The Life of Kings

O.J. Mayo proves amateurism is as quaint as teenage chastity

2008-05-14T16:30:16Z

Life of Kings note: I've been a bit busy with another story this week, and a little bummed about my friend Chris' passing, so my friend and colleague Childs Walker is stepping to the plate today with blistering entry about the O.J. Mayo situation. Enjoy. -- KVV

It is beyond absurd that we've created a system which vilifies young athletes for attempting to profit from their talents.

USC basketball star O.J. Mayo is the latest athlete in this unfortunate spotlight after ESPN reported on his alleged relationship with an agent. He denies accepting gifts from the agent, but even if he did, I just can't muster any outrage.

Here's how I look at it. If I had been such a great writer as a college freshman that The New York Times wanted to pay me $1,000 an article, would anyone have been angry? Would my college or my journalism advisor have been lambasted for allowing the relationship? Would my parents have been portrayed as grasping fiends? Would I have been ineligible to write for my college newspaper?

Of course not. Everyone would've been thrilled that I had gotten ahead so quickly. We have a basic understanding in this country: if you have a talent and you can convince someone to pay you for it, more power to you. Unless, of course, you're an 18-year-old football or basketball prodigy.

Now, I understand that college basketball isn't a perfect parallel to college journalism. There are nefarious influences looking to sink their hooks into young athletes in the interest of future profits.

But I don't believe the NCAA polices such relationships to "protect" athletes (Mayo's headed for the NBA draft lottery - he needs no protection).

I believe the organization is protecting the perceived competitive balance of its multi-billion dollar football and basketball businesses. And that has what to do with education?

Fifty or 75 years ago, amateurism meant something to people. "Gentlemen" still viewed sport as a healthy complement to intellectual and business pursuits. But that notion now seems as quaint as teenage chastity. Market forces claimed sports decades ago, and our stubborn resistance to this reality needs to stop.

If the NCAA finds that USC set up the alleged agent relationship, then the school should be penalized for stepping outside the rules to achieve an advantage. But if the agent found Mayo without the school's help, that's just nature taking its course.

The NBA is at least as much to blame for this foolishness. David Stern doesn't want new employees without a year of college experience. That sounds fine on the surface.

But the talent market sends incredibly mixed signals to players such as Mayo. These players know that scouts are watching and that the individual units of Stern's conglomerate are willing to pay them and play them as soon as they're available. They know they're worth something.

This is where the NBA's de facto monopoly status becomes a problem. If Stern wanted to enforce his college rule but there were three other roughly equivalent leagues, Mayo and his peers wouldn't be confined.

They'd be like any other talented people who are free to spurn one company for another that will appreciate their gifts.

But the reality is that Stern's word sets the agenda for elite basketball prospects in this country. So he essentially takes cash out of their pockets for at least a year.

As long as this is the case, we're going to see stories of premature relationships between players and money men.

I spoke to Mayo about this issue three years ago at a high school camp in Richmond. He struck me as a bright, composed young man who had thought about the subject. He was not angry that the NBA had just announced its ban on drafting high schoolers. But he also felt that if a professional team wanted his services, there was no logical reason for anyone to prevent it. I agreed with him then, and I agree with him now.

--Childs Walker

PHOTO: AP

Christian Ewell: friend, writer, true renaissance man

2008-05-12T22:31:00Z

No matter what profession you choose in life, if you like your job, at some point your co-workers start to feel less like the people whose desks abut yours, and more like a part of your extended family. You share countless lunches, they get invited to your wedding, they buy you baby clothes when your kids are born and they stand in your kitchen with a smile, a drink in hand, the first time you throw a party to celebrate the fact that you scraped together enough money to buy your first house.

The Sun lost a member of its extended family this weekend, and though he was probably just a byline to many of you who follow the sports section, Christian Ewell will be remembered by many of us as one of the most genuine, kind, loyal and fun individuals most of us ever had the privilege to call a friend. A few years ago, Chris was diagnosed with a brain tumor. He fought courageously, but ultimately passed away this Saturday in Kansas City, surrounded by a family who loved him deeply.

I've been struggling for the last few days deciding whether I should write about this because a part of me felt like if I didn't write it, Chris wouldn't really be gone. Just a year ago this week -- a freaking year ago -- Chris and Sun reporter Brent Jones and I pooled some money, bought some chicken wings and pizza, and watched Floyd Mayweather pick apart Oscar de la Hoya from Chris' apartment in Baltimore. We spent countless evenings like that, watching sports and cracking jokes, and in many ways it helped Baltimore seem less like a foreign country and more like a place we grew to call home.

