don’t need to apologize,” Lynn said. “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m just sad about all the things I’ll miss. My children getting married, and having their own children.”

It was very profound. And, just today, I looked up Warren and Lynn’s children on Facebook. They’re married, with kids.

While the finished product won’t go down as one of my best, I treasure the experience. As well as the gratitude from Lynn and Warren. Why, when Lynn died after a long and courageous battle, Warren asked me to write her obituary. I was blown away (if I can dig up this clip, I’ll try and scan it one day).

2. In the days following 9/11/2001, I profiled Tyler Ugolyn, one of the victims. I’ve remained close with his family—a relationship I cherish.

3. In the early months of 1998, I was 26 and trying to rise from fact checking at Sports Illustrated. During my time at The Tennessean, I’d learned of the plight of Billy Ray Collins, Jr., a local middleweight boxer whose bright future was derailed in 1983. That’s when, on the undercard of the Roberto Duran-Davey Moore bout at Madison Square Garden, he faced an obscure journeyman named Luis Resto. Collins was supposed to have his way with Resto. Instead, the Nashville native was battered and battered and battered. Afterward, when Billy’s father (and trainer) reached out to shake Resto’s hand, he felt his glove and noticed all the padding had been removed.

Collins, who was nearly blinded by the savage beating, was done as a fighter. Shortly thereafter, he died in a car accident. His father believes it was suicide. Others aren’t so sure.

Anyhow, I wasn’t a big enough gun at Sports Illustrated to have the story assigned to me, and I feared that, had I pitched it, some editor would have swiped it from me and given it to a Gary Smith or Steve Rushin. Hence, I paid my own way to Nashville and reported the whole thing myself.

I will never—never, ever, ever, ever, ever—forget sitting in Billy Sr.’s ramshackle house, listening to his racist banter as he sucked from a cigarette, watching the tapes of his son fight. It was the most depressing assignment ever, yet a riveting story that probably took my reporting to a new level.

I still remember getting off an airplane in San Diego, walking through the airport and spotting the new SI in a magazine store. It was the issue with Kevin Gogan on the cover, and when I saw my Billy Collins story in print, I nearly cried.

I bring this up because on the night of August 1, HBO is premiering its new documentary, Assault In The Ring. I haven’t seen it yet, but the story alone makes it worth watching. The various characters are tragic and fascinating; the impact of that bout still profound.

My Take: Erin Andrews

Jeff Pearlman — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 13:27:53 -0400

So a few days have passed since the whole Erin Andrews video flare-up, and I’ve been trying, trying, trying, trying to decide what I think about the whole thing.

Now, I’ve finally decided.

First and foremost, I’m disgusted. There is nothing funny, sexy, goofy, wacky, or fun about taping a naked woman as she changes clothes through a peephole in a hotel. I hope they find the guy, I hope they coat his body in cheese, and I hope they dangle him before a gaggle of over-sized rats.

There is, however, a greater issue here. Greater issues, actually. With rare exception, over the past decade ESPN (as well as other networks) has decided upon a rather unscientific (but not entirely universal) system for hiring its female sideline reporters and studio personalities.

A. They must have a working knowledge of sports.

B. They must speak English.

C. They must be “hot.”

For the record, I loathe the word “hot” as a description of attractive women. It’s a pathetic, fourth-grade sort of term. Once upon a time, I thought Corrine Lee was “hot”. We were, however, both in sixth grade at Lakeview Elementary, and she was probably wearing braces, leg warmers, and Sassons.

In the world of male-dominated sports media, however, “hot” remains the adjective of choice—2009 style. It comes with a very explicit, definitive meaning—blonde, large breasts, long legs.

Over the course of my career, I’ve heard countless female peers tagged as “hot” by looming, foaming, sloppily dressed men, and I’m always mortified to be a part of the conversation.

My lowest moment, easily, was being in a spring training press box with Warren Cromartie, the one-time Expos star, who was working for some local radio station. When a female radio reporter, no older than 23, walked away, he turned to a young colleague and uttered something along the lines of, “I bet you’d like to tap that ass, eh?"

Hence, we have been presented with “talents” (the in-house ESPN word to describe its relatively talent-less employees) like Erin Andrews, Melissa Stark, Lisa Guerrero, Jill Arrington,and Jillian Barberie-Reynolds.

This is not meant to insult those women, per se, but to suggest that, across America, there are, without question, hundreds…probably THOUSANDS of more capable females, who possess greater doses of depth, insight, and intelligence—but who are too physically __________ (FILL IN THE BLANK WITH ‘FAT, SHORT, FLAT-CHESTED, DEEP-VOICED, HAIRY, PIMPLED, SCARRED, ETC …) to be considered.

When it comes to her job, which—if a reminder is needed—is as an on-air sports reporter, Andrews is OK. Not amazing. Not terrible. Just OK. Yet, during her time with ESPN, she has been branded as anything but a journalist by viewers, as well as the network itself.

Countless magazines and websites have deemed her the “hottest” reporter or sports personality.

If you Google her name (which results in more than 10 million sites), two of the first four pictures that pop up are close-ups of her breasts and rear end.

Yet, I have never, never, heard anyone from ESPN’s offices criticize the response to Andrews, or insist that she deserves credit–first and foremost–as a reporter, or that the days of treating her as an object should end.

The truth is, every time someone Googles “Erin Andrews” and “ass,” ESPN is getting attention. And, as we all know, ESPN loves attention—good, bad, or indifferent.

Once again, the person who taped Erin Andrews should be asked to star in a new VH1 reality show, LOCKED IN A ROOM WITH FLAVOR FLAV AND 20 STARVED ALLIGATORS. But as everyone in the media—and everyone at ESPN—feigns disgust over the way Andrews has been treated, some people need to look in the mirror.

There are, after all, consequences to creating a sex symbol.

Real consequences.

Want To Own A Baseball team? Seriously.

Jeff Pearlman — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 08:20:21 -0400

By Michael Lewis

So, under the category of “Things you never thought you’d have enough money to do:”

For just a hundred bucks, you can own a piece of a baseball team.

No, not the Washington Nationals or any MLB team like that (though seriously, the Nats are worth about 5 bucks right now).

This would be a low-level minor league team or a summer collegiate team. Here’s the deal: four guys in New Haven, Conn. (including, full disclosure, a friend of mine, Brett Orzechowski, the pride of Commack, N.Y.) are trying to start the first American completely fan-owned baseball team. Basically, for $100 (only $10 down) you would help make lineup changes, pick the team name, hire the hot dog guys, the whole deal.

Apparently this has been tried with some English soccer teams and has worked great.

Any profits the founders of Our Baseball Haven make will be donated to charity.

They’re trying to get a team up and running by next summer, but clearly they need investors. Check them out at their website here.

I think it’s a cool concept. You know much I would’ve paid to yank Mike Pagliarulo out of the Yankees lineup in the 1980s when my favorite team stunk? All my allowance.

Anyway, these are good guys who are trying something new. Check them out if you have a minute.

-M.L.

Lance Allred: Just Your Average 6'11" Deaf Mormon NBA Prospect

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 12:55:39 -0400

As I have said before, one of the coolest things about being a sportswriter is getting to meet and interview people who you never would be exposed to otherwise.

As my profession as a newspaperman dies a slow death, and I realize I may have to do something else with my life soon, nights like last night are ones I’m going to miss.

I was at the Orlando Magic practice complex in Maitland, Florida, last night, to do a column on a man named Lance Allred, which can be read here. He was truly unlike anyone I’ve ever met in my life.

Allred grew up on a Mormon polygamous compounds in Montana and Utah until he was 12-years-old when his family broke away. (It’s funny; the only time he got even the least bit annoyed during our 30-minute chat was when I asked him about HBO’s Big Love. “Big Love,” he replied, “is total junk.” That's what I figured he’d say).

Anyway, he also was born deaf, and as a kid, a Sunday school teacher told him it was due to the sins he committed in a previous life (whoever that teacher was, they should’ve been fired for saying something like that. I mean, come on, you say that to a kid?).

Allred eventually started playing basketball, and he went to Utah to play for Rick Majerus, who told him once he was a “disgrace to cripples.”

Nice, right?

He made the NBA for a few games, has played overseas, and now is trying to get back to "The Show."

Interviewing him outside a pro basketball locker room, I felt like I was in another dimension. Since he was so smart, so eloquent, so funny, and so completely at ease with his station in life, I literally shook my head a few times while I spoke to him. He was just that different from 95 percent of the pro athletes I’ve ever interviewed.

He’s written a book about his life, called Longshot, which can be bought here. I definitely recommend checking it out.

Alas, he only played seven minutes in the game last night for the Magic. He’s probably not going to make the NBA again, and he knows it.

But I’ll remember getting to talk to him long after I forget about the star shooting guard for some big-time college. Many of these guys are the same, so when someone is different, they clearly stand out.

When we were done talking, he grabbed my head as I got up and practically pulled me toward him. He just wanted to thank me so much for taking the time to speak with him.

Let me know the next time Paul Pierce or Dwayne Wade does that.

Sarah Palin, Steve McNair: One Will Be Missed, Guess Who

Jeff Pearlman — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 23:54:42 -0400

Sarah Palin resigned as governor of Alaska yesterday. Steve McNair was murdered today.

Both events struck me, but for entirely different reasons. Palin came all too close to the Vice Rresidency—an honor she didn’t deserve. McNair will never live to see his induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame—an honor he certainly deserves.

