Somewhere in that five-minute time frame between when LenDale Plumpy White was traded to the Seahawks and when he was subsequently cut by the Seahawks, the NFL seized the moment and ejaculated his replica jersey all over the Emerald City. Now the good folks who run a great store like the STS are stuck trying to pawn this worthless piece of crap off on unsuspecting Japanese tourists. How often does Gray Line roll down Occidental, anyways? It could take years to move these things.

Now if we could just get our hands on a Pokey Reese jersey, the dynamic duo would be complete.

Dear NFL: Epic, epic fail.

For the six or seven of you out there who happened to watch Wednesday night’s 4-2 slugfest between the M’s and the Angels, you know how insanely boring that game was. Aside from some good defense by Franklin Gutierrez in center field, there was literally nothing memorable from the contest. At one point, my buddy Chris said to me, “God, this is the type of game you want to go run on the field, just for something to do.” We then spent half an inning contemplating the best places to hop the fence and take off, taking special note of areas where the girthier security guards were stationed.

By the seventh inning, we had found our way down to the bullpen and were prepared to trade barbs with any relievers who might want to get witty with us. Instead, however, the first thing we saw was Angels’ setup man Scot Shields tossing a slew of baseballs to some young Mariner fans in the stands, out of the goodness of his heart. “I can’t heckle that guy,” I said to Chris, “he’s a saint.” To which Chris replied, “Neither can I.” So heckling was out.

If you can’t beat ‘em, however, it’s always best to join ‘em. And so we did. In fact, I’d say we anti-heckled. Which in turn leads to this dramatic turn in our story.

One of the first things we noticed upon arriving in the vicinity of the pen was that Angels’ bullpen coach Orlando Mercado wore shin guards while doing whatever it is that a bullpen coach usually does. A former catcher with the Mariners back in the ’80s, Mercado was either aptly prepared for a bench-clearing brawl, or hardcore enough to get down and warm-up pitchers in the event that all the other bullpen catchers became stricken by polio or something. Keep in mind that Mercado is 48 years of age and two decades removed from his last big league game. Chris and I both agreed that simply by wearing the gear, Mercado was worthy of our respect. This became good enough reason to talk to the man about unretiring and signing a contract with the M’s.

We yelled our bright idea through the chain-link fence, which went largely ignored by Mercado, himself, but was picked up by some of the players lounging around the area. One such player, a man identified only by the name on the back of his jersey — WILSON — found our bright idea to be semi-intriguing and decided to establish communication lines.

Convinced that he was little more than the Angels’ on-staff bullpen catcher, we attempted to sell Wilson on the prospect of signing with the Mariners once he had been relieved of his bullpen catching duties by the Angels. He could replace the three-headed monster of Adam Moore, Josh Bard, and Rob Johnson. He would become an All-Star. He’d be on our fantasy teams. Seattle was the place he needed to be. We also took the opportunity to mention that his former co-worker, Chone Figgins, looked quite a bit like Donkey from Shrek, which elicited laughter from a handful of Angels in the immediate neighborhood.

At that moment, the bullpen phone rang. It was the top of the ninth inning and the Angels needed their closer to get loose. Wilson put on his mask and started tossing with Fernando Rodney. We hung around to see the hard-throwing right-hander warm up. Then, out of nowhere, Wilson confessed to us that he felt like a crook. We asked why. Because the organization was paying him to play catch in the bullpen. We agreed that he had a pretty cool job. The conversation shifted to general baseball talk.

We asked him about his relationship with Figgins. Wilson flatly acknowledged that the M’s second baseman was a great teammate. When we pressed further, inquiring about Chone’s bad attitude this season, Wilson admitted that Figgins was probably just having a tough time adjusting to a losing environment and had never acted like this in Anaheim. Did Chone want out of Seattle, we asked. Wilson hesitated. He considered the question, then gave a half-hearted, “No.” We didn’t buy it. But you had to appreciate the way Wilson took up for his friend.

Wilson got down into a squat as Rodney began to crank up the dial. In between pitches, we continued our conversation.

“Which pitcher that you’ve caught has the nastiest stuff?” asked Chris. Francisco Rodriguez, said Wilson, citing the slider as the back-breaking clincher.

Chris then asked who Wilson considered to be the better pitcher between Dan Haren and Joe Saunders, two arms that were traded for one another earlier in the year. “Haren has more All-Star appearances,” Wilson quipped. This guy could be a politician.

Just then, a hard hit ball to the right-center field gap sent Gutierrez crashing into the fence for a nice grab. We paused to watch, before Chris proclaimed Guti to be the best outfielder in all of baseball. “What about Torii?” asked Wilson. I rebutted the remark by comparing the formerly-esteemed Torii Hunter to Michael Jordan during his Washington Wizards days. Wilson was stymied. Rodney popped a fastball in the mitt.

I asked Wilson if he had ever taken the Angels’ new center fielder — Peter Bourjos, the reputed fastest player in the game — in a footrace. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Running backwards.” All three of us busted up.

The inning ended. Rodney threw his last warm-up toss then headed for the field. As Wilson walked away, Chris mentioned that we needed to get his autograph or something to commemorate our BS-fest with the bullpen catcher. A minute later, Wilson, having overheard us, tossed a ball between a gap in the fence. He had penned his name under the semi-circle. We chuckled.

Three outs later, the game was over. Before taking off, we told Wilson to expect an article on the site. I wrote down the domain name and gave it to him. “Tell your family and friends,” I joked. “You’ll be famous.”

On our way home, Chris and I laughed over the absurdity of obtaining an autograph from the opposing team’s bullpen catcher. If nothing else, it was a pretty amusing story to relive.

Funny thing is, after arriving home to sit down and write this article, I did a quick search to verify the identity of our friend Wilson. As the ballgame was ending, I had asked him for his first name, solely for the purposes of this article. Robert, he had replied. I looked through the Angels’ coaching and training personnel. No Wilsons anywhere to be found. I did a Google search. Nothing. I then took a brief look at the team’s active roster and discovered that Wilson was not, in fact, a bullpen catcher, but a player. Bobby Wilson. Number 46. Catcher. One of three catchers on the team’s roster. I had actually heard of this guy, but hadn’t put two and two together during our chat. Interestingly enough, the guy had been chill enough to put his job into complete perspective, then confide in us with some unique information that you don’t often hear from ballplayers. To say that it’s rare to get that from a professional athlete would be an understatement.

I pulled up Wilson’s stats. For the year, he had posted a .228 average, four home runs, 14 RBI, .704 OPS. Nothing too remarkable. Then I pulled up the stats for the Mariners’ catchers. As it turned out, Wilson’s home run and RBI totals would be tops among Seattle’s catchers, despite his having appeared in just 30 games, fewer than any of the M’s trio. His average and OPS would be second to Bard’s .230 and .708, respectively.

So everything we told the guy — joining the Mariners, becoming an All-Star, being on fantasy rosters — can still come to fruition. Would it hurt to give him a look, M’s? The numbers say no. And face it, the position can’t get much worse for us. Let’s work something out.

Bobby Wilson in 2011? Why the heck not? I mean, how many catchers do you know who can beat you in a footrace? Running backwards.

I used to be employed by the Times, and let me just say that it’s one of the best places to work in the entire world. It really is. Face it, there are few jobs we leave behind that we can still speak well of, but I’d go to the ends of the earth to defend the Times’ sports department because it really means that much to me. Part of that has to do with the personnel, my former colleagues in the industry. On top of being knowledgeable sports fans, the folks I worked with in that building were flat-out good people. I can’t say a bad word about any of them. Which is entirely the reason I dedicate this rant to my ex-coworkers, and apologize in advance if any of my readers get upset and start asking you guys questions.

