The Most Interesting Man in the World

The Most Interesting Man in the World owns a 200 plus foot yacht … And, he has no idea where it is.

 When The Most Interesting Man in the World jet skis, rock music plays in the background and camera crews film his flips, twists and 360s.

When The Most Interesting Man in the World imported “eight models” into a French ski resort called Courchevel and was arrested … The French police later apologized.

 The Most Interesting Man in the World allegedly staged his own $10 million island wedding … just to win a bet. Even if there was no wedding, The Most interesting Man in the World threw one helluva party.

 The Most Interesting Man in the World receives Special Forces automatic weapons like you receive mail orders from J. Crew.

 When not jet skiing, The Most Interesting Man in the World can dunk a basketball and likes to kick-box.

  The Most Interesting Man in the World has a blog … but does not know how to type and doesn’t own a PC. He does not even own a cell phone.

 The Most Interesting Man in the World “dines” with Jay-Z in Manhattan’s 40-40 club.

  The Most Interesting Man in the World is an owner of one of the world’s largest gold mining companies.

  The Most Interesting Man in the World says things like, “I think women make the same mistake with me all the time. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." And, "I've never lost my cool. Even in love affairs. If you have Plan B and Plan C, you are all the time relaxed."

The Most Interesting Man in the World is Russian uber-magnate Mikhail Prokhorov. Last week he bought the 80 % of the NBA’s New Jersey (soon to be Brooklyn) Nets.  Prokhorov is one of the two most successful Pioneers in Russia’s transition into capitalism and the free market. His estimated wealth is between $13-18 million. How did he get his start? He created a business selling stone washed jeans. How great is that? He helped usher capitalism and stone washed jeans into the former U.S.S.R. Through various successes, “loans,” “auctions” and seemingly nefarious power deals, he has accumulated ridiculous wealth well in advance of his 45 th birthday. On his rise to ridiculous wealth Prokhorov said, "I do not want to reveal all my secrets.''

The current NBA storyline in the NBA is obviously the play-offs. This summer, the buzz will surround the Lebron James Sweepstakes. In the very near future, the NBA has the unlimited potential for global intrigue in complete with a Russian accent and hopefully plenty of "How does one say..." and "In my country..."

All of the above appears to be true. His bio is confirmed by sources other than Wikipedia, and his jet ski video and 60 Minutes interview are on YouTube. Now, a foreigner from a formerly communist block world power owns a sports property in the world’s greatest sports and media market. He goes to discotheques where he chews gum and dances awkwardly with Tiger Woods type “models.” The NBA season sometimes so long that pre-season practically starts before the previous year’s conference finals adjourn. But, thanks to a Russian with Ivan Drago’s height, hair and mettle, the NBA will live up to the old Madison Ave slogan. It’s going to be Fan-tastic.

Dear Baseball Parents

Dear Parents,


As our season winds down, we should all appreciate the improvement in the team. All of the ballplayers, from the first-timers to the grizzled six year old veterans, have improved tremendously. If we look at the wrong time, we may have seen an easy or routine ground ball going right under the shortstops legs. We may have noticed some swings that still need a little “refinement,” and that’s okay.


It’s time to appreciate the boys for the athletes they are today, and the athletes they are becoming. They are works in progress, and it’s an upward trend. As much as we may hope or daydream, there is little chance that any of our little Brian McCanns will ever make a living playing ball. Judging from the conversations I overheard, we are more likely raising rocket scientists, or at least science fiction authors. When the coaches would yell, “Baseball ready,” sometimes the team looked ready, like the ’27 Yankees. Sometimes, the team was scanning the horizon for a possible Deathstar or Millennium Falcon. Let’s keep both memories. If any of our boys don’t go into the aerospace industry, horticulture is a safe bet.

As a coach and dad, I will keep every memory. I will remember proudly the swings that were once tomahawk chops, the dashes down the first base line that were like a sailor wandering back to the ship, the dives for balls way out of reach, and the pop-ups that were caught later in the season, rather than ignored just a couple months ago.

Sometimes a coach can’t see all the camaraderie these boys building, but it could always be heard. It will probably be August (and the start of another baseball season) before the coaches stop hearing the echoes of “Come on baby, Burn it up” from the dugout.