And now Chris is gone. Few things in my life have ever seemed quite so unfair.

He was as fine a man as I've known. There are so many people who feel lucky to have called him a friend, and my wife and I are among them. A stubborn USC fan to the core, Chris would have rolled his eyes at all the nonsense that went on with O.J. Mayo this week. Then he would have laughed it off, and likely made a crack about how SEC boosters were just jealous they didn't get to pay Mayo under the table first. He had such an awesome laugh. I can't tell you how much joy so many of us at The Sun derived from listening to Chris laugh. On the nights when all the under-40 crowd at The Sun would gather at someone's house for drinks, you could catch Chris' eye from across the room (because he was so tall) and he'd raise his glass and bust out a big wide grin and a nod that would instantly make you feel better about the world. He made every party better, especially the ones that featured his awkward dancing, because he was the first person to laugh at himself.

Jones, who used to cover the Ravens and now works on The Sun's metro desk, used to joke that we could never find a decent restaurant in Baltimore without Chris' assistance. He had an internal GPS that seemed to be connected to his refined palate, and he was always leading us to fabulous bistros or restaurants that were as hidden as Smurf Village. We were all part of The Sun's two-year intern program, which plucks recent college graduates from far away places and brings them to Baltimore, hoping to mold them into future sportswriters, and for Brent and I (and many others), Chris was the first person to extend a hand and offer it in friendship. Some people in journalism can be petty and jealous, especially when they're competing for jobs and space in the newspaper, but Chris was the exact opposite of that. He and Jones and I spent a lot of evenings, and dollars, in Baltimore bars dreaming of the journalists we hoped we might someday become.

He also had what I always considered the perfect temperament for the Writing Life. I sometimes thought Brian Billick stole the phrase "It is what it is" from Chris. I remember once -- when we were both just kids and still idealistic and finicky about our copy -- Chris was sent to cover a Georgetown-Syracuse basketball game in D.C. The copy desk didn't care for his lead, which is not an uncommon occurrence for a young writer. The desk decided to rewrite it, over Chris' objections.

"Were you upset?" I asked him later.

"Initially," he said. "But after I packed up my computer, I found a bar, and midway through my second drink it suddenly didn't bother me that much."

Chris was one of the most worldly, well-read people I've ever met. He was always shooting me messages, asking what I thought of this novel, or that biography, and he'd leave David Sedaris or John Edgar Wideman books on my desk that he thought I'd like. I think he'd seen every critically acclaimed art-house film ever released and could talk about them with as much, if not more, expertise than he could talk about sports. The man knew music, too. All kinds. I still have one of his J-Live CDs that he lent me because he wanted to expose me to some real hip hop, and not the commercial nonsense that I found so syrupy.

At the same time, Chris was active in our newspaper guild, and didn't give a hoot as to what that might mean for his career. His principles and loyalty to others came first. He was there for some of the state's biggest sports moments of the last decade, documenting the Terps' journey to the Orange Bowl, Maryland's Final Four run, and the Ravens' Super Bowl victory. When he moved into a features position and I took over for him on the Maryland football beat, he held my hand for a few weeks and introduced me to all the right people. He knew I was nervous, but never said a word, other than "How can I help?"

About six years ago, I confessed to Chris that I had a crush on another reporter at The Sun, and that it was killing me she was practically engaged to another reporter at the paper. One winter Sunday, Jones, Chris and I were helping our friend Phill move out of his D.C. apartment, and Chris informed me that my crush and her boyfriend had recently split.

"Well KVV," he said, "looks like you'll get your chance after all."

I ended up marrying that girl. At my wedding reception three years ago, I pulled Chris aside and reminded him of that day.

"Hey," he said, huge grin spreading across his face. "Just doing my part."

Every couple months, often at the behest of former Sun reporters Heather Dinich and Lem Satterfield, a bunch of us would make the trek down to Annapolis and spend the evening warbling through round after round of bad karaoke. Dinich would bust out her best Salt 'n Pepper, and we'd all join in for the chorus and shout "It's none of yo business!" and I'd perform some ridiculous hard rock version of Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone." Satterfield would sing whatever Nickelback song his kids had taught him recently. But one evening that I'll always remember is the time that Chris, without mentioning it to anyone, slipped behind the mike and broke into this beautiful, sad version of Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone." I don't even think any of us knew Chris could sing, but damn if we all weren't transfixed, along with the whole bar, while Chris sang in a smooth, sad baritone.