With that said, let’s get on with the show. You’ll like this. I promise.

Stage parents. The epitome of evil. They love their kids so damn much that they’re willing to f**k with everybody else to get what’s best for their son or daughter. If only we could learn to appreciate that without hating them. But we can’t. And frankly, they wouldn’t care if we could. Because they’re crazy and also delusional, which makes for a dangerous combination. So instead, we make light of their intense battle with sanity in half-witted articles like this.

When I was covering high school sports at the Times, we’d frequently get emails from stage parents who freaked out over our coverage — or lack thereof — of their child and his or her school and/or sport.

For instance, we once got a request for more lacrosse coverage. Lacrosse. Seriously. Maybe if the name of the sport wasn’t spelled so metrosexually.

Then there was the time that the mother of a gymnast bitched me out over our lack of gymnastics reporting. I’m sorry, ma’am, is it an Olympic year? No? Then no one cares.

And hey, let’s give a well-earned salute to the parents of those mighty athletes over at Bellevue Christian. These people would write us every week demanding more coverage on their Class 1A private school. Props to you guys for watching your sons and daughters compete. That makes one of us, at least.

I distinctly remember reading one email in which a dad wrote to us begging for a story on his son, a backup running back on a football team that wasn’t any good. He was straightforward enough to say that he was trying to get his kid noticed so that he could earn an athletic scholarship. I respected the honesty, so I went and looked up the file on the kid, who ended up being listed at around 5’5″, 140. Sorry sir, but unless you want your boy to play for the Sisters of the Weak and Dismembered, I think you better tell him to get his ass in the classroom and start working on the academics.

Outside of the isolated incidents, the most common complaints were about the spelling of a name in our online database. Now let me go on record as saying that The Seattle Times strives for accuracy above all else. No jokes about this. In the world of journalism, credibility is everything. There were times when I’d do a Facebook search on a kid just to see how he spelled his name. It was that important that I had to creep around social networking sites in order to get the facts straight. So take note, stage parents. It’s not like the effort wasn’t there or anything.

That said, if your kid is a) not that good and b) has a name in which the consonant-to-vowel ratio is ridiculously disproportionate then yes, errors can occur. Everyone makes mistakes. It’s just easier to screw up when your kid is named after something off the menu at a Thai restaurant.

Perhaps the best part about receiving the spelling error emails is that they generally read along the lines of this:

“You jackass. You mispelt my sun’s name. He isn’t offen in the paper and this really means alot to him. Also how our college recrutters suppose to serch him on Google when you mispelt his name? Oh, and also you’re info is all screwed up jackass. He shuld be credited with 3yards receeving, not 2 jackass. Fix it.”

And so it goes.

Stage parents, you slay me. I’d wager that you care more about your kid getting his name in the paper then your kid does. And to a degree, I get that. I understand. Those nuggets of recognition are like oxygen to a proud mom or dad, and rightfully so. But there is a line. And you seemingly have no idea when you’ve crossed that line. Which is a problem.

Let me tell you something about the difference between you and your kid. You would literally kill someone to have your son’s defensive football stats recorded in ink. But your kid? Given the choice between getting print credit for a half-tackle or getting naked photos of the girlfriend delivered straight to the Blackberry, your son will take the cellphone pics every time. And yes, that sort of thing does happen. It’s called sexting, and all the kids do it. It’s like what the hula hoop meant to you. Except way better.

Finally, a personal shout out to one Eric McDowell, tennis coach at Bellevue High School. Some of you who know me may be aware that I used to attend Bellevue back in the day. It’s my alma mater, and I’m a proud Wolverine. So proud, in fact, that I can’t ignore the past contributions that Eric has made to the The Seattle Times sports department.

Two years ago, we received an email from Eric lambasting the newspaper’s coverage of BHS tennis. Yes. Really. Eric was so irate that he felt the need to point out that he was going to encourage all his fellow Bellevue coaches across all sports to boycott the Times. In addition, he was going to tell all the parents of his players to cancel their subscriptions to the paper. We were bad people, it turned out, because we hadn’t taken notice of a so-so tennis program headed up by a so-so coach. Shame on us.

Of course, when we received Eric’s email at the paper, we did our very best to handle it in a proper manner. But let me tell you something, Eric. I don’t work there anymore, and it’s time that we paid you proper homage for being a jerk.

First of all, you know why no one covers your tennis team? Because it’s tennis. Not because you’re not good enough (which you’re not anyways). Not because the kids themselves aren’t worthy of the recognition. Because it’s tennis. And most people out there do not give a flying rat’s ass about high school tennis. Look, my little brother played tennis for you at Bellevue, and I love my brother, but that doesn’t mean I give a crap about the program once he’s done with it. If you think people should care about Bellevue tennis, then go ahead and write a book and see how many copies you can sell. I can already tell you that I will not be buying your book, even as a proud BHS alum, solely because it’s about high school tennis. I don’t think I can hammer this point home strongly enough to get it through to you. In summing up this paragraph, here is a numerical list which I have put in bold font for your reference:

1. It’s tennis.

2. No one cares.

3. You should write a book.

4. A book which no one will care about.

5. Because the book is about tennis.

Secondly, we need to address your attitude. You’re a teacher, Eric. A person who is entrusted to watch over kids. Now how is someone supposed to trust you with their kid when you’re firing off belligerent emails that make you look like a complete bleepstick? A bleepstick, Eric. No one wants that label hanging over their head. But you’ve earned it, and now you’re stuck with it. You felt the need to threaten an entire corporation because a few people weren’t paying enough attention to you. You’re like an overgrown child. Everyone! Look what Eric can do, look what Eric can do! There you go, Eric. Your moment of recognition.

I’d say we’re square now, Eric. You threw your email tantrum and I’m doffing my cap to you with a few sentences in this post. The playing field is now level. In terms you’re more familiar with, we’ll call it a deuce.

Fin.

But the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve come to realize that the worst trade in history wasn’t made back in 1997. Rather, it was executed just a few short years ago and nearly flew under the radar. In fact, you may have forgotten about the deal entirely. But you shouldn’t have. Because this move was absolutely, undeniably horrific.

All that said, we first need to understand why the Varitek-and-Lowe-for-Slocumb swap wasn’t the worst trade in Mariners history. So let’s start there.

On the day that then-general manager Woody Woodward pulled the trigger on the Slocumb debacle, it was not viewed as the horrible, Godawful, incredibly one-sided affair that we see it as today. There are two reasons for this.

For one thing, Varitek and Lowe were two prospects that were relatively unproven. They were also expendable. Varitek was being blocked at catcher by a 28-year-old Dan Wilson, and Lowe was just another right-handed arm amongst a litany of right-handed arms in the farm system. Even after the ’97 season concluded, fans weren’t lamenting the departures of Varitek and Lowe so much as they were Jose Cruz Jr., who had been sent to Toronto for relievers Paul Spoljaric and Mike Timlin earlier in the year.

For another, the M’s, who were set to appear in only their second postseason ever, had a devastatingly inept bullpen. A bullpen that was shored up quite nicely by Slocumb, who in spite of not being able to button his shirt correctly, was still a half-decent closer. Slocumb, you may recall, absolutely imploded in 1998, which is the memory that most fans retain of the burly right-hander. But in ’97? He logged a 4.13 ERA post-trade (sounds worse than it is, when his fellow penmates and the ballpark conditions are factored in) and saved 10 big games down the stretch. It wasn’t as bad as people like to think it was.

