Make-up calls: ‘Impact People’ edition

I’ve already told y’all one of the main reasons I launched this godsend of a page is because it allows me to write whatever the hell I want, how and when — sans editorial interference.

This is that in a big way, ‘cause upon the overthinker that is me’s 33rd read of my marathon “Impact People” post of a couple weeks ago, I realized I might never sleep again if I don’t formally double back and give specific love to some magical souls who’ve impacted me in major ways. They either weren’t singled out in the original in my misguided attempt to keep the marathon from turning into an Iron Man test of the reader’s endurance, or they didn’t do the soul-searing thing until after the post was penned.

Let’s call it exactly what this is: A series of makeup calls for some omissions that were, in the immortal words of Urbs Unchained’s official Native Texan Secretary of Homespun Humor, Scott Palmer, “uglier than homemade soap.”

Quick refresher: Impact People are those who appear in your life outta nowhere and worm their way so deeply into your heart that you’ll be forever grateful. Here are a handful who’ve done that to me on some next-level levels:

Chris Baines, aka Kris Stylez: Former pro wrestler, director of security for the Houston Astros (with rings to prove it), and currently an on-the-comeup-as-Stylez rapper/singer/songwriter/producer, Chris has been invaluable to my mental health as I’ve recovered from an April accident that left me in a coma for 10 days, the hospital for 27, and an after-care facility forever.

No cap, I thought he was a mute when I met him. Turns out he’s simply a listener. A thoughtful, empathetic, wizened master of the lost art. Pure as a friend comes.

Bonus: Baines laughs at pretty much everything I do or say. Nobody’s THAT funny, but he makes me feel like I am, and there’s a lot of self-esteem value in that.

Ms. White-Hot Smarty Pants; aka The One; aka Fucker: Remember the top of my Impact People scale, the ones who hit you with such force that you’re instantly temporarily transferred — and perhaps permanently should you be so blessed — into some ethereal energy field that leaves you with little recourse by way of articulating the emotion outside of “Holy Shit”?

That would be the wonderful woman with whom I recently connected who checks literally every box I’ve been fastidiously formulating for years as it applies to a perfect potential partner. Brilliant and beautiful, tall and too cool to do justice with mere words, thoughtful and the polar opposite of thotful, kind and caring, effortlessly empathetic, sexy and sensitive with swag on seven billion, forcefully fierce, perceptive, and perhaps the funniest woman alive, Ms. White-Hot stopped my streak of Groundhog Day dating-app experiences with a single word at the end of her profile’s narrative: champ.

As in, “Shoot your shot, champ.” Never one to shy away from jacking up prayers, I shot with the best, most comically over-the-top sales pitch since I told my now-ex that if she’d give me just one date she’d end up walking the aisle in my direction.

I’d made a similarly bold prediction to this spectacular alien being, a former southpaw baller herself and an elite prep swimmer who went to college on a cheerleading scholarship before moving to Houston to settle on a law school. She actually reached out to me first, an upset of N.C. State-over-Phi Slama Jama-in-1983 proportions, and after my shot found nothing but net, I quickly discovered that she’s essentially perfect.

So damn right I’m feeling like a champ these days. “I’ll take ‘Worth The Wait’ for $800, Alex.” Princess Smarty Pants is a rock star, period. And she doesn’t think I’m a dork. Yet.

Bonus: Not only does she let me get away with calling her “fucker,” which believe it or not is an actual term of endearment and affection for me, she actually suggested I save her contact info in my phone under the name. Which I did, of course, and now get a childish kick out of the nonsensical notifications that “FUCKER has sent you a text message.” Holy Shit, she’s good.

Mike Washington, aka Wash, aka Big Bear, aka Belly Penis: Yes, “Belly Penis.” It’s actually what HE calls MY umbilical bump, but it’s so damn funny I flipped it.

Wash is as Ride-or-Die as a friend could be, having stormed into my life as a semi-pro baseball rotation-mate who has been my First Mate ever since. Over 33 years of ups, downs and sideways, he’s been there with an understanding ear, unfiltered advice, endless and side-splitting jokes, unconditional love and Big Bear hugs that say, “I got you, big fella,” in the warmest of ways.

Bonus: During the pandemic, post-divorce, when I was scraping the bottom of the barrel of fear and self-loathing, he made the 90-minute drive from his home to mine damn near every Sunday to keep me sane.

And last but not least, Barry Zito, aka Z, aka Drake Holloway: My first year covering Major League Baseball was his first full year playing it, and the year he left the Oakland A’s to sign with the San Francisco Giants, my career coincidentally made the same move across the Bay Bridge. And we both endured some serious struggles in the wake of said switch.

As a result, we drifted apart for a bit despite having been WAY more unorthodoxly tight than an athlete and media member are supposed to — and to hear many say it, allowed to — be for the previous decade while traveling the American League as frequent partners in crime.

But we never lost touch entirely, and when we both got right, we found our friendship more valuable than ever, and he’s my most trusted and inspiring consigliere to this day. Just a prince of a human being, with the heart the size of a blue whale and the best father this side of Harold Vincent Urban.

Bonus: Z’s on-the-air voicemail to my radio show one Sunday, explaining his no-show by saying he’d been quarantined after petting “Powder” down at the “Unicorn Stables,” remains a priceless web gem worthy of your time down whatever rabbit hole you need to dive into to find it.

Honorable mentions: Andrew Burruss, Mary Todd Hoppock, Russell “Rusty” Reimer, Michelle Sterling, Doug Miller and Kristen Khorge. Unforgettably amazing Impactful People as well.

Thank you for you. All of you.

Living, loving and hating in Houston

Chasing a dream job that turned nightmare faster than you can say “apparently undue diligence,” I packed up my 54 years of life in the San Francisco Bay Area last August and moved to Houston.

When most people hear “California to Texas” — particularly people who aren’t real familiar with either state but think they are — they assume you’ve experienced culture shock at Why On Earth Would You Do That To Yourself levels.

To the uninitiated, it’s a caricature constructed on time-honored but tired tropes.

To the ill-informed, taking cues from Hollywood and every other media outlet that specializes in over-generalization, California is the land surfers, stoners, valley girls, arrogant and filthy rich 12-year-old tech wizards, surgically enhanced damn-near-everythings, and butt-naked flower children crunching kale on the coast.

Wildly conversely, the stereotypes of Texas include “Howdy Pahdnahs,” Nolan Ryans and ranchers, loud and obnoxious oil barons, huge-hair hussies, huge-hat and spur-booted rodeo wranglers, cow tippers, tumbleweeds and Tex-Mex for miles, and drawlin’ debutantes lookin’ for a shot and a poke Deep In The Heart Of.