Palin was full of it. She talked and talked and talked, but had little clue about the actual topics. McNair was genuine. Teammates loved him. I mean, they really loved him. He was gritty, tough, and hard-nosed. He played through pain and thrived at overcoming odds.

When I read Sarah Palin’s resignation speech yesterday, I gasped. How could someone be so stupid and self-righteous? What are the odds that she’s doing this to somehow better position herself for a 2012 run? One hundred percent. When I heard of Steve McNair’s death, I gasped. How could this happen to someone so lively, so young?

McNair entered the league in 1995. At the same time I was a reporter for The Tennessean and the state was trying to woo the Oilers from Houston. Much was asked about the quarterback from tiny Alcorn State. Could he handle the transition to the NFL? Was he accurate enough?

Palin entered the spotlight in 2008. At the same time I was a columnist for ESPN.com and the nation was trying to recover from George W. Bush. Much was asked about the governor from tiny Alaska. Could she handle the transition from small-state politics? Was she experienced enough.

Steve McNair, I will dearly miss. Sarah Palin, not so much.

NBA Draft: Weird

Jeff Pearlman — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 10:20:04 -0400

I’m obviously a little late to the table with this, but wanted to share my quick thoughts on the NBA Draft …

• Is there no sense of history? Can’t fault the Clips for taking Blake Griffin, but what in the world are the Grizzlies doing? I know … I know—it’s a weak field, etc. But you use the No. 2 pick to take Hasheem Thabeet, a “shot-blocking rebounder with limited offensive potential”!? In other words, Memphis, meet Tony Battie. This won’t go well.

• The T-Wolves draft Ricky Rubio, who has made it clear he has no interest in moving to Minneapolis. Then, to entice him, they use their next first-round pick on Jonny Flynn, another point guard!? And then—even more egregious—they try selling the fans on a speedy backcourt featuring two PGs. Please. when does this sort of thing ever work?

(Note: In 1993, while I was at the University of Delaware, the Hens shifted point guard Brian Pearl to the two in order to make room for a Texas transfer, Rob Garner. The team ended up sucking pretty bad, and Pearl was never the same). Had the Wolves been wise, they would have ignored the 18-year-old Rubio and drafted Flynn and Stephen Curry. Now that’s a backcourt.

• This whole “The Wizards will challenge in the East” talk is a joke. Randy Foye and Mike Miller are nice players, but that’s about all—nice. The Wiz are still thin on the bench, and lack any sort of post dominance.

• Vince Carter? Really? The Magic think Vince Carter is the answer to getting past Cleveland? Crazy. There are two problems when it comes to Vince: A. He’s shown no ability in the clutch; B. He’s gone from being an attacker to lofting 18-foot fade-away jumpers. I don’t care if the Nets received the rights to Terry Catledge and Jerry (Ice) Reynolds—they gained by subtracting.

• The Knicks are, after a lengthy hiatus, intelligent again. They wanted to move up and get Stephen Curry. I mean, they really wanted him. But the price would have been Charlotte+Bobcats+v+New+York+Knicks+De1z6F73CRWl.jpg" target="_blank">Wilson Chandler, an impressive player who has already reached a level Curry might never attain. Should fans be excited about the additions of Darko Milicic, Jordan Hill and Toney Douglas? Probably not. But at least they didn’t do anything Ike-esque—like trading every young player and picks for Bruce Bowen and a can of soda.

• This has clearly been said before, but the Spurs adding Richard Jefferson, then drafting Pitt forward DeJuan Blair in the second round, was brilliant. I spent several years watching Jefferson here in the New York/New Jersey area, and they guy is a stud. Not a carry-a-team stud, but an unselfish slasher who plays D, can pass, rebound and get to the hole. Best of all, if he averages, oh, 15 ppg, there will be no whining. He’s the anti-Vince—and a much better all-around player.

As for Blair, even if he turns into, oh, Malik Rose, it’s a steal.

• I like Cleveland getting Shaq. Yeah, it might backfire, as it sorta did in Phoenix. But it’s worth the risk Time is short in life, and it’s even shorter in the NBA, when a prime lasts for, at best, eight or nine years. LeBron is peaking. Why not give him some help?

Athlete tattoos: The world of unoriginal thought

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 11:36:58 -0400

Once upon a time, tattoos stood for something. They were rebellious; angry, even. They were worn by bikers and bouncers and tough guys, and they screamed, “Don’t f#$% with me!” Whenever my mother saw someone with a tattoo, she would whisper to me, “I think he’s one of my probationers.” (Note: This was not in any way racial. My mother was a probation officer in 99.9 percent-white Putnam County, N.Y.).

Then, the NBA came along in the 1990s and—BOOM!—tattoos changed. They were no longer unique; no longer made statements of originality. In fact, it was just the opposite. Tattoos became incredibly unoriginal. ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME and ONLY THE STRONG SURVIVE became ubiquitous slogans atop backs and biceps.

Tom Gugliotta got that ridiculous barbed wire around his bicep, and dozens of others followed suit. Even though basketball is, come day’s end, merely a game played with a rounded piece of rubberized skin and a metal rim, ballers started tattooing odes to the sport everywhere. Balls atop balls atop balls; NBA insignias; etc.

Before long, you were an outcast in the NBA if you didn’t have a tattoo. Two tattoos. Three tattoos. Twenty tattoos.

Then, it spread everywhere. Because we are a species akin to sheep, people saw all the cool NBA guys donning tatts, and they had to get some, too. So now most NFL players have tattoos—usually inane “tribal markings” to accentuate their steroid-enhanced muscles.

They’ll have the Chinese symbols for STRENGTH and COURAGE—not realizing that the illiterate tattoo artist from Urbana, Ill. mistakingly wrote SNOT and I LOVE SEX WITH ELK MUFFINS.

The whole tatt insanity really hit me a few weeks ago, when I strolled around Sesame Place with my wife and kids and saw tattoos upon tattoos upon tattoos. There was Snoopy slugging a beer and Barney Rubble shooting pool. There was Gene Simmons’ bloody face and a lightning bolt splitting a tree. Tatts upon tatts upon tatts—all in an unoriginal search for originality.

Every so often, I’ve considered getting a tattoo myself. My great-grandmother died in a concentration camp, and I thought it’d be righteous to find her camp number and affix it somewhere on my body. “What better way to remember the Holocaust?” I told my wife. “I’ll think about it all the time.”

My wife, a wise woman, was unmoved.

“Do you think your great-grandma would want that?” she said. “Do you really think so?”

Alas, the answer is no.

THUG LIFE FOREVER will have to do.

Jeff Pearlman—world-famous guy

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 01:04:29 -0400

Last weekend I spoke about my Clemens book at the Mahopac Public Library. Because Mahopac is the town where I was raised, and because people knew I fear an empty room, a crowd of about 50 showed up. It was sort of a fix, since 2/3 of the attendees were either my friends, my former classmates or members of the Somers Rotary, bribed to attend by my father.

Yet my mother Joan Pearlman, a wonderful woman in nearly all areas, is easily confused. For the 543th-straight book-related event, my mom was convinced I am famous—and felt compelled to tell people. “He’s famous,” she said to a woman asking for a signed book—a woman I had never before met.

“Mom—pleeeease,” I said—as I always friggin’ say when this s^%t happens.

“What?” she replied—as she always replies.

And so it goes. In my mom’s world, I’m famous. And in my world, I’m humiliated every time she needs to tell someone that she has a famous son (who, for the record, knows he is far from being famous, or even close to famous). Hence, I have decided to create this post for my mother. It is a list of 500 people—off the top of my head–who are more famous. I could easily make the list 5,000 people, or probably even 500,000 people. But 500 gets the point across.

