A League of Her Own

The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle.

The movie.

Did you see it?

I did.

I had to.

Hey, if I’m gonna claim Robert De Niro as my favorite actor.

I had to see it.

In fact, I have to see any movie with De Niro in it.

No matter how many thumbs down Ebert gives it.

My love of De Niro is so bad.

I even own the DVD for the Bullwinkle movie.

Not the Blu-Ray.

Just the DVD.

You gotta draw the line somewhere.

But unconditional love is well... unconditional.

You know, that whole in sickness and in health thing.

Hey, just because Bobby D makes a stinker.

Doesn’t mean I don’t have to smell it.

That’s the way I am with De Niro.

U2.

Bruce Springsteen.

The Oakland Raiders.

And the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame.

Love is love.

And that love is blind thing may explain why I was sitting in front of the TV on Tuesday night.

Watching women’s basketball.

Yes, women’s basketball.

You see, for the second straight year, my beloved Irish women were playing in the National Championship game.

Last year they lost a heartbreaker to Texas A&M.

This year, they were facing Baylor.

Another team from the Lone Star State.

A school with the biggest star in the women’s game today.

Literally.

Six-foot-eight Brittney Griner.

But Griner is not all size.

She is substance too.

As a freshman, she recorded the first triple-double in school history.

34 points, 13 rebounds and 11 blocks.

11 BLOCKS!

As a sophomore, she led Baylor to the Final Four.

For only the second time in school history.

But this year, as a junior, Griner has taken this party to another level.

With a win Tuesday, Baylor would become the first team in college basketball history to finish the year with 40 wins.

And no losses.

The first team in history!

Men or women.

I wasn’t aware of that stat until Tuesday night.

But ESPN made sure I wouldn’t forget it.

They must’ve brought up the 40-0 thing... at least 40 times.

But hey, it’s a stat worth repeating.

Especially for someone like me who is hardly a fan of this sport.

Back in the day, watching women’s college basketball was worse than water torture.

With all due respect to the great Cheryl Miller.

If you thought Rocky and Bullwinkle was bad.

Try watching any women’s basketball game from the 70s or 80s.

ANY game.

But thankfully that has all changed.

These ladies that played on Tuesday night got some serious game.

Well, some of them.

Ok, a couple of them.

I know, it’s not the NBA.

It’s not men’s college basketball.

It’s not even good boys high school basketball.

But these women play the game right.

No smack-talking.

No neck tattoos.

No taking five steps before a layup.

Just good sound fundamental basketball.

Minus the high-flying, 360, between the legs, double-reverse, dunking stuff.

Except for Griner that is.

Just a few weeks ago she became only the second woman, ever, to dunk in an NCAA Tournament game.

In fact, she’s dunked six times in her college career.

This after 52 dunks during her senior year of high school.

This girl is borderline unstoppable.

Her game is more Shaq than Shakira.

Even if she sounds more Bernie than Brittney.

This girl can really play.

And she put on a whale of a show for the world to see on Tuesday night.

Or at least the people that had nothing else to watch.

Griner finished with 26 points, 13 rebounds and five blocks to lead the Lady Bears to the National Championship.

Before the game I asked my kids what you call a lady bear.

You know, like a female deer is a doe.

Or a female chicken is a hen.

They informed me that a lady bear is... a lady bear.

Hence the nickname.

The only person who came close to matching up to Griner on Tuesday night was Rebecca Lobo.

The ESPN sideline reporter.

Lobo is listed at 6-foot-4.

But courtesy of some heels, I'm guessing, Lobo stood nearly eye-to-eye with Griner for the post-game interview.

Notre Dame coach, little Miss Muffet McGraw, also wore heels on Tuesday night.

But when your name is Muffet, you need a little more than a pair of pumps to intimidate your opponent.

Especially when the star of that opponent wears a size 18 shoe.

A men’s size 18.

I can’t tell you the next time I will watch a women’s college basketball game again.

From start to finish.

As I did on Tuesday.

But it sure did beat Rocky and Bullwinkle.

Dancing with the Real Stars

For Rebecca Black.

Friday is a day to get down.

For my 14-year-old daughter Rebecca.

Friday is a day to pick up.

Every Friday.

That’s the night each week she goes dancing with the stars.

The Stars dance team that is.

A collection of eight dancers.

Eight dancers with special needs.

Some physical disabilities.

Some mental disabilities.

All severe.

All special.

All... Stars.

But on Friday nights for 90 minutes, nobody has a problem.

Everyone has a smile.

Including my daughter.

She's been working with this team for more than a year.

