Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Shave it..


Check out this beauty - ShaveEricWedge.com

The site is described as:

Dedicated to getting Tribe skipper Eric Wedge to shave the moustache that is responsible for the Indians early season swoon in 2005.  We believe that the moustache, which Wedge either grew or bought in the off season is the Achilles Heel of the Tribe's anemic offense.  The moustache, which may have been an acquisition by General Manager, Marc Shapiro, joins US Cellular Field and Twins catcher, Matt LeCroy, as the ugliest things in the American League Central.  Please help in any way you could, to aid in the removal and destruction of Eric Wedge's moustache.  The Tribe, the city of Cleveland, and most importantly Eric Wedge need you.

awesome..

Cavs brought to you by Swenson's


And here we go..looks like sponsored jerseys are headin to the NBA.  This has been present in European futbol (aka: soccer) for sometime, but it seems after some initial tests in the niche sports of Arena Football and Major League Soccer, ads on jerseys are coming.  While some say this will ruin the integrity of the sports..ha.  Dolla's speak and with salaries averaging $5 million another revenue stream is necessary.  Personally, I want to see an Ohio business, preferable Swenson's, sponsoring the Cavs.  I would have no problem buying that jersey. 

yea..I'd like to advertise on those jerseys

And of course, Cuban is leading the charge.  Dolla Dolla bills yo..

UPDATE:  Ok, so apparently Mark Cuban just updated his blog on 5/30/05 to address the Advertising on Jerseys topic...and yes, expect him to definetely lead the charge. 

Hmm..maybe?


Could this be fo real?  I know everything right now is still a rumor, but this is a decently large article in the Times. 

That would be interesting having Brown in charge of James again..although he won't be coaching.   I don't think old man Larry will have the option to bench LeBron thus I doubt LeBron will have to resort to 43 point attacks on his temporary coach. 

Personally, I am glad to see Gilbert shooting high.  Jackson was a stretch, but at least we went for it.  I think Gilbert is a solid exec and he will make the right calls this offseason.  At this rate, July should be more exciting in Cavs land than Tribe baseball (although the Tribe did get some press due to their bad-boy image). 

And now we wait..for the playoffs to end.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Wow..and I thought I was nuts


So yeah..this link right here is absurd..be forewarned.  But there is much LeAkron LeLove so its acceptable. 

Another question...is that mustache for real?

You Suck..Seriously

 

I don't even know what to say..


Also an update to the OSU scandal:

Apparently, the NCAA tried to speak with Clarett concerning his allegations, but he did not return repeated phone calls.  Which begs the question - why was Maurice so receptive to ESPiN (where he could spout off without any verification of his allegations) but not so receptive to the NCAA (which actually fact-finds and makes conclusions)?

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Check Yo Self..Media..

In response to the recent story about OSU being hit up with 9 NCAA violations, my buddy Paul has something to say:

You may remember back in November of 2004 how ESPiN exposed "explosive" allegations against Ohio State by none other than one Maurice Clarett.  Although these allegations were previously investigated by the NCAA, they were still reported. It made ESPiN the Rag- I meant mag.  It was on SpinCenter.  It was in their college football programming, including games and halftime shows.  Eventually, OSU's AD, Andy Geiger "retired" under the pressure, after inviting the NCAA to look at everything again and claiming that no one should believe anything said by Maurice Clarett.  

Well, yesterday, the NCAA finished its investigation and issued a report against The Ohio State University, citing a number of violations.  Here are the nine violations:

• Former men's basketball coach Jim O'Brien, through then-assistant coach Paul Biancardi, provided a cash payment of approximately $6,700 to then-recruit Alex Radojevic.

• Kathleen Salyers had improper in-person contacts and impermissibly provided recruiting inducements to Radojevic.

• An individual (who became a booster after providing benefits) gave recruiting inducements and benefits to a former men's basketball student-athlete, including meals, cash payments and living expenses.

• A booster provided a former men's basketball student-athlete with impermissible academic assistance.

• O'Brien impermissibly provided Kathleen Salyers with two season tickets for four consecutive home men's basketball seasons.

• O'Brien and Biancardi acted contrary to the principles of ethical conduct by failing to report their knowing involvement in NCAA rules violations relating to the above allegations.

• Both the institution and O'Brien failed to monitor the conduct and administration of the men's basketball program.

• Ronald Erkis, a Columbus orthodontist, provided impermissible, cost-free or discounted services to several women'sbasketball student-athletes.

• A booster provided an impermissible extra benefit to a football student-athlete in the form of a cash payment of $500 for work that allegedly was never performed.



