Eric Cassano, 210 West's resident college basketball gambling fanatic (not really), had his NCAA bracket busted by the round of 32 this season. He has found a way to cope and might be able to help you out.
By Erik Cassano
210 west Writer [send email]
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, who died last August 24, was a psychiatrist who once came up with a novel and easily-memorized idea concerning mortality.
She theorized that when someone is dying, the bereaved go through five distinct phases of coping. Beginning with denial and ultimately ending with acceptance, she noted the process is the mind's orderly way of dealing with loss.
After watching my NCAA brackets waste away to nothing, I have discovered Kubler-Ross' five stages of dying pertain not just to loved ones, but also to the stark realization that no, you aren't going to begin a second career as a bookmaker in Vegas.
Some of us just have a hard time letting go, but as Kubler-Ross' theory states, we are bound to in the end. That $10 entry fee isn't coming back.
1. Denial.
I went 23-9 in the first round. Sure, it was worse than my 26-6 first round record last year, but my bracket pool at work, like most, is weighted toward the big games at the end. My entire Final Four was still intact heading into the round of 32. No worries.
2. Anger.
What happened, Georgia Tech? You had my back last year. You surprised everybody outside Atlanta and made it to the Final Four. Now, you are telling me you got bounced by Louisville? A Conference USA school? Do you even want to have a basketball program anymore, or are you too busy fawning over your baseball team in March to care about hoops?
Well, at least I still have Duke, North Carolina and Oklahoma State alive. They'll get to St. Louis. They won't let me down, unlike you ... you ... Rambling Wrecks.
Yellow Jackets. Honestly, who makes their school mascot an insect?
3. Bargaining.
Oh, please, please, John Lucas Jr. Make that prayer from the baseline go in. Don't let your Oklahoma State squad lose to Arizona! Come on, you made it to the Final Four last year, too. I picked your school over Arizona because you are quality. You are the salt-of-the-Earth school that gave us Bryant "Big Country" Reeves. Arizona is the Jessica Simpson of schools. Hot, blond, but almost always disappointing once you see them in action. At least when I pick them to go far.
You are consistent, Oklahoma State. Don't let me down.
Damn it, Lucas! Why do you fail me? I sat through the better part of two seasons watching your father run the Cleveland Cavaliers into the ground, and this is how you repay me.
Oh, well. I have Duke and North Carolina left. Two mainstays of the Final Four. Duke's going to win it all.
4. Depression.
Duke's not going to win it all. They didn't even put up a fight against Michigan State.
The Big Ten has three teams in the Elite Eight. Go on, laugh it up. I bad-mouthed the Big Ten, called them a lousy basketball conference that, save for Illinois, spent most of the winter beating up on their own mediocre conference-mates.
I was wrong. Napoleon-invading-Russia-just-before-winter wrong. The "big dance" now involves an entire conference doing the cha-cha all over my brackets.
The stink of losing is on me. I wash, and wash, but it won't come off. I am a bracket leper. Every day at work, it's "man, you might finish in last place!"
I try to laugh along with them, but my sense of humor is severely atrophied.
5. Acceptance.
My situation is hopeless. I took it on the chin this year, and nothing is going to change that. So what else can I do but smile, take a deep breath ... and point and laugh at the increasing number of people who will also be in my situation by the end of the weekend.
Ha ha, those of you who picked Michigan State, North Carolina, Illinois or Louisville to win it all! The majority of you will be tearing up your brackets by Monday night, too!
The big difference is, I'll already have come to terms with the suckification of my brackets. You all will still have go through the five stages.
And if your team does indeed win the whole thing on Monday night, well ... I , uh, really don't have a comeback for that. Congratulations. Buy your friends a round of beer.
The man who warmed fans' hearts and had a record-breaking season in 1998 forgot the key rule in screwing up in America when he testified Thursday.
Mark McGwire won’t talk about the past, at least not under oath.
That’s fine. At last week’s House Government Reform Committee’s investigation on steroid use in baseball, McGwire’s form answer said more than enough.
But at the same time, he trashed himself and every accomplishment listed next to his name.
By repeatedly telling lawmakers that he was “Not here to discuss the past” McGwire ignored the first basic rule of screwing up in America and tarnished the legacy of the great summer of ’98, when he and Sammy Sosa battled back and forth to set baseball’s single-season home run mark.
Now he is just man created by steroids, a punchline to an already tired joke.
Of course McGwire took steroids. What else are we supposed to believe? By ignoring questions from the
panel, McGwire admitted his guilt and did nothing to further the cause of extinguishing steroids in
baseball.