All things considered, the Slocumb deal was ugly, no denying that, but it wasn’t the ugliest. And we’re looking for the cream of the crop here.

So what deal was the worst, you ask? Great question. The answer is this: Rafael Soriano for Horacio Ramirez.

Let’s take a step back here for a minute. Back to December 7th, 2006, the day the Soriano-for-Ramirez trade was finalized. If you’re a true blue Mariners diehard, I’m going to ask you to rack your brain and come up with the emotions you felt when this deal went down. Chances are, you were upset. Sickened. Pained. Angry. Disgusted. All of the above. I know I was. And if you review comment boards (like this one, for example) from the date that word of this trade came down, you’ll see that most fans shared my sentiments.

The problems with the Soriano-for-Ramirez deal were and are plentiful. I’ll try to summarize them as best I can without harping on details, lest you vomit.

First, there’s the whole “stuff” argument. Scouts and so-called insiders always like to talk about a pitcher’s “stuff,” or essentially his God-given ability to throw the sh*t out of the baseball. Soriano, for one, has great stuff. He can throw in the mid-90s with ease. Back then, when he was a bit younger, he could hit 100 on occasion and absolutely blew opposing hitters away. On top of that, he had a filthy slider, giving him all the tools necessary to be a lights-out big league closer. Ramirez, on the other hand, had bad stuff. These days, he isn’t even a major leaguer, which should tell you just how crappy his stuff was and still is. We don’t need to go into specifics. We all saw Ramirez’s stuff in action. It was gross.

Second, there’s the “what have you done for me lately” argument. Back in ’06, Soriano posted a 2.25 ERA, 1.08 WHIP, and notched two saves in 53 games. Ramirez was 5-5 in 14 starts with the Braves, had an ERA of 4.48, and managed a very pedestrian WHIP of 1.52. This, in conjunction with the fact that the left-hander had endured two stints on the disabled list during the ’06 campaign, once for a strained left hamstring (the hamstring on the leg that he pushed off with) and again for a torn tendon in his left middle finger (on the hand that he threw with). In essence, the Mariners were giving up an emerging stud for an injury-prone, replacement-level player who had posted mediocre numbers in a weaker division than the one he was being dealt to.

See, the difference between the Slocumb deal and the Ramirez deal is that we all knew at the moment the trade went down that Soriano-for-Ramirez was a big mistake. We could see it in the numbers. We could feel it in our collective gut. We knew it was a bad move. And yet somehow, some way, our GM didn’t see it that way.

The man to shoulder most of the blame for this abomination is, of course, the Mariners’ then-general manager, one William J. Bavasi. For some reason, Bavasi was so desperate for a back-of-the-rotation starter that he was willing to give up one of the premier setup men in the entire game for a below-average, soft-tossing southpaw. Where he got off thinking that Ramirez would blossom in the American League is beyond me. Let’s face it. How many pitchers go from the NL to the AL with positive results? Very few. And how many of those very few pitchers who actually do see positive results were previously crap in the NL? I’d wager none. So basically, Bavasi was trying to craft a unicorn out of horse manure. Sadly, it didn’t work out.

This isn’t all Bavasi’s fault, naturally. The man was desperate to field a winning ballclub after three straight losing seasons on the job. He was in full “win at all costs” mode, and was prepared to do whatever it took to keep earning a paycheck. Between the end of ’06 and the middle of ’08, Bavasi set this franchise back five years or more by mortgaging the future to keep his worthless ass employed for a few more days. You can’t entirely blame him for doing that. Hell, in the same position, most of us would probably do the same thing. You do what you have to do to survive, and Bavasi did that. Which is why you can at least shift some of the blame for this epic failure to the team’s front office.

Had the likes of Chuck Armstrong and Howard Lincoln not kept Bavasi around for f*ck-up after f*ck-up, we might not even be discussing this deal right now. But alas, Armstrong and Lincoln were convinced that Bavasi, what with his ties to 80-year-old scouts and being related to some other guys that had found success as GMs generations earlier, was the right man for the job. What an eye for talent, those two. Like parents who buy their kid a new car after he totals the first one. Way to go, mom and dad. You’re raising one hell of an American.

There’s another problem with this move, aside from the cast of characters that allowed it to transpire: it never needed to happen. You can ask the question, “Why?” Why even make this deal? It’s one thing to go all-in on an Erik Bedard type of trade; at least that’s semi-justifiable. But Horacio Ramirez? The poor man’s Jose Rosado? Really? Really? That offer would get laughed off the table in a fantasy league. I’m sure when Bavasi propositioned Atlanta with his shrewd maneuver, the Braves’ front office staff ran around the room high-fiving one another before unmuting the phone and telling the Mariners’ GM that they politely accepted. Soriano had all the upside in the world and Ramirez’s ceiling wasn’t high enough to sell on a dwarf. This move was made for the sake of making a move. And from start to finish, it couldn’t have gone over any worse.

We all know the results of this massacre. When he wasn’t nursing a bruised ego (to go along with the rest of his injuries), Ramirez was contributing to an ERA that ended up at 7.16 in his lone season (2007) with Seattle. This, in partnership with his ungodly WHIP of 1.85. Somehow, through it all, he managed to eke out an 8-7 record, which should have the 2010 edition of Felix Hernandez fuming. Three years later, the 30-year-old is currently on the disabled list with the Fresno Grizzlies, Triple-A affiliate of the San Francisco Giants.

And what for Soriano? After continuing to progress as a reliable setup man in Atlanta, the flame-throwing righty now leads the American League in saves as the closer for the Tampa Bay Rays. As of August 30, the native of the Dominican Republic has put out 39 fires and has a 1.72 ERA to go along with his equally-pristine 0.80 WHIP. He earned an All-Star selection earlier this year for his efforts.

There are very few trades that are bad when they take place, bad as they unfold, and bad in hindsight. But this trade? It was all kinds of bad. I can’t even begin to fathom how I would reason this deal in a court of law, or at the very least a bar debate. All of which leads us to the ultimate conclusion. Rafael Soriano for Horacio Ramirez? Call it the worst trade in Mariners history.

For starters, their institution is founded on exclusionary principles. If you’re not Mormon, you’re not welcome. Unless you can run the football. And then we’ll consider allowing you to play for us despite the fact that you’re an outsider. It’s only slightly hypocritical, I suppose, but it’s hypocritical nonetheless. And just generally messed up as a whole. Considering they didn’t allow minorities to attend the university until they found out that, lo and behold, people of color were athletically gifted, I’d say we have reason to call them out for their segregational practices.

Second, you have their fans. I hate their fans. They rank right up there with Boise State fans, who as we all know are the devil. The only difference between BYU fans and Boise State fans is that BYU fans spend their free time petitioning the FCC to take Family Guy off the air. Don’t act like you haven’t done that, BYU fans. We know your tricks.

Third, I really hate the fact that many folks feel that BYU is exempt from being hated. Perhaps it has something to do with their religious background, but whatever. If you’re gonna hate on the likes of USC and Oregon, you might as well hate on BYU, too. Just because they claim to have our Lord on their side doesn’t mean jack sh*t. You can support our heavenly father and still piss on BYU’s ashes. Let’s all say it together: BYU sucks. There, it’s out. Learn to love it. Don’t be shy about hating on these guys. They don’t like you. So why should you like them? Answer: You shouldn’t.