Chris' health deteriorated quicker than any of us could really comprehend. He didn't like to talk about it much. Jones and Chris' close friend Liz Kay, also a reporter at The Sun, went to visit him a couple of times in Kansas City, and they told him how much he'd meant to them, and us all, and I know it meant the world to him. They were generous, loyal, noble and kind to Chris during his final months in ways I only wish I'd had the courage to be.

During his final visit to Baltimore this fall, we all had drinks at the Tusk Lounge to celebrate his brief return to town, and at the end of the night, I hugged him and lied when I told him that I knew, deep down, it was all going to be OK. That he'd be back in Baltimore soon, and we'd be discussing episodes of The Wire before he knew it. I think he knew I was lying, but he understood, and we both cried a little and then laughed a lot.

My wife and I were out looking for houses when I got the call that he was gone. Chris had been sick for some time, and we all knew the day was getting close, but it still hit me harder than I thought it would. In the parking lot of a Chipotle, my wife and I cried as we told stories about him. I can picture him now at my wedding, smiling at the camera and flashing a peace sign.

Rest in peace, Chris. Thank you, most of all, for being a such a kind and genuine friend to so many of us. Know that Baltimore, and the pages of The Sun, are lesser without you in them.

Know too that when my wife and I throw that first party in our new house, I know you'll be with us in spirit, standing in the kitchen, raising your glass and grinning ear to ear.

PHOTOS: Mary Hartney (top), Laura Loh

Moms, dads, and the joy of the 17th hole

2008-05-10T13:09:39Z

Some voice mail messages, you listen to, then delete without much further thought. I think I erase close to 20 per week.

Hey honey, can you pick up some groceries on your way home?

So, did you remember that today is your uncle's birthday?

Dude, you want to get beers later and watch the game?

Your story today stunk, Van Valkenburg. Watch your back in dark alleys.

There are a few, however, that I tend to save, renewing them every 21 days when the robotic voice inside my phone tells me they're about to expire. One, in particular, I've held onto for just less than a year. It's from my dad, and there is a playfulness to his voice that always makes me smile.

"Kevin," he says. "Where are ya? The coach wants you to go in right now and hit this shot for Mickelson on the 17th. If you're not available, he's going to have to do it himself."

My dad was calling during the final round of The Players Championship last year, when Phil Mickelson was about to close out a surprise victory. All he had to do was survive the scariest and most famous hole in golf, the par-3 17th and its infamous island green.

My pops wasn't just calling because he knows I'm a Mickelson guy, but because a few years ago - when I was the Maryland football beat writer and covering the Gator Bowl in Jacksonville, Fla. - I got the chance to play the Stadium Course at Sawgrass. Standing on the 17th tee that day, I called my parents acting like I'd just gotten engaged. It was surreal. I even kept them on the line while I short-armed a pitching wedge into the front bunker. (A fellow sportswriter friend, whose identity I'll keep secret, gave up after dunking six shots in the water.)

Whenever I'm feeling glum, that voice mail raises my spirits a bit.

The truth is, even though it's a voice mail from my dad, I wouldn't have it if it wasn't for my mom.

My mom's always been pretty fearless on the links, which I suspect you have to be when you grow up with five brothers. She hits it long and straight off the tee, doesn't make mistakes with her irons and overcomes a questionable short game with consistently good putting.

My dad and I play a less conventional style. We swing like baseball players, flub too many chips, get stuck under trees, and run hot and cold with the flat stick. My mom, who won her country club's senior championship last year, whips us pretty consistently when we play together.

For me, it's pretty easy to associate golf with family. Though it may seem cheesy or staged to you, I never get tired of watching a PGA player embrace his wife and kids after a big victory. Family golf outings have been staple in my life for close to 20 years, so much so that my nervous wife - back when she was only my girlfriend - signed up for golf lessons before she met my parents.

No family golf outing, however, was more important than one my mom and dad played together in October 2006.

After the round, after tallying their scores in the clubhouse restaurant and after sharing a quick meal, my 58-year-old father slumped over in his chair and stopped breathing. His heart was beating out of control and not pumping any blood.