Seven of the violations relate to basketball.  OSU has already incurred a one-year self imposed penalty of no postseason play for that violation.  One is from women's basketball.  One is from football, and alludes to Troy Smith acceptance of a booster's gift.  Smith was suspended for a bowl game and then the opening game of the 2005 season.  In particular, the basketball allegations were considered a failure to monitor the basketball team and administration, but not a lack of institutional control.   NONE OF THE VIOLATIONS WERE THE RESULT OF MAURICE CLARETT'S ALLEGATIONS, as so explosively reported by ESPiN.  

So what does ESPiN put out?  So far, here is what they have:

1.  ESPiN used an AP wire story that expressly states none of Maurice Clarett's allegations were verified.  Well, at least ESPiN can get something right- when it relies on other sources.

2.  Ivan Maisel's Tuesday, May 17 "Three-Point Stance" which states: "Ohio State football escapes an NCAA investigation with only the $500 in quarterback Troy Smith's pocket to answer for, which means that Jim Tressel knows how to win with defense whether it's November or May."    

3.  Page 2's Daily Quickie, which suggests that OSU should stop all sports for one-year, so that it can "get its house back in order." .  

So we have no response from Tom Friend, author of the OSU allegations.  Or from any other ESPN writer, other than a one-sentence retort from Ivan Maisel.  And the Daily Quickie "article" ignores facts found by the fact-finding investigatory body and concludes that Ohio State might one day get the death penalty.

What does this tell us about ESPiN?  That they can publish whatever they want, unchecked because there is no other real outlet in the sports/entertainment market on a nation-wide basis.  They can create a story (OSU cheats! Maurice Clarett says so!), they can inflame the story (Let's put it on all our shows! Let's put it in our magazine!  Let'stalk about it ad nauseaum!), and then they can ignore the real findings while still reaching incorrect conclusions.  Why doesn't ESPiN have the courage to own up to its article and devote just as much time and space to the fact that OSU was not found guilty of any of the allegations stated by Maurice Clarett, and that OSU has already imposed penalties on itself and the student athletes who committed the wrong doings in eight of the nine violations?  

Because ESPiN isn't in the journalism/news-reporting business anymore.  It is in the news-making business.  And the facts don't make as much news as allegations and opinions that sound explosive, even if they aren't true.  As Mark Cuban has been complaining for years - the media creates the story now, instead of the story being reported by the media.   And ESPiN is one of the leading offenders in creating the story.


Well done my friend..

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Ahh..What a Team


Yes, I know this is an article about the Wizards from the Wash Post, but about half way down the author dives into some classic Cavs names

Check it:

<< In the late 1980s, Magic Johnson called the Cleveland Cavaliers "the Team of the '90s." They had cat-quick Mark Price, plastic man Larry Nance, deadeye Craig Ehlo, dependable (if unspectacular) Brad Daugherty, Ron Harper and John "Hot Rod" Williams. The Cavs were supposed to unseat the Boston Celtics and Detroit Pistons by themselves, without Jordan and Chicago's help. >>

But of course the article does not go on to praise the Cavs (shocker), and instead talks about the teams demise. 

I know I am shootin you guys a lot of links from papers in which most probably don't have a login/password so check out this site, BugMeNot, for some umm..borrowed info. 


Also, it seems we have a new Cleveland sports blogger in the house...13 yr old Tim who is writing "A blog discussing Cleveland sports teams and whatever I feel like posting." 

Well put my man..


More ESPiN Crap

Is this a joke?

How on earth does Wade have that many votes..I mean just cause Wade came through for 2 games vs. an inexperienced Wizards this means he could even be compared to the King?  For the whole season, LeBron was on his own and Wade had a guy named umm...Shaq..the most dominate player in the past 20-30 years.  Screw you ESPiN.  I know James firing his agents and making you nervous is the cause of this crap.  Man I wish I could change the channel only to find another option besides ESPiN.   

Anyways..here is a quick article about the current uncertainty of our teams and players. Yeah, I would like to know what the hell is going on as well.  Little shocked he didn't inquire about where the Indians offense has been.   

Friday, May 13, 2005

One Day, One Day


Today is Friday the 13th..a day associated with curses, black cats, Freddy, and whatever else.  It's also apparently the time a Beacon Journal columnist reflects on Cleveland's sports misery

This is really not funny..but it's the way it is.  Also, this article sounds quite similar to my first post

In summary this is what it says:

You glance at the calendar and notice it's Friday the 13th. You are a Cleveland sports fan. It's always Friday the 13th.
But through all the misery and the 41 years between major titles, have you asked yourself the following question: Where is the parade route?


oh and here are the 13 unluckiest moments in Cleveland sports history (according to the ABJ):

1. Ninth inning of Game 7 of '97 World Series

2. The Shot (Michael Jordan beats Cavs)

3. Red Right 88

4. Jim Chones' broken foot

5. The Drive

6. Herb Score eye injury

7. The Fumble

8. Indians sold to Stouffer instead of Steinbrenner

9. Art Modell decides to move the Browns in 1995

10. Kellen Winslow motorcycle crash

11. Ted Stepien buys Cavs in 1980

12. Back injury ends Brad Daugherty's career

13. Willie Mays' 1954 catch


Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Little Street Ball


Check out this instant classic from Slate.com (thx Hamel) which basically takes a bunch of players in the NBA playoffs and categorizes them as certain streetball stereotypes

You know what I am talking about..just read it.  As the author says, "If you stare at pro players long enough, they start to look less like superheroes and more like the guys we've all hooped with at the YMCA. Ricky Davis isn't one of the NBA's top bench players. He's that annoying guy who thinks he's the team captain."  