And loving every minute of it.

The dancers range in age.

From eight to 25.

Some of the dancers love shaking their booty.

Some can’t get out of a wheelchair.

Some love yelling.

Some just scream.

If they want to laugh.

They laugh.

If they want to cry.

They cry.

But at the end of those 90 minutes.

Every Friday night.

Something special has happened.

For everyone.

My only job in this special event is to be a chauffeur.

Driving my daughter to and from the dance studio.

And I do it with a smile.

My daughter’s job is far more difficult.

She is one of the coaches.

Her job is to help these special people do something special.

And every Friday that’s what they do.

Something special.

They love to dance.

Just like the other teams.

They have a routine.

Just like the other teams.

They perform at competitions.

Just like the other teams.

But they are unlike any dance team you’ve ever seen before.

A few weeks ago they travelled across the country to a national dance event.

And at this event, they danced.

They danced their heart out.

Just like the thousands of other dancers at this event.

But it didn’t take long for the crowd to see that they are not like anybody else.

They are special.

They are Stars.

I’ve watched this team perform many times.

And every time the routine ends the same way.

With a standing ovation.

A trophy.

And a room full of tears.

It may be predictable.

But it never gets old.

At “just” 14, I really don’t expect my daughter to fully understand what she is doing.

I don’t expect her to understand that what she is doing is amazing.

To her, it’s just what she does.

And she wouldn’t give it up for anything.

I’ve tried explaining that these 90 minutes are probably the best 90 minutes of the week for these dancers.

And probably the high point for the parents too.

Thankfully I have no idea what these parents are going through.

But I’ve never heard a negative word out of their mouth.

Never.

That’s pretty special too.

Sometimes I’ll sit with the parents, just outside the dance studio.

And I’ll watch.

Watch the kids through a one-way mirror.

And watch the parents who are sitting right next to me.

I’ll watch the parents smile.

Watch the parents breathe.

Watch the parents... be parents.

I won’t say a word.

Just watch.

Watch as something special is happening.

Right in front of my eyes.

The Birds, the Bees & the Butthead

I’m not Rick Santorum and he definitely wouldn’t approve of this blog...

So where was I...

Oh yes, sex.

A subject I’ve never been good at.

But practice makes perfect, right?

Well a few days ago I had a sexual encounter I had never experienced before.

It involved me.

And my 14-year-old daughter.

Now before you take this into the gutter.

And go all Mackenzie Phillips on me.

Slow down.

You see my daughter had a big exam a few days ago.

And she needed some help with studying.

Unfortunately for her I was the only one around.

But I did my best.

When it comes to English, I’m pretty good with words.

And when it comes to Math, I’m ok with numbers.

But when she told me it was about the reproductive system.

I broke into a deep sweat.

Not because of the subject.

But because of the company.

I’ve been talking about the reproductive system since I was a kid.

But talking about that with my kid?

That’s an entirely different story.

Fortunately the assistant principal at her elementary school took care of the basic stuff when she was in fifth grade.

That’s when he gets the boys in one room.

The girls in another.

And gives them an open book lecture on the birds.

And the bees.

No parents.

No giggling.

Just the facts.

Ok, there’s probably a little giggling.

But thankfully the kids walk away with a better understanding.

And I walk away with some new material.

Like the other day when my 13-year-old son wanted to play catch with me in the backyard.

I told him if he didn’t put away the dishes first, he’d be playing with himself.

‘That’s called masturbation,” I said.

He laughed.

I laughed.

His older sister laughed.

His younger sister said, “what?”

I’m not sure Rick Santorum would approve of my parenting, but from where I’m sitting.

So far, so good.

Now four years removed from that fifth grade speech, my high school daughter has moved on from all that yucky stuff.

And is now concentrating on the real stuff.

Like the bulbourethral glands.

The vena cava.

And the vas deferens.

Terms I can comfortably say, I had never heard of.

Until two nights ago.

But fortunately she had the definitions written on the back side of the index card.

So all I had to do was say the name.

Ask for the definition.

And bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Sometimes that worked.

Sometimes it didn’t.

For both of us.

When I asked her to define that bulbourethral thing.

She started with “during sexual arousal...”

That was followed by “hee hee hee.”

Something you might expect from a 14-year-old.

The problem is I’m 44.

But thankfully after a few childish moments.

I grew up.

And actually became quite helpful.

Really.

She had a hard time remembering what the urethra did.

So I looked at the definition.

And started singing it.

To the tune of “Think”.

By Uretha Franklin.

Who else.

Problem solved.

She also struggled with the epididymis.

