General: The Nitti Gritti -- 10 things you oughtta' know

Thanks, Dad.

Thank you, first and foremost, for letting me enjoy being a kid, and never attempting to relive your own athletic career through your child. Being able to choose freely between basketball, baseball, soccer, or, most importantly, none of the above, is an option every kid should have. I've read far too many where-are-they-now stories about some one-time child prodigy with 6% body fat, a 4.6 40 time, and a raging cocaine habit because his parents wouldn't splurge on the occasional Happy Meal for fear of ruining Junior's chances of someday winning Wimbledon. Unlike so many parents, who live vicariously through their offspring in a desperate attempt to remedy their own failed attempts at athletic glory, you were patient and open-minded enough to allow me to develop my own passions. I guess you could say the results have been mixed. While I may have never earned you that college scholarship, I never held up a liquor store, either.

Thank you for never -- from grade school through college -- embarrassing me from the sideline during a game. As if I didn't have enough to worry about with the limited athletic ability your faulty genetics provided, the sound of your bellowing voice telling me to "keep my eye on the ball" or threatening the life of the referee would only have made matters worse. Waiting until after the game to quietly discuss my performance on the car ride home was appreciated more than you can imagine. It was during these moments when I learned just how important running out every ground ball was, and every error or goalless game wasn't.

Thank you for not ALWAYS feeling the need to tell me I was a superstar. Chewing me out for lollygagging out of the dugout to my position at second base made a far bigger impression than if you had patted me on the back for the two hits I had that day. Instead of placating my ego, you sought to teach me work ethic, discipline, and the importance of handling myself with class and dignity. While many parents preach those lessons, you embodied those characteristics every day in the way you lived your life. It was watching your actions -- much more so than listening to your words -- that made me want to do things the right way. As a child, my strongest moral obligation was to avoid disappointing you at all costs, and as I write this, a grown man of 29, absolutely nothing has changed. Thank you for helping me pursue my dreams, regardless of personal sacrifice. How many Sunday mornings did you and Mom spend trekking up the Turnpike to watch me play soccer in 30-degree weather, your only refuge from the bitter cold our beat-up Subaru? How precipitously did the property value of our home plummet when I constructed that orange monstrosity of a goal in the front yard? How difficult was it for you to allow me, as a 12-year-old, travel alone to play soccer in Europe? Just think of the time, money, and heartache you could have spared yourself if you had let me in on our deep, dark, family secret: Nitti's Aren't Fast.

Thank you for never getting angry when I would wake you during all hours of the night so together we could watch sports history made. Sure you lost out on a lot of sleep, but think of the moments we've shared! If it weren't for me, would you have seen Ken Griffey Jr. homer in his 8th straight game? Would you have been witness to Fernando and Dave Stewart firing no-hitters on the same night? Even from 2000 miles away in Colorado -- and I apologize for being unable to grasp that there is a two hour time difference -- I've always felt the need to pick up the phone and let you know when great things are about to happen. It seems that in all my travels, I've yet to find anyone I would rather share those moments with than you. Thank you for reminding me that the world of sports did not originate in the winter of 1985. Thanks to your dinner-table discourses, I appreciate the effortless athleticism of Mickey Mantle. I grasp the greatness of Jerry West. I am even willing to accept -- on your word -- that Gale Sayers was capable of the kinds of moves that would make Barry Sanders sigh.

Thank you for teaching me that in order to call yourself a "fan," you don't have to unleash profanities at the television screen or throw back enough beers by the fourth inning to make David Wells proud. By following your example, I realized that if you stopped berating the quarterback long enough, you could actually learn a thing or two about the game. Taking this contemplative approach, I imagine, is how you came to develop your legendary sports acumen, which is matched only by the quiet dignity with which you wield it. It is that same quiet dignity that I have always strived to achieve. While it may prevent me from ever knowing the simple joy of chanting D-FENSE or hurling batteries at the center fielder from 60 rows up, I will have to trust that these experiences are highly overrated.

Most of all, thank you for instilling in me the belief that I could achieve anything I wanted to in life. As a child, you used sports as a metaphor for how anything is possible, making it clear that with the right attitude, hard work, and determination, I could grow up to be the next Michael Jordan, Roger Clemens or Wayne Gretzky.

