Graduation Day

Dad,

Remember that time?

Yeah. That one.

The one when you were here and everything was just fine?

That time you reminded me wound come the nights I'd rather go out with friends than stay home and sit on the living room couch opposite you and watch whatever HBO premiered that Saturday night?

Yeah. You were right.

Again.

In fact, you're right more often now than you were before.

Not that I didn't listen. If any of your five children could be accused of believing anything you said as Gospel, it was certainly this one.

It's too bad you can't bank moments lost on a random Saturday night, or any night in high school, and put them into a savings account for the years when you'd need them for emergencies.

But what did I know?

I had to go chase whatever I thought was calling me out there.

The adage "youth is wasted on the young" is true.

But every child is guilty of that.

I hope when I see you again, even though we have an eternity, we'd approach things as if we remember what the consequences were when you moved on up yonder.

I hope Heaven has its share of risks as much as its rewards.

I hope even though you now have all the answers--even more than you did when you were here--that you don't waste any thoughts on us. Because that wouldn't be Heaven.

Or fair.

It's funny how we used to have the same conversations over and over again.

"Dad, does everyone (including Mom) call you Butch?"

I told you. I don't know.

"Dad, is it true nobody ever tackled OJ from behind?"

Never.

"Never?"

NEVER

"Dad,  how do you know everybody?"

This ain't my first rodeo.

(Or) I've been around.

"Dad, why don't you like (person  redacted)?"

You paying attention?

"Dad, how do you know when you meet the right one?"

(Glances at my mother, unbeknownst to her, taking care of him, untying and rearranging the tubes, ironically put in place to keep him comfortable. Then again, when you have a month left to live, comfort is relative. Even breath is a luxury.)

"Dad, is there ever a point in life where you don't realize you're selling your soul?"

The Devil already has your soul when you're born.  It's up to you to give your life to Christ so the devil can't have it anymore. Once The Lord has it, nobody can take it from Him. But that doesn't mean you can go around and do whatever you want either. Because God will get your attention.

Look at me.

"What?"

Nevermind. And if you DO decide to speak at my funeral, don't make me out to be some folk hero like you like to do. I'm just a humble father and husband who raised a good family.

"Yeah, that sounds humble, Pop."

Nevermind. Just do what I tell ya.

(In the Borrello house, the word "nevermind" was famous long before Nirvana.)

"Dad, what is success?"

Look at me. Look at all the people who've come to help me and see me in my situation. I guess I was pretty successful.

Yeah. I guess when folks pay their respects when you're living, that means something.

Some even came and sought counsel knowing my father would be the perfect person to talk to.

Like Michael Corleone in The Godfather:

"Besides, who's a better consigliere than my father."

Seven years. It got easier for awhile, but recently it's been tougher.

Maybe it's getting married without Dad there.

Maybe it's doing house projects without his guidance.

Maybe it's some of the folks I put stock into he otherwise may have warned me about.

Maybe it's because he was just that special.

Maybe by now he's learned a few new things.

Maybe after seven years--not even the lifespan of a sandfly in eternity terms--he has a few of the answers even HE couldn't provide.

If he were allowed, I wish he could pass them along. But again, that's just a mortal talking.

Where Dad is, those questions don't matter anymore and the answers are irrelevant. It's what makes life life, Earth Earth, Heaven Heaven and time here so important.

But there's one question I want answered when we see each other again and I'm sure The Lord has enough of a sense of humor to answer, because I'm sure it's still the case here or There:

"Why do they still call you Butch?"

Hoof-in-Mouth Disease

Welcome to The Bigtime, Steve Coburn.

It was like a scene from a Bizzaro version of My Cousin Vinny. This time, the underdog is a hick coming to the big city, unaware that he's no longer just chewing the proverbial cud with friends, family and yes men.

At least Vinny came to his senses. Coburn was still looking like Wilford Brimley Sunday morning, and sounded like 'ole Mr. Witherspoon had been off his insulin-and-oats a few days.

America got to know his horse and rallied behind its Triple Crown campaign faster than Ross Perot rose to fame in before the 1992 Presidential election.

And in just a nose under 149 seconds in Elmont, NY, it was over. Well, for California Chrome, that is. For his whacked daddy, America was about to feel for the Belmont favorite the way it empathized for Everett Flatch in Hoosiers.

After Tonalist galloped to victory, Coburn's drawl was the only sound heard over the dull chorus of murmur and tickets torn and tossed to the floors. The crowd's reaction to Chrome's performance echoed that of Barbaro's fate at Pimlico back in 2006. Only nobody dare stand-up at a funeral and blame someone.

Then there was Saturday.

Coburn's cracking made Rick Dutrow's pouting seem civilized after Big Brown's Crown collapse in 2008.

“This is not fair to these horses that have been in this thing running their guts out for these people and for the people that believe in them, to have some somebody come out like this — this is the cowards way out, in my opinion, this is the cowards way out."

Oh. He wasn't finished. 

“I’m 61 years old and I’ll never in my lifetime I’ll never see another Triple Crown winner because of the way they do this. It’s not fair to these horses that have been in the game since day one. I look at it this way: if you can’t make enough points to get into the Kentucky Derby, you can’t win in the other two races.”

Oh, and there was Sunday morning on Good Morning America. 

“That would be like me at 6’ 2” playing basketball against a kid in a wheelchair.”

Apparently, Coburn's size must have scared-off his inner circle from coaching him into recanting his Saturday statements. That, or he forgot to check his blood sugar. And check it often.

The old man grew too big for the scene. People complain that the only people that run for office are in fact politicians. But when the overnight favorite--the one who runs simply because he's fed up with those jerks in Washington/Albany/school board--says something dumb, those same folks immediately clamor for who? A politician. Someone who looks like they know what they're talking about. Someone as much PR as Magnum P.I.

Steve Coburn ate all the zero-to-hero attention he could get the past five weeks like an Old Country Buffet and puked it all back-up like Carl Paladino.

Here's an idea: Maybe the Triple Crown should hold a class class. You know, one to teach those first-timers and never-beens-before how to act like they've been there before.

Of course, it could only be for those racing in the Derby, AND the Preakness AND the Belmont. And only those racing a horse in all of those for the first time.

