A scout's journal . . . I don't follow the big names. The big names, they got plenty of guys following them. You think Ki-Jana Carter is gonna go unnoticed? Come on. We already know his shirt size and his favorite sports car. How much more can a lousy scout dig up?Me, I go for the small names. I beat the bushes. I check under rocks. I scour the country for every backwater college that still believes in the tackle and the forward pass.And I watch. And I make notes.Sometimes I have a drink and fall asleep.
I am from Earth. You are from Mars. I take your hand and we go Christmas shopping."Very big," you say, as we pull into the mall parking lot. "Is this a center for intelligent life-sharing experience?" "YO, JERK, THAT'S MY SPACE!" I yell.We park the car, and walk through whipping wind and blinding snow, as we cross the approximately 37 miles to the mall entrance. When we open the door, we are flattened by an army of exiting shoppers."Are their loved ones in danger?" you ask, wiping the footprints off your space suit.
Let me give you the straight dope on the NBA's marijuana policy: There is no policy.You heard me. Under NBA rules, if a player wants to puff a joint, then go out and play a game, there is nothing to stop him. Nothing, of course, except that it's against the law in most places. But if the player can beat that, the league has no punishment. It won't even test him.This is astounding. In a sport that pays for and depends on maximum physical performance, there is no testing for marijuana? No penalties for being arrested for possession?
Irecently returned from Japan. I have the business cards to prove it.There are business cards in my pants pockets and my shirt pockets. Last night I found one in my hair. This is because Japanese people, upon meeting in a business setting, immediately bow and present their card. And you are supposed to present yours.Unless, of course, you don't have one. Like me. In which case you stand there holding their cards and smiling stupidly, like the neighbor who has no candy for the trick-or-treaters."I am honored to meet you," my Japanese associates would say.
When people hear that Dennis Rodman wants to blow his brains out, sleep with men and play his last game in the nude, they say to themselves, "Wow, that guy is crazy."I say, "Must be another magazine article."Rodman is a magazine publisher's dream. For one thing, he'll pose any way you want. Because magazines sell mostly by their covers, getting Dennis to photograph in hot pants and a dog collar -- as he does on this week's Sports Illustrated cover -- is their idea of heaven.
SAN DIEGO -- Let's face it, John Elway is probably not going to win this Super Bowl, either. Not his fault. Just bad luck. His Broncos were beaten in his first try -- "We were in the game until halftime, and then the Giants dominated us," he recalls -- and they were beaten in his second try -- "The Redskins dominated us in the second quarter," he recalls -- and they were beaten in his third try -- "The 49ers dominated us before kickoff," he recalls.
File this under "be careful what you wish for."Last week, Monica Lewinsky took her act to London. She went hawking her new book, her new makeover, her new staff of publicists and managers and, she hoped, her newly swelling pocketbook, which stands to grow by millions if she is a success.She longs for that, of course. Success. Even more, she longs to be a successful victim. It beats working for a living, which, at last glance, Monica was having a hard time doing. When the president can't help you get a job, you know your marketability is low.
Reporters avoid eye contact as Scotty Bowman passes. He heads down the Joe Louis Arena tunnel, alone, walking in a half-stomp, half-limp, a four-star general with a stone in his boot. Suddenly, he sees an arena worker carrying a large piece of pipe."Hey," Bowman says, jutting out his chin. "What happened?"There is a frozen moment before the worker answers. It is in this moment that the Bowman legend hisses. The way he asks the question. His squinty eyes. That jaw. You can almost hear the analysts now...
On the day after Christmas, when many Americans trade in their unwanted merchandise, the Lions traded in their coach, Wayne Fontes.There will be no refund.The Lions get nothing back for this wasted year, a year in which a truly talented team finished dead last in its division. They get nothing back for any of the eight seasons in which they may have been good enough to contend for a title, but were outsmarted, out-prepared or simply too confused by the Fontes regime to win.
Hello, Mr. X? This is Lou Holtz.Lou! Thanks for calling me back. You know this conversation must remain secret.Of course.We don't want Coach Y getting suspicious.Right.So, Lou. You want back in the NFL.I certainly do, Mr. X. With all my heart.Can I ask why you left Notre Dame?Gosh, sir, that's tough. The kids were truly wonderful, and I pray that I led them with a strong hand and a wise heart, but in my soul there burns a passion for new horizons.They told you to take a hike.Pretty much, yes, sir.
NEW YORK -- Here was Cecil Fielder, standing in the batting cage before a World Series game. He took five swings, three of which sent balls into the outfield seats. Fans cheered each blast. The air was breezy and the night was cool.October.Fielder jogged out of the cage and was grabbed by Reggie Jackson, now a Yankees adviser, who whispered a few ideas into Cecil's ear. Cecil smiled. He was talking to Reggie.October.
NAGANO, Japan -- When she finished the performance of her dreams, she threw her hands in the air and began to run across the ice, bouncing on her skate tips, her smile as big as the arena itself. She ran on pure adrenaline, like a kid running to meet her daddy at the airport gate -- only it wasn't the airport, it was the Olympics. And it wasn't Daddy, it was destiny. Look who just grew up.