Notice a little shoutout to Damien Wilkins, who went to my highschool in LeAkron.  He gets ripped on but one day this kid should be sweet..I mean look at his bloodline.

Here is a little taste for those who aren't going to read the article:

The Guy Who Doesn't Show Up: Kwame Brown, Washington Wizards (suspended for the rest of the playoffs)

Oh, you're running a little bit late? I see, you thought we meant p.m., not a.m. You'll be another 10 minutes? Now you're at the wrong J.C.C.? No, no, don't worry. We have enough to start without you.


Play on..


Staying Faithful

Well..it seems the King is opting for Akron love instead of your typical oh what did they used to call them..oh yea sports agents.  When your as money as the King you dont need such things..just call upon your boys. 
So LeBron is expected to turn over the duties to his boy Maverick Carter (sweet name), a former St. V playa turned Nike employee. 

The 4 Horsemen from LeAkron are now ready to take on the world..  As long as homebase is LeAkron, that is well..sweet.

Solid move LeKing..I mean Goodwin got him all these endorsements, but it's not like you had to sell his talents to these companies..  LeBron is the best of the best and has more commanding power than anyone out there.  He won't even need to renegotiate his contract..it's pretty obvious he is gettin the max deal. 

Also, the Akron Beacon Journal is reporting Def Jam might be involved here.  Not sure on that one, but given the ABJ is the best source of LeBron news, it might come to light in the next few days.  Remember the Jigga Man is prez of Def Jam.  Looks like the Dynasty symbol is here to stay. 

sup now..

On another note, check out this article by RealGM on those possible LeBron trade talks..  Basically, the author of this website said the Cavs should trade the King for basically a whole team..ala Hershal Walker.  So as expected he received hate mail and this article is basically a back and forth between the RealGM author and his own Cavs columnist.  Ha..  A long article, but some good points on both sides.  In my opinion, his third reason, the Panic Button, is most vaild..I mean there is no rush.  Calm down people..

Anyways..

Thursday, May 5, 2005

Random Recap #5: OH Giggidy

As you might have noticed by my lack of posts, the life of LeBlog has been quite packed, but just give me time before I realize the blog is #1 and life is #2.

Tomorrow the celebration of LeAkron hits Vegas so this should be the last post till mid next week. 

Enjoy the randomness:

*****Albert Belle
Yea that’s right I said Albert Belle.  The Indian's bad boy who punched a fan because of a little name change to Joey…Joey..Joey.  But to most he was known more for a little corking incident referred simply as “Batgate.”   In case you forgot here is a little summary: 

On July 15, 1994, Belle's bat was confiscated by umpire Dave Phillips after White Sox manager Gene Lamont voiced his suspicion that the bat was corked. The Indians knew it was corked, and set out to replace the bat, which Phillips had put in his locker. During the game, Indians pitcher Jason Grimsley wriggled through a crawl space above the ceiling above the umpires' locker room, dropped through an escape hatch, and replaced the corked model with a conventional one. "My heart was going 1,000 miles a second," said Grimsley. "I just rolled the dice, a crapshoot."

But the caper was easily found out -- the faux Belle model Grimsley had put in Phillips locker had Paul Sorrento's name on it. Belle was suspended for seven games. In his autobiography, released just a few weeks ago, former Belle teammate Omar Vizquel wrote about the "Batgate" incident: "I can be naive at times, but I'm not stupid. Certainly not stupid enough to steal Albert's corked bat and replace it with one that looked completely different -- one that was autographed by Paul Sorrento. That wasn't even a nice try. The problem, of course, was that all of Albert's bats were corked."

so nice and innocent you are..

So why am I bringing up Joey..well, I recently read that Belle was one of the candidates to buy the Cavs..yep…the Cavs.  Apparently he let the media know about this, but I heard nothing of the sort.  So as the LeABJ notes before Gund sold the team to Dan Gilbert, he (or someone from his organization) allegedly met with Belle, who wanted to put together agroup to purchase the team.   Wow..imagine that.  I later read on to learn that Albert made almost $100 million playing ball which put him in the top 10 baseball earners of all time.  I don’t know many endorsements he had, but I doubt enough to amount to more than Gilbert’s $375 million.  Yeah, pretty nuts huh?