For 10 minutes, while others in the restaurant stood paralyzed with fear, my mom - a college journalism professor, not a doctor - gave my dad cardiopulmonary resuscitation until the paramedics arrived. The emergency medical technicians shocked his chest five times before his heart started beating normally again. After a week in the hospital, he went home, no permanent damage done.

Last week, he celebrated his 60th birthday.

I can't watch The Players Championship without thinking about both of them, and all the golf I still want to play with them.

So often, we talk about golf in the context of fathers and sons like Tiger and Earl, but for me, that was only the half of it. This year, the final round just so happens to fall on Mother's Day, and that couldn't feel more appropriate.

So when the last group comes to the 17th tee tomorrow and tries to find the courage to keep it dry, take a second and thank all the dads out there who remember to call and tease their kids when they need it the most. And then thank all the moms out there who are strong and fearless - golfers or no - and ready for anything.

Happy 75th birthday, Johnny Unitas

2008-05-08T22:07:33Z

I'm a day late on this, but since we were just talking about what it means to be from Baltimore and what it means to understand this town's traditions and its rich history, I think we should all pause for a second and wish John Constantine Unitas, the greatest quarterback who ever lived, a happy 75th birthday, even though he's not around to celebrate it with us. (May 7 would have been the actual date.)

Obviously being only 30 years old, and having grown up 2,500 miles from here, I never had the chance to watch Unitas play. But in September last year, during the week that marked the fifth anniversary of Unitas' death, I got a chance to write one of my favorite stories that I've done during the eight years I've been at The Sun. I visited the places around the city that were so important to Unitas and his friends and family, and I wrote about how some had changed, and how some had remained the same. My favorite part, other than having a good steak and stiff drink at Club 4100, was talking to his kids, both from his first marriage and his second, and to his wife, Sandra, about how much they missed him. Unitas was such an icon to so many people, and his everyman grin and no-nonsense flattop had a reach that extended well beyond the limits of Baltimore. My father, a high school quarterback who grew up in Billings, Mont. (the same hometown of Orioles pitcher Dave McNally), had a boxy flattop and wore black high tops, just like Johnny U, because that's how you honored your heroes back then. Countless high school quarterbacks like him all across the country did the same.

That's partly what made talking to his kids so interesting. To them, Unitas was just dad. He wasn't perfect, and he wasn't an icon. He was someone who supported them, loved them, laughed with them, but someone whose approval they craved and legacy they were burdened by in some ways. They disappointed him on occasion, and he them, just like all fathers and their children, despite the best intentions of both parties. Mostly though, there was love. Long lunches and good stories and the best advice Unitas knew how to offer. As much as you might have missed Unitas when he died, as much as it hurt, it was infinitely harder on them.

I'm no Frank Deford, not by a long stretch, but the Sports Illustrated scribe was one of my favorite writers growing up, and his tribute to Unitas, titled simply "The Best There Ever Was" is worth reading again if you missed it the first time around.

Editor's note: Click here for archived photos and Sun stories on Unitas.

PHOTOS: Sun archive

Handicapping the pending Mark Teixeira sweepstakes

2008-05-07T21:47:19Z

Jon Heyman of SI.com has an interesting piece today about Atlanta Braves first baseman -- and former Mount St. Joseph grad -- Mark Teixeira, who will be a free agent at year's end, and a likely target of the Orioles if they want to continue their quest to return to relevance. Teixeira has, for the last few years at least, felt like one of Willie Wonka's Golden Tickets. If the Orioles could just somehow get their hands on him, all would be right in the universe. He's a hometown kid from Severna Park who grew up rooting for the Orioles, and maybe more than any place in the country, that kind of thing matters here. Every time I talk to Orioles fans about the switch-hitting first baseman, I get the sense their feelings can be summed up in this order: He's an incredible hitter and fielder, so obviously we want him on our team, but the fact that he is one of us, just like Ripken was, matters. In a way that an outsider like me might never truly understand.

(A quick aside...)