It's only fair. All or nothing.

Or else, when you lose for the first time, you might come off sounding like a 6'2'' jerkoff who got beat playing basketball by a kid in a wheelchair.

Tough Love

It's about time.

Major League Baseball is losing fans by the minute.

Every second could mean years.

The later, the greater the loss.

The American Pastime, the only major sport without a clock, will find it's time is up sooner than social security.

Yes. It's time to shorten the game to seven innings.

Forget the records; the don't mean anything now, and certainly won't mean anything the further down the national depth chart it plummets.

Yet, the answer has been in front of us for decades, but nobody seems to have found the courage to put their name on the back of the idea.

Well one guy did--an unnamed baseball exec anonymously sharing his idea with ESPN's Buster Olney. And good thing, too; the Flat Hardball Society was ready with 34" Louisville Sluggers for shots heard 'round the baseball world.

Perhaps they'd be the cast in the same white cloak as those who preferred baseball segregated before Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey changed everything.

Unfortunately, they didn't change anyone's attitudes toward the records. Oh no. That honor was stolen by Jose Canseco.

For decades, Babe Ruth was the Home Run King, until a man walked through a door only Mr. Robinson could open and took his crown. And many privileged to pay to see the Bambino fought the idea of Henry Aaron passing Ruth just like the Boston Red Sox ignored the game's changing color guard.

Ruth. Cobb. DiMaggio. Cy. Wagner. Wilson. Foxx. Gehrig. Yet few second thoughts to names like Cool Papa, Paige or Gibson.

No, not the guy with the limp. The guy with the gift.

Maybe it was Ruth who was blessed with a present of segregation. Instead of Ruthian feats, the term Gibsonian would have earned marquee status in generations of newspaper columns.

But we'll never know. Even the Negro League records are met with unfair but traditional qualifying mechanisms that snuff any attempt at legitimate debate.

In other words, the hallowed records were hollow long before the needle and the damage done.

Roids. Race. Baseball has no place other than our hearts anymore. But the pastime will fail to be passed onto the next generation who can't stay up past bedtime to watch over three-hours of ball in a Moneyball era of high counts and team-owned networks vying for primetime every time.

It's time. In fact, it's well past time.

And like so many mistakes of baseball's past, the answer is more obvious than the idea of race funneling players into different leagues.

Little League plays six inning games. High School plays seven, as do college baseball and minor league clubs on double-days.

Pro boxing even shaved their heavyweight fights from 15 rounds to a dozen. Now, 12 is the norm and generations after X have no idea matches went another nine minutes--or for perspective, a fifth quarter.

Sure, this writer will get hate mail. But unlike Hank Aaron's, this will be returned with condescension.

In 20 years, nobody will be laughing when your kid doesn't call you during a Game Seven while your grandkids sleep without dreams of a Red Sox October or a 30th piece of pinstriped hardware.

You'll be watching by yourself on some fledgling cable sports network wondering why your kid doesn't feel the same about the game.

Only one American sport holds the distinction of "The Game." The NFL may now be king, but will never have baseball's records (which the rest of you still believe exist), curses or lore.

And part of The Game's storied history of streaks and series is the adage of "momentum (being) only as good as tomorrow's starting pitcher."

The Game of Tomorrow is only as strong as its next generation.

And if you're already tired of how long a game takes in 2014, imagine what your kid thinks at 14.

Cuban Bristle Crisis

The week has been pretty exciting huh?

No matter which part of the country you're from, there's something steaming up the windows--and it ain't the kind of sum'n-sum'n you enjoyed in that black, '86 Lincoln Continental you borrowed from your parents on prom night.

Believe it or not, this stain would be too embarrassing even for ServPro.

Race. Let's talk about it.

Nah. Nevermind, we can't.

If we can't say anything nice, we can't say anything at all. It's easier fogging our glasshouses into gas houses than actually opening the windows to fresh air to speak candidly with our neighbors.

Just because good fences make good neighbors doesn't mean you shouldn't peek through the knothole once in awhile, even if you get your eye poked.

But poking hurts. And nobody likes pain, even temporarily.

Which is why a real discussion will never happen. Just ask Mark Cuban's latest sacrifice at the Altar of Fear. (WATCH)

The multi-billionaire owner of the Dallas Mavericks imitated a sketch from Chappelle's Show: "When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong."

Cuban's thoughts are the same thoughts this writer and millions upon millions of white Americans have thought. Often.

Instead of praise for his honesty, many derided him for his remarks, using words like "ignorant" to describe the entrepreneur's candor.

Hey, what's that old saying about three of the five fingers on your hand?

(No, not the joke from the Rick James-Charlie Murphy Chappelle sketches. The one your mother and teachers recited when you 'cuzed somebody of sum'n.)

Instead ex-NBA "star" and ESPN spoon-feeder, Bruce Bowen, sounded more like Louis Farrakan than he even looked, criticizing the owner and even casting stereotypes himself, missing the entire point of Cuban's comments.

However, Pittsburgh Steelers defensive back, Ryan Clark--also on the dais--actually supported Cuban. Perhaps football players are smarter than hoopsters.

(Can we say that?)

Can we ask that???

Doesn't matter. There are too many Bowens out there to make a difference and not enough Cubans and Clarks. Too many Bowens to scare off the Cubans. Too many Bowens intimidating those who think like Cuban to come to grips with the idea that YES AMERICANS, WE ARE INDEED PREJUDICED, so they can continue to hide behind the white clothesline of guilt and throw stones in support of guys like Bruce All-Righty rather than break the glass and admit they have a problem.

You may know these Bowens by other names. Like Sharpton. Or Jackson.  Or they may be your grandparents who shared stories of neighbors' spousal abuse and recall how they did nothing because "back then, you kept your mouth shut."

Maybe because back then your grandparents had their own issues and didn't want help either. Yeah, it's much easier that way, isn't it?

Instead of honest racial dialogue on a platform that most of America enjoys (and more importantly, understands--sports) we get brought back into the house by an overzealous plurality who preys on the fears and threats of the majority simply because all it takes is one.

One pissed-off black dude. And a few white guys to support him to prove they're not racists.