*****Check out this completely random story I found surfin the net for something..I don’t know what.  It’s author is a die hard Cleveland sports fan and apparently a semi-pro wrestler.  It’s pretty humorous and mentions some classic names.  If you’re too lazy to read it goes like this:

Article starts:   I love Cleveland. I love the Cleveland Browns. I love the Cleveland Indians. I love the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Article ends:  If only more sports were like wrestling.


*****I must admit I am pretty psyched to see how Charlie Frye does with the Brownies.  The LeAkron University QB is definitely considered the next great MAC QB to hit the NFL.  His 11,049 passing yards rank third in MAC history and 15th in NCAA DI-A history..damn.  Also, Frye is just the 17th player from Akron U to play in the NFL since 1925.  His jersey might have to be my first Brown’s jersey since Hanford Dixon (who has the best autograph ever).  So I was checkin around for some Frye audio/video clips and I found this interview on ESPiN.  If you’re interested, it’s the third link in the ESPiN Features section titled Ohio Player

He def sounds thuggish, but the best part of the audio clip is when the interviewer says he is a native Ohioan then admits he is from the Nati so he ‘cant’ relate where Frye’s High School is in comparison to Akron/Cleveland.  Ha..see you guys really are from Kentucky.


*****Sit Down Solider
So I think K2 got in some accident..  Yeah, all I know is that it’s not life threatening. Wait..who the hell cares..you’re a Punk and you screwed us all last year..I don’t care if your going to be ok in the long run..Are you out all season or what? 

So I am not shocked and this is just part of life as a Cleveland fan.  Damn you all.  Checkout this disgruntled clip from a radio show some of my friends at work do (clip also in real player format).  This guy is from Cleveland and let’s just say he voices his opinion...check a sample:

“And actually it’s not the worst thing that a Cleveland Brown has done over the past couple years.  Cause you know 2 years ago William Green was drunk and high with a knife sticking out of his neck driving down I77 in Cleveland.  So at least Winslow was sober and in a parking lot.”

Notice the kid in the beginning who thinks he knows what’s up.


*****So a scUM fan I just happen to know told me he though Braylon would be a bust for the Browns..maybe he is right..we all remember his failure to lead at the end of big games.  Go Bucks!  And on that note, maybe the Browns have the worst drafting history ever.  Look at this rap sheet.  Correct me if I am wrong here, but we haven’t had a solid pick since 1993..that is pathetic.   One random fact:  The Browns have drafted 11 players with the last name of Brown.  That includes Sam ‘First Down’ Brown in 1956..ahh the good old days when nicknames were nice and simple.  The other nicknames from our draft picks in the 50’s include ‘Candy’, ‘The Beast’ and ‘Corky.’  Wow..times have umm..changed. 

In case you wanted some more Browns love check out these pics..aaawwesome.

*****Props to ESPiN Page 2 on this little contest in which people sent in their old classic t-shirts.  Check out #1.  How pimp is that.  Also, I am biased because Deion is my favorite athlete..of all time yes.   I will go into my obsession at a later time.  On another note, I think I seriously have shirt #8 at home in a closet.  Definitely gonna dig around for that one.  Shirt #9 is equally as sweet as it implies the Bengals..SUCK.  Ha..Kentucky.

greatest Defender ever..

*****Cavs rumors anyone?
So apparently the Zen Masta is not hittin up the Midwest which sux but not a shocker.   Flip is still the #1 candidate, but Nate McMillan and Eric Musselman are up there as well.  Also, the Orlando Sentinel is predicting H to the Izzo to land in Cleveland.  On the GM front, it seems Gilbert is talking to everyone as the list is huge.  Whoever it ends up being at least we know Gilbert tried.

Check out these absurd comments in the Detroit Free Press:

"Cleveland's LeBron James sat between Detroit's bench and the scorer's
table, and some Pistons shook hands with him just before tipoff. Also,
Iverson chatted with James while Prince shot free throws in the first
quarter."
"Meanwhile, let's hope LeBron enjoyed his recruiting trip. Maybe he'll
decide to come to school here."

I think not…the King ain’t leavin

Final Cavs note:  I can’t remember being this excited for an offseason..oh wait nevermind…there were those years between 98 and 03 in which we all pretend never happened…ahh Ricky Davis free offseasons... 


*****Experienced Zombo yet?


On that note, I am off to Sin City.

Wednesday, May 4, 2005

Straight Up Vegas

In honor of my departure to Vegas tomorrow for a LeAkron bachelor party, I am bestoying on you some ESPiN Insider content..

This is without a doubt my favorite article by Billy Simmons..

Note:  This is very long but very worth it


"Subject: Vegas?"

It was time.

We started exchanging "Vegas?" e-mails last November: Bish, Hopper, Mikey, Butz, Gallo and me. Just the six of us. The core group. Everyone else has been whittled away -- we're like the remaining troops at the end of "Saving Private Ryan." We even recount fond stories about the dead soldiers, the ones who stopped coming years ago, the ones we don't even think to ask anymore. If only Vegas had mock graveyards for them. 
 