Yes, is seems Big Mac was all hopped up on power pills when he became America’s darling. Back then, he was a real-life Paul Bunyan, riding the high of baseball’s greatest record, hiding a secret that should have been so obvious at the time. But media and fans were so engaged in his winning stage-personality and the way he would hug his chubby son after the really big home runs that they made excuses for him. We all did.
But seven years after he was the greatest power hitter ever, McGwire was backed into a corner by the House of Representatives. And in the fight-or-flight world of confrontation, he fled like a bank robber.
What McGwire could have said to the reforms committee is that yes, he took steroids. His whole image was a total lie. He made millions on the drugs and it helped him win the hearts of America.
But he could also have said he regrets every bit of it. He could have expressed worries of the side effects steroids present. He could have lamented that he regrets his actions. He could have apologized
and asked what he could do to stop the spread of steroids among young athletes.
But he curled up with his tail between his legs, fearing the image destruction that would come with
such an honest answer.
That is where he ignored America’s great public relations rule. If you screw up, admit it and apologize. This is a very forgiving country and time heals all wounds. Once America forgave McGwire, he
could work to correct his mistakes and warn others not to follow the same path.
But by dodging questions in Matrix-like form Thursday, McGwire showed no remorse for his actions and wasted a golden opportunity.
But he wasn’t going to talk about the past.
I guess he didn’t realize that ignoring this won’t make it go away. And it sure won’t help anyone else.
With a bizarre cast of characters and a lack of answers, Congress's hearings into steroids in baseball hurt the sport, but there's no one to blame but themselves.
By Zack Baker
210 west Writer [send email]
Mark McGwire said he was not there to talk about the past.
Rafael Palmeiro denied, denied, denied. Jose Canseco spoke another version of his story. Sammy Sosa forgot how to speak English.
Curt Schilling came out of things OK, but then no one would dare accuse him of ‘roiding up. They would accuse him of being an arrogant blowhard, but he’s used to it.
We didn’t learn a lot from the players’ congressional hearing on steroids, except that none of them wanted to be there, and none of them wanted to incriminate themselves.
Except Canseco. He would commit a crime just for the mug shot.
Still, while it wasn’t always exciting testimony or exciting television, it was a very pivotal day for major league baseball.
If it were a grade school test, baseball would have to have its parents sign it.
It was a black eye for a sport that can’t see already. And yet, as a baseball fan, there was this strange sense of vindication.
Not when the players sat there and embarrassed themselves, but rather, when the “leadership” took the stand.
Congress took every shot it could at those in charge of the sport, from every possible angle.
And, try as they might, baseball commissioner Bud Selig, Players Association Kingpin Donald Fehr, and MLB’s labor director Rob Manfred had no good answers.
That’s not because they choked, but rather because baseball has no answers.
Congress pressed them.
Didn’t you have any suspicions of use years ago?
How can you do so little in the face of something that is illegal?
Why does a player get five chances before his career is put in jeopardy?
Again and again, baseball had no answers.
I do though.
Suspicions? Thomas Boswell’s 1988 column about Canseco and possible steroid use couldn’t have gone unnoticed by MLB, But they were coming off record setting home runs in 1987, and along with that, record attendence. Baseball couldn’t legally do anything? They did this offseason, and that was in the middle of a labor agreement.
Bottom Line: Baseball not only had strong suspicions, they knew. And they looked the other way.
The new, tougher policy? What if Barry Bonds tests positive as he’s about to break Hank Aaron’s home run record? Imagine the headlines. Baseball needed a way to protect its stars. If Jody Gerut tests positive for steroids (I use him because I am fairly confident he’s clean) we would hear about it. If Gary Sheffield does? Probably not.
Manfred was especially frustrated. At several times, he raised his voice, and appeared to get lost in his own verbal traps.
But you shouldn’t try to outsmart congress with bullshit. No one on earth creates more than them.
Bud Selig appeared flat-out senile at times. At just about every turn, he reminded those in congress that he had been in the game 40 years, and that steroids were a “sensitive issue.”
Here’s a new idea for a drinking game for anyone who catches a replay of the hearing on C-Span. Every time Selig reminds someone just how old he is, take a shot.
Every time Fehr acts like his microphone not working, take a shot.
Every time Manfred’s veins appear to be bulging out of his forehead, take a shot.
Suddenly, St. Patricks Day will seem like a Monday in April.
But baseball, and its players, deserve it.
Selig deserves it because did nothing on the issue from the moment he sat in the commissioners chair. Need proof?
In 2000, Orioles player Manny Alexander was pulled over with steroids in his car. Baseball made him take a drug test.