Fourth, we owe them. We owe them big. We had them beat two years ago, then had our victory stolen by an officiating crew that would fear for their safety at a Peter, Paul, and Mary concert. You think our players don’t remember that? We’re gonna stomp into Provo with a gigantic chip on our shoulder and attack the Y on the side of those Cougar helmets like it’s a bulls-eye. I don’t doubt it. I don’t plan on having to eat my words, either. Top to bottom, Washington has the better football team.

You know, BYU could have been great this year. But then their best player went and had sex. Which resulted in his dismissal from the school, and ultimately changed the team’s entire landscape. Sorry you followed through on your primal urges, Harvey Unga. Don’t you know you need a certificate to let Little Harvey expose foreign lands at Brigham Young? It’s called a marriage license, and lucky for you it’s only sort of binding in Provo. Keep that in mind for next time.

It’s on. Like Diddy Kong. I invite the competition from the opponent. I invite the trash talk. I invite the hate. It’s football season, ladies and gentlemen. And the Dawgs are f**king back.

Lander Hall

I met Steve when I was 19. I was a freshman, living in the Lander Hall dorm at the University of Washington at the time. Beneath the residence hall was a covered basketball court where I would shoot around in my free time, usually on days when I wasn’t feeling up to making the trek across campus to the gym. It was there that Steve and I first became acquainted.

My buddy Charlie and I would spend our afternoons playing one-on-one on the cracked asphalt of this court. Occasionally, we’d find a wayward soul to join us in a game of 21. On the rarest of occasions, we were actually able to pick up two-on-two, or even three-on-three. But most days it was just the two of us, killing time with layups and jumpers and friendly trash talk.

One day we were in the midst of a less-than-epic battle when Steve sauntered onto our turf like he owned the joint. Dressed in jeans and an oversized pink polo shirt, balding, and with an undeniably crazy look in his eye, Steve asked if he could join us. Politely, we obliged, setting aside our game for this forty-something-year-old, short, stubby, Caucasian transient who wouldn’t pass the look test at a blind man’s convention.

Steve introduced himself and then proceeded to set the rules of the game before we had a chance to rebut. We would play 21, essentially, but not keep score.

*Side note: For those of you who don’t know how the game of 21 works, it’s basically a contest of one-on-one-on-one, every man for himself, where the winner is crowned when he reaches 21 points.

I’ll admit that when Steve first implemented these guidelines, I was a bit perplexed. Who doesn’t keep score in a game of anything? Isn’t the point of a game to keep score and determine a winner? Befuddled, and slightly afraid of pissing off the crazy guy, we went along with Steve’s insane rulebook.

Once the actual game got underway, we came to realize that Steve had some talent in that old timer’s body of his. For one thing, he employed an unguardable hook shot that he relied on about 90-percent of the time. On top of that, he was physical as all hell, playing defense like a cracked-out Bruce Bowen, fighting for rebounds, and refusing to give up easy buckets. If that weren’t enough, Steve made a point of telling us over and over again how he used to kick Nate McMillan’s ass on the hardwood. Who knows if any of Steve’s ridiculous Nate McMillan claims were at all truthful. But after seeing the guy play, I wouldn’t entirely discount the fact that he maybe could have quite possibly run with Mr. Sonic at least once or twice in his life.

Our pseudo-game was going along swimmingly at first, but that quickly changed. Apparently, I made the mistake of taking too many jumpers, which in turn led Steve to flip out.

Now in my own defense, I have a pretty good jumper. I’m a shooter, first and foremost. Long range, mid-range, short range, doesn’t matter. I’ve always been able to hit. So I tend to rely on my jumper quite a bit.

My jumper, however, didn’t seem to enamor Steve the same way it enamored me. After I had launched one too many 19-footers, Steve stopped the game.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” he said. “Why are you shooting so much? Take the ball to the hole. You’re big, you’re quick, drive the basketball.”

At this point, I was stunned beyond belief. Few people had ever accused me of being a) big, or b) quick. I stand 5’9″ and weigh about 195. Back then, I was probably closer to 185. The most frequent term used to describe me is “stocky.” Stocky people aren’t usually referred to as big or quick, let alone both.

I looked at Steve and wondered what the hell was going through his mind at that moment. Perhaps he saw something in me that I didn’t even see in myself. Perhaps he was high on PCP. I’m not really sure. All I know is that the words he had given me were fuel, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I was motivated.

Acting as judge and jury, Steve altered the rules of the game once again. Not only would we continue to play 21 without keeping score, but Steve would play defense exclusively. Charlie and I would compete on offense. But only after I took the ball out on roughly 10 straight possessions, driving on two defenders and settling for zero jumpers in the process.

Steve checked me the ball and told me to drive. I drove. He hacked me.

“Take it stronger,” he proclaimed.

I took it again. He hacked me again.

“Stronger,” he demanded.

I didn’t say anything, which is generally a good indicator of my brewing anger. Steve checked. I quietly fumed, then dribbled, plotting my attack. I saw my opening and coiled. I bounced once, twice, then exploded. I thundered through the gap like a fullback, reaching the cup and laying the ball off the rickety wooden backboard with relative finesse. I had performed thousands of layups over the course of my lifetime. But this one was different. It was new. Earth-shattering. Like the first time I had seen the Thriller video. That theatrical masterpiece had put to shame all the other music videos I had ever paid witness to, just as this layup had put to shame all the other layups I had ever converted.

Steve told me to do it again. I did it again. And again. Eventually, he just got out of my way. No more hacks. No more defense. I wasn’t about to be stopped.

We finished up our pseudo-game. Steve thanked us for letting him play, then wandered off. I would see him again maybe two more times in my life, only in passing, and only from a distance. He was as good as gone. In essence, a ghost. Barely more than a figment of my imagination.

I confided in Charlie that while Steve wasn’t entirely right in the head, he had changed my game for the better that day. I was more of a complete player. I wasn’t settling for treys and fadeaways. I was imposing my will on the defense. Something clicked between Steve and I. He appeared and disappeared like a guardian angel, of sorts, turning me into his pet project before moving on to something else.

To this day, when my game suffers or I sense that I’m not doing what I need to do on the court, I remember Steve’s words and channel the fire he brought out in me. Yes, he tweaked my physical approach to basketball, but more than that he recrafted the belief I had in myself inside the lines. I had been timid and cautious and hesitant before. He made me stronger, tougher, angrier.

Fact is, we all have people who coach us to our full potential, be it in the realm of sports or any other life area. My coach just happened to be a homeless guy in a bubblegum pink polo shirt.

As goofy as it sounds, if I could find Steve today, I’d thank him. And take him out for lunch. And buy him a new shirt. No one would ever mistake me for the most talented basketball player out there, but my game improved dramatically after receiving Steve’s guidance.

So wherever you may be, Steve — and I sincerely hope that you’re doing well — please allow me to say thanks. If we ever happen to cross paths again, your meal is on me. I owe you one.

When I was growing up, I dealt with my fair share of Little League losses. There were tears and tantrums and stubborn refusals to show my face in public again; failing was never easy. I remember being on the mound one time, relinquishing a walk-off hit and marching in silence to my parents’ minivan where I promptly broke down as if I’d just lost my best friend. I wager there were few kids who took losing as hard as I did back then, and even today I find it tough to walk away from anything without a win.

The funny thing about looking back on the agony of defeat is that while you might remember the defeat, you tend to forget about the agony. Those past losses are little more than blips of adversity on the radar of your very existence. They’ve brought you to this point in your life. They happened. They were. They’re nothing any longer.