In America, the dirtiest word is the N-word. No doubt. No excuse. It is.

The second dirtiest word is the R-word.

Though, those trying to read this through the fog of steam brimming from their bathrooms might think it's the "other" R-word. Maybe it is. But we'll never find the truth, which is what Cuban tried to convey. We'll just get force-fed a line-of-thinking from an angry mob.

We'll never get anywhere dealing with race in America. We'll just keep telling ourselves that having a black President and pulling the plug on an octogenarian owner living in the 1800's will put the issue away for awhile like your grandparents' neighbors, or that credit card balance recurring like the Ghost of Christmas(es) Past.

Keep steaming up the glass, Americans. Like the Amish, you're too used to the stench to acknowledge it doesn't smell too good here.

(Can I say that?)

Court Reform

The NBA needs to fix itself.

Donald Sterling has nothing to do with this, though it's clear while his pacemaker can't seem to govern the well of hate spewing from the old geezer's geyser, sounding more and more like an offspring of Livia Soprano and the Grand Wizard. And Adam Silver aced the first exam in his short tenure as league leader, a test even his predecessor never dreamed he'd have to take. 

Phil Jackson's first loss as the New York Knicks' Zenmaster should remind him to keep centered as he searches for Steve Kerr's replacement as head coach. Perhaps the guy Kerr replaces, Mark Jackson, will step into the Triangle long enough to buy his new boss enough time to replace HIM. Maybe with himself? NBA fans would LOVE to see if Jackson has enough Buddha beads to do this, let alone pace the sideline at Madison Square Garden. Either way, the off-Broadway drama is good for the Association.

The damage isn't the sideshow. The NBA is always full of enough reality TV for a second network. Heck, some players' wives and exes are cashing on shows of their own. 

The problem? You called it.

If you predicted a final four featuring Miami, Indiana, San Antone' and OKC, it shows the league didn't change much from 2013. Hacks always go with the proverbial chalk the way novices pick the Kentucky Derby winner at The Preakness. Memphis beating Oklahoma City last year was a fluke and most know with Kevin Durant ranked as the NBA's consensus No. 2, there was little chance Thunder would strike twice against the 2014 MVP, even with Russell Westbrook pretending he's Kobe Bryant.

Pro basketball is pretty predictable. Even a case for the Los Angeles Clippers making the NBA Finals isn't considered a stretch. The NBA's salary cap, limited coaching, and drawn-out playoff series drag the league down a wasteland of two rounds of six and seven-game series where even fans of upset-winners from the first round know they'll be swallowing their Mylanta in gulps by the second. And even those who think they have a chance are at the mercy of needing one upset victory to change the series, which is washed away as soon as the better team returns the insult.

Occasionally, one team will suprise everyone, like the 2013 Grizzlies, for a little while, before getting put to bed by either the Spurs or El Heat. But if you're a casual fan waiting for the 1999 St. Louis Rams or the 2003 Florida Marlins, the NBA is not the league for you. And sadly, the best place to cultivate new fans would be college hoops, where teams like Connecticut, Wichita State or Butler routinely shock the experts. And the one-and-done rule hardly garners enough carryover from those who use college ball to stump their "Love of the Game" arguments.

Want help?

Cut the number of playoff teams from 16 to eight. Incentify fans and teams to try to win home court advantage and actually make each game worth watching instead of YouTubing highlights or waiting for May to actually watch. Of course, revenue stands in the way of the CBA allowing this. Well, extend your season by two or three weeks. And, for more drama, take a page from Major League Baseball and have a pair of play-in games--one for each conference.

Second, remove the teeth from the salary cap the way Doc Rivers & Co. may want to knock Donald Sterling's dentures from it's Super Poligrip. The Association is built on stars, but if they remain put, other franchises could take years and several coaches to recover. They'll improve slowly, but they'll never offer that thrill of a worst-to-first catapult that captivates even fringe fans.

And finally, do what the NFL has done and make players wait three years before declaring for the draft. College players who create buzz in March are often forgotten by June after the lottery picks are snatched-up. If the best instruction is in college--and it is; they HAVE to listen--then wouldn't the league do better with well-seasoned players bringing something besides raw talent and hood ornament-sized chips on their shoulders?

The NBA isn't great. Yes, it's just the best basketball in the world, but we don't know any better because we've never seen anything better. What if Adam Silver decided to use imagination? David Stern didn't make the league better; the players did. Remember, Stern-O! was the guy who faught the Dream Team assembling back in 1992 and reaps the rewards of the profit and globalization of his product as if he coached Jordan, Magic and Bird to the gold medal.

Orlando Magic fans and the faithful of the Boston Celtics still imagine the courses their respective franchises would have taken had either signed Tim Duncan when they had the chance. Now imagine a professional basketball league where that not only would be possible, but become the norm for generations to come. College players with two or three years of experience and discipline bringing their respective followings to the pros, resurrecting once great franchises with the opportunities to go from worst-to-first, making writers eat their playoff picks by All-Star weekend.

Nah. You'll only get that in the NFL. Maybe that's why they can overcome concussions, murder trials, spousal abuse and PED use as if it never happens, while the NBA still hangs it's banner on LeBron, hoping he never goes the way of Derrick Rose.

Because if that ever happens, there will be no Silver lining to that problem, the way the new commish magically whisked away Donald Sterling.

Sam Story

The games aren't the story.

The NBA playoffs are formulaic. Home teams gobble the majority of the victories, trading only momentum disguised as stories about how the losing team will respond rather than the winner outplaying the loser. WARNING: this trend will continue until the talent portion of the competition--the Miami Heat.

Then there's hockey. Yeah, nobody outside Canada, Boston or Pittsburgh really cares about the Stanley Cup, except Buffalo, where hope is always a dream away. Heck, the Subway Series and CC Sabathia's knee are bigger stories in the Big Apple than the New York Rangers. And if it weren't for the sudden death of Martin St. Louis' mother and his Mothers Day  performance, SportsCenter would have found ANYTHING else to kill time instead of hockey.

Like Michael Sam.

ESPN and NFL Network were both there to exploit that tender moment. Usually cameras don't go inside the homes of players taken after the third round. But the America's reaction justified it, followed by 48 hours worth of content and leads for every talk radio show west of the Mothership.