Mom, start counting …

Barack Obama•Michelle Obama•George W. Bush•George H. W. Bush•Dana Carvey•Ken Griffey, Jr.•Ken Griffey, Sr.• Alfredo Griffin•Beck•Dale Berra• Yogi Berra•Joe Posnanski•Steve Rushin•Michael Wilbon•Michael Lewis•Ron Jaworski•Tom Cruise•Denzel Washington•Christina Aguilera•Pink•Britney Spears•Tommy Shaw•Hall•and Oates•Jay-Z•David Duke•Vin Scully•Hillary Clinton•Bill Clinton•Chelsea Clinton•Dan Zanes•Danzig•Steve Martin•Chris Rock•Eddie Murphy•Leo DiCaprio•Cornell West•Kate Winslet•Bill Maher•Ron Gant•David Justice•Ted Danson•Wade Boggs•Larry Craig•Olivia Newton-John•John Travolta•Spike Lee•Newt Gingrich•Al Gore•Tipper Gore•Hillary Swank•Wayne Gretzky•Mark Messier•Patrick Ewing•John Starks•Chris Mullin•David Robinson•Larry Bird•LeBron James•Magic Johnson•Maureen Dowd•Rush Limbaugh•Bill Maher• Ann Coulter•Stan Belinda•Herbie Hancock•Roy Oswalt•Roger Clemens•Barry Bonds•Bobby Ojeda•Troy Aikman•Emmitt Smith•Michael Irvin•John Mellencamp•Michael Jackson•Ben Stiller•Delino DeShields•Joe Torre•Manny Ramirez•Katie Holmes•Tommy Lasorda•Sandy Koufax•Christopher Plummer•Stevie Wonder•Kelvin Bryant•Chuck Fusina•John•Kate•Their Eight Kids•Hulk Hogan•Lance Armstrong•Mike Piazza•Ed Hearn•Willie Randolph•Eve•Queen Latifah•Q-Tip•Ice Cube•Jalen Rose•Tim Legler•Chris Berman•John McCain•Sarah Palin•Bristol Palin•Todd Palin•Kelly Rowland•Rick Fox•Vanessa Williams•Tom Clancy•Jon Wertheim•Jack McCallum•Charles Barkley•The Naked Cowboy•Vanilla Ice•Hammer•Flavor Flav•Chuck D•Tina Turner•Robert Redford•Morgan Freeman•Derek Jeter•David Wright•Ryan Howard•Michael Steele•Sonia Sotomayor•John Roberts•Clarence Thomas•Samuel Alito•Robert Bork•John Franco•Franco Harris•Jim Brown•Madonna•Heavy D•Ross Perot•Jeff Kemp•Vince Ferragamo•Sparky Lyle•Dennis DeYoung•Paul Stanley•Gene Simmons•Peter Criss•Joan Jett•David Berkowitz•Ace Frehley•Jimmy Carter•Nancy Reagan•Betty Ford•Dick Cheney•Joe Biden•Roger Craig•Ronnie Lott•Al Toon•Wasley Walker•Wayne Chrebet•Rob Dibble•Roy Halladay•Tom Verducci•Joe Maddon•T.I.•Russell Simmons•DMC•Rev Run•Robert Downey, Jr.•Heather Graham•Oprah•Tyra Banks•Joan Baez•Jay Buhner•Bruce Willis•Conan O’Brien•Jay Leno•David Letterman•Michael Phelps•Ken Phelps•Chris Matthews•Keith Olberman•Wayne LaPierre•Michael Moore•Ned Yost•John Rocker•Meatloaf•Martin Sheen•Charlie Sheen•Emilio Estevez•Walt Frazier•Bill Bradley•Bob Barker•Adam Sandler•Dave Anderson•Hank Aaron•Pete Rose•Bud Selig•Joe Montana•Sugar Ray Leonard•Tommy Hearns•Roy Jones, Jr.•Antonio Tarver•Sidney Crosby•Cindy Lauper•Bo Bice•Adam Lambert•Ryan Seacrest•Randy Jackson•Paula Abdul•Carson Daly•Carson Palmer•Tubby Raymond•Marv Levy•Ken O’Brien•Dan Marino•Jim Kelly•Tony Eason•Todd Blackledge•Josh Elliott•Seth Davis•Hubert Davis•Edward Koch•Mario Cuomo•P. Diddy•Kanye West•Eminem•50 Cent•Dr. Dre•Pras•Lauryn Hill•Wyclef• Zach Efron•Buck Williams•Al Franken•Norm Coleman•Walter Mondale•Pete Davis•Gary Coleman•Wes Chandler•Archie Griffin•Gayle Sayers•Robin Williams•Billy Crystal•George Steinbrenner•Paula Poundstone•Hank Williams, Jr.•Melba Moore•John Stockton•Dick Stockton•Cher•Karl Malone•Moses Malone•Jeff Malone•Hubie Brown•Halle Berry•Angelina Jolie•Elijah Cummings•Brian McNamee•Joe Lieberman•Bob Dole•Elizabeth Dole•Donnie Osmond•Marie Osmond•Jimmy Fallon•Tim Robbins•Joe Buck•Artie Lange•Howard Stern•Rebecca Lobo•Bev Oden•Chamiqua Holdsclaw•Lisa Leslie•Shaq•Dwight Howard•Kobe Bryant•Dan Rather

That’s probably not 500, but you get the idea, Mom. The list goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on …

Just be happy I drew 50.

Why Isn't Artis Gilmore in the Hall of Fame?

Jeff Pearlman — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 14:28:11 -0400

It was accidentally brought to my attention earlier today that Artis Gilmore, one of the greatest big men in basketball history, isn’t in the Hall of Fame.

How is this humanly possible?

Admittedly, few people take the Basketball Hall of Fame seriously. It’s just too much of a mishmosh—an obscure women’s player here, a Russian you’ve never heard of there. Truth be told, the NBA really needs its own Hall, similar to the way the NFL does things.

The Pro Football Hall of Fame will never induct, say, Chuck Fusina based on his brilliant USFL passing career. That’s a good thing—nobody cares about Chuck Fusina.

I digress. Whether the NBA has its own hall or not, Artis Gilmore belongs. In 1970, he led Jacksonville (yes, Jacksonville) to the NCAA title game, and he’s still the top rebounds-per-game player in NCAA history.

In five seasons with the Kentucky Colonels of the ABA, Gilmore—and I’m stealing from Wikipedia here—established league records for career field goal percentage (0.557), career blocked shots (750), blocked shots in a season (287 in the 1973-74 season), and rebounds in a game (40).

He also averaged 22.3 points and 17.1 rebounds per game. In 11 more NBA seasons, Gilmore was a six-time All-Star who teamed with George Gervin to: A. Kick ass in San Antonio; B. Form the greatest Afro duo in league history.

This, from Wikipedia:

Despite an ABA career in which he averaged 22.3 points and 17.1 rebounds per game, NBA career averages of 17.1 points and 10.1 rebounds per game, ranking in the top ten in rebounds, blocked shots, games, and minutes played, among the top 25 all-time in points, and first overall in field goal percentage, Gilmore has yet to be elected to the Basketball Hall of Fame.

No other player with comparable statistical accomplishments has been omitted from the Hall^. For the past three years, he failed to receive even a single vote of support from a panel of nine anonymous members serving on the North American screening committee. He remains ineligible for enshrinement until 2012.

Of all the major sports, basketball is the best at infuriating me. The NBA, in particular, routinely spits the bit when it comes to All-Star selections and oddball honors. Remember the 50 Greatest Players of eight or nine years back? No Dominique Wilkins—just so Bill Walton could make it. Baffling.

Simple point: There is no argument to be made against Gilmore. None.

Get it right.

How I went about writing this …

Jeff Pearlman — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 18:08:22 -0400

This is my latest SI.com column—it’s a profile of Steve Larsen, the ultra-competitor who died last month at age 39, leaving behind a wife and five children, this is how the column happened.

A few weeks ago I was speaking with Bev Oden, my close friend and one of America’s best all-time volleyball players. Bev was in a somber mood, and then she told me how her college roommate/teammate, Carrie Larsen, had lost her husband. She gave me some of the details—crazy athlete with five kids who collapsed while working out. It was absolutely heartbreaking.

I asked Bev, just off the top of my head, whether she thought Carrie would want me to write something for SI.com. She wasn’t sure and said she’d check—then I never heard back.

Well, earlier this week I contacted Bev again, because I had yet to think of something to write for Friday. She e-mailed Carrie, who said I could call, but that she hasn’t been talking to the media, I wasn’t sure what she could say.

Now, in the course of a journalism career, we all encounter difficult and awkward conversations. I’ve knocked on the doors of killers; I’ve faced ballplayers who wanted to strangle me; I’ve done some really uncomfortable stuff.

That said, nothing compares to contacting a spouse or parent of the recently deceased. It’s terribly jarring.

On the one hand, you have to be insanely delicate and careful. On the other hand, there are things you want to know. I actually just had this conversation with Bev last night—it’s strange how I, based on my job, was able to ask Carrie stuff that Bev wouldn’t. It reminded me of my first story, a piece for The (Nashville) Tennessean in 1995 about a man whose wife was dying of cancer, and they were working together to build a garden before she passed.

I sat next to the woman—Lynn Thompson was her name—and asked, “How does it feel to know you’re dying?” I was 23-years old, wondering if I’d crossed a line. Then she answered, and it was wonderful.

Six years later, I wrote this article for Sports Illustrated. Similar sort of thing—Victor Ugolyn’s son had died in 9/11, and I had to ask him all about it.

Horrible, horrible, horrible—yet wonderful.

Victor was burdened with this 200-billion-pound weight, and talking helped, at least momentarily, alleviate it. Nothing I actually did—just the nature of chatting to a stranger, where one can speak at ease.

Anyhow, I called Carrie Thursday morning, and she was great. She was quiet, sort of reserved, but also very open to any and all questions.

I’d say the most poignant moment came when I asked her whether the whole thing seemed surreal.

Carrie said yes, then became very emotional.

“You keep waiting for him to come home,” she said. “But he’s not.”

Afterward, I spoke with Larsen’s business partner, who gave me some good background, then with a cycling peer.

The key, however, was actually something of a surprise: Bev.

Though we’re close, and I usually don’t like quoting friends, Bev had an insight into Carrie that I knew I needed.

As roommates and teammates, they shared a bond few outsiders could understand. Bev also knew Steve as Carrie’s young boyfriend, when he was just some kid with dreams and hopes and a goal of cycling greatness. Bev filled in an enormous gap.

This certainly doesn’t go down as the best thing I’ve ever penned. But whenever I write about people who have passed, it means significantly more than the ordinary column. I happen to obsess over death, in a very unhealthy way, so I tend to gravitate toward these sort of pieces. Along with giving others a platform to remember their lost loved ones, it’s—for me—educational and enlightening.

How do we handle death? How do we move on? What, if anything, is to gain? If we can handle death, can we handle anything?

I believe so.

The Fraud That Is Sammy Sosa

Jeff Pearlman — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 11:24:03 -0400

Throughout the 1990s and early-to-mid 2000s, baseball boasted no greater fraud than Sammy Sosa.

If you go back in time, nobody was more beloved by fans than Sammy the Cub. The way he sprinted to the outfield; the way he did that kissie thing after home runs; the way he behaved during the ‘98 home run chase, when he was like a big puppy in a 100-foot bowl of sausage links.

All garbage.