(Props to my man Scott “The Mayor of Respiteville” Palmer, a native Texan and as helpful a man as you’ll meet, for providing the beautifully colorful turn of phrase that is “lookin’ for a shot and a poke.” So pro.)

You’ll get this reminder from me ad nauseam: Stereotypes exist for a reason. There’s some truth to ‘em. I can say that with confidence about California because I lived there forever.

But Texas? Eh. Can’t really say, mostly because Houston is different. Quite a bit different, from what Houstonians tell me. Like it’s a state unto its own, immune to the cartoon conceptions. Like Houston isn’t IN the Lone Star State; it IS the Lone Star State. Emphasis “Lone.”

I wouldn’t go THAT far. I’ve seen a good number of big-ass belt buckles and shit-kickers. But I have been pleasantly surprised to realize — almost Instantly upon arrival — that the massive adjustment I assumed would come with my new home would be minimal at most.

Truth is, Houston is a lot like every other major American city. There’s good, bad, beauty and blight.

There’s a lot about it I really like. Love, even. And there’s some things I don’t. And while “hate” is a strong word that I tried to teach my daughters never to use, they’re grown now, and the word just works better in a headline.

So without further ado, and I’m King Ado so thanks for enduring the ado, here are some things I’ve come to dig, and some that make me want to dig ‘em a hole.

LOVE: Houston reminds me of my native Bay Area in many ways, the most significant being that there’s great cultural diversity.

People from all walks of life, people from all corners of the globe country, people from all over the globe. And no matter what your culinary, nightlife, musical or living situation predilections might be, you can find a spot that’s going to whet whatever appetite needs whetting. You might have to ask around a bit if your boat-floating fetish is freaky, but you’ll find it.

HATE: The heat and humidity. I’ve only been here for 11 months, but I’ve yet to experience anything resembling the tradition seasons of fall, winter or spring. There’s not even what this soft NorCal boy recognizes as summer. It’s a season with which I’m unfamiliar, but I like to name stuff, so I’ve named this oppressive season “Are You F***ing Kidding Me?!?” And it’s celebrated daily by losing nine pounds walking to pick up the mail.

To describe it, I’ll paraphrase the greatest thing I’ve ever heard from the mouth of Japanese baseball legend Ichiro Suzuki, who always knew WAY for English than he let on. He was actually talking about Kansas City in summer, and he used a different animal in his analogy, but it’s too cool to not crib: Houston, far more often than not, is hotter than two raccoons — enter Ichiro, verbatim — “fucking in a wool sock.”

LOVE: Public transportation. The Metro bus and train system is mostly money, making its Bay Area counterpart look like a network of clown cars. Metro, in my experience, is reliable and clean. It’s a big city, so you’ll definitely run into some vagrants and the lovely scent of urine from time to time, but I suppose that’s the price of cosmopolitan living in the big city.

And Metro is cheap! To get back from a doctor appointment today, I needed to catch a bus and two trains. Total cost: $1.25.

HATE: Thunderstorms. I don’t mind the outta-nowhere rain that makes it seem like Noah 2.0 should be busy at work on the Ark 2.0 like, NOW. And I don’t mind getting wet, because the wetness of the skies is a billion times more preferable than the wetness of the inevitable swamp-ass that comes with Are You F***ing Kidding Me?!

And never mind it’s a hot rain. An 86-degree downpour is a welcome little break from the typical feels-like temp of 157. And I do mean little. No matter how savagely it dumps, it usually stops as quickly as it starts.

The lightning is pretty cool, too. it’s part and parcel with thunderstorms, of course, but there is beauty in that. But the thunder itself? I don’t care how many horror flicks you’ve seen, but you haven’t been frightened until until you get a 2:30 AM clap that makes you sympathize with those who live in, I don’t know, Fallujah, and have experienced a bomb exploding in their bedroom.

And I know it’s awfully aggressive for a second urine reference, but I don’t know any other way to say it: It’ll scare the piss right out of you.

LOVE: Passionate sports town. Delusionally so, particularly as it applies to Rockets fans, who seem to think James Harden is a winner and that their two world titles weren’t the result of Michael Jordan’s first retirement. And they still rationalize the Astros cheating scandal, like everyone uses garbage cans and cameras and drones and helicopters to steal signs.

But it was time to let that go, and that’s why it was so cool that the Astros won the World Series last fall. Having grown up a fan of the Giants and A’s, and having been lucky enough to cover Oakland’s Big Three era, and the world championship era of recent Giants vintage, the similarities were inescapable. Young, relatable, prone to late-inning, magic, and straight-up likable, they were must see TV and rewarded your interest in the most euphoric of ways. I was really happy for their die-hards, and happy for Art Howe and Dinn Mann. They’d all suffered enough.

As for the football team, I say they don’t win jack until they change the dumbest name on Planet Sport. The Houston Texans? Someone actually threw that out at a meeting and got thumbs up from all corners of the room? Good lord. Can’t wait for the rest of the country to catch on.

Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to the Portland Oregonians!

HATE: Stadium confusion and goofiness. The soccer stadium used to be called EaDo, and that’s still what Metro calls the corresponding train stop. But now it’s called Shell Energy Stadium. Is it really that hard to print up a few new signs?

The football stadium used to be called Reliant, and now it’s called NRG. Virtually every giant building here has the name of an energy monolith attached to it, so if your glass is half full, “NRG” is kind of clever. But if your glass is half empty, it reeks of trying a little bit too hard.

And I’ve always been under the impression that a nickname by definition is short for something, so I don’t quite understand why the baseball stadium, Minute Maid, is called “The Juice Box.” Ahem. Three syllables is three syllables, people. And if you want to get technical and say that it’s “Minute Maid Park,“ three syllables isn’t all that short for four.

 And finally …

LOVE: Y’all. I say it all the time, y’all. It’s catchy, y’all. Sue me, y’all.

HATE: Sprawl. Houston is spread so wide and has such confusing roads and highways and freeways and speedways and every-which-ways, it doesn’t matter if your destination is five miles away or 30. It’s gonna take you 30 minutes to get there.

Just take Metro, y’all. It’s only $1.25!

. 

Impact People

When I started this page way back when the word “blog” made the arrogant journalism purist in me throw up in my mouth a lil’ bit, the goal was purely selfish: I just wanted a space where I could write whatever I damn-well pleased, unencumbered by the craft’s traditional shackles. You know, pesky stuff like editors and rules against working blue.