Back in the glory years, when we were single and barely employed, Vegas trips came together in four weeks. Now we spend months negotiating a weekend, eventually settling on a date for the lamest of reasons. This time around, we chose the last weekend of March because Bish's wife had a girls weekend and was bringing their new baby along. That meant he was available for three days, but only THAT weekend. You won't exactly see this scenario leading off the festivities in "Swingers 2."

But at least that kicked us into motion. And I don't care how old you get ... there isn't a better internet moment then receiving that first e-mail with "Vegas?" in the subject heading. It's right up there with "Calvin Murphy had 14 kids?!?!?!?!?!?!?!" and "Paris Hilton MPEG -- not safe for work!" Puts a hop in your step for the rest of the day.

For me, it isn't even about Vegas as much anymore. When you hit your 30s, your friends settle in different cities, get hitched, pump out a kid, start working 50-to-60 hours a week ... you look up one day and realize you haven't seen three of your closest buddies in 15 months. Vegas becomes the great equalizer. There's always that first glorious stretch with everyone sitting at the same blackjack table, throwing down drinks, cracking worn-out jokes and busting chops, when you realize that nothing has changed. Thank God.

This isn't to pretend that Vegas is perfect. Once upon a time, those first two March Madness weekends were like "Fight Club" -- only a fortunate few knew about them, and we weren't too anxious to spread the word. Now the secret is out. Everyone knows. Everyone goes. You have a better chance of seeing a clock in a casino than getting a seat at a sports book. Some casinos even double their roomrates for those weekends.

And that's the danger with Vegas: If everyone loves Vegas, and everyone goes there ... well, what's fun about that?

The other problem is less serious and infinitely more annoying: Those "Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" ads, maybe the biggest head-scratcher in advertising history. Why would anyone ever inflict that much needless tension on their demographic? Were they appealing to adulterers? Druggies? Strip joint stalkers? Snuff film producers? Were we supposed to think to ourselves, "You know, I wasn't gonna go, but I didn't realize I could do morally destructive things with no repercussions -- book me a plane ticket!"

And don't get me started on the ramifications of these ads with wives and girlfriends across the country, many of whom were already insane to begin with. For instance, right as I was leaving for my latest trip -- staying at the Hard Rock this time, on the way to the airport, plane ticket in my hands -- the Sports Gal smiled and told me, "And don't think I don't know that the Paradise (a strip club) is right across the street from the Hard Rock."

She slipped that sucker in like a Tommy Hearns right cross. And while I was hemming and hawing, she followed with this uppercut: 
 
"Hey, whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?"

Great ad campaign. Thanks, guys.

Here's the point: You can't stereotype Vegas with a slogan, especially a misleading one. The little nuances make Vegas special. Like climbing into a cab and having the driver tell you, "They call me the Catwoman." Gambling at a $15 table, looking up and seeing a random celeb like Cobi Jones walking by. Wincing as your friend says, "I just banged the UConn women," then realizing he was talking about a sports wager. Hearing the roars from a sports book that's been split in half -- one side for Oklahoma State, the other for St. Joe's, with the lead changing on every basket.

Best of all, there are days like Saturday, March 27, 2004.

Without further ado ...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Saturday morning, 9:45 a.m.
We're coming off a late-night gambling binge at the Hard Rock, one of those scary nights where you wake up in the same clothes -- on top of the covers, spooning the "Late Night Food" menu, reeking of cigarettes and spilled beer, praying your wallet is sitting on the nightstand.

Maybe you've been there. Your tongue feels like a piece of dry steak. You can see your breath. Your complimentary $7 bottled water has been mysteriously polished off; and you don't know whether to blame your roommate or yourself. You blink a few times to make sure your contacts aren't still in your eyes, then you say another prayer that they made it into their case.

That's me. All of it.

Now Bish and I are laying in our respective beds, searching for a stray SportsCenter on TV. Back in the days of four-to-a-room, Bish and I mastered the art of "sleeping in the same bed without touching one another." These days, we can afford our own beds. Trust me, it's a big thing. 
 
"You make any money last night?" Bish asks.

"I dunno. I don't think so."

Curious, I reach into my front jeans pocket ... and pull out four $100 chips. Good times. I started out with $300. This much I remember.

"Somehow I made a hundred bucks," I tell Bish.

He makes the DeNiro Face, turning his mouth upside down, nodding up and down, mildy impressed.

"Vegas," he says.

"Vegas," I reply.

Saturday morning, 11:30 a.m.
On the Unintentional Comedy Scale, few things can top Saturday morning breakfasts in Vegas -- just tables and tables of hungover guys looking like holy hell, throwing down food and telling inane gambling stories from the previous night. If the "World Series of Poker" can be televised, then this should be its own show -- "Breakfasts In Vegas" -- with waitresses wearing HelmetCams, sideline reporters and everything else. Like you wouldn't watch.