Gay Guy Drafted. Kisses boyfriend. Twitter amok. Players punished for tweeting their disapproval. Yeah, those sensitivity classes will learn 'em.

Such public relations idiocy. And of course, leave it to a Miami Dolphin to set the tone. Defensive back, Don Jones, posted "OMG" and "Horrible."

What'd you expect? Even before Sam was drafted, NFL Network's Rich Eisen and Mike Mayock discussed the possibility of the Missouri grad's sexuality leaving him undrafted, so thinking someone wouldn't tweet his displeasure is like assuming the NFL handed out a "no homophobic tweeting" memo.

The fine, suspension and recant of Don Jones isn't a violation of the First Amendment like a foot-in-mouth site like Deadspin would have you believe. He wasn't arrested. There are consequences for your words in a business, even if it is the NFL. But the Dolphins have already had their share of issues from the Richie Incognito-Jonathan Martin chaos of 2013. The lawyers already had a plan ready to roll-out the first moment someone hit send to offend. He did and they did. And now they've crafted a statement on Jones' behalf that fools no one. Not even Michael Sam.

Speaking of which, Sam was drafted by the St. Louis Rams, a team from the same state the defensive end played his college ball. Conspiracy theorists already think the NFL asked the Rams to draft him if he were still available in the final round as another shield-shining move so the league wouldn't look worse allowing the leading sack artist in college football's toughest conference going undrafted because he's gay. They already handed-out drug suspensions earlier in the weekend--the Browns top WR Josh Gordon (perhaps a year) and the Rams own pass-catcher, Stedman Bailey.

Seven rounds spread over three days could feel like a lifetime for Michael Sam, who is used to carrying more than just pads on his shoulders. By the time the tears fell from the former Tiger's eyes onto the shoulders of his boyfriend, fans had already forgotten Johnny Football falling down the draft tree and hitting every branch coming down--most notably the one Jerry Jones waves in Dallas.

No, the games weren't the story this weekend. The gay guy was. And it'll continue. Perhaps HBO's Hard Knocks will follow the Rams this season by NFL order to assure Sam's story won't end at the end of summer; that he'll make the team and earn the respect of his teammates regardless of whom he loves.

Or, he could just make the team the way he made opposing SEC quarterbacks cringe when he ran them over.

Either way, you now have your Tim Tebow story of the 2014 NFL season. The same way the NY Jets introduced their former backup quarterback during before the Ravens-Niners Super Bowl--an unprecedented move to call a presser for a guy who was never the No. 1 QB on the depth chart playing sports' most scrutinized position--the Rams will introduce their seventh-rounder Tuesday at Rams Park.

Jadeveon Clowney will draw eyes. Johnny Manziel will steal his moments. But Sam will be the subject in the nation's heartland, and the local and national media will be checking the story's pulse until a final decision will be made on the dude from Mizzou.

Trust this writer: Sam will finish 2014 with the Rams. Likely on his merit alone.

But if he can't cut it, he'll still be there.

The NFL, nor do the Rams, want to become another story like Don Jones.

They all, including Sam, would like to keep the stories on the field.

Yes. They're Effing Serious.

The Buffalo Bills sent a clear message Friday, one even louder than the splash they made Thursday night.

"We're done with losers."

After an uncharacteristic move by 21st-century Bills standards where they sacrificed next year's first round selection (and a fourth) for arguably the best skill position player in the draft, they jettisoned their goofball wideout who led the team with more laughs, headslaps, headshakes and balls dropped than big time receptions expected of the top pass catcher on the roster.

Stevie Johnson followed in the footsteps of the previous number ones before him:

"We don't really have anyone else here, so, guess you're the guy."

Lee Evans was no Eric Moulds. And Eric Moulds wasn't much without Doug Flutie throwing him the ball, either. Heck, when you openly campaign for the need of particular quarterback like a pitcher needing his own caddy every five days (Moulds/Flutie, Evans/JP Losman, TO/Ryan Fitzpatrick) when there's no established gunslinger, what torch is there to take, let alone pass?

Stevie Johnson was a late rounder from Kentucky, better known for hoops even in the basketball school's leanest years. He was closer to Mr. Irrelevant than graduating to the NFL in an Armani suit, receiving a cap, a jersey with a "1" and a hug from Principal Goodell. Yet, he tripped over the Bills much like guys like Fred Jackson finding their Island of Misfit Toys. And the Bills bumped into him much like finding a future ex-Mrs. Buffalo in the bathcare aisle at Wegmans.

Stevie served his purpose. He also served as a jester. And his antics ranging from dropped game winners and clock stoppers, magic marker tees, showboat penalties and the fact NOBODY under the Marrone March considered him captain material proves, like the fortnight of playoff absences, he no longer belongs here.

Sammy Watkins is now Thee Guy. No more Billssh*t.

Dougs--Whaley and Marrone--have their guy. EJ Manuel has his caddy. And now the Buffalo Bills have their sights set on January. And on their next five picks.

And now that the Bills have shown how serious they are about Sammy and Stevie, it should serve another teammate a reminder:

CJ Spiller, you're on the clock.

II Young for Excuses

When you've become the first non-SEC QB to win a national championship since Vince Young, the second straight freshman to win the Heisman only 366 days after it had never been done before, projected as a better NFL slinger than those in both the 2013 and '14 drafts--the former including your Seminole predecessor--you're going to be given lots of passes. About as many as you completed in your Heisman/Sears Trophies-winning season.

However, all it takes is one drop for everyone to wonder if you have what it takes.

Jameis Winston already has scrambled from brushes with the law in Tallahassee; sexual assault accusations dropped just before the Seminole quarterback picked up his bronze statue from New York's Downtown Athletic Club.

Now, the school's next Deion Sanders has already garnered more attention from Florida's Finest than his decorated trailblazer ever had in his most flamboyant fashion.

Over crablegs.

Note, he has never been arrested, but cited--a special privilege given to those who break the law, whom authorities feel bad about arresting for whatever reason.