I’d like to think I’ve done some growing up in the many years since some generous-of-spirit internet auteurs assisted in Unchained’s unveiling, and as such the goal has changed. I still love me some strategically planted F-bombs among the flowers , but now there’s a touch of altruism to the updates.

in short (says the often insanely long writer you’re about to experience), I’d like to effectively articulate some interesting things I’ve been blessed to experience in an effort to entertain, and to pass along some life lessons I’ve been blessed to learn in the hopes that they impact some people in a real, lasting and positive way.

I led with said statement of mission today in response to the recent reminder, courtesy a new and potentially special friend, that none of us has any idea how or when — zero control whatsoever — we’re going to meet someone who’ll have a real, lasting and positive impact on us.

Someone who actually changes something within us, for THE good and FOR good.

If you’re lucky, you’ll meet a bunch of these people. But if you don’t meet a bunch of ‘em, it certainly doesn’t mean you’re not lucky.

Even if you only meet one, and that’d be extreme because almost everybody’s blessed with at least a handful of these Impact People, you absolutely are lucky.

Remember, we’re talking about someone whose mark upon you left an impression that’s — all together now — real, lasting and positive. 

That’s potent, powerful stuff. 

Thus, there’s a good chance you’ll know that this person is special the moment you meet. You might not know right then exactly what this person will come to mean, but the feeling that something’s up is right there.

It’s sudden-onset, and it can range in intensity from “Hmm…” on the low end of the register, to “Whoa” in the middle, all the way up to “Holy Shit!” at its apex.

I experienced my first “Hmm …” — a subtle sense of just knowing — with Mr. Keller, the Woodside High English teacher who sat me down and told me I was a writer WAY before I ever knew I was or wanted to be.

Knowing I was still delusional, convinced that my fairly near future was that of a professional athlete, he simply suggested I keep the writing arrow in my quiver as a Plan C.

How delusional? Plan A was the NBA, despite a borderline laughable vertical leap and even less-impressive handle. Think Harrelson or Harlow in “White Men Can’t Jump” meets Brad Lohaus or Lance Stephenson in heavy mid-court traffic.

Plan B was MLB ace, despite having command that called to mind red-tipped white canes and “breaking balls” that openly mocked me as they barely even humpbacked before bouncing a good six inches in front of home plate.

I peaked in both sports at the collegiate level, so Mr. Keller was clearly onto something that ultimately had a massive impact on my life. But the moment I met him lasted all of five seconds, tops, and while I did suspect that this gentle, warm cat with the Cool Uncle vibe was going to be good for me, it was a very vague vibe, a decidedly low-frequency feeling.

At the high end of the scale, “Holy Shit!” Is essentially an industrial-strength blender of feelings set on “Obliterate.” A blissfully painless jackhammer to the dome that’ll metaphorically drop you even before the moment you physically meet this particularly intoxicating iteration of an Impact Person.

Think dating-app profile on the strongest steroids science has to offer. Literally at first glance of a photograph, the instant you become consciously aware of being in Holy Shitville, this person’s presence leaves you a little loopy, and as the stunning surface beauty’s layers peel back with each exchange of messages to revealed a soul every bit as attractive, the senses are pummeled with rat-a-tat-tat that starts with nothing short of awe and ends with an exhausted exhilaration, full-stop. 

Like, “Ummm. Yeah. This ain’t normal. But it’s really fucking cool.” That kind of awe. 

You try to snap out of it, knowing any projection of obvious awe can’t be the greatest look to rock when you’re talking to ANYONE for the first time. But the best you can do is make your peace with a slightly less-obvious dreamlike state — wonder? — in which you’re definitely still trippin’ and not really processing much, but at least you can reasonably function in the presence of this insanely magnetic stranger kinda freaking you out and effortlessly stirring some seriously rare — the rarest, really — but not-unhealthy emotions. 

And thankfully, before long this rarest of  Impact Person will have graciously made you completely comfortable, somehow settling you into a much-needed and appreciated sense of hyperserenity, entirely content, just happily marveling that you’re actually a welcome and equal part of what’s happening.

And you know (okay, perhaps “hope” is more applicable) that it’s massive RIGHT NOW. “Figure out the why later,” you tell yourself. “Go! Go! Go!” Almost impossible to NOT charge that shit. 

But at this end, with those incredible highs, there is risk. And a vulnerability inherent in any interpersonal interaction on the internet. It can be a wicked web, indeed.

Like I said, it can leave you loopy for a whiiiiiiiiile. And loopy can be really fun. In fact, I think it’s absolutely necessary. But it’s not a good way to be for any protracted amount of time, particularly when that time is so incredibly important for you to handle your new Star with the patience and respect they deserve while protecting yourself against a potentially devastating disappointment.

Like if out of nowhere comes an expert opinion on Crypto, or a promise of undying devotion in exchange for $200, or — no bullshit; this actually happens out there — a request to be sent A FREAKING XBOX!

A s is the case with virtually all intoxicants, you can lose yourself real quick-like when you start chasing them and caring about little else. You start doing dumb, way-out-of-character shit, desperate for the next fix, the next hit of your utter fascination.

And that’s the ultimate risk, because if this new friend proves legit you can absolutely lose yourself, inadvertently pushing this person away and in turn losing this incredible gift that you just KNOW is a gift directly to you, and you KNOW in someway you’ll be an Impact Person for them. But it’s like you can’t stop yourself. 

I mean, rare and special people are still people. They tire. They get weirded out if some stranger seems a tad too sprung too soon. And they read people really well, really quickly.

And here’s real: Rare And Special usually has options. 

So you gotta be crazy careful in a way you’ve never been or had to be. Pace is important. You can’t force what could have a “lasting” impact with one all-in week of gotta-stay-in-the-game gonzo. Try to do that and it won’t last a month. Maybe not even two weeks. Hell, you might never even get to actually SPEAK to Rare And Special if you spazz on ‘em.

So breathe. Silence is not your enemy. Nor is restraint. Too much of your voice is, though. 

So don’t get so blinded by Rare And Special’s irresistible alien glow that you can’t see yourself personally dimming the glow by trying to monopolize it, or be demanding of it with you’re own immaturity and entitlement.

(If it feels like I’m talking to … I don’t know … MYSELF? Mind your own damn business, lol. I’m workin’ here!)

Clichés and tropes exist for a reason: They’re rooted in universal truths. So here: “Let the game come to you.” Everything’s gonna be good — as long as you don’t wig out and fuck it all up. You’re welcome. 

That’s been my experience, anyway. I have been blessed by more than a handful of such amazing people, just showing up and sliding into my soul. And I’ve had a visceral reaction of some sort to every single one. I can remember every first moment and first feeling like it was yesterday. 

