What the San Antonio Spurs taught us about success


Victory is a fleeting bird. You can cage it, you can cup it in between your two hands.  Then you open the cage door to feed it, or unlock your hands to admire it, and it vanishes. Whooshing away into the horizon. Indeed, the hardest part of success isn’t finding it, it’s remembering where you put it. Sustained excellence is the ultimate victory. It’s more than a result — it’s a way of life. Continue reading


Let’s not forget what Donald Sterling really is.


Donald Sterling is, with a degree of certainty I typically reserve for standing outside and being able to tell you if it’s nighttime, a despicable human. He looks down upon, and openly disdains, minorities. He treats them as physical specimens to be feared, gawked at and exploited for fiscal gain.  Continue reading

Russell Westbrook doesn’t steal scenes, he steals screenplays

Russell Westbrook

Zero. In set theory, Zero represents the cardinality, the first and only probable quantity of the null set. It’s the number around which all amounts, positive and negative, are based.

You don’t cloak yourself zero without first cloaking yourself in hubris. (See: Arenas, Gilbert) Continue reading

Part V: The Aud Club

My life officially began October 5, 1989.

I know, chronologically, I’d just celebrated seven years of wandering ’round the blue planet … but that era’s foggier than a San Francisco morning. As I grow older, depressingly, I remember even less.  I’m told early childhood was quite pleasant – overflowing with toys, games, smiles and discovery.

But oh, do I remember donning my nicest threads to my induction as a red-blooded Western New Yorker: My very first Sabres game at the Aud. Continue reading

Growing Up Griffey

I scanned my face in the mirror last night a little more stringently than usual.

Nothing really changed, mind you, since the day before. But those crow’s feet are becoming a bit more pronounced, that forehead’s annexed some new territory further to the north, and that waistline has a bit more wobble than it once did.

But last night. I got real old. A lot of folks my age did, too. Ken Griffey, Jr., forever the kid, got too damn old for baseball. Continue reading

Kurt Warner picks a Good Friday to retire, on the third day he’ll rise again

PHOENIX, Ariz. — Kurt Warner, he of cyborg-like accuracy and pious dignity, called it a career after 40 five years in the desert and 12 in the NFL.

The 38-year old quarterback called a presser to announce his retirement from football and the sport at which he never chose to give up, no matter how long the odds. Continue reading

The New York Yankees and the Sociology of Winning


The New York Yankees are world champions.

Go ahead and say it. It’s like hearing “The sun set in the evening” and “Toyota makes the most dependable, longest lasting cars on the road.” There’s a certain summer-shower calm mixed with lightning-bolt bravado. Order, esteem, class and confidence. It’s the Mariano Rivera cut-fastball of sports phrases. You know it’s coming, often, and yet you cannot stop it lest you leave with a broken bat.

Continue reading