The Billdozer’s lament

The late Ted Williams had so many nicknames that it's a shame he can't share some of them with today's athletes.

Growing up I watched basketball players like Dream, Clyde the Glide, Mighty Mouse and the Admiral. Charles Barkley was the Round Mound of Rebound. Michael Jordan became Air. In baseball Griffey was the Kid, but that was really a heist of Ted Williams. Remember him? The Splendid Splinter? The Thumper? Teddy Ballgame? One and the same. His contemporary was Joltin’ Joe (the Yankee Clipper) and maybe the one person who could hit as well as he went by Sultan of Swat and never by George Herman. Babe, nicknames have come a long way (down) from where they once were.

Today we have gotten lazy. With sports writers less concerned about christening monikers (Jimmy Cannon come back) we are largely stuck with what can fit on a sign and be carried into an arena. The formula for a nickname has become so universal there’s really no pride to be had in coming up with one.

First initial + last name (- creativity) = Acceptable modern nickname

Do you know who came up with D-Wade? Of course not. Hell, the person who first called him that probably doesn’t even know he started it. Now, if it was the Marquette Jet, that might be something to be proud of.

The Blazers are the prime example of boring nicknames. All Star Brandon Roy? B-Roy. Up-and-coming guard Jerryd Bayless? J-Bay. LaMarcus Aldridge offers an even worse contribution: L.A. LA!?!? It’s taken by a city of 10 million people — each of whom, I should add, can probably come up with a better nickname for the 6-10 Texan (the “Lone Star All-Star ” comes to mind; if he can ever become one, anyhow).

I guess I should be grateful that a friend in middle school bestowed upon me “the Billdozer.” If not, I might have been stuck with the LaMarcus Aldridge model. And as nicknames go, B.O. stinks

A non-offensive offensive coordinator for the Griz

Jonathan Smith will be a great hire for Montana if he can coach with the same fire he played with at Oregon State a decade ago.

Since I was a kid, I’ve lamented the poor fortunes of the teams I root for. The Portland Trail Blazers have come oh-so-close to winning an NBA title no less than four time since I’ve been alive; my New York Mets seemingly used up all their good luck on Bill Buckner, and have since fallen flat in both 2000 and 2006; the Oregon State football team has lost two straight Civil War games to rival Oregon that cost the Beavs Rose Bowl berths; The University of Montana, my alma mater, has seen its football team lose in the national championship game the last two seasons.

As a fan, I’m convinced I’m cursed.

That’s totally ignoring 2000, of course, the one magical season when a rag-tag bunch of Oregon State Beavers, coming off the program’s first winning season in 28 years, dammed the rest of the Pac-10, went 11-1 and skipped past Notre Dame to win the Fiesta Bowl.

And the rag-taggiest of them all was a diminutive quarterback from California who nobody else wanted. Jonathan Smith quarterbacked Oregon State to its best season ever, the year fans surged to Reser Stadium and Beaver football became relevant for the first time in the modern era.

I turned 14 during that season and my memories of Smith are vivid. At 5-11 he was often dwarfed on the field, his arm wasn’t the strongest and he  wasn’t much of a runner. It was his savvy, his poise and his intelligence that made him such a joy to watch. I’ll never forget as he led the Beavers to a spirited comeback in their only loss of the season, 33-30* at Washington, he completed a long touchdown pass after losing his shoe. That speaks nothing of his talent,or any other qualities that make a quarterback great, but only to his legend. And really, with guys like Matt Moore, Derek Anderson and Sean Canfield coming after him and shattering his records, what does he have other than legend?

He left OSU holding all of the school’s passing records. Sure, maybe that’s easier to do when you have Chad Ochocinco (nee Johnson) and T.J. Houshmanzadeh to throw to, and maybe it’s easier for those guys to get open when you have running back Ken Simonton (still, I think the best running back Oregon State has had; we forget how good he was those first three years) to balance the attack.

Smith has mostly been overshadowed by Anderson and Moore, both of whom regularly appear as starters in the NFL. For Smith there was no NFL.

He immediately became a graduate assistant, coaching at OSU under Dennis Erickson and Mike Riley. He then went to Idaho, where he spent the last six seasons coaching quarterbacks — that in itself is almost funny, because the things that made Smith great are the same things I always suspected couldn’t be coached.

I’ve been reminded this month of Smith. He has joined the coaching staff at Montana in the wake of head coach Bobby Hauck’s move to UNLV. Smith will serve as the offensive coordinator for the Griz.

One might suspect the Grizzlies attack next year will be more aerial, what with Smith taking over the offensive and Robin Pflugrad, former wide receivers coach for the pass-happy Oregon Ducks, the new head coach.

After the wild ride Smith took the Beavers on in 2000, whose to say he won’t do the same for the Griz in future years?

Maybe the fact I no longer cover that team is just a continuation of my curse.

*More vividly than anything Smith ever did, I remember kicker Ryan Cesca’s 48-yard-field goal sail wide right. Had he made it, OSU would have likely appeared in the national championship game. I believe they were good enough that year to win it. That kick remains the only aspect of the 2000 season consistent with my curse.