And just as I eventually recognized the aforementioned range to the intensity levels and struggled to modulate my various feelings, I’ve found that my Impact People fall into one of three categories. None more or less important than the others. 

There’s group of them who’ve impacted me in a very specific, singular way. Not quite a hit-and-run thing. More of an in-and-out, my-work-here-is-done thing.

My first journalism professor, a gruff, loud, colorful, brilliant firecracker of a man named Robert Glessing, is a perfect example. He suggested I change the “i” in my first name to a “y” — he said Michael is a boring and common name, but he ALWAYS noticed when it was spelled with a Y — and pretty much bounced. And he was right.

There’s a group that sticks around a little longer. In my case it’s included a couple bosses; one who saw my potential as a very young professional and gave me the room to screw the pooch on occasion while I worked out how to maximize it, and another who didn’t just know how to maximize it but insisted I expand on it considerably.

Couple coaches, too, and teammates from all walks of life. Each willing and able to teach through outreach.

And the third group is comprised of straight-up Lifers who stick so securely to the deepest recesses of your soul that you feel them forever. Or hope to. My aforementioned new friend, I suspect, might prove worthy of entry to that exclusive and inspiring club.

So yeah, I’ve been very blessed. Very lucky.

But there’s no question that as I’ve grown older, more experienced, and more understanding of who I am and where I fit best in the world, I’m not meeting these Impact People nearly as often. 

It slowed to a trickle, really,  and after years without, I’d fairly recently figured I’d hit the lifetime limit. And I was good with that.

And the truth, the awesome truth, is that the impact that ALL of these Rare And Special people have on you is probably going to shape-shift over time, if not grow tentacles with multiple different types of impact. 

That’s the jackpot. Get one of those types in your orbit and you’re good in a lot of different ways.

I was wrong about reaching my quota. This recent development proved it, and it feels important to share. To offer hope by way of this reminder that you might be mere moments away from getting hit by more Impact People.

Pretty cool notion, right?

“Holy Shit!” indeed.

—Mychael (with a Y)

Pain is relative

Turns out I had no idea. But at least I had the good sense to get my ass to an AA meeting tonight.

Took a couple trains to get there, and four trains to get back; I’m still a bit of a zoo when it comes to Houston’s Metro system. But never have I been so rewarded for knowing my triggers, so as I often text to the befuddlement of my friends: Saul Goode.

(Work it out. You’ll get there.)

I’d never been to this particular place, and crashing in on a cane well after the meeting’s start time certainly wasn’t the best first impression. But within about 16 seconds, I knew I’d made a surprisingly — for me — great decision.

The speaker whose message I briefly interrupted seemed to know I was coming. That happens to me a lot, mostly because AA messages are typically universally applicable to the messes I’ve made. But it still drops me, metaphorically, every time it happens.

“We all here ‘cause we in some pain, ‘cause we caused some pain, or ‘cause we already figured some shit out and just tryna make sure we don’t cause no MORE pain,” my man said. “Don’t matter which of them three reasons got your ass here. You here! YOU HERE, MAN! And for that I applaud y’all. And y’all need to applaud yourselves! ‘Cause by gettin’ your asses to this room, you’ve responded to whatever pain is poppin’ off in your life in the healthiest way possible.

“Y’all said, ‘I need more than me to handle this!’”

It gave me chills then, and it just gave me chills while recounting it for you just now.

And I’m gonna pretty much just leave it right here for you, because whether you’ve struggled with alcohol, drugs, family, ego, whatever … Hell, even if you’ve had a relatively peaceful, pain-free life thus far.

The message really is universal: Life WILL eventually throw you some wicked hooks. But as long as you don’t lunge at ‘em, as long as you don’t try to take ‘em on solo, but rather lean on something or someone that you know is good for you, you’ll be OK.

Two trains, four trains, no trains. You’ll be OK.

Saul Goode!

Yup. Again. This time without the promises

I’ve never been comfortable with having “fans.”

That’s not to say I’ve never coveted, cultivated or appreciated them. I have. Always. Big-time. They are, after all, the true currency of the industry in which I’ve worked the bulk of my life.

“Haters” are a lesser form of currency, but an undeniable form nonetheless. Show me someone in media/entertainment with a big name, a high profile, a widely considered successful career; I’ll show you quantifiable evidence that this person is reviled by at least 35 percent of his or her flock of followers.

I’ll use my much-younger self as an example.

Born at San Francisco’s St. Mary’s Hospital, quite literally a long-toss away from my eventual alma mater (see: Russell and Cartwright, Bill), I was a Chronicle Kid through and through. The Sporting Green was my bible, my best friend, and my first and most firm connection to my single father.

A former Dons hooper himself, then a high-school history teacher and raiser of three future Dons, my Dad of course was the first to devour the daily dispatches from our local literary luminaries. Ira Miller, Tim Keown, Ray Ratto, Bruce Jenkins, Lowell Cohn. Every one a titan in my young mind. Herb Caen himself would cross over on occasion to marvel at Montana or Humm-Baby himself to thrill on Will.

As the youngest of three boys, I got The Green last. And that was cool by me — I not only kinda dug the kaleidoscope of smudged ink that became of my fingers, but I got to KEEP The Green as long as I wanted. And I kept that bad boy until I’d devoured every word, stat, and agate Transaction.

The short-term benefit of my voracious consumption of All Things Bay Area Sports via those gloriously crumpled and messy pages was my ability to fill the occasional awkward silence that would accompany my Dad and I on the way home from a less-than-stellar BP session that he’d dutifully squeeze in for me between his 11 jobs.

“You see what Lowell Cohn wrote about the Warriors today?”

My Dad LOVED Lowell Cohn. Still does, in fact. Fast forward 20-30 years, to when my career had reached the point that I could call Cohn a colleague, and I watched my Dad turn into a fawning 14-year-old when I introduced him to Lowell.

Lowell got a pretty good kick out of it, too. So a year or so after the initial introduction, my friend Lowell was more than happy to call my Dad on his birthday, and it remains to this day the most memorable “gift” I’ve ever given the man who gave me the gift of The Green, of a love for language, of a fascinating future career.

What does this have to do with “fans” and “haters”? Well, let me let you in on a little secret. Back in the day, when I’d use Lowell’s latest to connect with my Dad? I HATED Lowell Cohn!

He wasn’t just “Lowell Cohn.” If my Dad wasn’t around, he was “Can You Believe That Lowell Fucking Cohn Guy?” I couldn’t stand his takes, I disagreed with him on virtually everything, and I generally despised his presence in The Green.