Infamous Jameis will pay a small fine--reportedly all of $30--for stealing seafood. He'll also pull community service. Great. Hang with folks who want to hang with you because you are who you are. Not exactly punishment. Just folks who'll reiterate to you how great thou art, making you forget you did anything wrong in the first place because hey, you're great, right? Twenty hours later, his sins will be annulled.

And even though he says he has no excuse, he (well, the royal he--his PR staff of lawyers put together by the University in conjunction with the sports information department) crafted an excuse-laden apology, citing his responsibility for owning his actions even though it was an honest mistake, and that he's 20.

And we wonder where we get the term "dumb jock"? They're led by enablers who think the public believes this tamahawk chop suey.

Sadly, folks react as if anything that happens now will have any real impact come judgment day (the NFL draft). They must think we're stupid, too.

They're right. We are. That, or we just don't care.

And even if we do, and remember what these pundits tell us now, it won't matter if Winston is on the board and a team out there needs a franchise quarterback. Sure, the Mel Kipers and the John Grudens and Todd McShays will bring up Winton's past for dramatics, but it's moot. It always is when it comes to star athletes. Greatness trumps all.

Just remember this:

When was the last time a quarterback with character issues led his team to a Super Bowl championship?

In case you're wondering, Ben Roethlisberger hasn't won anything since he got slapped for his missteps with women and the law.

It doesn't matter. It never will.

Winston will get his hug from the commissioner. There's no doubt about that. And he should. Criminals can repent. And if they don't, it's irrelevant. The NFL is loaded with these guys. Just like any other profession. If you can do the job and it doesn't affect business, everybody wins.

Winston can play quarterback better than anyone in college football, and better than a good chunk at the pro level.

But if he and his handlers keep making excuses for dumb decisions, he could end up like the last non-SEC quarterback to win a national championship.

Turd Clipper

It's 2014. Yet, in Donald Sterling's eyes, it may as well be 1814.

The embattled Los Angeles Clippers owner has nobody but himself to blame, even if it's not his voice on tapes telling his girlfriend he disapproves of her associating with black people, even though she is African-American herself.

Sounds like one of the Jeffersons. Namely, Thomas.

When your reputation precedes you as a racist, your players won't waste a warm-up dunk to give you the benefit of the doubt when you've bankrupted yourself of good will long before you get mic'd on TMZ.

The Clippers did the best they could to picket their self-proclaimed master, donning black armbands and heaving their warm-up jackets into a pile at center court for kindling. Unfortunately, the only thing L.A. burned in effigy was it's game-opening two-point lead in Sunday's series-evening loss at Golden State, leaving head coach Doc Rivers accepting blame for the 21-point defeat--the third worst in Clips' postseason history.

To add to the "who me?" mess, Sterling's estranged wife, Rochelle, told ESPN's Lisa Salters she is not a racist.

Whew. That's a relief. A denial straight from the Yes, Ma'am! public relations handbook. Salters reported that Mrs. Sterling was advised not to go on camera with her. You can almost picture the sideline counsel from a head-nodding publicist feeding her lines:

Disassociate yourself from your husband's actions immediately. Reiterate YOU are not a racist. 

Either way, Mrs. Sterling's comments came-off like a self-centered, self-serving, Real Housewife of Orange County who once loved her husband for his personality--not his money. Uh huh. Back to you in Bristol, Jay Harris.

Back to the real victims--the Clippers. The players won't escape this. Neither will any black basketball player, coach, legend, pundit or personality. But the rest can go about their business, until NBA commissioner, Adam Silver, finishes his first true test--an uncharted one even by Association standards. Then we'll go back to the comment well again and find every black player we know to fill the gaps for the same story repeated in countless papers and websites across the Melting Pot. For the Clippers, winning won't quell the leak in the boat; it'll just add more floodlights to the white racist elephant in the cabin.

Guess we didn't come very far at all in 2008 when we elected our country's first black President--as if we really, really would or could. But some actually believed this. Perhaps Donald Sterling believed this.

Nah.

Six years later, minorities are still authorities on race thanks to the foul mouths of the majority. Every time a racist reveals his inner secret--or in Sterling's case, reinforces his reputation--the media run to the first black personality they can find to comment on the matter. And that myopic Melting Pot idea is as much a lie as the millions of white voters who used that election to prove they're really not racists after all.

See? I'm not a...

A what?

A Donald Sterling?

The Clippers' owner is the big picture of race relations in the Melting Pot. The Clippers are the picture of the victims of racism in the Pot. And the rest of us are the spectators walking inquisitively through the gallery until we pass onto the next frame that grabs our attention. We act concerned. We try to feel empathetic, but we move on, because we can. We'll hear more as we pass through, but we'll continue on as if the problem has been solved, until the next problem arises. Then we'll sympathize. We'll act like we care. And we'll move on again.

America. One giant salad that only comes together when someone craps themselves. Then we flush the turd away until the next time we have to return to the toilet.

Sorry. But it's the truth.

Pineda Tar (#Hack)

New York Yankees pitcher, Michael Pineda, will find himself riding the Pineda for at least one or two starts after his second hit with a banned substance against the same bunch on whom he used it last week at Yankee Stadium.

In the second inning at Fenway Park, Boston Red Sox manager John Farrell noticed Pineda going to his neck with his throwing hand after a wild first inning where the Yankee righty foreshadowed reasons for going back to pine tar, the same substance he was accused by broadcasters of using in his previous starts against Boston.

Unlike last night, however, Farrell decided not to have umpires check Pineda for contraband despite it was as much a secret as Jose Canseco opening a Juice bar at The Ballpark in Arlington. 

Could have had something to do with Boston's starter that night; Clay Buchholz has a habit of keeping his hair slicker than Pat Riley's even on chilly nights like last. Funny, because in baseball, players wear hats, so hairdos are usually saved for the postgame show. Instead, John Lackey was throwing--well (11 strikeouts)--so Farrell had little problem trotting to the Boys in Blue and ratting out the guy who got him the time before.

Either way, it's Pineda's problem. It's a Yankee problem. But it's not in the impending suspension or Pineda's missed starts in an already-plagued Bronx rotation. 

It's Pineda's head.

Clearly he doesn't believe he can throw the ball without Stick'em. 

