Todd Kennedy, Therapeutic Guru

Great Misspectations

For every Peyton Manning, there is a Ryan Leaf. For every Drew Bledsoe, a Rick Mirer.

Same goes in the NBA. There was once a discussion on Dwight Howard vs. Emeka Okafor. There was even a half-arsed and forced argument on Lebron vs. 'Melo because talk radio is a 24-hour cycle.And we all know the Sam Bowie-Michael Jordan story.

And this generation now knows the Kevin Durant-Greg Oden saga as its frame of reference for the tough decisions that make general managers look like pure geniuses or the Michael Jordan who drafted Kwame Brown when he ran the Wizards.

While Durant has brought Oklahoma City into the national conscience for a sport other than college football, Oden sits out yet another season after his second microfracture surgery in as many years.

That's five operations altogether if you haven't been counting. And why would you? Oden has faded into Bolivia faster than Mike Tyson could ever have imagined, only to reappear every time he has surgery, or when a good draft bust discussion erupts.

The former Ohio State big man was taken first overall in the 2007 draft by the Portland Trailblazers, another blow to their unceremonious draft history. Oden has since earned $280,487.78 per game. That's even more than A-Rod. Eighty-two games over five years. And former Blazers GM, Kevin Pritchard, had A-Rod-ian expectations for the center, and he wasn't alone.

However, he was the only one fired for drafting Oden. Oh, that and the No. 2 pick that year becoming a superstar.

Oden says he doesn't plan on retiring.

Neither does Darko Milicic.

# # #

Then there was the JaMarcus Russell-Brady Quinn discussion. Funny, huh?

Brady Quinn isn't fooling anyone for his comments in GQ.

Of all the BACKUP quarterbacks in the NFL for GQ to interview, the former Notre Damer had to know he was picked over the Tyler Thigpens, Byron Leftwiches and John Skeltons for a reason.

And he didn't disappoint.

Quinn can say what he wants. Often we kill athletes for saying what we think they shouldn't, while we later shake our heads when they say nothing. It's much like we say we hate politicians for being politicians, until a non-politician runs for public office, and gets criticized for not being a politician. It's silly.

Quinn had a chance to win the job in camp. He was listed No. 2 on the depth chart behind Kyle Orton. And in his last preseason game, he Rick Mirered himself out of the starting job.

Of course he's angry. You would be, too, if you were a mere tale in two cities now in the worst times of your once promising career. And he can say whatever he wants. It's his opinion. But at least he should own it. And he has since apologized after coming under fire (I.E. prompted by the Broncos, his agent, or the folks at Myoplex).

It's reminiscent of Reggie Jackson's "Straw that Stirs" comments regarding Thurman Munson in a 1977 issue of Sport magazine. When asked if Jackson could be misquoted, the late Yankee captain responded, "for three (bleeping) pages?"

Brady's been through this before. He's lucky Charlie Weis was able to resurrect his college career in the first place. He's lost jobs to Derek Anderson, Kyle Orton and now Tim Tebow. Heck, his own club president could come down and probably beat him out for the number two gig.

Maybe John Elway is the answer in Denver after all.

# # #

The only real story in spring training worth hearing is Ryan Braun's excuse for testing positive for P.E.D.s. Forget Valtrex. Here's the answer.

Oh, that and Mariano's retirement non-announcement. But, you had to expect it eventually.

# # #

The University of Minnesota at Deluth apologized for its students using racist chants during a two-game series with the U of North Dakota Fighting Sioux and threatened ejections and season ticket revocations.

In other news, D-1 college hockey exists outside Henrietta.

Hair: A Eulogy.

I cut it. Finally.

Haven't had it shorn since July. It wasn't long by white-pictures-of-Jesus standards, but when a little gal in church tells you to chop it because "the Jesus look is out," then perhaps it's time.

I heard the Elvis comments. I didn't mind. I liked them, really.

I heard friends tell me--unsolicited--it looked "different." Still, I didn't mind.

But when your brother holds an impromptu intervention at Matthews on a Saturday night in front of a bunch of young ladies who tell you to look more like him, then maybe everyone is onto something.

Oh, that and the hair glue I used was ripping my locks from their follicles.