Baltimore is a provincial city, no question, and that's not really a bad thing. There's something to be said for taking pride in where you're from, and believing, right or wrong, that no one else gets it. No one else understands your experiences, your history, your sense of place, even down to the rhythms of your speech. My pal Dan Connolly has clearly tapped into that emotion with his daily discussions over at Connolly's Corner Bar, and if I strolled over there and tried to put my favorite pretentious alt-country group, Wilco, on the jukebox and started talking trash about Spiro Agnew, I'd rightfully get tossed in the alley. There is a reason why so many people want to see the word "BALTIMORE" returned to the Orioles road jerseys, and I get it, even if Peter Angelos doesn't for some reason. The city has its flaws, but it's still something to be proud of, and to love, because who else will? It's one of the things I thought was so often misunderstood about David Simon's work, especially his and Ed Burns' television masterpiece, The Wire. It was, deep down, a love letter to Baltimore, a storyteller's plea to save a city that has so many vibrant characters and so many absurd (but true) stories. It felt like they could only exist here, even if, in reality, those same issues echoed in urban cities all across America.

Heyman's piece begins by reminding us that Teixeira, hometown kid or not, is a Scott Boras client, and that means he's unlikely to be taking any hometown discounts. In fact, Heyman suggests, the bidding may end up being somewhere in the $200 million range, at $20 million a year. That might sound obscene to you, and it might sound obscene to the Orioles' front office, but what price can you put on credibility? Teixeira is 28 years old, and while it might sting to pay $20 million a year when he's 38 years old, it might just be the injection of credibility this franchise needs over the next five to seven years.

There will be plenty of other suitors. Jason Giambi and Carlos Delgado are limping toward the finish line, and the Yankees and Mets will be opening new ballparks next season, and will probably have more money than they know what to do with. For that reason, and others, Heyman thinks those two teams are more likely to sign Teixeira than Baltimore is. He calls the Yankees the favorite, and puts the O's odds at 8 to 1.

Maybe the asking price is too much. And maybe the fact that he's from here shouldn't factor in the equation. Smart business decisions are made with your head and your gut, not your heart. There is a certain contingent of Orioles fans that would prefer to simply build from within, from the farm. Free agents can be a foolish investment about 50 percent of the time.

But there is also a part of me that wonders if it just might be worth it, and if it might not hamper the team as much financially as you think. (Think of all the contracts that come off the books after 2009: Gibbons, Payton, Baez, Huff, Mora, Walker). Fill a dump truck full of money and offer to empty it on his parents' lawn if that helps. Have an Agnew-esq politician meet him at BWI with a suitcase full of Krugerrands. Show him this Web site, BringMarkHome.com, (which asks you to put your name on a petition begging the Orioles to sign him). Whatever it takes.

But then, I'm just an outsider who literally married his way into Charm City. What do I know?

Your thoughts?

Maryland right to take chance on Tyree Evans

2008-05-05T17:36:44Z

Maybe it's because I'm an occasional fool -- my wife has plenty of evidence to support this -- but I believe in second chances. Especially when it comes to college sports. And that's why, right now, I'm OK with Maryland giving troubled junior college guard Tyree Evans a scholarship to play basketball, even though Evans' criminal past suggests it's a major gamble as detailed by SI.com's Luke Winn today.

There are a lot of people out there who seethe with rage whenever they hear anyone wax on about the alleged purity of college athletics, especially when compared to the pros. And those people who rage do so with good reason. Because for the most part, the highest levels of big-time college sports are an elaborate money-making sham. And if you believe differently, you're a little naive.

So many of the people involved in running college basketball and college football are as shameless as they are soulless. Too often, they take poor kids from rough neighborhoods and then both parties enter into "wink-wink" business arrangements that compromise pretty much everything that higher education is supposed to stand for. These kids make, literally, billions of dollars for universities and television networks, and do it in exchange for scholarships that are peanuts by comparison. Instead of being honest with ourselves and accepting the fact that college basketball and college football have essentially become the unpaid minor leagues for professional sports (and then paying the kids accordingly out of the billion dollar television contracts), we cling to the falsehood that they are still amateurs, still student-athletes. Even when they clearly have no intention of ever getting a degree. And on top of it, we expect them to be choirboys.

Despite all that, I still believe in taking the occasional risk on kids like Evans, even if it blows up in your face, which it very well might the first time that Maryland coach Gary Williams screams at him for turning the ball over against Farleigh-Dickinson.

I've written a number of stories about inner city kids who try use sports to escape neighborhoods many would consider hell on earth. Some do -- like Evans -- dream of an NBA or NFL career, but most have ambitions that are far less grand. They come from awful schools with no resources and are surrounded by violence. Some of them have "parents" only in the loosest possible sense. Football and basketball are a realistic shot at something better. And while some do barely stay eligible, don't go to class and never attempt to graduate, some embrace it like it's their one chance to escape a cycle of poverty that most of us simply cannot fathom. Some take that small dose of discipline and structure and use it to refocus their entire lives.