Clearly he's dumb enough to have tried this again after the first uproar. 

Clearly he didn't care that he left a skingraft of goo on his neck much like a burglar posting a score on Facebook.

Clearly Brian McCann couldn't get enough pine tar on his shin guards to make a difference. 

If you're a Yankee fan, you're hoping this isn't a watershed moment early in a season where even the pinstripers could be considered overachievers. With a hodgepodge of aging Hall-of-Famers, old rookies and AAAA-roster fillers, nobody is feeling bad for them despite the losses of Robinson Cano to the Mariners and Mariano Rivera to retirement. 

# # #

The NFL schedule release is the biggest non-story of 2014. But since it's the NFL, it makes headlines.

Sadly, there have always been leaks that never come to fruition, which is OK since nothing is official until the schedule itself is released. But when teams offer contests to pick the schedule and offer prizes like $100,000 (St. Louis Rams) or season tickets for life (Buffalo Bills) and a story comes out that one of these two teams may play on Thanksgiving, it sours the sentiment of fans who entered these longshot contests thinking they'd get at least one freebie. 

No. The Bills will not play the Lions on Thanksgiving.

But they will end another regular season in Foxboro. 

As of right now, the Raiders have the toughest schedule based on last season. The good news for Oakland is that never holds once the season starts.

Meanwhile, fanatics are penciling-in wins and losses like spoiled 16 year-old girls on YouTube filming their Christmas present requests. 

Hopefully, they'll remember to bring this list and check it twice after their team's first preseason game when their favorite player is lost for the season and we revisit another redundant NFL topic: Why we should cancel the preseason.

# # # 

Hershel Walker says he can still play in the NFL at 52.

Great timing for a league who has had it up to their Riddells in class-action concussion suits.

Then again, you can just blame this on one of Walker's 52 personalities.

Or, then again, you can blame those on the concussions, too.

# # # 

Anyone in Buffalo actually following the NHL playoffs? No, not the Blackhawks-Blues series. The whole thing?

# # #

Hope

For the sake of these athletes, let's hope.

Let's hope if Andy Dalton truly IS the face of the Cincinnati Bengals, that he doesn't morph into Josh Freeman quicker than he's depreciating into Carson Palmer.

Let's hope Colin Kaepernick doesn't turn into Ben Roethlisberger.

Let's hope Ronaldo McClain isn't cloned into any more Raiders draft selections. The NFL is better when the Silver-n-Black are back.

Let's hope for baseball's sake the NBA doesn't eliminate half its playoff teams like it should or else the Association will easily become the second-most popular sport in America.

Let's hope the next owner of the Buffalo Bills not only keeps them in western New York, but gives fans more than a CFL product to watch.

Let's hope A-Rod loses hope.

Let's all hope we accrue some common sense when it comes to "student athletes" and paying them. Stipends? Sure. But labor unions? Oh, puh-lease. Trust this writer: they're all taken care of. Education: Check. Injuries: Check. Room and Board: Check. Free sneaks and gear and enough stuffed envelopes to wreck the silver wings in Paulie Walnuts' 'do?

Check.

Is Shabbaz Napier an effing liar?

If he isn't, then everyone should forgive Chris Webber, too.

Let's hope Buffalo Sabres fans pick one side or the other when it comes to rooting for or booing their ex players in the Stanley Cup playoffs. No, you no longer reserve he right to jeer those who choose not to return to Buffalo even after they were traded.

Let's hope the NFL Draft really is worth the extra two-weeks' wait. Because the mock drafts certainly are not.

Let's hope ESPN stops headlining the Oscar Pistorious trial simply because he once medaled without feet.

While we're at it, no more force-feeding us soccer, either. Nobody knows. Nobody cares. And come June, when the US is euthanized in the Pool of Death, let's hope we never have to hear excuses. It's a crap sport with an awful infrastructure run by an organization of ambassadors who make the UN look competent enough to bridge peace between Arabs and Israelis.

Let's all hope the college football playoff gives us reasons to get excited for New Year's again.

Let's hope baseball follows suit with other sports and fixes replay, but unlike the other major sports, keeps its brawls. Otherwise, it'll be another long summer of dipping ratings.

And finally, let's all hope the Buffalo Bills of past, present and future, circle the wagons like they did in the 1990s because there's more than just the playoffs at stake in 2014. And beyond.

Excluding OJ.

Why God?

"Why God?"

This Christian has been asked this a lot. Especially the word "Christian" is fused to your name as part of a morning show for six years. The warnings were there from family members and fellow Christians alike to be become part of The Break Room, despite the fact that none of them offered a gainful employment alternative. 

"They're atheists." 

"They're agnostics."

"They take the Lord's name in vain." 

"You're working in a lion's den, Daniel."

Yes. All those things were and are true. It's funny when people think they know better than you do what you should and shouldn't do based on their own prejudice--something that should be as foreign to the faith as the Sixth Commandment. And when you do anything outside the Christian comfort zones, the same Christians whom are marred by Bill Maher and Jesse Ventura for being simple prove their critics right by their absolute warnings. 

How did we get this far? 

In fact, how did we go from a resurrection nearly two millennia ago, a baker's dozen of apostles (Paul came later, and thank God he did or else Christianity would have evaporated), the Feast of Pentecost to a Pope (word and office never found in the Bible), the term "Easter" (found twice, unrelated to Christ's miracle), thousands of denominations and hundreds of translations of The Book--all in English?

There are probably just as many reasons, vanity being the source of all of them. And that's just the problem with Christianity today: our own vanity. 

Instead of just reading The Book and taking it for what it is, we develop our own ideas on how God should run things. Then we get to days like today when churches are packed with folks genuinely interested in the Old, Old Story and today's disciples can't even pass the test.

Here's a couple of examples:

An usher walks to a family member attending a Baptist church for the first time on Resurrection Sunday and offers this before he walks through the door:

"Happy Easter. Where's your Bible?"

Yeah, that should set the tone for a morning altar call, right?

Here's another one from a Pastor to a member who had reasons for his or her absence:

"Hey, ________. Haven't seen you in awhile. How long as it been? Yes, it's been awhile, huh?"