It was unmanageable. The whole idea was to honor my father's half-joking wish to grow it out while I still had it. He was the same man who shaved my head Michael Jordan-style twice, but told me that as a Borrello/Flitt (my grandmother's maiden name, from a proud, hard-working, nuclear-bomb-surviving heritage), I'll have great hair if I just gave it a chance.

And he was right. It was beautiful, if I do say so myself. I loved having little curls pop-out from the back of my backwards-worn K-State hat in hopes to one day have enough of it hanging in front of my eyes in-time for the Digglers Bridge return concert, as I gripped the mic with both hands to sing Jukebox Hero.

(As if I COULD sing Jukebox Hero like Lou Gramm. But, like my hair, it was getting there.)

But there were problems.

I mentioned the product. I needed a lot of it, and even "hurricane-proof" bottles didn't do the trick.

Secondly, when you wear headphones five days a week, 5-to-6 hours a day, you tend to head headphone hair, which is a lot like hat-head, except across the top of your noggin.

Third, I twirled it like a girl.

Often.

I used to suck my index finger and twirl my curls as a child until I caught chicken pox at 6. Fearing I would get an infection in my mouth, I quit the first habit cold-turkey. But the hair half, forget it. For three decades now, anytime I've had enough strands to pull, there I am fiddling with it, propping it, petting it, soothed by the the collective sounds of each bristle hitting the pillow or my shrink's leather couch.

Like a recovering alcoholic needs to abstain from Canadian Club, I needed to cut it altogether.

I enjoyed having long--well, long-ER--hair. Long by my old, disheveled ROTC-standards, short by Ashton Kutcher's.

But it's time to move on. Even this morning, Justine from the country station told me "Oh, I am SO GLAD YOU CUT YOUR HAIR. You looked lazy and heavier."

OK. I get it.

So I went back into the old contacts list and found my former stylist and was impressed she didn't hate me for abandoning her for a half year.

And she did a heckuva job. As always.

Before

 

 

Now

Call Christine Rosario at SportsClips in Pittsford (585) 586-3523, or friend her on Facebook. And tell her I sent you so she doesn't think you're a weirdo. http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100001098573353

Kidding Ourselves

"Chink in the Armor: Jeremy Lin's 9 Turnovers Cost Knicks in Streak-Stopping Loss to Hornets." -- ESPN.com.

Surprised? Really? In the Twitter/Facebook/look-at-me!-look-at-me! media world we have been teleported to where everyone's opinion--no matter how unfounded or misspelled--means something, we're suddenly shocked and awed when people get too cute with their words?

Aside from the cute catchphrases and quips involving the last name of Harvard's most famous alum since Mark Zuckerberg, another byproduct of Jeremy Lin's newfound glory have been jokes and puns aimed at Asians.

The aforementioned posts now pull the livelihoods of three sports personalities under pyre.

Fox Sports columnist, Jason Whitlock, ESPN anchor, Max Bretos, and ESPN.com editor Anthony Frederico have faced the wrath of the offended. But the hurt want more.

Who knew Lin-Sanity would create senility as well?

Yesterday, Frederico was canned by the Worldwide Leader for his headline early Saturday morning for something he says he had used an hyperbolic 100 times before. Whitlock, has since apologized. He is also a black sportswriter who defended Don Imus for his "nappy headed hos" comments directed at the Rutgers women's basketball team that eventually got the radio host fired by CBS. Thus far, Whitlock has survived. Meanwhile, Bretos, whose wife is of Asian descent, is now on the bench for 30 days for his Go-Eff-Yourself-San Diego moment on SportsCenter.

There's a good chance none of the three of these men are racist. But they clearly are racial...

...and so are YOU.

When word came from friends and colleagues about the ESPN headline in question, it was enveloped with giggles. "...Dan, did you see the chink-in-the-armor headline on ESPN.com?... Hee-hee-hee!...Somone's gonna get fired!... Hee-hee-hee-hee!... I can't believe that!... Hee-hee-hee-hee!..."

Riiiiight. We're not racial, are we?

Notice the word "racial." Not "racist."

C'mon. We all enjoy each other's stereotypes. There are truths in all of them. It's when we discriminate that we are guilty of racism.This writer laughs every time his radio co-hosts crack on, well, pretty much everyone. People are funny. And everyone wants to be liked and have everyone laugh, which puts Facebook and Twitter at center stage.So we all try to one-up-each other by trying to be more clever than the last tweep.