Nine for $31.50

Last night my girlfriend and I went to see Nine, the Rob Marshall musical starring Daniel Day-Lewis, Judi Dench, Sophia Loren, Marion Cotillard, Kate Hudson, Penelope Cruz, Nicole Kidman and Fergie.

There’s more Oscars there than at a Sesame Street convention.

Anyhow, the movie was great. I loved it. The music rocked, the costumes were stunning. Daniel Day-Lewis continues to be the most underrated actor out there. The movie was just sexy; it was an intellectual cabaret. I hope Nine is nominated for, and wins, many awards.

The big but (and I’m not talking about Fergie’s): After buying two tickets, a medium popcorn and a large water we spent more that $30 to see Penelope Cruz shimmy and Kate Hudson shake. My father, a man I very much admire but whose stubbornness I usually find incredibly frustrating, hasn’t seen a movie in theaters since Space Jam. Before that, I think it was Amadeus.

“It’s a waste of money. I’ll see it when it’s on TV,” he says. And he’s  right. Americans spent $160 million to see Meet the Parents in theaters. Now it’s on USA every weekend. And my dad watches it all the time.

So what drives us all like sheep to movie theaters to watch usually banal films that for the most part are easily forgettable? Google tells me there are 31 movie theaters in the  Portland area, most showing more than 10 movies. Do they all get to charge $10.50 per ticket? That’s insane. But not as insane as the fact that we all go and consider it a viable — and affordable — form of entertainment.

I went to Nine because I was drawn in by a provocative World Series trailer. I was not disappointed and don’t really mind spending the money on the rare occasion. The last movie I saw in theaters was (500) Days of Summer — but that was at a theater that charged just $3 per ticket. Yet, last night — a Monday, for crying out loud — the lines around the Regal Cinemas in Tualatin were at least 10 deep and all showings of something called Avatar were sold out.

To quote my father again: “There ain’t no recession in Portland.”

I hear Avatar is actually quite good. But I’ll catch it when it’s on TV.

My loyal friend Bobby

Photo by Tim Kupsick/2007, Montana Kaimin

With the football team of my alma mater, the University of Montana, playing in the Football Championship Subdivision national championship game tonight, it’s as good of a time as any to chime in on my thoughts of its coach, one Robert Hauck.

Bobby is something of a villain in many circles, and certainly in the circles I travel in. As a reporter covering the Grizzlies for much of my college career, I was cussed out by Hauck, victimized with his relentless “f-you” glares and simply ignored. Of course, the treatment I received from Hauck was nothing compared to how he admonished student reporters this year after they reported on Griz players getting arrested.

Tonight the Griz will play in their third championship game under Hauck. He’s coached the team for seven seasons and has been ranked in the top-5 each of those seasons, yada yada yada. The man can coach, no matter what you think of him personally. And LOTS of people have opinions, as I wrote in a lengthy 2007 profile.

I’ve long thought of Hauck as being split into two people. You’ve got the coach and then you’ve got the guy. I don’t think most people separate their at-work personality from their work one, but he surely does. He’s fiercely loyal, maybe to a fault, to his players

Anyhow, his resume has made Hauck a candidate for lots of bigger jobs. He was rumored to have been offered a job as assistant head coach for Rick Neuheisel at UCLA. He has also been considered at Stanford, Minnesota, Washington State and Colorado State. This year his name his been linked to an opening at UNLV.

A columnist named Joe Kusek, whom I do not know, at the Billings Gazette argues that Hauck should wait for another job, even though “he wants out and everybody knows it.”

I think Hauck will get another chance and he deserves it. But I reject the notion that he would get on the next train out of town if it had an FBS athletic director on it. If the UCLA rumor was true, then Hauck has already turned down one job better than his current one.

Hauck actually likes being the coach at Montana. His pal Neuheisel once called it Hauck’s “dream job.”  Its his own alma mater (he was a track and field athlete), his brother is in the Grizzly Hall of Fame, his uncle has been an assistant coach there for a couple of decades. Also, when Hauck recruits, he’s talking to coaches who knew his dad, Bob, a longtime coach in the state who died last year. I think there’s a lot to be said for that last one.

I expect Montana to beat Villanova tonight (8 p.m., Eastern on ESPN2) and Hauck will win his first national championship. Then it will likely be up to him whether he wants to stay in Missoula and try  for another one. Coaches who win championships eventually advance. Joe Glenn won a championship at Montana before going to Wyoming. Mike London’s Richmond team beat Montana in the final last season; next year he’ll be coaching at the University of Virginia.

Don’t be shocked if he moves up, too. But don’t consider it a foregone conclusion either.

#twitter

Amid the deluge of news on the death of Cincinnati Bengals receiver Chris Henry, came a report that he had died.

Let me back up. Henry was apparently thrown from the bed of a pickup truck after a domestic dispute with his girlfriend. He was on life support for many hours and through the night and died this morning. But yesterday afternoon, around 7 p.m. Eastern, a twitter account claiming to be that of Dallas Morning News reporter Gerry Fraley said Henry had already died.