That’s a long coiled tube that does something involving sperm.

I told her to that she would remember that definition since it was a long coiled word.

And you can’t spell sperm without epididymis.

Ok, the R is missing.

But for learning purposes, it did the trick.

After a slow start, we were actually able to maintain a mature learning conversation.

Even though every time she referred to the main parts.

They were always, “pee pee” and “va jay jay.”

But the bottom line is after a good hour of studying.

And bonding.

My daughter was ready for her test.

And I was ready to show her my favorite video involving the subject matter we had been discussing.

Courtesy of those two great scholars.

Beavis and Butthead.

It was the episode where the boys were having a hard time going through a school day without laughing.

Well the principal had had enough.

One more laughing spurt and they would be expelled.

Only problem was, for them, is that was the day they had Sex Ed class.

With Coach Buzzcut.

If you’ve got six minutes, click on the link below.

It just might possibly be the best six minutes of your day.

http://www.mtv.com/videos/misc/138239/no-laughing.jhtml

Reality Beats Fantasy

Last baseball season was the worst baseball season of my life.

Well, my fantasy life.

I’ve been playing this fantasy game since 1985.

And 2011 will definitely go down as the year of the loser.

I could blame it on injuries.

And there were plenty.

I could blame it on my co-owner.

It’s always his fault.

Or I could blame it on our miserable players.

Too many to count.

But the bottom line is we finished in last place.

Dead last place.

The first place team had 102 points.

We had 28.

Pathetic.

With a capital P.

How pathetic?

Let’s just say if we would’ve got three points for each of our one points.

We would’ve still finished in 6th.

That’s bad.

A lot of guys deserve the blame.

1 and 1A are the two owners.

But you can’t fire the owners.

So let’s blame the players.

Ubaldo Jimenez.

Sucked.

Carl Crawford.

Sucked more.

Adam Dunn.

The suckiest.

Every baseball team needs good pitching.

And fantasy teams are no different.

We really thought we had it coming in.

But none of our guys panned out.

Including Ryan Franklin.

When we drafted him, he was the closer for the St. Louis Cardinals.

When the season ended, the Cardinals were World Champs.

And Franklin.

He was out of baseball.

Released midway through the year for being awful.

How awful?

How about an 8.46 ERA?

That would get you kicked off your little league team.

We also drafted Fausto Carmona.

He was the Indians #1 pitcher.

Was.

Past tense.

On opening day he made it through all of three innings.

Giving up 11 hits and ten runs.

10 RUNS.

In just three innings.

Those numbers are so bad, Ryan Franklin even laughed.

Things got so bad for Carmona, he tried to change his name.

Tried.

He was arrested just two months ago in the Dominican Republic for using a false identity to obtain a U.S. Visa.

Now that’s a bad pitch.

And when you consider that Carmona is scheduled to make $7 million this year.

That’s just plain dumb.

But if they were to hand out a Cy Young Award for the dumbest move made by a pitcher off the field.

That award would have to go to John Lackey.

We drafted him too.

Through his first nine seasons, Lackey was as steady as they come.

A bunch of strikeouts.

A bunch of wins.

And a good ERA.

That’s why the Boston Red Sox signed him in the winter of 2009.

To a five-year deal.

Worth $82.5 million.

Guaranteed.

For that kinda cash, he should be curing cancer.

Instead he was spitting on it.

On the night of August 30th, John Lackey pitched seven innings for the Red Sox.

A game he lost 5-2.

But it was what Lackey did earlier that day that made the real headlines.

You see Lackey had had enough of his wife Krista.

And on August 30th, he officially filed for divorce.

Not the first person to do that.

Not the last either.

But when you consider that Lackey’s wife was five months removed from a double mastectomy.

And two months removed from chemotherapy.

And the baseball season was a month from being over.

John Lackey gets an F for timing.

Hey I’ve never met John Lackey.

And I never met Krista either.

Living with either of them could be a nightmare.

But there are some things you just don’t do.

And divorcing your wife when she is full of cancer is one of them.

Even George Lopez waited five years after his wife gave him her kidney before he dumped her.

I’m happy to report, thanks to Krista’s twitter account, that as of Feb 20, she is cancer free.

A long stretch from November when the disease had reappeared in 12 of her lymph nodes.

As for John, he’s not doing as well.

You see, just three weeks after the season ended, we learned that he has an arm injury.

An injury that needed surgery.

A surgery that will keep him off the field in 2012.

Maybe more.

From where I'm sitting, this doesn't even come close to evening the score.

But maybe someday John will learn that you might be able to beat the Yankees.

But you will never beat karma.