I've always felt that it should be part of a university's mission, especially a public school like the University of Maryland, to be altruistic. There are close to 26,000 undergrads in College Park, and it is a competitive admissions process to get in, especially if you're from out of state. But there is room, I believe, to take a chance on a handful of kids who otherwise might have no business setting foot on its campus. Even if a majority do not make it, even if many abuse the system, not all will. Some will see it as the greatest opportunity of their lifetime. Some, when their athletic career is over, might even decide to teach and coach at an inner city high school. And there is no statistic that can measure the benefit of college educated, strong male role models in urban communities. It's real. I've seen it with my own eyes.

Maryland fans are passionately debating on the Web whether the school is compromising its integrity with this signing of Evans. (Meanwhile, athletic director Debbie Yow told SI.com she wasn't even aware of much of Evans' criminal history, which strikes me as odd. Either she's setting Williams up to take the fall if Evans screws up, or someone isn't doing a very good job of keeping their boss informed of who exactly the program is recruiting.) Some fans are suggesting that it reeks of desperation for a team that has missed the NCAA Tournament three of the last four years, and they're probably right. This doesn't strike me as altruism. It strikes me as a program that is willing to compromise at least some of what it claimed to stand for in hopes of returning to its glory days. If you're a Maryland fan, make sure you read this excellent piece written by Darryl Slater of the Richmond Times-Dispatch which details Evans' background, and then you can decide for yourself whether you think he's using Maryland, or that Maryland is using him.

A part of me, though, wants to believe Williams really does think Evans deserves a real chance, and not just because he's an excellent basketball player. Maybe that makes me hopelessly naive, but I want to believe it. And even if Evans does get booted from school four months from now, I want to believe it wasn't necessarily a mistake. (Although to be clear, Maryland needs to have ZERO tolerance policy with Evans. You can make a very real case that with previous accusations of violence in his background, the UM administration has put some of its student body in danger.)

At some point, the handful of athletes with a checkered past who abuse the opportunity to attend a school like Maryland probably outweighs those who have a checkered past and yet embrace it, but I don't think Maryland is there yet. The school, and athletic department, has enough credibility to give this a shot. For now. I don't know exactly at what point the scale tips in the wrong direction, but I want to believe that there is more to Gary Williams' and Ralph Friedgen's -- and even Debbie Yow's -- aspirations than just winning basketball and football games.

I have to believe that, frankly. We ALL do. Otherwise, big-time college sports like men's basketball and football are just a business. A sham. And we should end the charade of making people like Tyree Evans go to class. We can just make them temporary employees of the university, pay them for their services and make their pursuit of higher education optional.

It would destroy major college athletics as we know them. But it would be a lot more honest.

PHOTO: AP

Q&A with Joe Flacco about life, love and mustaches

2008-05-01T13:52:00Z

Apparently, blogs are hip.

I know this because the fine folks at Reebok e-mailed me earlier this week and asked if The Life of Kings would be interested in interviewing Joe Flacco, the Ravens first-round draft pick. Flacco signed an endorsement deal with Reebok before the draft, and it is the job of marketing people to reach out to hip people like me, guys who have their finger on the pulse of the cultural zeitgeist, and help them move Flacco jerseys. (Yeah capitalism!) So if you like, you can purchase yourself a Joe Flacco No. 5 Ravens jersey, or a hat, from these folks here.

Because this blog doesn't like to take things too seriously, and because you'll be able to read a big profile of Flacco in the pages of The Sun later this week, we decided to throw our best dumb questions at Joe. Anyone can ask Flacco if he's ready to arm-wrestle the starting job away from Kyle Boller and Troy Smith, but this is the only place you'll read about Flacco's love of Australian heavy metal pioneers AC/DC. Hope you enjoy.

Joe, thanks for joining us. First off, a question of utmost importance that no one else in the media is going to have the courage to ask you this week: What is your favorite movie and why?

Flacco: I guess I'd have to say Gladiator with Russell Crowe. I really like revenge movies. I love that he comes back and gets revenge on everyone in the end.

Any parallels to your own life? You did leave Pitt, transfer to Delaware, and then became a first-round NFL draft pick.

Flacco: I don't know about parallels to my life. I definitely have a chip on my shoulder after having transfered to Division I-AA. But I don't know that I want to get revenge on anyone.