As we recapped Friday night's events, we realized that everything -- and by "everything," I mean "the debilitating drunkenness" -- was Hopper's fault. He kept ordering a made-up drink called the "Diver Down" (Corona topped off with a shot of Bacardi Limon). We all followed suit, and that damned drink became the main reason we could barely remember our 10:15 p.m. dinner at A.J.'s Steakhouse.

Why eat dinner so late? Because they wouldn't seat us right away, thanks to Geoff, who was wearing a Vikings t-shirt with khaki shorts. This is one of the rules of Vegas -- at any and all times, someone in your group should remain under-dressed to cut your options in half. Geoff has been filling this role beautifully for more than a decade, consistently dressing like a tourist from Eastern Europe. 
 
Upon further review, the whole night was a debacle; everyone lost money but me ... and I was in the roughest shape. Two Red Bull and Vodkas = fine. Four Red Bull and Vodkas = not fine. Four Red Bull and Vodkas, multiple Diver Downs and a half-pack of cigarettes = genuinely unhappy, possibly life-threatening. My heart was pounding all night. Terrible times. I was an extra 100 pounds and one hooker away from re-enacting the last 15 minutes of Chris Farley's "E! True Hollywood Story."

"Here's my game plan for today," I announce. "A few Bloody Marys early. Maybe a mixed drink or two. And then beer for the rest of the night. No Red Bull, no Diver Downs, and DEFINITELY no cigarettes."

Hopper stares me down. It's tough to take him seriously with his beard -- he looks like Harrison Ford at the beginning of "The Fugitive, to the point that we were screaming "You find that man!" at him for most of Friday night -- but it seems like he has something important to say. His eyes narrow.

"You'll be smoking by two," he predicts. "Guaranteed."

"Thanks for your confidence, Dr. Kimble," I tell him.

Saturday afternoon, 12:30 p.m.
We finish breakfast, make some ill-advised NCAA bets, grab two cabs and head to the Strip -- our annual tradition where we walk around and gamble in as many casinos as possible. It's a crucial time of the day. Build a nest egg here and you're playing with house money for the rest of the weekend. Take an early beating and you're the "Third Man In the Porn Scene" by nightfall. (I'll explain later.)

As always, there are rules for Saturday gambling. These rules unfold over time, always from experience, almost like recipes in a cookbook. You gamble, you make mistakes, you learn. If you fail to obey the rules, in the words of Ivan Drago, you vill lose. And I've mentioned some of them before in this space, but they're worth mentioning again:

1. Know exactly how much you're prepared to lose when you sit down. I mean, exactly. It's your "Worst-case Scenario" figure. You don't even have to tell anyone what it is.

2. If you're getting killed at one casino, leave treadmarks and head to another.

3. If you don't like the way other people are playing at the table, or if you're getting a bad vibe from the dealer, just find another table. It's that easy.

4.Pace yourself. You know the old saying, "It's a marathon, not a sprint"? Well, Saturday gambling is like a triathlon. Just make sure you don't pull a Julie Moss.

Our first stop: The Venetian. Happy place. Pleasant dealers. Very few automatic shuffling machines (the root of all evil in Vegas). And just as we arrive, they're opening up a group of four $15 tables, which means we have a table all to ourselves.

There's only one catch ... they already have their bullpen of closers warming up.

See, we like friendly dealers, people who interact with us and want us to win, people with a vested interest in keeping the right table happy. We tip these people and everything works out just dandy. But casinos don't like friendly dealers as much -- they want us to lose money. So they find dealers who barely speak English, deal cards at staggering paces, and are typically as friendly as a heart attack. If you're feeling courageous, you take them on ... and then you leave the batter's box 15 minutes later, muttering to yourself.

We call them "closers." I mention this only because the Venetian has Mariano Rivera, Troy Percival, Keith Foulke and Billy Wagner warming up. There isn't a Heathcliff Slocumb to be seen.

"What do we do?" Geoff asks. He's terrified.  
 
"Let's give it a whirl," Hopper suggests. "At least we'll all be at the same table."

(Note: When "At least we'll all be at the same table" is the deciding reason to sit down at a blackjack table, this is NEVER a good sign.)

We sit down at a $15 table with a female dealer from Hong Kong. We watch her shuffle six decks of cards as we order Bloody Marys. Life is good. And then the cards come ...

And she deals herself blackjack on the first hand ...

(Run! Run!)

And she wins the first six hands ...

(For God's sake, get the hell out of there!)

And then the Venetian makes a pitching change -- inexplicable! -- as Mikey announces, "Wow, they're going lefty-righty on us." Our luck doesn't change. I'm sitting at 0-7-1 after eight hands. The righty-lefty combo haven't busted yet -- two 21s, three 20s, two 19s and a 17. It's like watching a combined no-hitter -- I keep waiting for Rollie Fingers and Blue Moon Odom to show up.