The first hint that the account was a fake was its name: @biodome10. Oftentimes twitter accounts are anonymous and use funny names, but in my experience journalists who use twitter as a tool use their real names. I myself tweet under @oramb. Beyond that, though, the Fake Fraley sent out believable sounding tweets. Take these for example:

#bengals Just spoke to Dr. Allenberg, the head of the ICU at Piedmont Regional Medical Center, he confirmed Chris Henry has passed away and

#bengals #nfl Just spoke to Adam Schefter over in Bristol. He’s confirmed the reports of Chris Henry’s passing. ESPN will be airing a piece.

Credible outlets, including Schefter of ESPN, quickly debunked the claims. But it left the real Gerry Fraley scrambling to protect his online identity. See, he previously didn’t tweet (at least not that I can find) so when somebody purported to be him, readers had no reason to really doubt it.

In response, Fraley started a twitter account (@DMNGerryFraley appears to be legitimate) and began firing off messages insisting that he was not reporting that Henry had died, and that a sick person was claiming to be him. And while the Fake Fraley certainly has a sick sense of humor, the Real Fraley could have avoided the whole thing.

Instead he got in a bad situation where all his doppelganger had to do was send off this tweet:

Apparently someone has made a fake twitter using my identity and been posting false news. Please report DMNGerryFraley as an identity fraud.

So how does the regular follower know who to believe?

The folks over at sportsjournalists.com have been having a spirited debate on the benefits of reporters using twitter. Fraley’s case could be the best argument yet for all reporters to use twitter. If Fraley had had a previous twitter account, followers would have immediately recognized the hoax. His identity couldn’t have been hijacked. If somebody had claimed to be Schefter, or Rick Maese of the Washington Post, we could have quickly pointed to their real accounts and outed the fake. Instead, some legitimate news outlets picked up on Biodome10′s hateful tweet. Sad.

Some old school reporters have been resistant to adapt to the service, but it’s becoming apparent that by holding out they could lose more than the occasional scoop.

The fight

When you’re in a serious, monogamous relationship with someone and you live together there’s going to occasionally be conflict. Such was the case last night between my girlfriend Andrea and me.

It started when she made clear her distaste for a floppy bucket hat I was wearing. The hat is black and orange, has the logo of the Oregon State Beavers on it and I’ve had it for years. A smart person does not disparage my floppy hat. But she did. And she did some more.

As our disagreement over the floppy hat escalated we got in bed and she started hitting me with a pillow, and then I was hitting her with pillows. Next — and this is where it gets really ugly — we were laughing some hard that we didn’t even have the strength to swing back as we were getting bludgeoned with the down hammers. At one point as I tried to escape my foot did actually catch her in the chin and I felt terrible and she appeared to be hurt, but then she cackled and hit me with a pillow again. The pillows eventually were put back at the head of the bed where they belong and we prepared for sleep. Until I accidentally splashed some water on her and then she dumped the rest on me and our bed was soaked.

And yeah, we laughed while we changed the sheets.

All in all, I’d say it was a pretty healthy expression of our emotions.

The Sports Guy

I have no one to blame but myself. I intentionally went to Bill Simmons book signing tonight.

For those who don’t know, Bill Simmons writes the Sports Guy column for ESPN.com. Simmons has made a career out of being a sycophant for Boston sports teams and for being knowledgeable and cynical about all the other ones. As someone who aspires for a prolific sportswriting career, I don’t begrudge Simmons. He is not a classically trained journalist, but he’s penetrated the market as part of The World Wide Leader and is incredibly widely read. I suppose that is why when he writes a 700-page book about the great debates of basketball history, thousands of men in stained NBA retro jerseys line up so Simmons can glance at them briefly, laugh at their bad jokes and sign the title page of his book. Thousands. Of. Times.

That said, Simmons has an absolute franchise. Which is sort of where I come into the picture. I don’t read Simmons’ column regularly, or really even irregularly. But when I saw he was coming to the Borders mere miles from my office, I felt the pull to buy the book and go to the signing. Not because I’m a huge fan. Not even because I particularly want to read the book. Mostly because it was Bill Simmons and I felt like when given the opportunity to have Bill Simmons sign his book for me, I should make that happen.

So after arriving a half hour before the signing was supposed to start, receiving a wristband that informed me I was in the latter half of people to get their book signed, I began waiting. At 7 p.m. Simmons came out, gave a three-minute speech and sat down and started signing books. Some folks were peeved Simmons didn’t read from his book or talk more about it, but in dude’s defense, he had thousands of bloodsuckers (myself included) literally lined up for him to scratch his name onto a page. So I can’t blame him for wanting to get the show on the road.

After sitting. Then standing. Then sitting and standing again, I got to Simmons who looked at me wearily, wrote “To Bill” and I made some lame crack about us having the same name. He said he felt like he was writing it to himself. I said he should give himself a signed copy of his book for Christmas. He didn’t laugh. And then it was over.

No real regrets about the whole thing, I just think it’s kind of a weird ritual, this book signing thing. That said, I hope one day I can find a topic about which to write 700 pages and sell 1,000 of them each night by just signing my name to an inside page.