Now that I’m grown, I love the guy. I understand the method to his madness. I revere the guy. He’s a legend.

But back then? I was a hater. You know what, though? I never missed one of his columns. I absolutely HAD to see what this jackass had to say.

So was I really a “hater”? Or was I a “fan”? Does a distinction even matter? Not really. Certainly not these days. Both are regular consumers of the product on offer, which makes them both “followers.”

So that’s the real currency in this game I’ve played for much of my life. Love me or hate me. Fine with both. As long as you’re paying attention.

What’s the point of this post? I don’t really know, to tell the truth. It’s the first thing I’ve written for public consumption in a long time. And I’m quite certain that anyone who’s followed my mercurial journey likely expects me to make some sort of “I’m back!” proclamation, complete with an ultimately empty promise to post every day; to use this space as both rehab from another self-inflicted setback, and as a springboard to an inspiring comeback that’ll restore me to past glories.

Gross. I’ve done this several times now over the years, and it reminds me of a line I used to drop (with a half-shirt Schwarzenegger accent) from some movie I can’t remember when one of my friends would start to drone on and on: “Your story grows tiresome.”

Thus, no promises this time. Yes, I’ve been through some shit again. Like, some SHIT shit. But I’mma spare you the gory gories, the “message,” the pathetic please-root-for-my-broken-but-brave-soul.

I just felt like writing something again, and this is what came of that feeling.

And it feels pretty good, so I’ll probably do it again. And when I do, I’ll let you know.

Thanks for following along.

—Urb

Good For Ball, Bad For Ball

From Josh Reddick’s biker/philosopher goatee, to Joba Chamberlain-to-the-Giants rumors, to chilled beets staining your salad -– everything in life can be labeled one of two ways: Good For Ball, or Bad For Ball. It’s time again to check out what’s what.

… Reddick’s chin sock? Good For Ball. Especially when it’s paired with the slicked-back, serial-killer wig he’s been favoring. Menacing works in baseball, and given that Reddick looks like he weighs about a buck-fifty, it’s much-needed if he’s to be taken seriously as a legitimate power hitter (and not the one-season wonder his anemic first-half stats are suggesting).

Oh, and please tell me I’m not the only one who thinks Reddick’s a dead ringer for the pre-Mark-McGwire’s-obvious-influence-through-advanced-chemistry Jason Giambi. Same uniform number and oversized affinity for attention, too.

Giambi, by the way, is a prince of a human being. I covered the A’s for MLB.com during his MVP season, and a more engaging, gracious superstar you’ll rarely meet. I have nothing but great things to say about the man.

Doesn’t mean he wasn’t a lab beaker with arms and legs, though.

… Moving on to the Joba rumors: Ooooh. So Bad For Ball. Like, chilled-beets Bad For Ball. Call me crazy, but the Giants do not — repeat DO NOT — need an ineffective middle man. Isn’t that George Kontos’ role?

Anyway, remember when the hyperventilating New York media tried to force the phrase “Joba Rules” upon us? Yeah, that was when the big fella actually had promise. Now he’s pretty much the white Hideki Irabu.

… Speaking of Irabu, does anyone else miss George Steinbrenner? He was a colossal ass at times, no doubt about it, frequently morphing into a cantankerous caricature, but he was never, ever boring. Look around these days, and virtually every owner in every sport is less interesting than your neighbor’s blog about his rescue beagle.

George was volatile, dynamic, unpredictable, entertaining. And best of all, he poured a ton of his own money into his team in an effort to win for the fans of New York. A lot of people criticized him for trying to “buy” championships, but isn’t that what every team does on a fundamental level? Yes, it is. The Boss was Good For Ball.

… If the baseball gods were mocking the Giants’ recently pathetic offense by having a pitcher named Homer no-hit them, well, that sucks for the Giants and their fans. Good For Ball, though. Baseball is by far the sport most easily mined for humor, so it makes sense that its gods are a little bit twisted.

… The notion that Dwight Howard would destroy the Warriors’ admirable harmony is ludicrous. Bad For Ball. It’s also a slap in the faces of Mark Jackson and Steph Curry, the team’s unquestioned leaders. That Howard is a freakishly large man doesn’t mean he’ll be able to impose his seemingly petulant will on the Warriors.

If anything, what we know of Jackson thus far suggests he’s the perfect coach to turn Howard back into the humble, infinitely likeable young man who spoke so openly of his Christian faith upon joining the league as a teenager in 2004. That kid is still in there somewhere, and Curry’s general good-guy-ness would likely help pull him out.

And while it’s impossible be stoked on giving up Klay Thompson or Harrison Barnes in a Howard deal, at this point Warriors fans should be pretty open to buying whatever Bob Meyers might be selling. A healthy and mentally rehabilitated Howard makes a second-round playoff team a conference finalist at worst.

… Still reeling from unthinkable tragedy, Boston didn’t just lose the Stanley Cup Finals. It lost by blowing a pair of two-goal leads before falling in triple-OT in Game 1, dropping another heartbreaker in OT in Game 4, and, worst of all, giving up two goals in the blink of an eye during Chicago’s Game 6 clincher.

Ergo, we can come to no other conclusion than this: Unlike the baseball gods, who rise to the occasion and give us moments such as Mike Piazza’s post-9/11 homer for the Mets and President Bush’s perfect strike at Yankee Stadium during the World Series, the hockey gods aren’t just Bad For Ball. They flat suck.

… I never let my daughters leave the basketball gym without making one last shot. It’s the same principle I apply in making “I love you” the last thing they hear from me every night: end on a positive. I’ll apply it here, too, because I don’t want “suck” to be the last thing I write before we celebrate the birth of this great country.

Joseph Zito, the father of Giants lefty Barry, passed away a couple of weeks ago. Barry, as many of you know, is a friend of mine. So Joe’s passing wasn’t just a few lines in my favorite newspaper’s “Giants Notes.” In fact, Joe played a pivotal role in my life.

Let me explain: I’m friends with Barry in part because when we first met, he was as comfortable in his own skin as anyone I’d ever met. He was a young stud with the A’s, rich and famous, with a ridiculously bright future — but he was straight-up normal. No airs whatsoever. What you saw was what you got, and what you got was a young man who’d clearly been raised right.

So when I got to meet Joe, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to pick his brain. I was about to become a father for the first time, and I wanted to do it right. In my opinion, Joe had done the Dad Thing right, so I asked him for advice.

He happily obliged, and his message was essentially this: Expose your children to as much as humanly possible, then hang back and watch intently. Just stay the hell out of it once you’ve presented them with the options.