Shockingly, he passed. Alexander was not suspended.
Fehr deserves it because he has allowed his union to cater to its stars. Because of Fehr’s, “hear no evil, see no evil” approach to the issue, all of his clients appear guilty.
Manfred deserves it because he’s a lawyer. No other reason is needed.
McGwire deserves scrutiny because he passed himself off as a hero. Guilty or not, heroes tell the truth.
Yes, Thursday’s hearing was a bad day for the game’s credibility.
But they deserve it.
Ken Caminiti, the 1996 National League MVP, is dead in part because of steroids. Jose Canseco, the 1988 AL MVP, is disgraced.
McGwire and Sosa will never be looked at the same way. They were credited with baseball’s so-called “renaissance,” but now they are key figures in what could be the sports major downfall.
Yet, the comedy of errors seen Thursday could have been avoided if baseball had dealt with steroids earlier.
How much earlier?
How about in 1988 when Boston fans chanted “steroids” at Canseco?
How about when steroids became illegal in 1991?
How about when McGwire was found to be using andro in his 70-homer 1998 season?
Well, they didn’t.
So many lost chances. But it’s kind of nice to see a criminal get caught.
Jose Canseco has another book he's putting out. He wants you to read some of it right here.
By Erik Cassano
210 west Writer [send email]
Hi, I'm Jose Canseco. You might know me from my new book, "Juiced," in which I offer proof that I alone know all the dirty little steroid secrets of baseball's best players.
Oh, you didn't know that? Well, it's true. And I am in full disclosure mode because I think the rampant selfishness of baseball's so-called "heroes" is a disgrace.(By the way, anybody want a 2000 New York Yankees championship ring? $1,000. No, make that $750. I didn't play that much for the Yankees. Not like my ring from the '89 A's. That I won't let go of for a penny less than $1,001.)
Unlike Pete Rose for 15 years, I am totally straightforward about my vices. I was a big-time steroid user. I shot them up, mixed them in my protein shakes, smoked them, sprinkled them on my chef’s salad and absorbed them through osmosis.
You didn't know that? Man, you really need to buy a copy of the book. Or six. Do you know anybody you could, say, blackmail into buying the book? Any compromising photographs of a friend or something? Yeah, I was part of a vast conspiracy to destroy baseball with excessive, unrepentant steroid usage. Now, with my once hall-of-fame career deader than a doornail after globetrotting to a half-dozen teams in the 1990s (the part after I got so big, I couldn't even swing at a curveball, let alone make contact), I am outing everyone.
I know everybody's dirty little secrets because I talked to everybody. Even the surliest, most introverted sluggers of the '90s. Bonds, McGwire, Juan Gonzalez, Albert Belle, they all confided in me. I shot them up, and even produced little pamphlets for them to consult when people wondered why all those needles were sitting in their lockers (um .... diabetes?).
I know it all. And it doesn't just stop with baseball. Stay tuned for my next book, "The Creditors are Breaking My Windows and Keying My Car," when I try to save myself from bankruptcy yet again by outing the dark side of figures throughout history. You didn't know I could do that? Space aliens gave me the power to travel through time. Or maybe it was Tony La Russa.
Here are some advance excerpts from my next book:
THE BROKEN LEG
I told John Wilkes Booth his leg was broken.
"Man, that thing looks sick," I said. "You need to get to a doctor or something. You said you hurt it jumping off a balcony?"
Booth looked at me with desperation. He seemed to be on the verge of tears.
"Look... uh, Washington, D.C. probably isn't the best place for me to seek a doctor as of now. Can you perhaps help me across the river to Virginia?"
I found a wheelbarrow and pushed Booth down to the Potomac, where a ferry boat was about to leave.
"Thank you. Please take this as a measure of my gratitude," he said. Booth handed me a silver pistol. The barrel was warm. I don't know what ever happened to Booth, or why he was so nervous that April night in 1865, but I did know I had a really sweet gun to sell on eBay. The trouble is, metal doesn't travel through time so well, and I lost it. The "Back to the Future" movies, with that big DeLorean travelling through time, is a load of crap.
THE LAST DAYS OF HITLER
Adolf Hitler knew the end was at hand when he heard the bombs falling on Berlin. It was spring, 1945 and the Allies and Soviets had central Germany in a vise-lock.
Adolf (we were on a first-name basis by then) was picking up his pistol repeatedly as he paced around his bomb-proof bunker.