Sosa was a fraud. An enormous fraud. The fans didn’t know it, but we did. We, the media. We, the community allowed to glimpse behind the curtain.

With rare exception, Chicago teammates loathed Sosa. He was selfish, arrogant, and dismissive. No matter the desires of others, he blasted his Salsa music throughout the tiny Wrigley Field clubhouse at ear-splitting levels. If you didn’t like it, well, to hell with you. He was Sammy Sosa, you were, oh, Todd Walker. Your opinion didn’t count.

If people wanted Sammy’s time, it had to be granted. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Barry Bonds, who reigned over the San Francisco clubhouse like a third-world dictator, but he demanded your respect. And if it wasn’t offered, to hell with you.

And yet, Sosa’s abhorrent behavior isn’t why I was happy to read that he was finally implicated to have used performance-enhancers.

No, I was happy because Sosa—more than Bonds, Clemens, Giambi, Manny Ramirez—was (I believe) a product of performance enhancers. The aforementioned players were studs before they began using. Certainly, the PHD provided a huge boost, but they had undeniable skills that reached the highest levels. Sosa, however, was merely…OK.

He hit 15 home runs in 532 at-bats with the White Sox in 1990 and another 10 with the club in 1991. He was a tall, skinny kid with a pretty swing but only so-so potential.

As much as I loathe to credit George W. Bush for anything, his trading Sosa from the Rangers (with Wilson Alvarez and Scott Fletcher) to the White Sox for Harold Baines (and Fred Manrique) on July 29, 1989 wasn’t the brain freeze the president long stated it to be. Hell, Baines—even at age 30—was a significantly better talent than Slammin’ Sammy.

No, steroids and growth hormones made Sosa into the terror he became. His swing never changed, but his size and power did. He went from George McFly to Bob Backlund in a matter of months—a preposterous transformation that, for some reason, few of us questioned.

I first knew—without question—that Sosa was full of it during his congressional testimony on Mar. 17, 2005, when he hid behind laughably broken English. I’d spoken with Sosa before inside the Chicago clubhouse, and he understood absolutely everything. Suddenly, he was two days off the boat. It was preposterous.

What continues to bother me most about all this is the damned silence.

In reaction to yesterday’s news, Brian McRae, Sosa’s former teammate with the Cubs, told USA Today’s Bob Nightengale that, “It’s not like it’s a shocker. I think with the top 10 guys you most suspected, he was one of the top three or four on everybody’s list. It’s not like you were thinking, 'Nah, he never did anything.' The guys that were around him, and saw him every day, you suspected something. He just didn’t look right.”

That’s all fine and dandy, but where was McRae’s voice in 1998? 1999? 2000? 2001? Where were any of the clean players when the game needed them to speak up? The usage of PHD damned the game. But the silence was equally crippling.

Oh, well. There’s always the NFL…

Why Brian Johnson Is My Favorite Former MLB Player

Jeff Pearlman — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 00:29:10 -0400

Through all my years of covering sports, I’ve made very few athlete friends. Some of that is on purpose, and some of that is inevitable. From the writer’s vantage point, you don’t want to befriend those you cover. Back when I was regularly doing baseball for SI, there was an Oakland A’s beat writer who used to go to bars with the players. It was pathetic.

On the other hand, players don’t go out of their way to befriend writers. We’re often looked at as the enemies, intruders, invaders or spies.

Fair enough.

That said, I have one pal who played. His name is Brian Johnson.

J ohnson was a catcher for eight seasons, best known for his time with the Giants and Padres. We initially met back in 2001, when he was in camp with the Dodgers. We only spoke briefly then, but reconnected years later when I was reporting the Bonds book.

In short, Johnson is the rare ballplayer who refused to go along with mindless convention. He didn’t just think baseball-baseball-baseball-baseball. He read books. He debated teammates. He supported gay rights. He pondered life after athletics.

He’s a great, great dude, and in response to my gay baseball post, he wrote the following:

In reading your reader’s responses, it is amazing the selfishness in the ones opposed to it, and the selflessness of those that are cool with it.

How is it that, because you may be “uncomfortable” with someone, it somehow gives you a say as to how they choose (to) live their life.

Those that oppose all things gay seem to regularly get grossed out at the visual that comes to their mind. Or, they use the Bible as if an unconditional and loving God makes exceptions for those that choose to love “certain people”.

Guys, get over yourselves because it is really not about you.

Believe me. Of the, oh, 2,500 men who have played in the majors since I started writing sports, 10 or 11 might share Johnson’s beliefs. The rest see gays as cootie-carrying freaks.

Sad, but true.

Baseball Phenom Bryce Harper, 16, Skipping Last Two Years of High School

Jeff Pearlman — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 21:42:55 -0400

Just found out that Bryce Harper, the 16-year-old baseball phenom who was recently on Sports Illustrated’s cover, will be skipping his last two years of high school.

Wait—I just vomited. Let me write that again...

Just found out that Bryce Harper, the 16-year-old baseball phenom who was recently on Sports Illustrated’s cover, will be skipping his last two years of high school.

I wish I were making this up. Really, I do. But here’s the story, straight from SI.com.

I, for one, am psyched!

Let’s be honest here—why should Bryce Harper attend his final two years of high school, when he can be adding a couple of seasons to what promises to be a professional career chock full of cliches, yawns, repetition, brainlessness and Hooters visits?

The sooner Harper arrives at his first professional stop, the sooner he can stop using his brain for such trivial pursuits as, say, math and English. Instead of attending his senior prom, he can attend $1 beer nights at Thee Doll House in Tampa (or Miami, there are two!).

Instead of maturing alongside his peers and with the help of teachers, he can mature alongside this guy, with the help of a manager.

Great!

Seriously, will someone please tell me what Ron Harper, Bryce’s father, is doing?

I understand there’s big money to be made. I understand your kid loves baseball. I understand that guys like Kobe and LeBron and K.G. provide glimmering examples of this sort of thing working out.

I just don’t get what the rush is. Why you need to rob your kid of his golden, once-it’s-gone-you-never-get-it-back youth in order to add more time to his not-nearly-as-exciting-as-you’d-think professional baseball career.

If Harper is good enough, he’ll be drafted very high out of high school, and then he can go on to a long and successful run of professional bliss. But to do this to the kid...to make this sort of decision, well, it doesn’t merely reek of bad judgement.

It reeks of Gary Coleman V. his parents.

Because the complaint has been repeated so often, we tend to poo-poo it when people talk about society losing its perspective, RE: sports. But it’s true—we’ve gone absolutely, positively crazy.

Every parent wants his kids to achieve college sports scholarships. Every Little League coach is harassed by some idiot dad demanding to know why Junior isn’t starting at short. There’s this perverse idea that, if one becomes a professional athlete, it means life will be blissful and dazzling and, frankly, perfect.

Well, I’ve seen that life up close. Yes, the money is good, and the perks are nice. But it’s a profession I pray neither of my kids pursue.

The sports world frowns upon curiosity and free-thought. You are a robot—show up at 2 p.m., lift at 3 p.m., run at 4 p.m., stretch at 4:30 p.m., etc., etc. Yes, you might get to travel to Rome or Athens or Moscow or Paris, but 99 percent of that time is spent in a hotel room.

Or on a court.

Or a field.

Personally, I want my kids to crave life; to see everything, experience everything; try this; try that. Athletes rarely follow such a path.

They’re too busy being, well, athletes.

Raul Ibanez—guilty (of doing nothing)

Jeff Pearlman — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 11:28:21 -0400

Just watched Jerod Morris’ appearance on Outside the Lines yesterday. Was a funny scene—the, ahem, geeky blogger, the cool columnist, and my friend and colleague Ken Rosenthal, defending the turf like Mr. T when those crooks tried overtaking the bank, then Clubber came along and, well, yeah. You get the idea.

Anyhow, let’s get this straight: In the year 2009, Morris has every right—and every reason—to question Raul Ibanez’s insane statistics. The guy wasn’t saying Ibanez is using; wasn’t even saying he’s probably using. What he said—and it can be read here—is that there’s reason to be suspicious. Wrote Morris: The truth is that I sincerely hope that Raul Ibanez and every other major leaguer is clean. And there is no way I could look him in the eye and tell him I think he’s on steroids — nor was that my conclusion. But I think it’s also true that Raul Ibanez would have a hard time looking baseball fans in the eye and saying they have no right to speculate.

Well, I agree.

Raul Ibanez is 37-years old. He’s spent his career as a good, solid major league outfielder. Never an All-Star; never even a sorta star. Just a quality guy you put out there for 145 games. Joe Posnanski compared him to Ben Oglivie, and I think that’s about right. So to see Ibanez suddenly tearing the cover off the baseball—it’s eye-opening. Certainly doesn’t mean he’s using (and from hearing his denials, I’ll guess he’s not), but the questions have to be asked.

In fact, this is where I disagree with Ken. Strongly. Ken took offense to Morris making the suggestion; he said we’ve abandoned our journalistic principles; etc; etc. Yet where were we during McGwire-Sosa? During Bonds? During Giambi? During Brady Anderson? Journalistic principles? I have yet to hear a member of the mainstream media (myself included) work up the guts to approach a guy like Ibanez and say, “I have to ask. Are you using performance enhancers?” I obviously don’t fully blame we, the media, for the steroid mess that has poisoned baseball. But I do blame us for being cowards; for not stepping up and asking what needed to be asked. So perhaps it’s left to the bloggers to throw stuff out there. I’m not proud of it—but that’s where we are.