The only reason I bring this up is because there are a group of kids from Auburn right now who just suffered a loss in the worst type of fashion. A last-inning breakdown. On television. In front of millions of viewers. Few of us will ever falter in that manner. And I can only imagine how devastated these young ballplayers were when the final out of their game was recorded and they were faced with the reality of an unfortunate verdict.

Let’s not undermine the emotions of kids. We were all kids once. While a baseball game might not seem like a big deal to those of us who stress over mortgage payments and rent checks and company presentations, I guarantee you it’s a big deal to this collection of 11-, 12-, and 13-year-olds from just down the road.

But let’s also appreciate, for a minute, the happy-go-lucky whimsy of being a kid. This will wear off. The sting will go away. Tomorrow will be a new day, with Pop Tarts to consume and friends to pick on and TV to be watched. The beauty of kid-dom is that you move on quickly. Hearts are merely nicked; never broken. The dread of never showing your face in public again is soon replaced by the desire to go outside and run around. In a few days, the Auburn All-Stars — who, lest we overlook their achievements, came thisclose to making it to the U.S. final of the Little League World Series — will be more concerned with mastering algebra, paying attention in biology, and wondering how they can get the attention of the girl sitting two desks over.

In a lost year for baseball in this city, the Auburn Little Leaguers gave us something to care about, if ever so briefly. Outside of their close friends and family members, we didn’t get to experience the joy of their season unfolding. We merely hopped on the bandwagon at the tail end of an incredible journey.

But for those of us who found good reason to spend our lunch hours sweating bullets over the fates of adolescents, who turned our attention to ESPN2 like only diehard WNBA fans truly can, and who cheered for a city we might not call home and kids we might not call our own, it was fun. It was fun.

In the past few months we’ve seen adults who play this same game fight their manager, whine to the press, and pout on television. It took a group of kids playing the game with dignity, with passion, and with unbridled success to give us reason to celebrate.

They might have lost, but they aren’t losers. They lifted our spirits and reminded us why we really, truly, honestly like baseball. It would be tough for anyone to call them anything but the obvious: winners.

Congratulations to the 2010 Auburn Little League All-Stars on a great season.

“Bryant ran and cut off his right foot during Monday’s practice for the first time since suffering his ankle injury, ESPN.com reports.”

Apparently, the ankle injury got so bad, Dez just gave up all hope. I don’t like what this does for his value.

Federal Way DAWGS (M. Parrott) 10:03pm: i love you ashley..
Rent’n Rascals (A. Ryan) has left the draft 10:03pm

Ah, yes. No one ever said draft chat was an easy thing to navigate. And it’s always nice to see a teenager get his one, legit shot with a radio personality.

He was an outfielder once, and even dabbled behind a desk, pencil-pushing as the general manager of the New York Yankees under a boss who was simply referred to as The Boss.

He settled in Baltimore, Cleveland, Seattle, Kansas City, Cincinnati, St. Petersburg, Chicago, and of course the Big Apple. Eight homes in 46 years can make one feel like a nomad. But he managed to endear himself to the locals at nearly every stop on his journey.

For almost 50 summers, he embarked on an odyssey around our nation, traveling from city to city, state to state, stadium to stadium, all because of a game. On buses and planes, living out of a suitcase and enjoying room service and miniature bars of soap.

Lou Piniella was defined for years by America’s pastime. Now, though, as he leaves behind the game of baseball and heads off into the sunset, we can understand him for who he truly was, aside from fungoes and rawhide, pinstripes and polyester.

He was and still is a special human being. Different from the rest of us, unique in a vaunted way. Lou was nothing if not passionate, wore his heart on his sleeve, and embraced the humanity of his emotions like few of us can.

He won and he lost, but in the end those are merely outcomes of his profession. More than that, under the watchful scrutiny of the public eye, Lou Piniella showed us what it means to be human.

What does it mean to be human? We often neglect to consider the characteristics of our own species. Perhaps we take it for granted, this life. Or maybe we just aren’t cognizant of what it takes to be exceptional when being average is so easy.

Lou was real. He was the genuine article. In a world where we’re taught to conceal our emotions, hide our true feelings, bury our passion beneath a plain-jane white bread facade, Lou Piniella stuck out like a sore thumb.

When Lou was mad, he yelled. And he kicked, and he threw things, and he cussed.

When Lou was happy, he smiled. And laughed, and high-fived, and even turned his hat around on occasion and sat there in the dugout looking like an overgrown teenager with a grin on his face.

When Lou was emotional, he cried. He cried on Sunday as he departed from the one and only line of work he’s ever known. He wept as he left the game, not because of his own desires, but because his family — and more specifically his ailing 90-year-old mother — needed him.  He didn’t try to restrain the tears. He was honest. You couldn’t help but feel for the man.

Lou Piniella was different than most of us. He was what we aspire to be, at least from a human perspective. We conceal and deceive and mislead and fake our way through the everyday. We put on happy faces when we’re dying inside. We scoff when what we’re really trying to do is relate. We play coy when all we want to do is shout our feelings from rooftops, and we always say we’re okay when we’re anything but.

Lou didn’t operate the way the rest of us do. Taught to behave like robots, he couldn’t have been farther from the synthetic. He was real. He caught people off-guard with his candor. But should anyone ever be caught off-guard by the truth? Only in a mixed-up environment, maybe.

The world would be a better place if there were more Lou Piniellas. It’s not a stretch to admit that. And love him or hate him, you can’t deny that he lived and breathed with the type of passion that most of us can only dream of possessing. He made his job an adventure. He kept his coworkers and employees on edge, always expecting the unexpected and never quite knowing what might happen next.

There have been fire-and-brimstone managers who worked hard to retain the fear of their players. There have been even-keel types who gritted their teeth through stoic exteriors just to keep their even-keel reputation intact. And then there was Lou Piniella, who was neither of these things, but at times embodied each of these personas. He didn’t try to be angry or happy or disappointed or sad or ecstatic or jovial or pissed as all hell. He just was.

Lou felt an emotion and acted on it. For nearly half a century. In front of millions of onlookers. He was successful in being this way. We can learn from him. We can be like him. We can imitate him, for the good of our world. Imitate but never replicate. Because there will only ever be one Lou Piniella. And he will be missed.

A year ago I hosted a fantasy football league in which the grand prize was the opportunity to write an article on whatever the hell you wanted and have it posted on these pages. Lucky for all of you, my friend Pete won the league. He has a tendency to rant and rave a little bit, while occasionally making no sense at all. I’d also wager that it took him all year to write this article, as it’s the longest piece of prose in the history of the world. If you get through the entire thing and learn something, I commend you on your work ethic.

I’ve edited certain parts of his work, but also left some especially entertaining parts unedited for your reading pleasure. Included in-text are italicized parentheticals with my notes and translations of what the hell this guy is talking about. Best of luck with this.

An Untitled Masterpiece On Fantasy Football And Some Other BS

(Editor’s note: The editor came up with the title.)

By Peter Lawrence

So your first question is probably, “Who the heck is this guy?” Some random dude got to write an article and have it put up on Seattle Sportsnet and you didn’t. Well this dude right here won the 2009 Seattle Sportsnet fantasy football league, while also claiming the illustrious and vaunted 2009 Pearce Fantasy League trophy.