Sports? Have ‘em play ‘em all. Music? Every genre. Art? Same deal. People? Ditto. Travel? High and low.

“They’ll show you what they love,” Joe told me. “And ‘show’ is the key word. Telling you they love something is one thing. But do they show it? That’s what you wait for, Wait for them to show you they love it, with their actions, with their passion. And when they do –- and only then –- you can step back in and encourage them to move in that direction.”

Best parental advice I’ve ever gotten. Good for Ball.

Thanks, Joe. Glad you’re Home.

HPH and other Friday fun

Honest. Positive. Helpful.

These are three traits to which the old me paid little to no attention, and the results were predictably unfulfilling. Miserable, even.

Now? Being as honest, positive and helpful — HPH — as humanly possible in everything I do is the primary goal. During my morning commute and throughout each day, I remind myself that HPH has to be my personal GPS.

It’s an approach I adopted, ostensibly, to offset/counter/combat my destructive self-centered tendencies; HPH is, after all, largely selfless.

But the more I practice HPH, the more I find that it’s NOT all that selfless. I get a TON out of it. Turns out being selfless is a little bit selfish — in a good way. My life now is the polar opposite of unfulfilling and miserable!

It only took me 44 years to figure that out, by the way. My jackassness never ceases to amaze me.

Now on to some sports …

One of my Twitter followers, @Michael_RA, asked me to update my thoughts on a discussion we’ve had in the past regarding the Giants’ Brandons, Crawford and Belt. Specifically, he asked me who’s better at this point in their budding careers.

Great question, isn’t it? You could make a strong case for either one.

Both have Gold Glove potential at their respective position, but Crawford’s position is more important, and despite the fact that he’s made errors in bunches at times, he’ll be the superior defender in general over the long haul.

Crawford has proven that the I’ll-be-happy-with-.250 stance many fans adopted in regards to his offensive upside, but Belt, despite his propensity to slip into extended funks at the plate, has more power and will be, over the long haul, the superior (more productive) hitter in general.

So again, the question: Who’s the better Brandon?

Sorry to give you a Waffle Cone, folks, but from here it seems pretty much a push. One’s a rock-star defensive shortstop who contributes his fair share offensively and runs the bases well. The other’s a corner infielder with power who can pick it, play some outfield and run a little bit himself.

Ask any GM in the game which type of player he’d rather have. His answer will probably be the same as mine:

Yes, please.

———-

With all due respect to LeBron, he’s not the most unstoppable player in the NBA right now. That would be Tony Parker. Holy crap, is there anything he can’t do when he really wants to do it?

OK, maybe he can’t smash on a 7-footer, but he doesn’t need to. It’s just as demoralizing to drop a feathery floating runner over the big fella’s fingertips.

———–

I understand the fascination with professioinal drafts. Sports are an escape, a fantasy, and every sport’s draft allows its fans to fantasize about the future. But you can’t put earrings on a pig, and that’s what MLB has been trying to do with all the TV time and analysis.

The NBA, NFL and even the NHL drafts are mostly dealing with the immediate future. MLB is mostly dealing with three to five years from now. That’s, like, three more versions of the iPhone down the road. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

———–

Thanks for stopping by, folks. If you download one song today, make it “Roundabout” by Yes. Especialy you youngsters with, um, hippie tendencies. Feel me?

–Urbs

Syringes half-full

According to Tuesday, MLB has persuaded one of the ringleaders of suspected cheat factory Biogenesis to rat out a large collection of suspected cheaters, which we’re told will likely lead to an unprecedented slew of suspensions.

If the reports are true, the nickname “A-Fraud” will have never been so apt — before PEDs came to the fore, it simply mocked his transparent, plastic personality — and Ryan Braun, the other headliner in the soon-to-boil-over cauldron of controversy, will officially and irretrievably lose any shred of respect he might have maintained in the wake of his MVP/overturned drug bust drama.

Here in the Bay Area, the A’s will have to once again make due without Bartolo Colon, a loss perhaps offset competitively by the fact that Rangers stud Nelson Cruz is said to be among the dopes, and Giants fans get to thank their lucky stars that Melky Cabrera got popped last year — BEFORE the Giants convinced themselves they needed to sign him to a monster multi-year deal.

Across the country, baseball fans will be taking sides.

On one side will be those who skew negative, using this unprecedented-in-scale scandal as support of their theory that big-league ball is as dirty as ever. The testing program isn’t working, they’ll claim. The penalties don’t serve as a severe enough deterrent. The players have no respect for the game, its history or its authority.

We’ll probably get some racial nonsense, too, given the surnames of the players implicated.

Are those on this side of searing condemnation wrong? Not really. Truth is, there is no right or wrong here. Any frustration, disappointment, anger or indignation associated with this story is certainly justified.

It’s another flaming bag of feces on the so-called national pastime’s doorstep, and a great number of fans long ago resigned themselves to the notion that very little that’s seen on the fields before them can be believed as the product of talent plus hard work and sacrifice. The preponderance of evidence to the contrary makes it hard to assume anyone’s 100 percent clean.

Unfair to those who ARE clean? Sure. But a sadly understandable stance.

The other side? That’s where I’m choosing to sit on this one, in a place where what’s sought is progress rather than perfection.

Is baseball ever going to be cheat-free? H-to-the-ell no. You’ve heard the saying, “If you ain’t cheating, you ain’t trying,” right? Well, there’s a lot of truth to that. It’s not the most pious approach, but it’s taken in one way or another by virtually everyone who’s played the game at a relatively high level.

“Cheating,” of course, is difficult to define in sports. Stealing, for instance, is unacceptable in the real world unless it’s in reference to glances or kisses. In basketball and soccer, though, stealing the ball is an art form to some, as is stealing signs in baseball and football.

There are rules against scuffing the pearl in baseball, or loading it up with the nectar of Gaylord Perry’s essence, but it’s in an entirely different class of “cheating” than popping greenies or stabbing needles in your ass. In fact, there’s a wink-wink/nudge-nudge admiration associated with the practice of subtly getting over on umpires.

Hey, I did it too. You ever throw a ball accessorized with a little sweat and some Ivory soap? Pretty damn magical movement, and pretty damn easy to get away with when you’re wearing home whites. Just rub a bar against your thigh before every inning, step off the mound to wipe your brow, introduce fingers to said thigh, and say hello to that strikeout you so desperately need.

Cheating? Some call it gamesmanship.

Drugging it up, though, is something we can all agree is Bad For Ball. It’s absolutely cheating in every sense of the word. There is no gamesmanship in a lab. And unfortunately, it’s likely that no matter what happens when the Biogenesis dust settles, a certain segment of the player population will choose ego and the lure of bloated stats, money and fame over integrity.