Up and down the line-up, there is improvement in every boy. It’s obvious in the way they ran and played, in the way they became listeners, and in the way they became friends.

Congratulations parents and thanks for sharing.

Nike's Hole In One

Last week Phil Knight and his team of geniuses at Nike hit a hole in one with their controversial new Tiger Woods commercial. The ad was released just a day before Tiger’s return to competitive golf at The Masters. It features the voice of the (the subterranean) Earl Woods admonishing his son, Tiger. Everyone in the pop culture world, not just the sports world, was discussing the effect of the somber father rebuking his son for getting caught with his “hands” in the metaphorical cookie jar.

Warm fuzzzies be damned, the ad was brilliant. It dominated conversation on the eve and throughout all of Masters Week. Immediately the media focus shifted away from Tiger’s transgressions, as well as his return to competitive golf, and onto the advertisement itself. The subsequent discussions became an unbuyable amount of Nike publicity and chatter on TV, radio, internet, around the water cooler and at Starbucks. In fact the commercial and Tiger’s excellent performance, literal and hopefully not figurative, in Augusta has essentially shut the door on the revelations that stemmed from the “Thanksgiving Night Massacre.” Of course, that door is neither hermitically sealed nor dead-bolted, but it is at least temporarily closed.

In a conversation while watching the final round of the Masters, a friend complained to me, “Nike should not have done that. They should not have taken Earl Woods’ voice from some secret vault and made Tiger look so bad.” (The recorded quotes are actually from a recording of Earl speaking to/about Tiger’s mother, Tilda, in 2004). My friend was not taking an unreasonable position. Nor is the position of “Thank God, Nike put the cheater in his place,” unreasonable. So why did Nike “Just Do It?” Because Nike could. Because Tiger Woods, while inseparable from Nike Golf, is no longer the “boss” of Nike Golf.

Even with his admitted confessions, a vulnerable Tiger is hard to fathom. Nike Golf and Tiger enjoyed a meteoric, symbiotic rise in the sports world. He became the company’s pitchman when he was just 20 years old, way back in 1996, before Nike was really in the golf business. Essentially, Tiger Woods built Nike Golf.

Quickly, as each entity rose to prominence, the brands Nike Golf and Tiger Woods became co-dependent and inseparable. It is impossible to visualize the golfer without the swoosh and the swoosh without the golfer. Just take a look at Tiger on the course. Unlike other players on the PGA Tour, he does not bedazzle his wardrobe like the front quarter panel of a NASCAR vehicle. When you see Phil Mickelson, he has KPMG, Callaway and Barclays all over his “quarter panels.” The only logos on Tiger are simply Nike, be it the famous swoosh or his private label TW trademark. During tournament coverage, he has never been swathed with a Gatorade lightning bolt, or a Buick crest. Furthermore, Tiger’s equipment is also predominately Nike. While other players may play a Titleist ball with Callaway clubs, Woods hits a Nike ball with Nike clubs while wearing a Nike glove, a Nike shirt, a Nike hat, a Nike belt...

The relationship has been mutually and ridiculously profitable. Despite a slumping economy for luxury goods like golf equipment, Nike’s golf sales are over $680 million annually and maintain a huge slice of the golf equipment and apparel pie. For his endorsements and influence, Nike pays Tiger upwards of $20 million a year. If under any circumstance, Tiger left Nike and became a front man for Callaway or Ping, Nike would have to recreate the entire brand. To reposition (hip Madison Avenue terminology), would take a lot more than a few kitschy thirty second spots during the John Deere Classic.

More than the golf icon’s carnal relationships changed in the aftermath of the Thanksgiving Night Massacre. (In review, Tiger’s grill allegedly stopped a Nike Golf club swung by his wife Elin, and moments later, a palm tree and/or fire hydrant stopped the grill of the Woods’ family Escalade). It was at exactly that instant that Phil Knight and his Nike geniuses started to become the boss of the relationship again, and Tiger became the submissive employee. (And, if you read and believe some of Tiger’s mistresses leaked texts, Tiger being submissive is really ironic). Capturing the moment, Nike flexed its muscle (figurative again) and quickly produced the spot that completed the fall from, “Tiger, you da man,” to Tiger demeaned.