One more point: While I understand Raul Ibanez’s anger, it has to be asked: Where was that anger four … five … six years ago? When he surely knew of steroids in baseball? All these players who had to have known what was going on, yet refused to speak out for fear of violating “The Code” … well, congrats. Here’s what you get—suspicion.

Jason Werth: “Not for you, bud.”

Jeff Pearlman — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 00:48:55 -0400

A few days ago a newspaper takeout writer I know—award-winning; highly skilled; great guy—approached Jayson Werth in the clubhouse of the Philadelphia Phillies. The scribe was working on a piece about this or that, and he politely asked Werth whether he had a few minutes.

Werth’s reply? “Not for you, bud.” Then he walked away.

For a moment, let’s think about that. Let’s really think about that. In my life, I’ve been approached by some dazzlingly annoying people: politicians, panhandlers, religious nutties, cell phone salesmen, editors. Never—absolutely never—would I speak to any in the manner Werth spoke to the writer (a man, for the record, Werth had never before met).

"Not for you, bud."

"Not for you, bud!?"

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. "Not for you, bud!?" Who the hell is Jayson Werth to speak to anyone with such blatant disrespect? (Brief synopsis: He’s a seventh-year journeyman compared to Ryan Church and Shane Spencer, among other lesser-weights, by Baseball-Reference.com). In fact, scratch that. Whether you’re Jayson Werth or Ryan Howard; Bad Ronald or the Rolling Stones—nobody has the right to talk to others as if they’re the grime beneath their shoes.

We all live, we all eat, we all poop, and we all die. Fame and money are nice and dandy and swell, but, well, big s%$#. (And Jayson Werth isn’t even famous.)

In a sense, Werth’s words sum up a primary reason I left Sports Illustrated as a baseball writer back in 2002. I just couldn’t handle chasing around these guys on a weekly basis. Others in the profession rave about the access that comes with covering the diamond, but the three-and-a-half hour clubhouse window is truly a blessing (time to talk) and a curse (time to talk).

Literally, a solid 60 percnet of a baseball writer’s life is devoted to standing in a corner of a room, waiting … waiting … waiting … waiting … waiting … waiting for, oh, Derek Jeter or Brian Giles to put down the Maxim so the scribe can slink over and ask a few questions (guaranteed to be answered in banal cliches).

I’ll never forget the time Tim Worrell, a former Giants reliever, told me he’d talk in a few minutes, then sat down at his locker and read Field & Stream until it was time to take the field. In the real world, Worrell was being an anus. But within the confines of the Major League clubhouse, he was merely playing the part.

I often think back to a piece Chris Ballard wrote a few years ago in SI, when he profiled Michael Redd of the Milwaukee Bucks. It was an excellent article, with one paragraph jumping off the page:

Unfailingly well-groomed (his father, James, taught him that “you’ll never meet a good companion if you aren’t clean and neat”), he’s the kind of polite, unassuming guy who says thank you to security guards when they hold the locker room door for him.

Sadly, this is the standard men like Werth and Worrell have set for pro athletes. If a guy so much as says "Thank you" when a door is held open, we praise his decency and compassion. I remember, several years ago, sitting in the Seattle Mariners clubhouse, interviewing a pitcher named Ryan Franklin, when Arthur Rhodes screamed, “Hey, get out of my seat!” from across the room. “Is he kidding?” I asked Franklin, who embarrassingly shook his head, no. Literally, Rhodes didn’t need the chair at that moment—he just hated anyone unworthy sitting in it.

So why do writers continue to do it? Love of the game, I reckon. But there’s more: Being a baseball writer means hanging with the popular kids. No, David Wright might not remember your name, or even care that you have a name. But you’re with him every day, in the razzle-dazzle world of professional sports. Your friends think it’s cool, your friends’ kids think it’s cool. Yeah, you might shop at Marshall’s (I do), routinely have grease stains on your collar (I do), smell like Turtle Wax (I don’t). You might spend your off time on eHarmony or the Jeannie Garth photo gallery.

But you’re in the game—hanging with Jayson Werth!

The Gay Athlete

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 12:25:34 -0400

I wrote the following piece recently as a freelance assignment, but it never made print. Hence, I offer it below.

Obviously, the whole gay rights issue is one I feel very strongly about. I wish I had been alive for the civil rights movement of the 1950s and 60s, because I like to think (though one never knows for sure) I’d be out there marching and speaking up.

As I’ve said before, the gay rights movement is our civil rights moment.

Hence, this column…

I hope you are reading this. You, the scared, closeted sufferer. You, the potential trail blazer. You, the gay Major League Baseball player.

No doubt, this dilemma has plagued your soul: Do I come out? Do I continue to hide?

You have weighed the pros and cons of walking forth from the shadows, and they are, to understate, daunting. There will be heckles and catcalls, death threats and protests. You will be branded an outcast and a cancer, will be called “queer,” “fag,” and 8,000 more heinous slurs.

Teams that once craved your production will shy away. Fans once anxious to purchase your jersey will look elsewhere. Little boys and girls will snicker. Parents will warn their offspring who not to be like. The clubhouse, normally a sanctuary, will turn into a torture chamber. Teammates will avoid the shower in your presence. The team chaplain will thunderously cite Leviticus 18:22 (“Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.”)

You will no longer be invited to dinner, to bars, to family barbeques, to the offseason caravan.

Many within the sport will speak of you in the manner Tim Hardaway spoke of John Amaechi, the former Orlando Magic center who came out two years ago.

“If he was on my team, I would really distance myself from him because, I don’t think that’s right,” Hardaway said. “And you know I don’t think he should be in the locker room while we’re in the locker room.”

So why bother coming out of the closet? Why should you subject yourself to certain torture?

Why?

Because right now, at this precise moment in 2009, there is a desperate need for leaders in the gay-rights movement; a desperate need for high-profile people to make a Rosa Parks-esque statement.

Just last week, the California Supreme Court came to a jarringly narrow conclusion, voting to uphold Proposition Eight, which limits marriage to heterosexual couples. The decision serves as Exhibit One-A on how far this country has to go when it comes to accepting gays and lesbians as equals. It also serves as Exhibit One-A on why you are being called to action.

Baseball, as you know, represents something that the other major sports do not. It is Americana—a symbol of all that is good and righteous about who we are and what we stand for. It is a warm day in the sun, a beer and a hotdog, red, white, and blue bunting and the national anthem before every first pitch.

It’s a beloved blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy chasing down a long fly into the gap.
Now what if that beloved blue-eyed, sandy-haired boy happens to be…gay? How will Americans—especially those in the heartland—handle the juxtaposition? How will they respond?

Answer: I’m not sure. It could be horrific. Worse than horrific. That said, Americans have been known to surprise. Maybe, just maybe, instead of heckles and catcalls, there will be cheers and standing ovations, curtain calls and sellouts. Maybe you will be branded a groundbreaker and a hero, will be referred to as “the Jackie Robinson of gay rights.”

Maybe teams that once craved your production might shy away at first—until they realize you’re baseball’s biggest draw. Maybe fans will purchase your jerseys in droves. Maybe little boys and girls will sing your name. Maybe parents will urge their offspring to be just like you. Maybe the clubhouse, normally a sanctuary, will serve this role more than ever.

Maybe teammates will stand up for your right to be yourself. Maybe your manager will say, “Gay or straight, he’s my guy.” Maybe the team chaplain will thunderously cite John 13:23 (“One of his disciples, the one whom Jesus kept loving, had been sitting very close to him.”).

Maybe you will still be invited to dinner, to bars, to family barbeques, to the offseason caravan. Maybe many within the sport will speak of you in the manner Ken Griffey Jr. spoke of Joe Valentine, a former Reds pitcher who was raised by lesbian parents.

“I salute his mothers, and anything negative he’s gone through because of that is garbage,” Griffey said. “I would embrace gay teammates just like I embrace straight teammates. Some of my closest friends are gay. It makes no difference to me. People are people.”

People are people.

We find ourselves at a riveting crossroads. For the first time ever, five states allow gay marriage, and in a recent New York Times/CBS poll, 57 percent of Americans under the age of 40 support same-sex nuptials.

When a man like Dennis Prager appears on Larry King Live and says, “I would like children to be raised to believe that when they grow up they will get married. And that they are not asked when they are 6 or 7 years old, ‘Will you marry a boy or a girl?’” he brings to mind the soundbites of George Wallace from four decades ago.

And yet, there are still miles to go. Living in the liberal Mecca of New York, it is easy to forget that, to millions of Americans, gays are alien creatures, no less scary than Wes Craven’s latest invention. People fear the idea of gay teachers and gay neighbors; literally fear catching “The Gay”—as if it were a strand of swine flu.

This is especially true in the sheltered world of professional baseball, where most competitors have devoted their lives to the singular, non-thought-provoking tasks of seeing-ball, throwing-ball, hitting-ball, catching-ball.

The major leagues are the domain of Maxim and strip clubs, of long-legged, large-breasted girlfriends and “Check out the blonde eight rows up…” mid-game commentaries.

In the mid-1990s, an American League superstar confided in a small number of peers that he was gay, but insisted the information never be released. His reason? Fear of banishment. “Baseball just doesn’t lend itself to accepting gays,” says Billy Bean, the former major league journeyman who came out of the closet after retiring. “There’s very little empathy for people like me.”

Indeed, it has been 10 years since Bean announced that he was gay, and any initial hopes of change within the sport have been largely dashed. Bean has waited and waited and waited for an active player to stand up and say, “I’m a homosexual. So what?” but he no longer holds his breath. “There’s just so much to lose,” he says.