While I appreciated the message, Dad, the simple truth is this: All I've ever wanted is to be just like you.

OK, enough with the mushy stuff...

Here are the 10 things you oughtta' know.

10. With steroid rumors dominating headlines, airwaves, and even the floor of Congress, you can't help but wonder how excessive the coverage would become if there were actually some concrete news to report. Say, for example, baseball had only recently recovered from a dug epidemic the league claimed had been eradicated. Or what if David Stern were quoted as accusing the entire NBA of juicing? Imagine the shockwaves that would reverberate throughout the sport's world if football's young stars suddenly started dropping dead at a rate of one every six weeks. The ensuing outrage would be unprecedented, wouldn't it?

So why is it no one is talking about cycling? Only six years removed from a doping scandal that decimated the sport's most visible event, the Tour de France (six teams pulled out after the Festina squad was caught with a trunk-load of the performance enhancing drug EPO), cycling once again finds itself embroiled in controversy. Recently, the head of the World Anti-Doping Agency, Richard Pound, was quoted in a French newspaper as claiming, "every rider in the [Tour de France] peleton uses banned substances." Much more disturbingly, the March death of Marco Pantani (who in an ironic twist of fate was the winner of that drug-riddled 1998 Tour) took the total of top cyclists to have suffered fatal heart attacks in the past 13 months to eight. Four have been younger than 24. While there has been no evidence directly connecting the deaths to EPO use, the drug has been widely linked to an increase in the likelihood of heart attacks. Pantani, who coroners determined died of cocaine intoxication, was twice suspended from racing due for suspicion of EPO abuse. While those inside the sport dismiss the connection between EPO and the deaths as conjecture, it's rather difficult to believe anything else.

9. While I was putting together that last piece, word came that a new book, "L.A. Confidential: The secrets of Lance Armstrong," alleging that the five-time Tour de France winner used EPO from 1999-2001, will be released this week as Armstrong begins his quest for a record sixth Tour. As a devout cycling fan, I have marveled at the Lance Armstrong story -- never finishes a Tour, gets testicular cancer that spreads to his lungs and brain, nearly dies, recovers, and becomes the best in the world. As an equally devout skeptic, however, I have been forced to approach his success logically: How can a clean man, competing against a field of similarly-gifted genetic anomalies that even the most conservative proponents of the sport concede is rife with performance enhancing drug abusers, be as dominant as Lance has been? Perhaps I'm just jaded, but I've always felt it required a monumental leap of faith to believe that a clean rider could consistently win against a juiced peleton. I know that many in the cycling community have been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps this book, written by a former United States Postal Service physiotherapist, is just that.

8. Does anyone else find it a touch blasphemous that FOX is launching a new soon-to-be-cancelled television show titled "North Shore," which has absolutely nothing to do with the classic surf flick of the same name? How can FOX sully the name of one of the all-time quotable sports movies. A film that:

a. Reminded viewers that anything is possible if you believe in yourself. If Rick Cane can go from the wave pools of Arizona to besting the top big wave riders in the world, you could certainly make that JV wrestling team if you wanted it bad enough. b. Simultaneously introduced three of the more memorable characters in cinematic history: the lovable, yet, xenophobic, Turtle, who like the Eskimos with snow, had countless words to describe tourists from the mainland (barney, howley, kook); the serene, sagacious, and soulful Chandler, who appreciated the simple beauty of a "Rhino-chaser" and lamented the commercialization of his beloved sport; and the obligatory sports-move villain who eventually gets his comeuppance, the photographer-abusing, leash-snagging, surf-for-all-the-wrong-reasons Lance Berkhart.

c. Shared with the world a piece of advice that should never be forsaken, and can easily be applied to all facets of daily life, "If the wave breaks here...don't be there. Or you're gonna' get drilled."

7. Just what the NHL was hoping for with it's product on life support and facing a lockout next fall -- a Calgary-Tampa Bay Stanley Cup Finals. I understand there was some "exciting" hockey and the Series went the full seven, but did anyone outside of those two middling markets -- if you can call Calgary a market -- really care? When the ratings for your penultimate game is a 2.4, or roughly the same as a "Family Matters" re-run, it doesn't exactly indicate an overwhelming demand. If the owners do indeed pull the plug in October, don't be surprised if an indifferent nation simply shrugs its shoulders and turns its attention elsewhere.