And, what will the ad do for sales? Whether consumers want a commercial that positions Tiger 2.0 in an even less appealing light, or consumers believe that Nike is being distasteful and manipulative, the ad is already serving its purpose: get the brand name in conversation and subsequently boost sales. Meanwhile, Nike Golf and Tiger Woods remain indivisible. No matter whose side you take, you are supporting Tiger Woods or Nike Golf. Therefore, you are supporting one in the same.

In golf, it’s all about execution, and Nike’s execution was brilliant. Like it or despise it, a golf fan’s appropriate response to the commercial is to offer up an understated golf-clap and say, “Nice shot.”

Carded ... Again

First of all, they should have never been described as “baseball trading cards.” They were, and always will be, baseball cards. For a youngster, baseball cards were the greatest. There has probably never been anything more useful and more fun on the planet. A young boy could do anything with those cards: connect to his favorite team, learn baseball history and trivia, invent games for starters. Personally, I attribute my excellent alphabetizing skills to spending hours organizing and reorganizing my baseball cards. Some baseball cards made a boy smile or even laugh. And some cards, when washed with your favorite jeans or stolen by a “friend,” brought a boy to tears. Nothing on earth can summon emotion like a few minutes revisiting your baseball card vault, usually a reclaimed, crudely decorated shoebox.

Going through that shoebox takes me back three decades, and nothing says late seventies like the smell and sight of baseball card gum. The gum was pink like other bubble gum, but flat, thin and rigid like a miniature diving board. The newness of the package of baseball cards could be calculated by inspecting the gum. It was a boy’s version of carbon dating, only more precise. If the gum was still a little soft, the cards were hot off the press. If the gum was brittle, the cards had been sitting in a storeroom for months. All card collectors fondly keep the scent of the gum mixed with the cardboard in their memory. If they ever make Old Spice with that fragrance, I would buy it.

The funny thing about the gum is that back then you complained about it. The gum was a lot like the kid nobody liked at the neighborhood pool. When he was the only kid at the pool you were glad he was there, but otherwise he was an outsider. Likewise, if you had a piece of sour apple bubble gum in your mouth, that flat gum with the mysterious white powder coating probably got put in the sock drawer or thrown away. However, if you hadn’t had a piece of gum in a couple days, that flat, brittle gum wasn’t so bad after all.One of the greatest baseball cards ever is the Topps brand Oscar Gamble “Traded” card from 1976. That thing was legendary on the shag carpeted floors of living rooms and bedrooms across America. Oscar Gamble was a quality journeyman outfielder in the American League, but this didn’t make his card famous. He was famous for his picture on the card. When a kid saw the card, he immediately discovered two things. His silhouette matched that of the most famous clown of the era, Bozo. Gamble had the most magnificent, voluminous afro ever photographed. His baseball cap precariously held the top of the ‘fro temporarily at bay. In our neighborhood, well before the invention of political correctness and to young to be prejudiced, we called Gamble, “Black Bozo.” As a kid began to really study the card, another discovery unfolded. The bluish and blackish colors were phony-looking. The trademark New York Yankee logo and pinstripes were actually painted on Oscar, by some artist. Since he was traded, Topps had to use a picture of him in his old Cleveland Indians uniform. What a revelation for a kid! When I figured all this out, I felt like I had discovered something big and important, like Mom discovering Fresca.

In the late seventies, even kids knew the American economy was weak. How could you not know? Walter Cronkite reminded you every time you walked through the living room between 7 o’clock and 7:30. Pictures of the people in California waiting in long lines for gasoline kept popping up behind him in the corner or the TV screen. Maybe watching CBS Evening News, and maybe in an effort to rationalize and modernize things; my brother suggested we throw out all of our old cards. Something about saving space for new cards. Sometimes younger brothers can think for themselves. Did I ask why we weren’t throwing away old Hot Wheels? No. This was one of those times the younger brother couldn’t think for himself. I don’t know how many cards were rationalized, probably not many because I was only six, but it still makes me wonder if I carelessly threw away a Hank Aaron or George Brett. Damn it.