They will try to beat the system. They will cheat.

But some of them will get caught. Given the progression we’ve been witnessing, it seems likely that a LOT of them will get caught.

Not all of them, of course. Good and evil will cat-and-mouse it ad infinitum; baseball’s scientists on both sides of the equation are no exception. But we’re seeing more and more players exposed as sullied every year, and that, at least to me and those of like mind, is proof that the game really is serious about cleaning things up.

It wasn’t always that way. We have those “Chicks dig the long ball” commercials as evidence of the blind eyes once turned.

Those same eyes appear wide open now. Who cares if they were shamed open by the pathetic showings of Big Mac, Sammy Sosa and Pointy Palmeiro in front of Congress? Open is open, and open is good.

Bust are up. Home runs, and the pajama-style unis that juicers used to rock to hide their freakishly enhanced Frankenstein physiques, are down.

That’s progress, and as long as there’s progress, we should be encouraged, not discouraged.

Perfection? Not often found in this world. Queen’s Live Aid set, Sophia Loren and Halle Berry in their prime, and Vin Scully’s handling of Kirk Gibson’s homer in ’88 (sorry, A’s fans) are about all we’ve seen.

Are we going to see more imperfection in baseball regarding PEDs? Yup. No doubt. Some people are flat-out dumb and greedy and dishonest.

Keep combating that with honesty and sincerity in the effort to eradicate the issue, though, and the pastime will always survive the occasional angst of the present.

————–

Thanks for stopping by, folks, and if you download one song today, make it Stevie Wonder’s “Uptight.” Dude was a teenager when he bust that out. Insanely good.

–Urbs

Sudden impact all around

Some of my posts here are going to have a singular focus. More often than not, though, multiple subjects will be addressed, and in the name of generating some sense of appeal, I try to find a theme that might connect the various and seemingly disparate musings.

Whether it works or not, hell, I don’t know. Not even sure it matters. If you dig my work, you’ll read what I post. If you don’t, you’ll bash me anonymously online. I know the drill. Perhaps my thematic efforts are an example of my tendency to make things harder that they need to be. Whatever.

That said … “that written” just feels weak … the theme today is reflected in the first two words of the post title. The topics include the response to my soul-baring, butt-nekkid post on Friday, everything Tim Lincecum says and does, Chad Gaudin’s debut as a Giants starter, and A’s lefty Sean Doolittle.

Friday’s post: It was pretty amazing, the response it got. Particularly on Twitter, from folks who’ve been where I’ve been and are where I want to go. I also heard from a gang of loyal readers welcoming me back to the land of the living; within minutes of posting, I was inundated with congratulations and pledges of support.

I used to think people were basically negative. I subscribed to a theory I once heard thrown out by a popular standup comic:

“I like the concept of people … but people fuck it up.”

Now I realize that this attitude was the result of my own negativity, so I make every effort to take the glass-half-full route these days, and the results have been staggering. Friday’s response is but one example, and for those who understand my the root of my recent struggles, it was an example of good things coming quickly in the wake of real work. Another example: a friend at BaySportsNet.com asking, later Friday, upon seeing I was writing again, if I’d like to contribute to the rapidly growing site. I agreed, and my first post there went up early this morning.

Just a great way to head into my weekend, so thanks to everyone who chimed in.

Timmy Time: Scary how big all things Freak become, no matter what it is. That’s essentially the jumping-off point of my BaySportsNet.com debut, which examines the all-but-etched-in-stone eventuality that Timmy will be working out of the bullpen before long.

A related thought on the topic that I saved exclusively for “Unchained”:

Lincecum’s unorthodox windup, which requires exquisite timing and body control, was created to allow for a relatively small man to maximize the inordinate amount of power in his body. So now that the power has clearly been diminished, with no sign of anything more than an occasional return of a couple mph, why not make an all-out effort to simplify those mechanics once and for all?

Lincecum’s money pitches, even with diminished velocity (which is overrated, anyway), remain downright filthy. His split change is cartoonish, his fastball still slips and slides, and his breaking stuff is breathtaking when it’s on. But none of it means much if he can’t command it, and as is the case with 98 percent of struggling pitchers, Lincecum’s struggles can be pinned on the fact that he’s nothing close to pinpoint.

Insanity, we’re told, is doing the same thing and expecting different results. Stop the insanity. Make a radical change. It can’t get any worse, right?

Pronounced GO-DAN:  Don’t let anyone try to convince you otherwise. That’s how you say the last name of our man Chad. Not gaw-din, or go-deen or gaw-deen. It’s go-dan. I know because I asked him — all the way back in 2006, when I was the A’s beat writer for MLB.com and Gaudin arrived for his first Spring Training with Oakland after  being acquired from Toronto for a player to be named later.

That PTBNL designation always gives me a chuckle, by the way. I immaturely envision a newborn deemed so insignificant and that his parents put off giving him a name, but he somehow perseveres and makes it all the way to professional baseball and gets sent from one organization to another, eventually being assigned a name upon completion of the transaction. Inspiring, goosebump fiction, ain’t it?

Aaaaanyway, Gaudin was a hell of a pitcher for the A’s for most of the time I covered him, and he’s been that for other teams as well. He’s had some rough patches, in part because he fought the notion of being a Swiss Army Knife, but now that he’s accepted the inherent value of such a role, he’s settled in nicely as a pitcher capable of saving a team’s ass at any time in a game.

He’s also a great guy, period. Easy to get along with, quick-witted and generally pleasant in the clubhouse.

And what a great sign by the Giants. Just keep the guy into Vogey’s role until Vogey gets back. Don’t even try to force some square-peg prospect into a round hole. Count the blessing that is Chad GO-DAN.

Doolittle does a lot: Nice to see the converted first baseman get the feature treatment in the Sporting Green over the weekend. His story is one of about 324 ridiculously rich stories unfolding in the A’s clubhouse that have gone largely untold.

The guy was a washed up, banged up hitter a couple of years ago, and now he’s a very strong candidate to represent the Elephants in the All-Star Game — hopefully along with Josh Donaldson, giving Oakland two players in the Midsummer Classic for the first time since the days of the Big Three.

Donaldson, of course, is a heck of a tale, too. He got the treatment recently as well. Two down, 322 to go. Good for the Chronicle. Good for A’s fans. …. And wait for it … Good For Ball.

Bonus plan: Gotta get this off my chest before I bolt. The world of youth sports must be rid of the character-building scourge that is participatory trophies.