6. So this is how it ends for the proud and storied franchise that is the Los Angeles Lakers. Their four Hall of Famers watching the final quarter of the deciding Game 5 from the bench, soundly beaten by a 6-1 underdog, thankful only for a miraculous Kobe three at the end of Game 2 that prevented an even more humiliating four game sweep. In a Series where Shaq's lack of conditioning was exposed by an athletic and relentless Pistons front court, Kobe resorted to playground freelancing as soon as he realized the Lakers wouldn't cruise to a 4th ring in 5 years (shooting 19 for 59 over the final three games), Karl Malone put up a TOTAL of 20 points and 24 boards before breaking down, and Gary Payton's defense single-handedly made an MVP out of Chauncey Billups, Los Angeles never mounted their much-anticipated last stand, but instead folded up it's tents and quit faster than a French soldier.

Call it poetic justice. For all their grumbling and infighting -- from Payton's dismissal of the triangle offense to Shaq and Kobe's juvenile, "It's my team" war of words to Karl Malone...well, being Karl Malone, it was impossible to root the Lakers. If this team is indeed dismantled in the coming months, I say good riddance.

5. As the NBA Draft grows near, countless draft previews will extol the virtues of the "safe pick" collegian as opposed to the "high-risk" high-school project, somehow implying that selecting college players is an exact science when compared to the Russian Roulette that is drafting prep-schoolers. Meanwhile, 1999 No. 1 pick Michael Olawakandi -- who was selected ahead of Mike Bibby, Antawn Jamison, Vince Carter, Dirk Nowitski and Paul Pierce -- just culminated a fifth abysmal season with a two-point, two-board, four-foul effort in the T'Wolves Game 6 loss to the Lakers. My point... Unless its Lebron, Duncan or Shaq, the entire draft is a crapshoot.

That being said, here are my obligatory draft predictions:

a. Rookie of the Year: Devin Harris, University of Wisconsin

b. Most "SportsCenter" appearances: Andre Iguodala, University of Arizona

c. Biggest Bust: Luol Deng, Duke

d. Best player seven years down the road: Shaun Livingston, HS Senior

4. Do you think the media may have jumped the gun a tad on the Smarty Jones coronation? Screw Seabiscuit and Secretariat, judging by the press clippings, you would have thought the Philly-bred horse was the second coming of Shadowfax. Here's what I don't understand. It's not like a horse entering the Belmont with a shot to win the Triple Crown is a rarity, it's happened eight of the last 10 years! I realize that Smarty had impressive races at the Derby and Preakness, but the field in both races was not exactly sterling. Anointing Smarty Jones the best horse in the world at that point was the equivalent of granting Boise State a BCS bid because they went 9-0 against the WAC.

3. How streaky is Philadelphia Phillies first baseman Jim Thome? He started the year on an eight game homerless streak, then blasted 10 in his next 17 games, followed by a 3 in 21 game drought, before rebounding to launch seven home runs over his last 10 outings, including his 400th. As the only reliable bat in the Phillies lineup, it's no surprise that the team is also struggling to find any semblance of consistency.

2. Speaking of sweet-swinging first baseman, here's a thought... Will any current player have a more irrelevant Hall of Fame career than Colorado's Todd Helton? Eight years into his career, Helton's got a .338 lifetime average, 240 home runs, and exactly zero chance of ever making a real postseason run with the Rockies. Coors Field -- where no one is willing or able to pitch for an extended period of time -- has essentially been reduced to a MLB sideshow, a place where fans can go for a glorified slow-pitch softball game, and the games past-their-prime sluggers like Vinny Castilla and Jeremy Burnitz can revive long-dead careers with a high-altitude elixir. While providing oversized entertainment, the conditions prevent the possibility of forging a winning franchise. Helton deserves better.

1. If you're shocked at what's taken place in the NBA Finals, don't say I didn't warn you. Over a month ago, this intrepid author cast aside conventional wisdom and boldly stated that an Eastern Conference team would win the championship. Unfortunately, much of my original draft was lost in the writing process. Wherever the article reads "Indiana Pacers," it should read "Detroit Pistons." But, as is always the case with breakthrough journalism, it's the message that's important.

Thanks for reading... Hit me up at nittiaj@hotmail.com with any questions or comments.