On my last hurrah, I double down on "11" against her "6," then jump from my seat and walk away from the table. Everyone looks confused.

"I'm stepping out ofthe batter's box onher," I explain.

That gets a good laugh. Of course, she doesn't crack a smile. She ends up dealing me a seven. Eighteen.

And if you don't know what happens next ... well, you've obviously never been to Vegas.

Saturday afternoon, 1:45 p.m.
We're fleeing the Venetian like it's on fire. It turned into a financial bloodbath of Chuck Wepner proportions. Everybody lost; two people even reached into the wallet for seconds. Now we're walking down the Strip to the Monte Carlo -- an old standby -- and trying to regroup. I'm down $200 for the day and feel like I just got run over by Halle Berry. At least until I notice the Siegfried and Roy billboard in front of the Mirage.

You may remember this story: Back in the mid-'90s during a similar walk, I jokingly asked, "Are those guys gay?" and Bish replied, "Actually, I think they are." 
 
He was dead serious. It may have been the greatest moment in Vegas history. Bish could be 95 and we would still remind him about it. And since that billboard was funny to begin with -- I mean, have you SEEN that thing? -- just seeing it always turns into one of the highlights of every Vegas trip. Never fails to make us laugh.

Now we're making fun of Bish. Again. We aren't officially in Vegas until we see the Siegfred and Roy sign, as Bish stands there with a dumb smile saying, "Come on, let's hear it." It's tradition. We're refueled and ready to gamble again ... thanks to two gay magicians.

(Sad note: Little did we know, it was our last glimpse of the billboard. Just three days later, the Mirage took it down for good. True story. I haven't felt this depressed since they knocked down the Boston Garden. Who knew that a simple billboard could mean so much?)

Saturday afternoon, 2:45 p.m.
As Hopper predicted, I'm already puffing on a cigarette. Just shoot me. The six of us are battling at different tables at the Monte Carlo, a place that always brought luck in the past. Not today. Everything feels wrong. After losing another $50 -- bringing me to minus-$250 for the day -- Geoff and I take one of those "killing time" strolls around the casino.

And then we see it ...

A "Rocky" slot machine.

"Come on, we have to," Geoff says.

Twist my arm. We put two dollars in. Every time we play a five-cent hand, the Rocky music starts. We can't buy a win. Suddenly we're down to our last few pulls. I'm reeling. Not even Rocky can get me going.

"Should we put more money in?" I ask Geoff.

He does his best Adrian impression: "You can't win!"

"I never asked you to stop being a woman," I fire back. "Don't ask me to stop being a gambler."

"You can't win!"

And I couldn't. Two more dollars down the drain. Sadly, I couldn't climb into my Lamborghini and drive 100 miles an hour while shifting 40 times.

There's no easy way out ...there's no shortcut home ... 
 
Saturday afternoon, 4:30 p.m.
We limp back to the rejuvenated Hard Rock, a place that literally oozes Vegas: Jovial dealers, random celebrities, pounding music, those special moments when two bimbos strut back from the pool as even the dealers stare them down in disbelief. Did I mention the outdoor blackjack tables by the pool? Can you play blackjack surrounded by scantily-clad women and shirtless meatheads? It's like a science experiment.

We stay inside. As our friends descend on the tables, Geoff and I break to monitor some hoop wagers. Within an hour, I'm down another $100 ($350 for the afternoon), one more blackjack beating from reaching my Worst-Case Scenario Limit for the day.

Now I'm killing time and cheering my buddies, carefully observing the "No running commentaries if you're not playing," "Stay at least four feet away" and "Don't touch anyone's chair" rules. Ever see a porn scene when an actress works with multiple partners, and she ends up settling on two of them while the third guy basically stands next to the action and keeps busy, hoping for a call that never comes? And you have no idea why he's there in the first place?

Well, that's me. I'm the proverbial "Third guy in the porn scene." And I'm watching the table catch fire. Two beefy, tattooed look-a-likes are winning practically every hand. Hopper is cruising along, stacking banks of $100 chips like he's playing poker. Butz and Mikey are cleaning up. Only Bish seems to be treading water.

Meanwhile, dealer Luis is cracking jokes, shelling out advice and having a grand old time. We keep glancing to the Hard Rock bullpen ... no action. It's inexplicable. The beefy guy on third base (Lumpy) keeps pulling off blackjacks and double downs every other hand. He isn't even reacting -- he's either hammered, brain-dead or in shock. Two of his friends stand behindhim, holding Hard Rock shopping bags, waiting to head back to their casino. But Lumpy can't lose. Nobody can lose.