Come on. You get rewarded just for showing up? Yeah, kid, that’s EXACTLY how it works in real life. Just show up and do the bare minimum. It’s all good. You don’t even have to be on time. Just show up and it’s all cookies and juice boxes.

No wonder we’re getting so soft.

It’s time to get back to teaching life lessons rooted in reality. Winners get trophies, losers get to try harder. That’s real. Who’s with me?

And don’t even get me started on not keeping score …

Thanks for dropping by. Check back tomorrow for more. Oh, and if you download one song today, make it “Flava in Ya Ear” by Craig Mack. Siiiiick.

Peace,

Urbs

What’s old is new … or something

If you’re reading this right now, it’s likely because you follow me on Twitter — thank for that, btw — and saw my “ressurrection” post. So most of you know me, and some of you likely used to visit the blog that one of my followers designed for me. You know, the one with AT&T Park in the background and a cool baseball-in-broken-chains logo.

That’s gone. This is a new blog, sort of.

As you can see, this is obviously not as cool-looking as the old one. I just didn’t feel right hitting up my generous Twitter followers again, because the cool-looking blog died off due to my own neglect/apathy/self-sabotage. It would have been be selfish and wrong to ask someone else to clean up my mess, so I decided to just go back to the generic format — simple, no-frills, self-supported and -maintained — with which I started blogging way back in the day.

So it’s not really a new blog. It’s the oldest of my old blogs; the only thing new about it is the fancy new blue background. I still have no idea how to make the text darker, btw. Feel free to help a brutha out on that.

Aaaanyway, I’m happy to report that neglect, apathy and self-sabotage have been replaced by action, drive and clarity of purpose. In other words, I’m back.

From where? Let’s just say it was a pretty friggin’ dark place. I might reveal more over time, I might not. I’ll let the Power guiding me determine that.

For now, let’s just say the lights are back on and I’m kind of diggin’ myself again — in a confident, not arrogant, way. And that regained sense of self has me wanting to start … I don’t know … doing shit again.

(Excuse the profanity.  Certain sentiments require a certain amplification not available by traditional literary means, if you know what I means.)

So here I am again, basically returning to my roots — I started out as a writer, nothing else.

For those of you who may have only recently started following me, a quick refresher:

After graduating from the University of San Francisco, where I was a spectacularly average left-handed pitcher on a spectacularly bad baseball team while working on my Communications degree, I started a career in sports journalism that started at a weekly newspaper in Half Moon Bay and led to other newspapers, large and small. Then came the move into the digital world, in which I worked for websites big and bigger (NBCOlympics.com, MLB.com) before transitioning into television (CSN Bay Area) and radio (KNBR-680 AM, 95.7 FM The Game).

Somewhere in that 22-year span, I managed to get a book published. It’s called “ACES,” and it’s about Tim Hudson, Mark Mulder and Barry Zito, who essentially made “Moneyball” possible by winning a ton of games for the 1999-2004 Oakland A’s, but were virtually ignored in Michael Lewis’ book and Brad Pitt’s movie. “ACES” came out in 2005, and you can buy it online these days for, like, a dollar or something. It’s worth at least twice that.

No movie planned as of now, but if there ever is one, Art Howe will not be portrayed as out-of-shape dickhead, Huddy will be played by Ed Norton with a shaved dome or John Malkovich, and I will be played by David Morse, whom I’m chagrined to admit really does look quite a bit like me.

I digress. Get used to it. I stopped taking my ADHD medicine (read: speed) when I graduated from USF. And unlike 95 percent of people diagnosed with the disorder, I actually have it. Nowadays it seems like every kid who brings home a report card riddled with C’s and D’s, and every professional athlete hooked on outlawed greenies, gets an ADD or ADHD diagnosis so parents and front offices can feel less responsible for their developmental failures.

Wait. That was another digression, wasn’t it? Oh well. Don’t even try to say it wasn’t at least slightly amusing.

Decidedly less amusing is the fact that starting with the expiration (and non-renewal) of my contract at CSN in the fall of 2011, a variety of circumstances, including me being a zoo, gradually pushed me out of my various media jobs. My last regular gig, as a columnist for the Examiner, was discontinued due to “budgetary issues.”

All of which led to budgetary issues of my own, so now I’m starting a career in hospital administration. Specifically, nursing homes.

Quite a change, yes, but every business, when you get right down to it, depends heavily on one’s ability to effectively communicate and build/maintain strong relationships. And those abilities were key to most of the success I found in media. It was when the ridiculously outsized sense of entitlement (and, paradoxically, insecurity) that I developed during my ascent started to overshadow my other skills that things started to go south.

Life is heading north again, however, and my new life is infinitely more stable and rewarding.

My best days toward the end of my media career were highlighted by people telling me “great show” or the like. My job was to entertain.

My best days at work these days are highlighted by people expressing thanks for the dignity, peace of mind and quality care I helped to provide for a family during trying times. My job is to comfort, reassure and lead.

This suits me better, and it’s helped me immensely in my personal life as well.

I’m focused less on the selfish pursuits that consumed me while climbing the media ladder, focusing instead — intensely so — on the far-more-satisfying endeavor that is trying to be a good, honest, responsible person … a loving and supportive husband … a doting father of two young girls who make waking up every morning a genuine joy … a reliable friend.

I still love writing, though, and I now realize that my first mistake in media was in chasing the money and attention that comes with TV and radio work — as opposed to honoring and honing the writing skills that allowed me to explore TV and radio in the first place.

Hence this reclaimed space on the ‘net, this “ressurrection.” It’s my karmic makeup call for pissing on one of my gifts for far too long.

Sports will be the primary subject here, but if you know me at all you know I’m prone to pop off about pop culture and, every now and then, share some of the life lessons I’ve learned the hard way.

And as always, my thoughts will be presented as they come to mind — always unfiltered, hopefully humorous as often as not, and unconditionally from the heart.

Thanks for stopping by. Please do so often. I plan to post daily as part of my ongoing effort to fully restore a life that I’d let go awry. The hope being that somehow, someway, it helps me become the best possible version of myself —  the man I was meant to be.

Failing that, I’ll just rip Bud Selig a new hole every other day for dogging the A’s; steer Giants fans clear of the razor blades in the wake of every three-game losing streak; explain why J-Jack is easily replaceable if my beloved Dubs don’t bring him back; gently mock Jim Harbaugh for taking himself entirely too seriously; marvel at the blind devotion to Raider Nation; make a fool of myself trying to sound like I know hockey from a hemorroid; and let the chips fall where they will.

Have a great Friday night, y’all. What rhymes with “hug me”?

–Urbs