We all quietly snicker at jokes when we think the offended are nowhere to be found. We're all cowards until we have the balls to do it with those who would be most offended. And if you're self-righteous enough not to think so, admit it, you want a double-standard.

Now, this isn't to get carried away. It's racist to discriminate, or use epithets out of spite, hatred, jealousy or envy. And I would never suspect any of the people who brought this to my attention of being racist, or discriminating.

But they did bring it to my attention because they thought it was funny.

It's also not to say ESPN is wrong for taking action against both Frederico and Bretos. The network has an image to uphold, regardless of how many encyclopedias are written about the parties and politics in Bristol. And the gentlemen in question knew that before they let their fingers and mouths speak for their sophomoric sides. They're accountable. And they knew better.

ESPN and Jason Whitlock have offered their sincere apologies. There will always be groups offended or hurt by those comments. So maybe we should keep our racial tendencies to ourselves from now on. Keep them behind closed doors with the good 'ole boys, at family reunions.

So if you're offended, check yourself. Don't plan on laughing ever again. And if you believe that, hope you have a little ACLU on your shoulder to smack you when you do. But you won't, because you're clearly different.

Let's not confuse the issue: There's no excuse for racism. There's also no excusing ourselves admitting we're racial from time-to-time because we're all guilty of it. 

Tom Mule makes fun of Christians every morning on The Break Room. And I laugh. Because the jokes are often true. I know. I've attended Baptist churches my entire life.

Same goes for Italians--of which we are both. Because it's funny. So when we laugh at the stereotypes of other races, don't be surprised because you're giggling in your car, too.

ESPN did what it had to do and the issue should be buried and a lesson should be learned for anyone in media.

But to ask for more to be done is hardly appropriate and pretty pathetic. But there will be groups that will, if they haven't already.

Because "forgiving" seems to be a stereotype which nobody wants to be labeled.

The Legacy Police

Rings. It's all the history of the NFL is based on.

Drew Brees broke Dan Marino's yardage record, earning him Offensive Player of the Year honors. Yet, since the voting took place before the postseason, and most media favored the Green Bay Packers to win the Super Bowl, Aaron Rodgers, playing the same position, won the League's MVP. Some would argue this was a cop-out. Hardly. MVPs are always bigger.

Either way, today and forever, it's now irrelevant. Eli Manning is now the gold standard. Until he loses a Super Bowl.

Not a playoff game; a Super Bowl.

Joe Montana went 4-for-4 in America's biggest game, but nobody recalls Joe Cool getting thrashed by the Giants in '86, the Vikings in '87, the Giants again in '90, or the Bills in '93.

People won't mention the years Terry Bradshaw couldn't complete half his passes, and even morph the Immaculate Reception game into a Super Bowl catapult, when the "Stillers" actually lost the following week to the 17-0, '72 Dolphins.

Today, people argue Eli Manning, two-time Super Bowl MVP, is better than both Tom Brady and even better than his brother, Peyton. Two Super Bowl wins apparently will.

They also wishfully think the legacy of Brady and Bill Belichick is somehow compromised after going 3-2 in Super Bowls.

Marv Levy would take 3-2. Heck, Tom Flores--not John Madden--who owns two of the Raiders' three Tiffany trophies, would take 3-2 over 2-0, which is right where Eli and Giants head coach Tom Coughlin currently stand.

But America won't take 3-2.

We hate the Patriots. Spygate. Belichick's terse answers. Pats paranoia. Oh, and the fact they're winners. And that's fine. You can't have superheroes without villains.

But, suddenly, this generation's Joe Montana has fallen in esteem because his receivers couldn't catch and his defense squandered leads in both Super Bowl losses leaving him with less time than an EMT to work a Montana miracle; something St. Joe never had the luck (good or bad) of trying.

In baseball, numbers and history rule the game. In football, both college and pro, we make it up as we go along. There are no frames of reference for records, just memories of highlights and fuzzy feelings.

The magic numbers are 6, 5 and 4. The referendum is out: It's better now to never lose a Super Bowl than to win some and lose some. Everything is based on one game in February.

Right now, the younger Manning, sits atop the NFL, much like Aaron Rodgers did a year ago. But even he will tell you his older brother is a better quarterback, and was headed for Canton long before the last 24 hours when he cemented his bust.