“Your contract, your teammates’ trust, your place. Do I wish I came out when I was active? Yes, I do. But I wanted to be accepted, just like everyone else. Who would have accepted me if they knew I was gay?”

Yet here’s the mild shocker: In the aftermath of Bean’s announcement, a handful of high-profile big leaguers—Trevor Hoffman and Brad Ausmus among them—not only embraced Bean’s words, but spoke out on his behalf.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference to me [when we were teammates],” said Ausmus, “and it doesn’t bother me now.” Brian Johnson, Bean’s Triple-A roommate and a future Padres catcher, called his old chum and said, “I wish you had told me back then. I would have supported you 100 percent.”

Now, a decade after Bean’s courageous step, the time is at hand. You have the opportunity to be more than a ballplayer, more than just another blah notation buried deep within the pages of the Baseball Encyclopedia.

For every 10,000 Bill Brutons and Joe Sambitos, there’s a Curt Flood. For every 10,000 Paul Blairs and Jack Clarks, there’s a Robinson.

The country’s ever-dwindling holdouts to logic are ready to see that homosexual doesn’t mean weird or strange or frightening. They are ready to see that the most pure and wholesome and revered among us—our baseball players—can be pure, wholesome, revered…and gay.

It is time to step out of the closet.

It is time to shine.

Loneliness

Jeff Pearlman — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 14:16:16 -0400

People think being a writer must be great. And it is. Great. Truly great. I get paid to write books. Which is killer. Beyond killer.

But it’s also lonely. Beyond lonely.

I was IMing with a friend last night, who’s finishing a book of his own. He didn’t talk about writer’s block or pressure, but of the mind-melting isolation that accompanies much of the process. In a sense, that’s why I’ve come to enjoy the reporting—especially on-sight reporting—more than the writing itself. The writing is, literally, 15 hours per day in front of a laptop, often in a room all alone. I probably mentioned this earlier, but during the dog days of Clemens I, literally, began talking to my dog. Norma is a nice pup, but, well, she doesn’t say much.

I’m not sure of the point here. But next time you complain about your office—the loud talker, the bombastic rectum, the hairy lady who sheds—remember that being alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to.

LeBron James: “Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.”

Jeff Pearlman — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 14:02:25 -0400

This morning I was, against my better judgment, watching "SportsCrapter", I mean SportsCenter, when I heard LeBron James explain his non-handshake, after game six of the Eastern Conference Finals saying,

“It’s hard for me to congratulate somebody after you just lose to them. I’m a winner. It’s not being a poor sport or anything like that. If somebody beats you up, you’re not going to congratulate them. That doesn’t make sense to me.”

Look, I don’t believe in beating up a guy for one stupid quote. James was hurting, and he’s allowed to be human. Hey, we all have our moments. That said, this was really poor judgement.

I’m sick of professional athletes offering kids the worst possible lessons: Be cocky, talk shit, don’t be gracious. James is right, it is hard to offer congratulations after such a heartbreaking defeat, but often times the hardest things to do are the most vital things to do. Nobody died, no one was hurt, it was a basketball game. There will be plenty more.

James should have held his breath and extended his hand. He even could have made the "who-farted?" face while doing so.

Oh, well.

John Sterling: Terrible Yankee Announcer

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 19 May 2009 01:30:29 -0400

In today’s New York Post, Phil Mushnick tees off on John Sterling, the New York Yankees’ radio voice. Although I rarely listen to baseball on the radio these days, I agree 100 percent.

Sterling is, simply put, terrible.

Tonight, while returning from the gym, I heard him celebrate one of Mark Texiera’s homers by saying, “That’s on the Mark, Texiera! A text message!” I couldn’t believe how absolutely terrible that was; I mean, badder than bad.

Now compare Sterling to the Mets across the way, who hire smart, on-point announcers for their broadcasts. Really, the man’s a joke.

Nice guy, probably, but horrific.

Anyhow, that’s all I have to say about that.

Guest columnist: The 10 greatest football teams ever

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 12 May 2009 20:02:01 -0400

So, every once in a while, someone will write to me, asking for either advice or a chance to run something here in the esteemed place that is jeffpearlman.com (Note: I’m being sarcastic). My latest inquisitor is a guy named Eric Sidewater, a high schooler from Philly. Eric reminds me of a less annoying, more intelligent, young me—wrote me repeatedly, was dogged, insistent, etc.

Anyhow, here, written by Eric, is THE 10 GREATEST FOOTBALL TEAMS EVER

10. 1971 Dallas Cowboys

During the 14 game season, this team managed to outwit, out-hustle, and outplay opposing offenses and defenses. The offensive successes came at the hands of Roger Staubach (QB), Duane Thomas (RB), and Bob Hayes (WR). Not only did Staubach have an incredible 104.8 passer rating, he also was the catalyst that helped put 45+ points on average each game.

After the offense powered the Cowboys through the season, the defense took over in the playoffs. As the saying goes, defense wins championships. They limited the 49ers to a single field goal in the NFC Championship game, and the same for the Dolphins in the Super Bowl.

9. 1994 San Francisco 49ers

This team was ahead of its time. Steve Young threw for amazing stats, including completing 70.3 percent of his passes for 3,969 yards and 35 TD. If you watch this team play on tape, you can see that they score at will. Their defense was good enough, and all they had to do was stop the other team a couple times per game.

The best receiver of all time, Jerry Rice, made Young’s job easier, and he caught 13 TD. When teams double covered Rice, it allowed running lanes to open up for Ricky Watters, who took advantage of teams keying on Rice. They scored 49 points in the Super Bowl and gave up 26. Sometimes, the best offense makes for a great defense.

8. 1979 Steelers

Many people will argue about which 70’s Steelers team was the best, but I am going with the ‘79 edition, when Pittsburgh’s offense was most potent and the defense was still going strong.

The Steelers were the NFL’s best offensive team in 1979: Terry Bradshaw threw for 3,724 yards and 26 TD, Franco Harris averaged 4.4 yards per carry on his way to 1,186 yards on the ground, and Rocky Bleier and Sidney Thornton combined for 1,019 yards. Lynn Swann and John Stallworth were formidable threats at WR.

The Steelers went 12-4 during the regular season and beat the Rams 31-19 in the Super Bowl. One thing they had over other teams was the element of intimidation. Other NFL teams admit that they were scared to play the Steelers.

7. 1999 Rams

Was there anything more exciting during the 1999 season than watching the Rams’ grocery-clerk led offense? The Rams scored 526 points during their 13-3 regular season, an average of almost 33 points per game. Kurt Warner threw 41 TD passes on his way to a 109.2 QB rating, and Marshall Faulk ran for 1,381 yards (an average of 5.5 yards per carry) and caught 87 passes for another 1,000 yards.

The defense wasn’t too shabby, either, allowing only 15 points per game, fourth in the NFL. In the playoffs, the Rams proved they could win high-scoring ballgames (they beat the Vikings 49-37 in the divisional playoff), low-scoring ballgames (they beat the Bucs 11-6 for the NFC title), and a rare the-hell-with-the-dip Super Bowl over the Titans, 23-16.

6. 1996 Packers

Green Bay had it all in 1996—the best ranked offense and the best defense in the NFL. Brett Favre, who was named NFL MVP in 1996, completed almost 60 percent of his passes for 3,899 yards and 39 TD. After their 13-3 regular season, the Pack didn’t have too much trouble on the way to their Super Bowl victory over the Patriots in New Orleans—Green Bay scored 100 points in three playoff games and their average margin of victory was 17-plus points.

5. 1989 49ers

Joe Montana completed more than 70 percent of his passes and threw for an average of 9.5 yards for every attempted pass. That’s partially because he had two great targets: wide receiver Jerry Rice, who snagged 82 passes for 1,483 yards, and wide receiver John Taylor, who caught 60 passes for 1,077 yards.

The Niners were also effective on the ground (Roger Craig rushed for 1,000-plus yards), and their pass defense was one of the best in the league. Just how good was this team?

Before they faced the Broncos in Super Bowl XXIV, Terry Bradshaw made his famous prediction: “There is no way the 49ers can lose. It could be 55-3 by halftime.” He wasn’t far off the mark. The 49ers led by 27-3 at the half, and went on to win 55-10.

4. 1991 Redskins

As ESPN contributor Eddie Epstein has noted, you can look at two stats to get a pretty good idea of just how great a team is: yards gained per pass attempt, and yards allowed per pass attempt. The 1991 ‘Skins topped the NFL in each category, with Mark Rypien averaging 8.5 yards per attempt, while his colleagues on Washington’s defense allowed only six yards per attempt.

Rypien’s targets? Art Monk, who caught 71 passes for 1,049 yards, and Gary Clark, who averaged almost 20 yards per catch, gaining 1,340 yards on 70 receptions. Washington was also good on the ground, with Earnest Byner and Ricky Ervins combining for 1,708 yards.

The ‘Skins outscored their opponents 485-224, and they had a tough schedule. After going 14-2, they romped through the NFC playoffs, beating the Falcons 24-7 and demolishing the Lions 41-10 on their way to the Super Bowl. In the Big Game, the ‘Skins beat the cursed early-1990's Bills, 37-24.

3. 1962 Packers

What a team: Vince Lombardi, Bart Starr, Paul Hornung, Jim Taylor, Max McGee and Boyd Dowler, a great offensive line, the power sweep, and a defense that held opponents to less than 11 points per game.