Yeah. If I didn't know Christ as my Savior and put my faith solely in Him instead of his flock, I'd rather hang with the atheists, too.

Unfortunately, Christians are the only Bibles some people read. Sadly, that goes for even Christians. We're not allowed to screw-up, as unfair as that sounds. Christians are like restaurants--you're only as good as your last meal. If it doesn't go well, the customers aren't coming back.

This Christian screws-up a lot. But offering the "I'm not perfect" excuse is as hallow as blaming the devil. You just have to fess-up, apologize, and move forward. 

That's where that whole Lion's Den idea comes into play.

Every Christian should have non-believers to keep them in check. Having fellow Christians do it is imperative, but it's not enough. Fellow Christians are supposed to keep each other honest, but that's like having sixth-graders check each other's math homework for mistakes: they need the perspective of a teacher. 

Not so much as an authority, but a fresh pair of eyes.

This Christian, still worthless save for the Blood of Christ, would be even more useless if it weren't for The Break Room, or The Lion's Den as one fellow Christian called it. Because you can't tame lions without proper training.

Which brings us to today: the celebration of Christ's death, burial and resurrection. A story told in all four gospels and repeated throughout the New Testament. Unlike the over-celebrated Christmas story--albeit, still important--the Resurrection is told in all four gospels. 

How do you know this? Read The Book.

The show Cosmos on Fox is a great example of the work God has done throughout the universe. If Christians think he stopped with us sin-stained wretches, clearly they've spent too much time in the chapel. Instead of fighting it and accusing it of tearing-down the idea of a supreme being, Christians should embrace the idea of how great God truly is and how much thought he put into the idea of the Universe. 

How would anyone know this? Read The Book.

Laws of Thermodynamics? Read The Book.

Pathways in the seas? Read The Book.

Blood being the source of life? Read The Book. 

The world being round? Read The Book. 

Nah. We just take what the pastors give us, and repeat it poorly. And if they're not doing their homework, then we end up with thousands of denominations and different English versions of The Book, bastardized and diluted.

It's a real simple question: Why God?

Well, look outside.Let's start there. It's huge. Simple enough? It had to be created by somebody.

Either there is a God, or not. If you want to believe this all came from an accident, stop reading here. If you're still curious, keep reading.

(You're curious, huh? Probably just wanna see what's in print, but that's fine.)

Let's continue saying there IS a God. 

OK. Look at examples of world leaders of yesteryear and today. They don't like competition. They want to own everything and be all-powerful. Do you think a God wants to share His power with other gods? Based on that example, it's unlikely. 

So say there's One. Either he's identifiable, or he's just lazy.

Let's take the latter. Too many young men and women in this country are born fatherless to deadbeats. Sad. Yet, when it comes to God, folks either think he's one of those deadbeats, or he just doesn't care and let's you do your own thing. This writer would hate not having a father, so why would anyone enjoy the idea of an absentee God?

Again, if you prefer that idea, you can stop reading. The rest of us will continue.

It would be an atrocity to think God is out on an eternal lunch. And if you go by the World Leader Theory, no leader puts his position in auto-pilot. He wants total control. He wants to be involved because his ego tells him he should be.

Well who would have a bigger ego than God himself? He created everything. God is where all other egos go to die. When Moses asked who he should tell Pharaoh sent him, God responded by saying "I AM sent you." You don't get much bigger than that.

So, God must be identifiable. He must be tangible. He must be in control and He must want people to come to Him and worship Him and honor Him like a king or a president. They all do. Don't kid yourself.

That must mean He has identified Himself somehow...

Well, if God hates competition, then we can rule out Buddhism because there's no god in that faith; Hinduism, because there's too much competition, and any other polytheistic "deity."

That leaves the three major world religions, all based in the Middle East: Christianity, Judaism and Islam.

Take your pick. Want some help?

Jewish people don't proselytize. Either your born Jewish or not. So if you're not Jewish, you'd better find your way into a temple and get accepted and find a way to sacrifice those animals at The Temple--wait, you can't. It's been destroyed. Good luck there.

Islam: really? Terrorists are being used by the religion to recruit. It's sounds dumb to say, but Osama bin Laden was not a man of faith simply based on his non-terrorist actions, let alone 9-11. Al-Qaeda uses Islam as a recruiting tool. However, since there is no dispensation in the Qu'ran, all the rules in that book apply. So if it means "kill the infidels," so be it. 

Wanna try that one? Save your money to fulfill those five pillars.

Or, Christianity. 

Yes, this writer will admit it: there are way too many churches and sects. It's sad. And even those who get it right get it wrong, too, at the worst possible moments like today.

That's why you need to read The Book. 

It has the Old, Old Story.

And it's the only Way to get into Heaven where you'll never have to account for your mistakes, even those on "Easter" Sunday.

A guy with no infrastructure, who never led and army or a country, who created the universe, felt every temptation humanly possible and lived a perfect life to offer Himself a sacrifice for the sin of everyone else. No strings attached. No pillars. No temples. No more Passovers. He WAS the Passover.

That's WHY, God. 

Sound the Trumpet

Trump for Buffalo Bills owner? Why the Trump not?

Since the death of the franchise's sole owner, Ralph Wilson, Jr, the clock in fans' hearts ticks like a trident's steady poke to the chest. Fans lay collectible Tarot cards--memories of Kemp, Ferguson, Juice, Kelly, Thurman and Bruuuuuuuce--on their tailgates foreseeing the day when Mayflower trucks come to seize the cornerstone of an otherwise nondescript piece chunk of land, shelved between two of the largest cities in North America like an obligatory piece of iceberg lettuce in a Buffalo Chicken sandwich.

Welcome to Buffalo: An All-America City. Home of two sports franchises who have never won and enough snow to get sidetrack Santa on Christmas Eve. Despite the fact that both the Bills and the NHL's Sabres have combined for six championship whiffs since the latter's inception, three more conference title fails, and enough losing seasons to cancel a network, someone with cash and cache believes he can circle his own wagons and head west--or north--and make the Bills winners anywhere. Well, except Buffalo.

People love spending everyone else's money. We all do it. "Tax the rich" is a common cry, especially in the fall. In western New York, Bills fans have created fantasy teams of owners just to keep them here.