Hope he enjoys it. Because if he keeps winning, people will want to smash it as quickly as they forgot they helped build it.

Consensus: only go to a Super Bowl if you know you can win it. Because once you start losing, or miss a season due to a neck injury, your legacy is useless to us. .

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JoePa the Pope-ah

Sandusky.

What else is there?

Unfortunately, plenty. Sadly, Happy Valley's current lowpoint is likely nowhere near the the depths of the hell beneath it, as we will likely learn more of stories that make Nightmare on Elm Street seem like a stroll through the French Quarter. But for now, the name of the famed former Penn State defensive coordinator has reached Satanic depths.

Have you vomited yet? Has your stomach flipped? Do your palms have lasting fingernail marks embedded into them? Has Sandusky, Ohio had enough time to add a referendum for a name change this Election Day?

This is a new low for American vitriol directed at one man. Even by bin Laden standards. This isn't polarizing--EVERYBODY hates this guy right about now.

Unless, of course, you count State College, Pennsylvania.

Right now, lawyers at Penn State are drafting and redrafting escape routes much like the ones Sandusky drew on the blackboards in Paternoland. FEMA has been retained for damage control. The light on Ari Fleischer's phone is likely lit with voicemail from the hierarchy trying to salvage the remains of the Nittany Lion Kingdom. Students are even occupying Beaver Stadium as if an injustice will occur.

Joe Pa's faux pas is simply not his fault, right kiddies?

Paterno's job/legacy/reputation/fiber/being/family are now forever aflame. Nobody will look back at this years from now with fresh eyes. That's like saying Hitler was misunderstood.

Woody Hayes' and Jim Tressel's trespasses will be considered footnotes compared to the Happy Valley Humper, and his Humpty Dumpty boss, who looked the other way each time until the old egg was finally pushed off the Great Wall, drunk off the power that allowed the murders of many innocent childhoods, as long as the Nittany Lions could keep winning national championships and Big Ten titles.

If SMU received the Death Penalty for having a higher payroll than the Dallas Cowboys, does the NCAA have an Eternal Damnation (Hell) Penalty even on the books?

Yes, Joe Paterno was the Pope of Pennsylvania. Paid by the state, he wielded more power than the Steel Curtain, Governors Scranton through Corbett. Much like the mad hatters of the Vatican, with one word, he could get what he came for. Or he could have just dialed 9-1-1. Instead, the Pope Pilated his way from any alleged wrongdoing and protected Sandusky like a diocese shuffling priests.

Meanwhile, the word rape has rarely been used in discussing this disgusting case as if having sex with a boy is somehow consensual. Right. Remember that the next time you see a report of a 21 year-old man charged with the statutory rape of a 16 year-old woman, regardless of her willingness to partake. That's rape. But child molestation somehow gets labeled "sex?"

Back to the Pope of PA: he belongs in jail, too, just like those who harbor terrorists, or those who aid and abet criminals. He, his men, and his assistants all had a chance to make this right. Instead, Jerry Sandusky has been allowed an extra nine years after JoePa punted these allegations "upstairs" from his old, shaky hands.

Jesus, a man who knew no popes, was quoted in both Matthew 18:6 and Luke 17:2 saying, But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.


There's the authority. Anyone else's opinion matter?

O Captain, My Captain

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! Your march yet still undone;
The bat has been pulled off the rack, the prize we sought is won;
Your swing they fear, the smack I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the Rays grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of Red Sox fans,
Where on the deck my Captain's three-thousandth hit lies,
Fallen into the stands.


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--by you seven pennants won--for you the Curtain Calls; (10)
For you bouquets and pinstriped glee--for you Yankee Stadium a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces a'nodding;
Here Captain! Dear Jeter!
This shot, your three-thousandth hit;
For nobody dreamed as you sat on deck,
(It would have) Fallen into the stands.


My Captain usually does not answer, his lips are stoic and still;
My Captain usually plays it cool, displays no pulse; all chill;
But the Clippers weren't yet safe and sound, yet, their voyage far from done;
The Rays he rips, with three more hits, drives in the winning run; 20
Exult, Kay, Waldman and Sterling, ah, Hell!
And I at home pump my hands, (Jeter post-win style. Please do not read that part aloud.)
As My Captain's three-thousandth hit just fell,
Fallen into the stands.