The preseason foreshadowed what would come—the Pack got through the six-game exhibition schedule without a loss. Then they got going for real, winning their first four regular season games by the lopsided combined total of 109-14. The Packers added six more wins before losing their 11th game to the Lions. That’s 16 straight. In their Nov. 11 contest against Philly, they racked up 628 yards on offense, while holding the Eagles to only 54. That’s humiliation.

In the NFL championship game against the Giants, linebacker Ray Nitschke almost single-handedly shut down Y.A. Tittle’s offense, and Green Bay triumphed 16-7.

2. 1972 Dolphins

The Dolphins want recognition as the greatest team of all time simply because they went through the regular season and the playoffs undefeated, ending up with a 17-0 record. We don’t deny this is a great accomplishment—a singular one, in fact. But this is, ultimately, a thin argument.

Consider, for example, that the Dolphins played one of the easiest schedules in modern NFL history—the opposition had a combined winning percentage under .400. Unlike the 1985 Bears, the Dolphins didn’t stroll through the playoffs. They beat the Steelers in the AFC title game by only four points, 21-17, and were underdogs going into the Super Bowl against the Redskins, who they defeated 14-7. Undefeated underdogs? That means you’re not beaten, but you are beatable.

We salute the greatness of head coach Don Shula, QB Bob Griese, Larry Csonka, Mercury Morris, Jim Kiick, Garo Yepremian, et al. But the Bears would have beaten them in a head-to-head matchup.

1. 1985 Bears

It was, undeniably, cocky for the Bears to record the “Super Bowl Shuffle” video before the playoffs even started, but, to paraphrase an old saying, it ain’t cocky if you can back it up.

The 1985 Bears were quarterbacked by the effective Jim McMahon. The running attack? Sweetness and, at times, the Fridge. Defense? Impenetrable. The Bears finished the regular season with a 15-1 record, scoring 456 points while allowing only 198.

They blew through the playoffs, shutting out the Giants 21-0 and then the Rams 24-0 for the NFC title. After the Bears demolished the Pats 46-10 in the Super Bowl, Patriots guard Ron Wooten said, “Before the end, it kind of felt like we were the team that the Globetrotters play all the time.”

Roger Clemens: American Fool

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 12 May 2009 14:08:31 -0400

So this morning Roger Clemens decided to celebrate the release of the new book, American Icon: The Fall of Roger Clemens and the Rise of Steroids in America’s Pastime, by breaking his lengthy silence to appear on "Mike & Mike," ESPN’s wildly popular morning radio show (it also airs on ESPN2).

A dumber decision has rarely been made.

Before today, American Icon was languishing on Amazon, hovering from anywhere between 1,000 to 4,000, looking like yet another steroid-related book that would come and go without much thought. (Now it’s No. 98). That’s what’s starting to happen in the world of books, and, to a lesser extent, newspapers and magazine—people are tired of steroids, of the disappointments, and the finger pointing. It’s a topic that no longer seems to interest people. They need to be given a reason to read such a book. A reason to pay attention.

Thank you, Roger.

In case you missed it, this morning Clemens was a joke. Blathering, babbling, inane, nonsensical. He is perhaps the worst interview in the history of organized sports—and that’s in the context of postgame quotes on the Tiger-Yankees game. Here, with PhDs, he’s just outclassed. Whatever he uttered sounded foolish and contrived. He backs himself up by repeatedly mentioning his foundation (as in, how could I have used? I have a foundation!). He seems to think by resorting to the ol’ ballplayer trick of calling media folks by their nicknames ("Well, Greenie…") he’s forging a bond. That might have worked 20 years ago in the Red Sox clubhouse.

It ain’t working anymore.

** PS: For more on my take of Clemens, check this out.

Why Brett Favre (Maybe) Joining Minnesota Vikings Is Big News

Jeff Pearlman — Thu, 07 May 2009 01:14:09 -0400

So ESPN is wetting itself over Brett Favre’s possible signing with the Vikings, which is proof to me that:

A. The network really is sorta lame.

B. Favre is still considered big news in certain parts of Bristol, Conn.

C. Life is boring.

Let’s talk about C. Life really is boring. Not always, but often. We’re born, we die, and in between we struggle to find ways to keep it all interesting.

There’s ice cream, there’s sex, there’s American Idol and 24, and there’s sports.

So, in the case of Favre, we devote all our passions and energies to the man and his saga…even though he was terrible with the Jets last season; even though he’s 432 years old; even though it’s just football, and who really gives a damn?

What else are we supposed to do? Spend time with our kids? Puh-lease. We need Brett, and A-Rod, and Fig Newtons, to spice up the salt-less miracle that is life.

So please, Brett, don’t return or retire. Just keep us waiting. It’s fun that way.

Fired in the Press Box

Jeff Pearlman — Wed, 06 May 2009 20:46:28 -0400

In case anyone wants to know how journalism is doing these days, I offer two tidbits:

A. The firing of three Baltimore Sun employees, via phone, while they were covering a baseball game. Trust me, read this, and you’ll never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever consider purchasing a copy of the Sun again. Ever.

B. I pitched some story ideas this afternoon to an editor I know at a major monthly magazine. Not only did he tell me he’d been laid off, but he added that the magazine is about to die.

Seriously, it’s astonishing what’s going on in this industry. Not quite sure what to make of it, or how to advise students with dreams of entering the field. I’m very fortunate to have forged something of a book career. But for myriad others, well, it’s beyond grim.

***

PS: Shameless plug for a good friend. Jon Wertheim, my colleague and an absolutely brilliant writer/reporter, has a new book out—Strokes of Genius: Federer, Nadal, and the Greatest Match Ever Played. I’ve started reading it, and it’s exceptional work. No controversy, no scandal. Just pure craftsmanship. I strongly recommend.

Why I Dig Jason Whitlock

Jeff Pearlman — Wed, 06 May 2009 12:10:10 -0400

Few American sportswriters perplex a greater number of people than Jason Whitlock, the Kansas City Star and Fox Sports columnist.

Jason is very, very, very, very good at pissing people off. He writes a lot about himself, and often takes positions that leave me—and myriad others—scratching their heads. He has a lengthy history of writing about issues involving race, class, gender, etc.

During my time at ESPN.com, Jason engaged in a public battle with Scoop Jackson, a fellow columnist at the Web site, that turned rather ugly (My take: Jason was right). I know many in the business who loathe Whitlock’s work, and loathe even more his apparent need for attention.

I, however, really dig the guy.

Whitlock, to me, defines what a great columnist should be. He’s passionate, strong-willed, stubborn, decisive, well-informed. While I strongly disagree with his take on Selena Roberts and the A-Rod book, he presents his case well.

While I’m not in love with the way he often offers himself as some sort of guiding moralistic force, I do, usually, believe in his moralistic takes. His writing on the whole Rutgers-Don Imus controversy was brilliant. I didn’t 100 percent buy his take, but I was riveted by it. Absolutely riveted.

As many of you surely know, one of the biggest problems with covering sports is the cliche-ness of it all. Everything—absolutely everything—is a cliche. The scrappy underdog overcoming the odds. The arrogant high-priced veteran. The rookie having to wear some embarrassing outfit.

“He’ll run through a wall.” “He’ll take one for the team.” “He’s a gamer.” “He’s a scrapper.” “I’d go to war with that guy any day of the week.” We reporters only accentuate the cliches by using them, nodding along with them, buying them, even becoming them.

Well, the best of the best—the Tom Verduccis, the Howard Bryants, the Jon Wertheims, the Steve Buckleys, the Mark Kriegels—see through all that. And nobody sees through it more than Whitlock. The guy simply does not allow cliche to enter his work. Especially when it comes to race.

As one of the two or three highest profile African-American sports columnists in the country, Whitlock is supposed to (society says) take certain stands. He knows it; the public knows it. Yet Whitlock refuses to go along just to go along.

I was mesmerized by his piece regarding Matt Vasgersian, the MLB.com on-air “talent” who recently had a really weird moment, confusing a black security guard at Coors Field for Donovan McNabb.

Vasgresian apologized—a needless move that was dumb, uncalled for and, clearly, corporately mandated. Whitlock said as much—that, truth be told, the dude did look like McNabb; that confusing one African-American man for another isn’t always racist.

That’s an uncomfortable point for a white guy like myself to make...and it’s even more uncomfortable for a black man to make. Yet Whitlock makes the points, PC be damned.

Anyhow, I’m babbling. After I mildly took Whitlock to task yesterday for the Selena column, he wrote a lengthy response, which I’ve posted at the end of this link. He later sent me a kind e-mail, making sure I wasn’t offended.

I told him the truth—I wasn’t. Not even slightly. My admiration for Whitlock dates back several years, when I realized he was one of the few posters on sportsjournalists.com to write under his real name. The dude has guts.

Much respect.

•••

Let’s see…

I was suspended for the New England fiasco. Wrote an apology column. Since that 1998 incident, have never shied away from bringing up the incident in subsequent newspaper columns and on my own radio shows.

I’ve written numerous “I was wrong” columns about things I’ve been wrong about.

Do you still think the analogy between her Duke lacrosse columns and me getting into a taunting incident with fans still works?

Your analogy to your Rocker story is equally lame.

And as for Cyn’s mischaracterization of my opinion, I’ll restate it in full:

Social agenda does not trump truth. Al Sharpton was wrong when he let his social agenda to stamp out racism lead him to support Tawna Brawley despite contradictory evidence.

Selena was wrong to let her social agenda to stamp out sexism cause her to ignore the obvious truth in the Duke lacrosse case.

I say all of this much better in a foxsports.com column.

