Going into last night’s finale versus the Utah Jazz, my cynicism was at an all-time high. It was the unbelievable that made me believe.

I Remember Mamba


Number 8 may have been over the top in shamelessly emulating MJ. But when he had his tongue out, deep in a crouch and defying opponents to drive, dude was pretty hard to hate on.



His Sunday waterball (the first one) wasn’t a shank—the shot flew forward-ish for a bit—but it never threatened the green. Here was the same attenuated, unsure, swing we’d seen for more than two rounds, only this time the leaner didn’t find a bunker or false front. It found Rae’s Creek.

101,763 People Can’t Be Wrong


For years, the WWE has been criticized for not making new stars. Now, the company is using their most vocal critics to their advantage. The very same folks that complained about not having their voices heard have become the biggest agents of change.

On Baseball, the Dodgers, and Ritual


I’ve been trying to figure out what kept me with baseball—why I watched ESPN’s “Baseball Tonight,” why I loved game-of-the-night broadcasts with Jon Miller and Joe Morgan for what felt like every night of summer in Ohio. But every potential answer to the question just makes me wonder even more: Why the hell do I love even the boring things about a sport that’s already so tedious?

Game 7, 1986


My focus was on winning a World Series for the New York Mets, one hundred percent. But even as a big-league sapling, now three full seasons into my career, I still scoured the box scores each day during the season to see how the Red Sox were doing. On some level, I was still that seven-year-old kid from the summer of 1967, pulling for Carl Yastrzemski and the Boston Red Sox.

Etcetera 3.


A vine is for climbing and swinging. The street named after one is for walking on stars, from Sunset to Hollywood and down.


The crack of the backbeat ends in a monument of surf: The Beach Boys are a name on the Walk of Fame.