"(Tom) Golisano will buy 'em."

In 2012 when the Sabres were purchased by Terry Pegula from the aforementioned billionaire, fans figured the pair could team-up and buy the Bills and keep them in Buffalo forever. Just more regular folks dreaming big with other people's money. Throw-in Jeremy Jacobs, too, right? But, the NFL is all about making the best deal for the most revenue possible.

Enter: Everyone else.

Jon Bon Jovi. KISS. The hated Rogers family of hosers from up north. Why not Magic Johnson's Dodgers group? While all of these names, publicly or not, have entertained the idea of owning an NFL team, none of them would ever think twice about keeping it in Buffalo.

There is just once catch, however. And it's worth about $400 million if the next owner of WNY's crown jewel decides to pull-up FieldTurf and carpetbag like state tax exiles.

Yes, there's the seven-year (b)itch of a $28 million out clause. But even that isn't as easy as it sounds.

Buffalo Bills fans have a lot to fear right now. On top of the fact the team has just lost its owner, there's Jim Kelly's health, 14 straight losing seasons (a non-playoff season is a failure in the NFL), and a first-round, franchise-pegged quarterback whose injured as often as Dwyane Wade, whose injuries appear like unicorns or UFOs.

So what's the huff over Trump?

When the guy says he wants to keep the team in Buffalo, who knows if he's telling the truth or not? But it makes sense for a guy who lives in New York and wants to expand his empire, particularly in the Empire State. He has a lot of powerful friends (Patriots owner, Bob Kraft for one; the Steinbrenners for another) and would spend money to win. Why? The guy is highly competitive and isn't interested in backing a loser. He's also very influential with the politicians who want to keep the Bills in Buffalo. Perhaps they were the ones approaching him about buying the team. Maybe it was his old New Jersey Generals QB, Jim Kelly. Again, it's all speculation at this point. The only things we DO know for certain are:

1) Mr. Wilson is deceased.
2) Mary Wilson, his widow, is selling the team.
3) Mr. Trump says he's interested, and would like to keep the team here...if everything is viable.

Nobody else is publicly waving the flag to keep the team here, except Trump. Maybe he's just saying this. Maybe he's serious. Either way, he's saying the right things. And so is the Bills' current lease agreement with Erie County and New York State.

The Bills can do a lot worse than an owner like Donald Trump. Not to blaspheme a dead man, but Mr. Wilson didn't exactly delegate responsibility very well in the football department his last decade-and-a-half, either. Not to mention, this "old guard" of decision makers at One Bills Drive have come under fire publicly in the months approaching his death, and there are finally coaches and a general manger who aren't afraid to let people know exactly what they think.

Head coach, Doug Marrone, coached under Bill Parcells, and alongside Bill Belichick and Sean Peyton. GM Doug Whaley came from a Steelers franchise that won two Super Bowls while he was employed in Pittsburgh. And CEO Russ Brandon put his stamp on both of these hires knowing they hold the keys to the Bills' future.

Bills fans have enough to fear right now. The idea of Donald Trump buying them is NOT one of them. The New Stadium Working Group is exploring the possibilities of building a brand new, NFL-caliber arena that will make the Bills viable for decades to come--not just seven-to-10 years.

Think about the last seven-to-10 years: Tom Donahoe, Drew Bledsoe, Tom Modrak, Mike Mularkey, Marv Levy, Dick Jauron, JP Losman, TrINT Edwards, T.O, Toronto, Aaron Maybin, Marshawn Lynch vs. Law Enforement, Ryan FitzPatPick, and Chan Gailey.

Feels like yesterday, huh? Yes, even an eternity of torture can evaporate like a lead over the Patriots on a Monday night after a Leodis McKelvin fumble.

The next seven-to-10 will fly as quickly as a Flash Goodwin kickoff return. The Stadium Group better get it's playbook out and study it's tape.

No, the fear shouldn't be in Trump buying the team.

The fear should be the reason Trump decides NOT to buy this team.

Unless It Snows...

Perhaps this writer is the only one hoping this cold weather Super Bowl bombs like the Soviets at Lake Placid.

Then again, in 1980, the thought of the Lombardi Trophy being awarded amidst a mix of sleet and confetti was as much a pipe dream as the halfpipe competition itself, or the idea of the Winter Olympiad returning to site of America's most celebrated miracle.

If America is kidding anyone at this point, it's the idea that the weather will significantly impact the play on the field. These teams are accustomed to playing outdoors. Ideally, the elements shouldn't play a part in a championship game if it's truly played on a "neutral" site. If people want snow, maybe they'll get it. If not, they'll be watching just another cold weather playoff game with about as much crowd influence as a preseason game.

The sophisticated, typical Super Bowl crowd--the kind eschewing tailgate parties for luxury seats at most stadiums--now will pay top dollar to shuffle into MetLife Stadium by 2 o'clock to endure elements previously reserved for title games in stadia such as Lambeau for the next nine hours. The only noise from the wine-and-cheese crowd will simply be choruses of whines and "never agains" much like those who couldn't escape the Woodstock sequels fast enough.

It was bad enough when the Big Game was played in a cold week in Dallas, or in Detroit before that. Super Bowl week is supposed to be a vacation disguised as work. Now it's simply a home game for NFL execs who promised the Jets and Giants brass a Super Bowl if they could get another sucker to fiance the deal.

(...They got you and me, public, in their hands...)

 If the Meadowlands landed a Super Bowl, then why not Chicago, Denver, Seattle, Foxboro, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, or even...

Forget it. Stop dreaming. This is a one-year experiment that will only benefit FOX, New York, and the league, followed by PR-crafted "nos" disguised as "possibilities."

The men behind The Shield got their wish, much like the hierarchy in Buffalo got it's extra cash for a "home" game in Toronto. They'll have the hoopla that comes with any Super Week. Come kickoff, however--the only thing that ultimately matters--you'll get the same effect as you would at Rogers Centre, save open roof.

You'll get a game, of course. The Broncos and Seahawks truly are the two best teams in football.

You'll just hear echoes of Omahas and Richard Sherman's trash talk reverberating throughout the world's largest outdoor library.