Some of you might know me from the Asian-bisexual looking photo Alex posted awhile ago (editor’s note: reposted at left), his attempt to get in a burn after my team, the Tehran RoosterIllusion, won the PFL while his Compton Honkies won two games. I’ve also started this thing called Twitter where you can follow the1andOnlyPete@twitter (editor’s translation: @the1andonlypete)…is that how that thing works?  I’ll keep you updated with fantasy news and my goings-on.

For those who don’t know, the PFL is possibly one of the best fantasy leagues in existence. It’s highly completive (editor’s translation: competitive) with a wide range of owners, some of us who are borderline obsessive (I still think a trade for the naming rights to my first born child are legit; my wife not so much), and some like that one dude who is surprised each year to find out he is still in a fantasy football league.

I’m here to send you folks free-of-charge some of my fantasy advice covering a wide range of topics from keeper to auction to free leagues.

For starters, you should know what type of league you are taking part in. A lot of people get worried about overspending in auction leagues. Who cares? Become the Yankees and just outbid people and get a stellar lineup. I’d rather have Chris Johnson or Adrian Peterson than LeSean McCoy and Felix Jones. Nobody is going to congratulate you on your “thriftiness.” PPR leagues mean that the white dude from the Dolphins has some value. Find guys that get a ton of touches each game.

(Editor’s note: If you’re wondering how the above paragraph relates to the rest of the intro, that makes two of us.)

Fantasy League Rules

1. Football season never ends, so why are you putting away your draft cheat sheets when you finish the draft? I have a binder that routinely gets pulled out each week during football season and a few times a month in the offseason to start recording info for myself come draft day. Ask those members in the PFL (it’s a keeper league) if there is ever a month that goes by when I’m not trying to sling some trade or other deal.

2. Know thy enemy. Unless it’s a free and random league, you usually know who you’re playing against. Who likes which player and their drafting styles. That’s right, I said drafting styles (editor’s note: he said drafting styles). Take notes, figure out what rounds your opponents like to draft certain players; there is a pattern in their trust me (editor’s note: he meant “there”).

If you are playing against some Coug fan and those late middle-round picks are coming up and you just have to have Jerome Harrison because he smoked some crummy DEFs at the end of the year (KC, OAK and JAC) well you might have to get that pick in before he does. Always know which idiot will trade you the good picks and which one won’t ever get back to your offers.

3. Draft smart and draft the players you want and have fun. Look, this is both a bad and good thing. If you have to have Calvin Johnson, then overpay for the man. At least you can then enjoy the Thanksgiving game or Detroit highlight reels when you see him.

Fantasy football is all about winning and having fun. If I wasn’t having fun, I wouldn’t have written this article down for Alex.

I post on our league message board multiple times a day. I even post in the offseason, even if it’s just me talking to Alex. I’ve traded for waiver wire position, the rights to choose when a team would draft, and included a clause in a trade that didn’t allow a team to draft a certain player. Why? Because I can, and because it’s a new wrinkle I can add to the game to frustrate the league manager as he tries to put everything together.

Just because ESPN, SI, Fox Sports or whoever say you should draft or play a player go with your gut. Right or wrong, it’s your team and you have nobody to blame but yourself.  Don’t overthink this stuff. In the end, it’s just football. Stick to who you think gives you the best chance to win.

4.  RB-RB, WR-RB.  Just go with the best players available. This falls in with the “don’t overthink it” philosophy.  Three years ago I tried to get fancy and went RB-RB-RB. Two of those backs (Shaun Alexander and Rudi Johnson) were old and tired RBs who got worn down and did nothing for me but act as trade bait off name value. Maurice Jones-Drew was solid and netted me some trade value at the mid-season trade deadline.

If you followed the WR fancy of last year and took Larry Fitzgerald you were probably a little ticked as Andre Johnson went big. If I had been smart a few years back, I would have stayed away from the old and worn down backs and made the better picks.

5. Trade, trade, trade. This is the closest most of us will get to being able to swing a trade involving Drew Brees and Randy Moss. Members of the PFL always say I offer the wackiest trades. Well in the end, I always get the player or pick I’m after. Come in low and then work your way up. Have a baseline set. Set up a list of a few core players (picks included for keepers) that no matter what you can’t give up. Then start working the wire.

You better have every phone number, email, Facebook, Twitter, and any other method necessary to contact people in your league about trades. I’ve considered adding Alex to a family plan just so we have a line devoted for trades (this involves baseball, as well, plus general bitching about Seattle sports topics). Get after these people; hell, if you have to, wear them down ’til they just accept your trade out of annoyance. That’s what Glenn Beck does. If I yell “Nazi!” at you enough times, people are going to think you’re a Nazi, doesn’t matter who you are. (Editor’s note: That Glenn Beck reference came out of nowhere.) You can work the wire all you want but it’s not going to get you the big name guys that are going to win you a championship.

One of our good friends was just recently married. Congrats to Jon and Stacey. You bet I tried a few angles at the wedding in hopes of scoring some draft picks.

6. GO WITH THE FLOW. Remember how I just said that you should have a few players you won’t trade? Forget about it (other than Chris Johnson, Drew Brees, Adrian Peterson, Andre Johnson a few others). Nobody is really untradeable. If you want something go and get it. That said, if it’s week five and you are still desperately clinging to the Marshawn Lynch life raft believing he’s going to go into beast mode let it go he’s done and ruining the chances of you winning (BTW, know who is suspended for the first few games before you draft a player).  (Editor’s note: That last sentence really just happened.)

If you had Matt Forte last year, you know about the anger of a first round pick underperforming big. That said, you should have packaged him in a trade and let somebody else deal with him. Don’t let draft position force you to hold on to a sinking ship.

(Editor’s note: Moral of the story, sinking ships are bad.)

7. Trade some more. Again, in week 11 the waiver wire won’t help you win the big one.

8. Have fun and be active in your league. I could care less about what others think. Heck, I started this off by reminding you all of that picture that made me look Bi-Asian that Alex had up on the site. Kick the hornet’s nest every now and then. I don’t remember half of what I post, whether it’s some political rant or something about the God-I formation. But if it gets a few more league members posting, then I’ll do it.

Oh, and Glenn Beck is an idiot.  If you believe anything he says or follow his advice you shouldn’t be allowed to breed. (Editor’s note: Without having read this whole diatribe yet, I’d expect more of this Glenn Back stuff. By the way, is anyone still reading? Anyone?)

Always have fun, talk trash.  Before the championship game, I declared myself the champ. I’ve sent league-wide emails as my alter-ego Mahmoud Ahmadinejad multiple times declaring my dominance of the league and death to whitey. I’m sure the FBI is sick of reading my fantasy football emails at this point.

(Editor’s note: By now, if you’re still with us, you’re probably wondering if this man is right in the head. I don’t really have an answer for you, unfortunately.)

Guys I Like In 2010

(Editor’s note: I don’t think Pete realizes he actually entitled this section “Guys I Like In 2010.”)

I won’t put the big names up here but I’ll throw out some guys that I’m going to be watching closely in the preseason, as well as some names that might have been pushed aside amidst all the hype. (Editor’s note: I don’t know what hype he’s speaking of.) Oh, and watch the preseason games, though it might make you drink the Glen Coffee. (Editor’s note: I’ve got nothing on that last sentence. Just shaking my head.) Also, keep an eye on Sidney Rice and Vincent Jackson. If they fall far enough and are worth the pick go for it. (Editor’s note: Connect Four. Anyone remember that commercial? “Go for it! Connect Four!”)