Kids and parents weren’t limited to buying the Topps cards at the 7-11 or Majik Market. You could also find baseball cards in areas of the grocery store. Kellogg’s had “3-D” cards in some cereal boxes, probably Frosted Flakes. These cards were a little smaller than the regular size and had some late seventies not-quite-three-dimensional quality to them. The Frosted Flake boxes at our house always produced the Kansa City Royals pitcher, Steve Busby. I never figured out how some guy named Steve Busby always ended up on the kitchen table with half a box of cereal every summer Sunday morning. Hostess or some other snack cake company also had their own version of baseball cards. These were the pits. First, they printed the card on the back of the boxes. No surprise, no anticipation. All you could do is yell at your mom for not selecting the right box while she was at the store. Why couldn’t she find the box with the Jim Rice card? Second, somehow the card had to be removed from the box. This meant a seven year old would try to cut out the cards perfectly. The outcome would have been better, safer and less frustrating, if I had just handed the crappy, rounded-edge scissors to Ray Charles. These cards, ultimately an insignificant speck in the Topps dominated world of baseball cards, were worse than the pits, way worse.

Baseball cards began to lose their innocence when the guys in the corner offices at Topps started marketing complete sets of cards. Who knows when Topp’s started doing this, it seemed like it may have been at exactly the same time I saw a copy of “Baseball Digest” (This was not in the barbershop. Males in our house didn’t go to the barber unless they could pay for a haircut. Until you could mow a lawn, Mom mowed your with the clippers). As you leafed through the tiny pages of “Baseball Digest,” you figured out that the Spoiled Rich Kid could buy the entire yearly set of every possible card at once. This meant that the Spoiled Rich Kid would not have to suffer through duplicates and triplicates of guys like Darrell Chaney and Mike Lum. Instead, the Spoiled Rich Kid was guaranteed a Reggie Jackson, Johnny Bench, Catfish Hunter, Dale Murphy, etcetera without all the hassle. One year for my birthday, my dad got me a subscription to “Baseball Digest” for my birthday. I loved to read that little magazine, but the baseball card ads always reminded me of the faceless, but evil, Spoiled Rich Kid.

Luckily, there was a suitable alternative to complete sets of baseball cards: the multi-packs. Suddenly you, or more likely your mom, could buy something like nine packs of cards at once. No matter how poor a child’s math skills, he could easily explain to Mom that it much more was more economical to purchase cards that way. (I guess these cards even taught me economics). Multi-packs were like a mini-Christmas. You got nine presents, not just one. When you started unwrapping the cellophane and smelling the gum and cardboard mixed together, anticipation was high. I just knew I was about to get a Johnny Bench or Reggie Jackson in the multi-pack. Duplicates and triplicates were frequent but much less annoying. Heck, you didn’t complain at Christmas, when one of your gifts you unwrapped was always a couple pairs of socks.

The marketing geniuses did more than just cater to bourgeois card collector who probably got his hair cut by a real barber. These guys messed up the beautiful, simplistic pastime. They began competing with each other and flooded the market with products. In the good old days, I could grab a pack of Topps cards by the gas register at the gas station, the ball field concession stand or at a K-mart. All of the sudden, I had to navigate an aisle with Topps, Donruss, Fleer and Upper Deck, not to mention football, basketball and hockey cards. Sometimes the aisle grew to include Star Wars and Battlestar Gallactica cards. Collecting baseball cards was getting complicated. Sooner or later, a buyer ventured outside the genre. This was always a disaster. The football cards were confusing because there were so many nameless, faceless linemen, back-ups and back-up faceless linemen. And, Star Wars was a movie after all. It was the world’s greatest movie to a seventies kid, but it was a movie. Now, you’ve wasted your baseball card money on the other crappy cards. The cards may have been labeled Return of the Jedi, but they were actually the return of the pits.

No matter how hard the card companies efforted, they could not compete with puberty. Baseball cards don’t captivate the teenager. Young boys liked to look at the pictures of smiling, fit men. Teenage boys are more interested in pictures of smiling, fit females. Like someone had flipped the switch on the Atari, it was “Game Over.”