Finally, Lumpy cashes in. At least three grand. Doesn't phase him. As he and his friend budge from their chairs, Geoff and I leapfrog across the table like Kurt Thomas in "Gymkata." You always want to take over a hot seat in Vegas. Always.

Luis waits for them to leave, then springs this one on us: "That guy never played blackjack before."

"Lumpy? The guy who won all the money?"

"Never played before in his life. Ever."

You couldn't make this stuff up.

Now the drinks are flying. So are the wisecracks. I'm making back money at an alarming rate. With five stacks of $100 chips in front of him, Hopper looks like a kid in a candy store, only if that kid had Dr. Kimble's beard. Mikey and Butz are still cruising along. There's still no action in the Hard Rock bullpen, even with everyone winning and laughing. Luis and Geoff are even trading "Scarface" lines, with Geoff following every blackjack by screaming things like, "I can't even have a baby with you, Luis, your WOMB is so POLLUTED ..."

Only Bish is losing at first base -- he can't buy a break. During one hand, Luis forgets to deal him in ... then promptly busts as everyone wins money. It's uncanny.

"I think I'm getting up," Bish mutters.

"No!" Hopper screams. "You can't! Table karma!"

Bish stays. You know why? Because he should. In Vegas, what comes around goes around. And maybe Bish got smoked this time around -- to the point that he had a giant salad fork sticking out of him by 11:30, done for the weekend -- but the next time, the Gambling Gods will reward him.

And if that doesn't make sense to you ... well, you've never been to Vegas.
 
Saturday night, 9:15 p.m.
We just realized something: the Hard Rock is being managed by Grady Little.

That has to be the case, right? Why wouldn't they use their bullpen to stop our rally? Not that we're complaining. It's been an unprecedented, historic run -- when was the last time five friends won huge at the same table? Sure, poor Bish is standing four feet away, waiting for the fluffer to come by. Doesn't matter. Five out of six ... you'll take those odds any day. Bish understands. Even if he's currently catatonic.

I'm up $550 at the table, $200 for the day. And I'm doing the worst out of anyone. Two pit bosses stand near our table, sending evil vibes and trying to cool us off. Doesn't work. We're openly mocking them. We make such a dent in their chip rack that they have to bring in a whole new stack of $25s and $100s (always a moral victory). We're making "Uh-oh, they just turned the overhead camera on!" and "What time do we have to be back at MIT?" jokes. It's a party.

And then it happens.

During a shuffle, the Hard Rock's gaming host introduces himself to Hopper, sweet-talks him, hands him a card. These are the things that happen when you're gambling $100 and $200 a hand for five straight hours -- Hopper even had a passing hooker rub her crotch against his right elbow. At least we think she was a hooker. You never know at the Hard Rock.

Anyway, at the rate he's going, Hopper has already gotten his room comped, as well as Saturday's breakfast and Friday's dinner. Nobody looks happier than Mike, who just happens to be staying in Hopper's room. We immediately decide to hold a lottery draft for roommates next time around. Winner gets to stay with Hopper.

Meanwhile, Hopper and the gaming host are deep in conversation. They shake hands and the guy disappears.

"We're going to Nobu for dinner," Hopper says. "10 o'clock."

Only one of the most famous sushi places in the country. You don't just get in to Nobu. This is virgin territory. As recently as four years ago, we were sleeping four to a room. Now we're about to dine with the big boys.

We gamble for another 45 minutes, then head over to Nobu, where we promptly have one of the 10 best meals of anyone's life. The food keeps coming and coming -- sushi, kobe beef, lobster salad ... it's a murderer's row. We toast Hopper at least 1,200 times. It's like a scene from one of those action movies where everything's going great for the first 30 minutes, and then bad things start happening to the good guys ... but before it happens, they throw in the happy dinner montage. That was us.

Eventually, we head back to thetables for more blackjack. The numbers dwindle over time. We lose Bish first. He's a shell. None of us can even make eye contact with him. "He'll be back," I tell the others, one of those Larry Merchant comments, like I'm talking about a boxer who just got pummelled. 
 
Geoff is next. Then Hopper, who sees no point in staying in the game when he's already hit five home runs. He takes himself out to a standing O.

By the end of the night, it's just me, Mikey and Butz. I'm betting $25 a hand, my fortunes rising and falling from shuffle to shuffle. Butz can barely see. I'm right there with him -- my contacts are covering my eyes like Ty Law. I'm drinking whiskey and smoking two cigs at a time, like I turned into Marge Schott. Only Mikey seems relatively coherent.

"Dude, it's 4:15," he tells us.

Four fifteen???

Butz groans: "I have a 6 a.m. wakeup call."

He's taking a 7:30 a.m. flight back to San Fran. Just over three hours away. We wait for him to make the call. Hey, we've all made money tonight. There's no reason to keep gambling. None.

"Screw it," Butz says. "Let's keep going."

Vegas, baby.

Vegas.