"What are you doing, Adolf? What are you thinking?" I was getting nervous. Kind of like when I knew a curveball was coming. Adolf stroked the barrel of his gun and turned around slowly. Luckily I had watched a lot of German Internet porn prior to my sojourn and was able to understand what he was saying.
"Do you want her? Do you want the woman?" He gestured toward Eva Braun, his mistress, sitting meekly in the corner. "Adolf, I couldn't..." The weight of the situation suddenly hit me. "I can't let them take me. The bombs are falling. Soon there will be the footsteps of soldiers," he said. "There is one bullet in the chamber of this gun. I have two more in my pocket. Everyone who stays in this chamber with me must die before the Americans come."
"Adolf ... this isn't ... this isn't ... I'm sure the Americans will be good to you..." I was grasping at straws.
"Go, Jose. Go now. You have no reason to be caught in this." Adolf looked me in the eye, and I could see he meant it. "Eva, you may go too."
I walked to the top step of the bunker, turned around, and made eye contact with the Fuhrer one last time. I looked to Eva, and she merely shook her head.
I never played for the Cincinnati Reds, but for the next year, I felt the strange presence of Marge Schott with me every time I turned on the History Channel.
AFFLECK GOES WRONG
Ben Affleck was incredulous. "What do you mean it's a bad idea for a movie?"
"I'm just saying people aren't going to dig this movie, even with Jennifer Lopez. I know I won't." Turns out I was the only voice of reason at this restaurant table.
Ben was in love with J. Lo and in love with this newest project. "Look, Gigli is going to gross enough at the box office for me to buy a baseball team. I'll get you your career back." I could see in Ben's eyes he was saying what he wanted to believe, not the truth. I tried again to reason with him.
"I can't let you do this, Ben. As a fellow A-list celebrity, listen to me..."
But Ben would have none of it.
"You're just jealous because your career is in the crapper and everything I touch turns to gold," he half-shouted. He got up from the table and left. I wished right then I had Matt Damon's cell phone number. He'd probably listen to Matt.
Hunter S. Thompson's death makes Vince Guerrieri look back on a man that crafted a new kind of journalism that might never again be emulated.
By Vince Guerrieri
210 west Managing Editor [send email]
"I can't advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity for everyone...but they've always worked for me."
--Hunter S. Thompson
I didn't go into journalism to find the next Watergate. I had no desire to ferret out corruption or camp out in a CEO's office for some gotcha journalism.
I wanted to tell stories.
Hunter Thompson told stories, and that's the simplest way I can put it. But he didn't chronicle life around him, not like many other journalists. He told stories where he was the main character, the kind journalists tell in a thousand bars across America after they've filed or the paper was put to bed.
But the outsized stories Hunter Thompson told made him a character,so cartoonish that he became a comic strip character, Uncle Duke in "Doonesbury."
Hunter Thompson killed himself last week. He was, according to reports, in physical pain and his writing indicates he was none too thrilled at the prospect of four more years of Dubya.
Thompson was one of the foremost practitioners of what was called "New Journalism," a style of writing that provided more atmosphere and description than the standard style of journalistic writing.
From Tom Wolfe to Gay Talese, young newspapermen in New York City were taking aspects of literature and using them to write news stories.
But Hunter Thompson was something else. He ingested mass quantities of controlled substances (for God's sake, the man began probably his most famous work, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" thus: We were somewhere around Barstow when the drugs began to take hold) and told stories that were rippingly funny.
In some instances, he told stories about ingesting controlled substances (The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved). He was a writer like none the world had ever seen, and none the world will see again. They won't let it.
The problem with Thompson's writing is that everyone wants to try it, and most people aren't that good. Also, in a news business that values quarterly profits above all else, everyone suddenly wants to err on the side of caution.
And in the end, he had outlived his time, a relic of the "You had to be there" era of the 1960s, with riots in the streets, Hell's Angels, recreational drug use and fear and loathing.
I'm one of probably a legion of journalism students who had to read his work at some point in their educational career. He was also a fun guy to read for shits and giggles, and probably better taken that way.
I'm not sure what type of lesson I or any other journalist would take from Hunter Thompson.
He'll probably be required reading for years to come, but as a cautionary tale. Much like journalism students now read 100-year-old news stories and marvel at the purple prose (ever actually read Grantland Rice's story about the Four Horsemen of Notre Dame?), students might have to do that someday with Hunter Thompson.
In "The Great Shark Hunt," he railed against journalism professors, saying they demonstrated fully George Bernard Shaw's aphorism that who can, do; who can't teach.
It appears journalism professors might have the last laugh. They can't teach people to be like him; nobody could. So the best they'll do is teach people to not be like him.