More than a few years later, I’m back in the card aisle, again. The card aisle is now in the Target, across street from the old K-Mart. There are still Star Wars cards, but I’m told they are now called Clone Wars, or Star Wars/Clone Wars or something. I can also choose Sponge Bob cards or Jonas Brothers cards. The full-sets for the Spoiled Rich Kid are in the aisle too. Then, the baseball card area pulls me over with its own tractor beam. On the bottom of the shelf, on the right, sits a few plastic cubes holding 200 cards each, even more than the old multi-packs! I pick one up. Dale Murphy, our hometown hero, flashes his boyish, naive grin up at me. Inside the cube is a mix of “surplus cards.” Some of them are new and some must be at least twenty years old. This is a cool find, very cool. At the ball field, I give these cards out to the players on my youth baseball team of 4, 5 and 6 year olds. The boys instantly love their first cards. They’re hooked. It doesn’t matter that most of the young boys can’t read the names on the cards, and they certainly can’t recognize the faces. The boys’ fathers remember the names and faces.

Please share your favorite, or least favorite, baseball card memory by posting to a comment.

Back to Basics

To call the game an epic battle would be more than presumptuous. It was after all, just a spring baseball game with two unfamiliar teams playing, not dying to win but simply hoping to improve. Still, the game had all the qualities of an early exhibition that draws baseball lovers and lifers to baseball in March.

The setting for the game was predictable. The field was not suited for the crowds or the pageantry of an opening day. The sun was bright and the sky was cloudless, but not quite warm. The players wore long sleeve undershirts beneath their fresh jerseys, and there were more than a few sweaters and hoodies in the bleachers. Like any other spring game there, were toddlers seeing a baseball game for the first time, and there were snowbirds spending an afternoon outdoors before finding an early supper. Pretty girls were daring to wear shorts for the first time this year despite the shifty breeze. The clamor of batting practice in nearby cages underscored the sounds from the actual game itself.

All the coaches on each side were as nervous as a first timer in a middle school play. Were they ready for even this modest stage? Had they done enough to prepare their teams? Would they flub their line-ups?

Baseball may have long lost the title of “America’s Pastime” to football or reality television or “internet research,” but spring baseball still quarries the sports fan’s unlimited mines of romance and optimism.

The game featured two of the league’s brightest stars. It would be the first game action for each player this spring. These two guys were friends, having been teammates two seasons ago. At that time, they were simply emerging contributors, players still creating their game while making great plays occasionally rather than often. This is the season they will undoubtedly be hitting their prime. They have become the type of player that draws a little more buzz from the crowd when they step up to the plate.

Befitting his star status, one player arrived in a Jaguar. As is the custom nowadays, the stars made pleasantries before the game and reconnected after a long off-season. Once the game began, their performances did not disappoint. Swinging on the third pitch across the plate, the first star homered to left center field. The second star ripped a triple in his first at bat in the bottom half of the inning. Later, they would each make stellar defensive plays, including an unassisted double play off of a hard liner seemingly destined for extra bases. When the game ended, both players would be just one at bat away from possibly “hitting for the cycle.” But, true to the nature of these spring exhibitions, neither player had a fourth at bat because the teams had made a gentlemen’s agreement before the game to spread the at bats around the line-ups.

The game was as it should have been, a showcase for all the players, not just the superstars. It was also an opportunity to witness improvements all along the rosters and expose areas to be marked for improvement. On the dim side, the base running at times was more laughable than laudable. First and third base coaches were ignored with regularity. On the other hand, future stars showed glimpses of their potential and proved that the relentless repetitions of drills in practices were paying dividends. One highlight was a thrilling relay from the left fielder to the shortstop on to home plate. The tag was applied perfectly for an ESPN highlight-reel out. On this play the cogs were in place, the machine was operating perfectly.

This spring baseball game was not a classic, and you didn’t need to see box score, and the home run doesn’t count, but baseball had returned. This was a good thing. The fans cheered for their favorites once again. They left the park pleased and optimistic. There was definitely hope on both sides for a winning season. The coaches learned more from this game than they could have hoped. And the players, they wondered and wandered around after the game. What was their real concern? Being four, five and six year old boys, they just wanted their snack.