It’s late, I’m sleepy and I’m half looped on Stoli Dolis from Capital Grill.

Take care, Jeff.

Whitlock

American Idol Meets Mike Pagliarulo

Jeff Pearlman — Wed, 06 May 2009 00:17:46 -0400

To be written.

The Demonization of Selena Roberts

Jeff Pearlman — Tue, 05 May 2009 21:00:09 -0400

10 years ago this December, Sports Illustrated ran my profile of John Rocker. The story sort of put me on the map as a journalist (which is funny, because it really wasn’t all that well written), but it also earned me a ton of scorn.

In the days...months...years after the piece initially ran, I received myriad calls and letters, wondering when I would step up and apologize. In some quarters, the belief was that I had taken advantage of a young man. That, while his beliefs were certainly off, he was just a bumpkin, naive to the ways of the media.

Alas, I never apologized. Never felt I should, even though the outcry was pretty damn loud.

Three years ago, Selena Roberts wrote a piece for the New York Times that called out those Duke lacrosse players accused of sexual assault. Her column was unambiguously strong, and, many believed, took the young men to task for a crime it turns out they didn’t commit.

In the days...months...years after the piece initially ran, the belief was that Roberts had taken advantage of young men. That, while she certainly had a right to an opinion, she hung these guys without proof.

Alas, Selena Roberts never apologized, either. Never felt she should, even though the outcry was pretty damn loud.

Being completely forthright, I don’t think Selena handled it 100-percent righteously. The column was, in hindsight, too accusatory, and when the innocence was proven, she probably owed an “I was wrong” follow-up piece.

That being said, for my money Selena is one of America’s best writer/reporters. She was years ago, when she covered Tate George and the New Jersey Nyets for the Times, and she is now.

Show me a big-time columnist who doesn’t wish he/she could take back some things that made ink, and I’ll show you a big-time columnist who doesn’t belong in the biz. Columnist go out on limbs. They take sides. The oftentimes leap before they look.

Do you think, looking back, I’m happy I called for Joe Torre’s dismissal
in May, 2007? Hell, no. It was boneheaded, rash, moronic. I was wrong, but my pen (well, keyboard) never stopped me.

What truly bothers me right now are the growing legions of media sorts taking Selena to task; gleefully evoking Duke lacrosse—as if they’d never made a blunder themselves. Here in New York, Boomer and Carton of WFAN’s morning show seemed to take special pleasure in slamming away.

But they’re not alone. Jason Whitlock, a columnist I greatly admire, has made Selena thrashing a sport.

Several years ago, Whitlock was embarrassed nationally after it was learned that, during a Chiefs game against the Patriots in Foxboro, he taunted fans by writing a sign reading BLEDSOE. GAY? I thought it was just a stupid, silly mistake—but one that bothered many people. We all do things we regret.

Others have followed suit.

I’m not sure what the point here is, except that I hate the old Republican strategy of shifting the focus from the subject to the messenger. Yes, Selena’s Duke takes were off.

But that does not, in my mind, wipe out the merits of an insanely excellent career. And it doesn’t deny her the benefit of the doubt...

Ex-Athletes Shaun King & Co. Have Nothing To Say

Jeff Pearlman — Mon, 04 May 2009 23:24:42 -0400

While working out at the gym today, I had the misfortune of watching ESPN News. On the screen was Shaun King, the former Tulane/Bucs quarterback, who was breaking down the play of Oklahoma’s Sam Bradford. King’s thoughts included:

A. Bradford is great on the run.

B. Bradford finds open receivers.

C. Bradford has a strong arm.

And then—honestly, for the first time—it fully hit me: Ex-athletes-turned-commentators are completely useless.

I know, I know—no duh. But let’s think about it: Outside of rare exceptions (Troy Aikman and Cris Collinsworth come to mind), what athlete/TV commentators ever say anything you or I wouldn’t?

Like King, I could have told you Bradford can throw on the run, finds open receivers, and has a cannon. Hell, who doesn’t know that?

And yet, the networks, especially ESPN, load up on these people in an effort to look authoritative. I can’t stand 20 seconds of Stu Scott or Chris Berman, but there’s nothing Trent Dilfer or Moose Johnston has said that those two guys couldn’t have, either.

In short, oy.

Howie Carr

Jeff Pearlman — Mon, 04 May 2009 11:05:47 -0400

As anyone who reads this blog has likely noticed by now, I don’t go out of my way to rip peers in the media. Granted, I’ll take a Skip Bayless shot every now and then. But I also know how hard this business is. Be it Skip or Lupica or whoever, I’ve never — never — wished for someone’s demise, or firing, or whatever. Come day’s end, we all have bills to pay, kids to feed, lives to live.

That said, this morning I’m making an exception: The Boston Herald should fire a columnist named Howie Carr.

Before today, I’d never heard of Carr. Then I saw this column, which he wrote. It is, hands down the most spiteful, hateful thing I’ve read in many a year.

I actually don’t think Carr should be canned because of his moronic views, or because of any political leanings. No, he should be fired because he’s a joke. Columnists need to be taken seriously, but who can interpret this as anything beyond Type-A inanity? In this age, at this time, you’re happy people are losing their jobs? You’re rooting for the demise of a newspaper?

Has Carr ever read the Globe? Has he ever read the Herald? Political leanings be damned, one is a tremendous paper, one, well, sucks. One is responsible for some of the great voices of our time. One gives us … Howie.

I suppose I’m just venting, because I have trouble with people rooting for others to be fired. I get newspaper wars. But right now, in 2009, the only war is industry vs. reality. And it’s not a very close battle. Carr … the Herald … the Globe … the Times … me — we all lose.

A final thought: One thing that irks me about Carr — and several of the Herald’s voices — is the racial undertones to much of what is written. The newspaper has long been unambiguously hostile toward African-Americans. The writers do it in a subtle way. A “those people” sort of thing, so when people say, “that’s racist,” they can reply, “we weren’t talking only about blacks …” I’ve seen it a million times, but never anywhere more than the Herald. Shameful.

The Cowardice of Joe Girardi

Jeff Pearlman — Sun, 03 May 2009 21:54:55 -0400

So today Joe Girardi, manager of the New York Yankees, predictably ripped the upcoming A-Rod biography, written by Selena Roberts.

"I have some issues with it, that it’s interesting how the book date got moved up now," Girardi said, "and I get tired of answering these questions. I don’t understand why someone would write a book like this anyway, and some people may not care to hear that but I don’t understand.

"There’s things in my life that I’m not proud of, that I’ve done," he said. "I wouldn’t want my kids to have to deal with it. You know, I tell my kids that daddy makes mistakes. I do, and I apologize for them.

"I say ‘Daddy’s not perfect.’ It’s not necessarily something that I would want them to read about all the time and to be the focus. This man wants to be a father, too."

I understand where Girardi is coming from. I really do.

That being said, I am so sick and so tired of the long-voiceless baseball people remaining completely mum and seemingly indifferent when it comes to the usage of performance-enhancing drugs, then defending those who cheated.

You feel bad for A-Rod? How about feeling bad for the players who lost work/income/a lifestyle because they chose not to cheat while men like Rodriguez did?

How about speaking up for them, instead of following the bulls— code of defending your "guys," whether they’re worthy or not?

Seriously, where the hell was Girardi’s voice when it concerned his peers seeking out an unfair edge? You have every right to slam the media. But it’s often the easiest thing to do.

After this column ran three days ago, I received much angry mail—mainly fans telling me I was just trying to help Roberts sell books.

Truthfully, while I like and respect Roberts, I have no stake in how her sales turn out. What I do have a stake in is baseball becoming a clean game.

To me, that means calling out as many of the cheaters as possible and making it clear that, if you choose to use PHD, you will be caught.

Lastly, Girardi questioned why Roberts would write such a book—I find that silly.

Why’d she write a book? Because A-Rod is a huge national figure, and we know little about him. If these guys want the praise and the endorsements and the hoopla, well, we should then be allowed to tell the truth.

Whether it’s ugly or not.

PS: All that said, I found Jason Whitlock’s column on Selena to be an interesting take. Whenever SI.com readers e-mail me about Roberts, they almost always mention the Duke thing. I agree with Jason—We in the media are way too easy on one another.

I Didn't Read the Book, But...

Jeff Pearlman — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 14:12:25 -0400

As we speak, I’m on the phone with Tom Young, a radio host on News 88.9 somewhere in Canada. He’s a nice guy, and he’s asking lively questions about The Rocket That Fell to Earth, and blah blah blah.

But, clearly, he hasn’t read the book.

No disrespect to Tom Young, but I hate this. I mean, it’s a real pet peeve. I was actually shocked a while back to read how Tom Verducci, my former colleague at Sports Illustrated and the co-author of the excellent The Yankee Years, teed off on a radio host after it became clear he hadn’t read the material. Tom is very, very mild-mannered, so for him to go off…well, it had to be a major transgression.

Truth is, I don’t even care whether you read the entire book, but at least skim a few chapters, read the notes…something, anything. In this case, I can always tell if someone’s ignorant of the material by:

A. All the questions being about steroids.

B. Roger’s brother never being mentioned.

C. They call me “John Pearlman, “Joe Pearlman,” or “Jeff Pearl.” (I never correct them).

Anyhow, that’s how I feel about that.

In another note, a second excerpt was released, RE: American Icon, the new Clemens book coming out in early May. Here it is, and—I’ve gotta say—it's pretty darn good. The swimsuit/Debbie stuff is really interesting. Sorta wish I’d spent more time delving into it.