This blog is designed to be a place where ordinary people who also happen to be bloggers can post about issues that are important to them, and be heard by wider audiences. If you write for your own blog or for a group blog, you are more than welcome to crosspost those essays here, but we ask that you use that opportunity to tell your readers “this entry is crossposted at the Independent Bloggers’ Alliance. You are also encouraged to post links to stories written by other contributors here. The fact is, the more we get in the practice of linking to each other, the better it is for all of us.
As far as ideology, I expect that we will be something of a mix of moderate to liberal viewpoints, not necessarily loyal to a particular party. Nobody is their best self all the time, but I expect us to make a genuine effort to treat each other with respect, even when we disagree.
If you'd like to become a contributor, drop me a note at ohiorenee(at)gmail.com.
One of the hardest thing to do in sports isn't hitting a 90-mile-an-hour fastball, or racing in the Indianapolis 500, or making the game-winning basket with 1.5 seconds left on the clock.
It's knowing when it's time to go.
There's a short list of athletes who knew when it was time: Jerome Bettis, Rocky Marciano, Jim Brown, and John Elway.
Then there's the other list, the long list of athletes with diminished skills who didn't know when to go.
Hey look, there's Eric Lindos, Muhammad Ali, Joe Namath, Willie Mays, Patrick Ewing, Emmitt Smith, David Cone, Wayne Gretzky, Rickey Henderson, Martina Navratilova--uhh, let's stop here. As I said earlier, it's a long list.
When it comes to reading the handwriting on the wall, athletes remain stubbornly illiterate. I never understood why until I saw an interview with the blues guitarist Johnny Winter on television one day.
Winter was promoting a new CD and he looked tired and bored as he answered questions he probably heard hundreds of times before. But then, by accident, the reporter asked him the right question: "So, Mr.Winter-how do you feel about what you do for a living?" It was as if she flipped a light switch on inside him. A bright happy smile lit up his face and he replied, "Well, it's a job--but it's a good job."
As long he stays healthy and people keep buying his CDs and going to his shows Winter can do his job as long as he wants. John Lee Hooker was in his 80s when he died, the morning after his last concert. That's much longer than the guys wearing jockstraps, that's for sure. Michelle Kwan retired at what, 25?
When you're an athlete, the window where you can do your job productively is temporary. I realize that nobody wants to leave the best job they're ever going to have. But if you're not careful and stay around too long, Father Time will slam that window shut on your fingers. Hard.
The GMs in Major League Baseball who sign up Roger Clemens are in an odd love/hate relationship with him. Oh sure, they love it that the the fiery pitcher-for-hire can still win games for them, but they hate the horrible things they have to do beforehand. This time, it was the Yankees turn.
“Jesus, this place stinks.”
“Over there! He’s in the cage where they used to keep Hannibal Lector.”
"R-roger?”
“HUNGRY!”
“It’s O.K., Roger! Look! We brought you a sportswriter!”
“No!” Dan Shaughnessy screams, “Aaiiieee!”
After the gory carnage is over, Roger picks his red-stained teeth with a bone and smiles. “ME VERY HORNY.”
"Huh? W-why are you looking at me?"
"Go ahead, Bill! George said to give him anything he wants!"
"NOT SEX! MONEY!"
Suddenly, in a foul-smelling cloud of brimstone, a demon in a suit appears.
"My God! Are you S--"
"Of course not," the demon smoothly replies, in a voice that sounds suspiciously like James Earl Jones. "I'm The Rocket's lawyer. Now, this is a list of what my client requires, and there will be no negotiation. Please listen carefully , our time is worth $5,000 a minute, and I will not repeat myself. First of all..."