The Oscar Gamble Effect

It would seem that a any athletically inclined, creative type could dream up thousands of relatable sports topics in seconds. A writer should be able to easily fill the new Yankee Stadium with ideas. If there isn't, there should be a phrase in cliche cyberspace that goes something like, “There is always room in the world for one more good sportswriter?” Unfortunately, some days, some of us don't think so good, and the idea train is stuck in Des Moines.

This is when it is time to take the blunt end of the shovel to the blunt end of the brain and dig.

After failing to glean any great topics from the midweek events in between the Super Bowl and baseball’s opening day, also known as the basketball and hockey regular seasons, I had to work a little harder than usual (not much harder mind you) to create questions that only I would be brave, funny and genius enough to answer. The result, “What is the funniest thing I have seen in sports?”

The answer then became so obvious, it’s embarrassing. The funniest thing in sports is Oscar Gamble’s seventies afro on his baseball card. This quickly reminded me that I needed to buy baseball cards for the 4, 5 and 6 year olds that come to me like grasshoppers to the sansei for enlightenment three times a week. Then finally, a topic worthy of the memory of a writer and his laptop materialized: baseball cards.

Like the Tonight Show: More to Come:

The Tiger Situation

After the winter of media hibernation, Tiger Woods apologized for his rampant infidelity last week. Hacks, of the writing and of the golf variety, now get their turn to play judge, palm reader, and preacher. No one, it seems, is afraid to speak out when it comes to Tiger and his indiscretions. Already, there have been and will continue to be some pretty interesting takes on sports’ most famous apology.

Here’s one great viewpoint formed well ahead of Tiger’s press conference. This opinion began taking shape in feeble minds when Tiger’s harem seemed more like Charlie’s Angels than the Dirty Dozens. “Why is Tiger even apologizing? He is just doing what every man wishes he could do. He’s just talking because he wants to get more cheese from those sponsors.” This is great guy to have on your side, unless you’re building a rocket ship or trying to find a cure for cancer.

Some members of the media also began forming their opinions well before Tiger finally spoke. They complained, “If he doesn’t take any questions how can it be real apology?” This is like one of my jilted daughters saying about the other, “I don’t want her apology because she won’t mean it.” There may be some truth to these statements, but that’s not how anyone tries to raise their kids. The media guy who says this is also the one who complains that athletes make too much money. He also likes to take his son to autograph shows wearing an authentic replica player’s jersey.

Somewhere in the middle of this, someone interviews a celebrity for his/her opinion of the “Tiger Woods Situation.” This is of course not be confused with Jersey Shore’s The Situation. (Unfortunately, Because we create and come to adore our celebrities way too easily, The Situation is now officially qualified to comment on the Tiger Woods Situation). Celebrity plus microphone has never been a reliable recipe for brilliance, reason and/or morals. Again, See Jersey Shore. When the celebrity opinion rears appears on screen, it’s time to change the channel quickly. Very rarely is this actually insightful. Usually it’s like watching model trains run into each other. While the scene may entertain us briefly, you’re not really learning anything new and could have gone through the rest of your day without seeing it.

Other media members took this stance. “He bared his soul. He was vulnerable. I felt sorry for him.” It is amazing how “this guy” morphs himself into some licensed psychoanalyst and ordained pastor instantly just because he has an audience. This is the guy that also becomes a political hack every three and half years and tells us what is wrong with our country and which way we need to vote.

Of course, none of these positions matter. They are ridiculously predictable and tiresome to read, hear or see. I found myself thinking about much more important things over the weekend. Can we ever make it to church on time? Who should hit clean-up on our four, five and six year old youth baseball team? Why are their no bases on a baseball practice field? Can the U. S. hockey team really win a gold medal in Vancouver? What channel is MSNBC? Why did it take me 25 years to appreciate hot and sour soup?

Fact is, Tiger made his apology. Now comes the heavy lifting. He is just now lacing up his Nikes, his marathon course to decency t is about to start. And although it may not be fun for a hack like me to admit, this cliche is the best analysis: actions do speak louder than words. Good luck, Tiger.