Cleveland RBs not named Jerome Harrison. Look, the Ghost (editor’s translation: he’s referring to Harrison) has some skills and destroyed the Kansas City Chiefs — THE KANSAS CITY CHIEFS! Okay, so remember that guy James Davis? Yeah, he was a stud at times last preseason and was ranked as a possible sleeper. Well he’s still there. But keep a real eye on Montario Hardesty, the dude is big. That said, he has some injury problems, same as Davis and Hillis. You remember Peyton Hillis, right?  The Great White Hope of 2008?  The dude tore it up for a few weeks before getting hurt and disappearing in the Josh McDaniels regime.

Some other names to consider:

RB Fred Jackson BUF – Yeah, C.J. Spiller was the big first round pick guy, but it was Fred Jackson that was doing some real damage early in the year back in 2009.  He’s still around and the Bills options at WR and QB haven’t really improved.

RB Anthony Dixon SF – Maybe it’s all that Glen Coffee I was drinking last year (editor’s note: more head shaking), but Gore does get hurt and Dixon weighs 245 pounds. What’s not to like about that? Oh, and Coffee is gone now.

RB Redskins – If it was 2005, you would dominate Fantasy Island with this squad. Seeing as how most of us are fantasy gurus we all know about Shanahan and what he does to our fantasy hopes and dreams. Wait and pick up the waiver wire guys after your buddy goes after Clinton Portis dreaming of what Portis and Shanahan did in Denver back in the day. Throw out a late pick hail-mary for Larry Johnson.

RB Michael Bush OAK – But only if you want Darren McFadden to finally do something with his pro career. Be the guy that picks Bush after the other dude picks McFadden. At least then you can feel better if the Oakland Raiders suck.

RB Cadillac Williams TB – Looking for a late-round guy who should get a majority of carries? He’s constantly injured, but it’s worth a shot in those later rounds.

WR Troy Williamson JAC – He looked solid in August and was doing some work against Arizona before he got knocked out for the year. Again, another player to keep on your radar and see what he does early in the season.

WR Kenny Britt TEN – If you have to own a player on the Titans not named Chris Johnson or Vince Young, it should be this guy.

WR Chaz Schilens OAK – Look up what he did in the second half of last season and then remember the QB situation in Oakland. Now add a better QB and think big. Just don’t be the guy with Darrius Heyward-Bey on your roster.

WR Julian Edelman NE – He’s the white guy not named Wes Welker. Keep an eye on what happens with the knee injury to Welker. Welker looks healthy for now, but a knee injury is one heck of a nasty thing.

WR Nate Burleson DET – Coverage will be rolled to Megatron’s side and should open up Burleson to post some nice numbers this season.

WR Eddie Royal DEN – Somebody has to catch the balls in this offense.

TE Owen Daniels HOU – He was dominating in the first half of the season, then, like Welker, suffered a nasty knee injury.

QB Vince Young TEN – His numbers weren’t too terrible over the second half of last season. He isn’t a No. 1 type guy, but he should help you win a game or two.

QB Carson Palmer CIN – Add T.O. and you should bring back some of those big passing numbers he was posting just a few seasons ago.

Websites

Like I said, do your homework. Go to as many websites as you can to look for sleepers (and then realize everyone else has this same info, so they aren’t really sleepers anymore), as well as last minute injury news that you might not have heard about.

There are a ton of sites out there with good info, and below are the quick and painless ones to hit up.

FFToday.com – Lets you tailor the site to your league settings, giving you an idea on projections and rankings based on your team.

ESPN.com, SI.com, FoxSports.com and all the other major ones have some great and simple information.

(Editor’s note: I know what you’re thinking and the answer is no, there were no other websites on this list.)

Closing

Go out there and have fun and be active. The drafts are great, but if nobody is active in the league it gets boring really quickly.

Make trades if you want that championship.

Try an auction league. It’s fantastic and brings an entirely new element into the game.

It’s nobody’s fault but your own if your team sucks. Don’t blame Matthew Berry, myself, or anyone else. You picked the players, and in the end isn’t it really the coaches’ and players’ faults for not performing?

Oh, and after hacking through my grammar I made one promise to Alex: I don’t edit any of my posts on our fantasy league message so I’m not touching this one either.

Last but not least, I’m going to dominate the Mario Bailey/Seattle Sportsnet fantasy league.

(Editor’s note: I stayed up until 12:30 AM editing this. It took about an hour, in spite of the fact that I kind of spaced out in the middle there. Pete, I love you like a brother, but I’m reminded of that episode of Saved By The Bell where Slater tries his hand at radio sports reporting and fails miserably.)

I’ve got a question: Is Jake Locker the greatest quarterback who ever lived? I’ve also got an answer: Yes, he is. End of paragraph.

Next paragraph.

I’m a little different than most guys. I enjoy love. I like weddings. I’ve often thought about how my own wedding would play out. Yeah, you might not give a sh*t, but you know what, I do. If that’s not cool with you, then you can go fornicate yourself. I f**king love weddings, and one of the things I’ve semi-choreographed is the music that will play at my ceremony of wedded bliss. Undoubtedly, one of those songs would have to be Your Song, by Elton John. It’s an emotionally-moving song. It’s one of my all-time favorite songs. And I love it. It’s money in the bank.

I love that song so much, that I think at the end of this upcoming season, we should put together a slo-mo video montage of Jake Locker’s highlights and make Your Song the background music. How great would that be? You’d be crying for reasons beyond your control. Misty-eyed as Jake Locker throws spirals to Jermaine Kearse. Bawling like a schoolgirl while two defenders collide, snapping their necks in the process and literally killing each other, as Jake Locker runs between them through a cloud of smoke on his way to the end zone for six. Hell yeah. I should be making motion pictures.

You’re probably wondering why I keep referring to Jake Locker by his full name instead of just “Jake” or “Locker.” I don’t have an answer for that. But I will tell you that it just feels right. So I’m going with it. And you’re loving it.

Here’s the thing. We’ve spent most of the past decade searching for salvation, Husky fans. Through the Keith Gilbertson regime, the Tyrone Willingham dictatorship, and now the Steve Sarkisian era. We’ve craved it. We’ve yearned for it. We’ve clung to hopefuls like Carl Bonnell and Isaiah Stanback, pleading for guidance, seeking a Saturday sermon of solitude. And yet we’ve always been hung out to dry, left for dead, betrayed by our own optimism.

Well guess what. It’s a new year. A new effing year. And we’re jumping on one man’s back and riding him up and down the field like a thoroughbred. We need a lift. And this guy is gonna give it to us.

I’m looking for a trip to Pasadena. So is he. So are you. We all are.

I’m looking for something to believe in. Something to depend on. I’m looking for an oasis in this desolate wasteland that our sports landscape has become in the past few months. I need that. You need that. We all need that.

I’m here to tell you that this is the year. This is the year that Jake Locker saves us all. This is the year that we are back. The year that purple and gold are the only colors that matter. The year that we let everyone know where Washington is on their map.

Husky fans, this is it. Buckle up and grab onto something. It’s on. The return to greatness. The return to glory. The return of the Dawgs.

You may notice that the above link takes you to Shannon Drayer’s blog at MyNorthwest.com. Shannon, as many of you I’m sure know, is the Mariners’ longtime beat writer who is more or less employed by the ballclub itself. Currently, she works for 710 ESPN Seattle, flagship radio station for the Mariners. Prior to this, she was on the payroll at KOMO AM 1000, the M’s flagship from 2003 to 2008.

Go ahead and read that post I’ve linked. Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re done.

…

…

Finished? That’s what she said.

If you managed to make your way through that entire Josie Slopez lovefest that Drayer just shouted from the rooftops, go ahead and give yourself a high-five. You’re a trooper! Feel good about it! Get excited! Okay, pull it back a bit. That’s too much excitement.

Now before we all weigh in on the ramifications of Drayer’s absolute lack of objectivity in that column (a function of her job, normally), let me start by saying that I never would have read that article if a friend hadn’t brought it to my attention. I’m not gonna lie. I don’t read MyNorthwest.com. I don’t. I’m not a big fan of the M’s propaganda machine, nor am I that crazy about 710 ESPN. Does that make me a bad person? No. Telling a panhandling bum that I’m worse off than he is because I owe people money while he’s just at zero makes me a bad person.

Here’s the rub. About halfway through Drayer’s article, I realized she was up sh*t creek without a paddle. You know that scene towards the beginning of Jerry Maguire where Tom Cruise walks into the company office after sending out his “mission statement” and gets a standing ovation from his coworkers? You know which scene I’m talking about. The one that, two scenes later, culminates in Maguire’s firing at the hands of Jay Mohr, aka Bob Sugar. That scene. I pictured that while reading Misperceptions (the title of Drayer’s post, for the unobservant).

Why did you picture that, you ask? Well that’s a great question. Thank you for inquiring. I pictured that because here were all of Drayer’s real emotions put into written word (just like Maguire’s real emotions put into that “mission statement”) and I could see the backlash forthcoming (just like Maguire’s imminent termination after keeping it real). Now I’m not saying that Drayer is going to lose her job, nor should she. But let’s face it. In the field of journalism, you need to have some objectivity if you’re a true professional (like me…winky emoticon). Drayer had none of that whatsoever in her masterpiece. Everything she did goes against journalistic ethics, and I would hope that whoever presides over Miss Perceptions would step in and say something. Anything. Show signs of life, at the very least.

Here’s what Drayer did wrong.

First, she wrote an article professing her love for a ballplayer she is supposed to be covering in unbiased fashion. You can’t do that. Just cannot. It’s clear that she’s a little too close to the team right now, and that’s a problem.

Second, her reason for defending Jose Lopez can be summed up as follows: I love Jose Lopez, so you should too. That’s her argument. Because Shannon Drayer feels this way, you should feel likewise. Really? You don’t have anything better than that. You’re throwing punches like a drunk Screech Powers.

Third, the entire post from start to finish appears to be written in a huff. There’s a great deal of passion evident behind the words, no denying that. Unfortunately, that passion comes at a cost. Look at the writing. Look at the structure. Look at the punctuation. It’s all over the place. This is a professional journalist who put this together. For God’s sake, the phrase “heads upness” was used. Heads upness. My rich text editor won’t even let me type “upness” without giving me the red underline.

Fourth, Drayer cites a decent column by a well-respected ESPN journalist as being the “final straw” that led her to write this abomination of an article. Can’t help but shake your head at that one.

How. How did this happen? Yes, the wheels have fallen off the Mariners season, we all get that. But you don’t see other local beat writers like Geoff Baker, Larry Stone, or Ryan Divish sacrificing their reputations for blog entries like Drayer’s. There needs to be some accountability. I wouldn’t have published what Drayer wrote on these pages, which is saying something because I’ve published almost everything anyone has ever sent me.

Of course, at the end of the day, this is all the fault of Mariners’ ownership, am I right? They’re the ones letting Drayer get away with this garbage reporting. Chuck Armstrong, Howard Juntao Lincoln. Oh yeah, and our owner, Kirby’s Dreamland. We can just put the onus on them. It’s all your fault! Hell yeah.

For the second year in a row, Seattle Sportsnet is holding an open competition for the best fantasy football players in the Emerald City to come out and prove their worth on the virtual gridiron. This year, we’re teaming up with Husky legend Mario Bailey to give fans of the University of Washington a unique opportunity to try and thwart two of the best fantasy football players in Seattle sports history (the other being me…in case that wasn’t clear).

So what happens if you manage to beat the odds and win this league? The winner will receive a free lunch with Mario and myself after the season is over.

How do you go about earning your spot in this league? Email me at seattlesportsnet@gmail.com with your answers to the following questions:

1. Why do you deserve to be in the league?

2. What makes you a true Husky fan?

The best responses win their place in this league. It’s as simple as that.

We’ll keep you posted on our draft date and time. Most likely, our online draft will take place next week on either a) a weeknight after 8:00 PM or b) Sunday, August 29 after 8:00 PM.

So get to it, Husky fans! We’re going to have a great time this year and we want you to be a part of it.

Go Dawgs!

I say this a lot, but if I could meet everyone who has ever read this site and talk to them, I’d enjoy that. There is nothing that makes me happier than entertaining the people who find some value, however great or however miniscule, in my words.

On the occasions when I’ve encountered those of you who peruse these pages, I’ve been taken aback. People actually get amped up to talk to me about this site. And I’ll admit it, that has caught me off guard a bit. Because in real life, I’m much calmer than my unfiltered rants and raves might indicate. But that doesn’t change the fact that I absolutely love it. I absolutely love the passion from my readers, from the fan base of Seattle. Watching you guys go from zero to sixty discussing local sports is awesome. Trust me, there aren’t a ton of people in this world who get stoked about sports the way you and I do. When we find each other, it’s always nice to chat.

In all honesty, I can’t express my gratitude enough. I feel like once a month I’m thanking all the people who want something do with me and with this site, and it’s crazy because I could thank you every day and it wouldn’t be hyperbole. This site is nothing without the people who enjoy it. Nothing. I don’t even think all of you realize that. People write every day. And 99% of those people who write never have the following I’ve been lucky enough to have over the past 21 months. It’s a special thing.

I’d also like to thank members of the local sports media, who have treated me like a kid brother (in the best possible way) from the very beginning. It’s funny, because when I actually held a job in the industry, I was just another dude. But the media has seemingly gravitated to this website, and that’s amazing to me. They let me play ball with them when they didn’t have to, and on top of that they pat me on the back and send me encouragement all the time. I love those guys for what they’ve done to help me out, to promote me, to stand up for me when they didn’t have to. It’s not something I take lightly. It really means a lot.

But most of all, it comes back to the Seattle sports fans, who are and always will be my people. I could move to India and I’d never leave this city behind. The sports in this town mean more to me than most folks could ever imagine. I want to see us win so badly, every year, every game. That might get lost in the sarcasm and the cynicism on occasion, but at the end of the day, it’s the truth. I would trade every article I’ve ever written for a few championships and the return of the Sonics. That’s all I ask. If we can work that out, I’ll walk away from the keyboard. Well…maybe.

I just need to say thank you. Because fifty years from now, I’ll be telling my grandkids about this time in my life. And they might look at me funny, but they’ll listen because I’ll give them money and wonderful gifts on their birthdays. And I’ll be able to tell them that I did something I loved, something that made me happy, something for myself and for others at the same time, and I succeeded. Nothing will ever top that.

There is no better feeling in this world than doing what you love and succeeding at it. And when it happens, when you reach that point where you wake up each day knowing that you’ve succeeded, you need to stop and look around you and thank all the people who got you to where you are. That’s all of you. The people who are reading this right now, the people who comment on my goofy status updates, who send me emails and funny pictures to share, who make this so much fun. I’m nothing without you guys. I wish I could put it more elegantly, but it boils down to two words: Thank you. For everything you do and everything you’ve done. It means the world to me, and I couldn’t be more grateful.