Favorite part of the film?

Flacco: Probably just the end, when Maximus is in the arena, taking on all his enemies. I love that part.

Could you ever envision yourself standing in the middle of M&T Bank Stadium with your arms extended and screaming "Are you not entertained?"

Flacco: (Laughing) I don't know that I could ever see myself doing that, but I can definitely see myself in the stadium, leading the team.

So, Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo, who like you starred at a Division I-AA school, allegedly had to choose between blond bombshells Carrie Underwood and Jessica Simpson at one point. With all due respect to your current girlfriend, who would you have picked if faced with the same dilemma?

Flacco: Man, I don't know. That's tough. Can I pick a third option?

Sure. Why not? Unlike some, we're totally comfortable with you calling audibles this early in your career.

Flacco: I think I'd have to trust Tom Brady in that area. He seems to know what he's doing.

Well played, Mr. Flacco. It also gives us an excuse to post a picture of the lovely Ms. Gisele Bundchen.

OK, next question: What's a song or a book that's been important to you. Please explain why.

Flacco: A song or a book? That's tough. There's definitely not a book, because I'm not too much of a reader. As for a song, I guess I'd have to go with anything AC/DC. We used to listen to a lot of AC/DC before games to get fired up. TNT, Thunderstruck, all that stuff. It really gets you pumped.

Back when you were at Pitt, coach Dave Wannstedt never really gave you the chance to beat out Tyler Palko, and now Palko is on the Saints practice squad and you were a first-round pick. Is this evidence that men with mustaches cannot be trusted? Here in Baltimore, we are still a little leery of mustachioed men ever since Rafael Palmeiro wagged his finger at Congress.

Flacco: (Laughing.) I don't know about that. I do know that you'll definitely never see me sporting a mustache. I don't foresee that at all.

You don't see many quarterbacks go with the mustachioed look these days. What's up with that?

Flacco: I just don't think it's a pretty look.

Somewhere, the great Sam Elliot weeps.

Anyway, it seems like nostalgia is huge right now. If Reebok went retro and brought back a cleat version of the Pumps, would would wear them in a game? You could pump them up right before a drive, kind of like Dee Brown did before he won the dunk contest in 1991.

Flacco: I would definitely do it. I would be all about the Pump.

Lastly, from what we understand, you were a pretty good baseball player before you decided to focus on football. Any chance we can get you to moonlight as a pitcher for the Orioles? You could be like the Bo Jackson of Baltimore. The stadiums are, like, right next to one another. You wouldn't even need a helicopter. Really, it wouldn't be that hard. Interested?

Flacco: I wish I could. I do have some younger brothers though, and they're pretty good at baseball. Hopefully I can get the Orioles hooked up with them.

Could you? We'd really appreciate it.

Got a question or a comment for The Life of Kings that you want answered? E-mail us at kevin.vanvalkenburg@baltsun.com, and we'll get to it in a future readers' mailbag.

Photo credits: Joe Flacco (Sun photo); Gladiator, Gisele Bundchen (AP photos); The Big Lebowski (Handout photo)

John Daly: no shirt, no shoes, no problem

2008-04-30T19:38:29Z

The video attached to this link, featuring golfer John Daly in all his redneck glory, might seem hilarious to you, or it might seem totally disturbing. I can't say which. I'm not really a fan of Daly's, especially lately. I think he passed the "loveable oaf" stage of his career and morphed into someone who is just pathetic at this point, but he's certainly unpredictable. In this clip, he plays a hole against an Arkansas television reporter on his home course sans shirt and shoes. The fact that this man won two major championships may go down as one of the most unlikely sports stories of my lifetime.

New media under attack, and caring about athletes' personal lives

2008-04-30T16:03:42Z

Sorry about the lack of posts the last few days. Despite my love of blogging, I still have to do my newspaper job, which this week included finishing up a quick story about Michael Phelps and the fact that we're just 100 days from the Olympics. Onto lighter matters that I suspect many of you will not care about... (Check back later, when we hope to have a quick interview with Joe Flacco.)

Obviously, while I was away, everyone's favorite hillbilly Hall of Famer, Roger Clemens, made some news when the New York Daily News revealed that he carried on a decade-long affair with country singer Mindy McCready, who had a No. 1 hit a lifetime ago with the song "Guys Do It All The Time." The paper originally implied that Clemens and McCready began their relationship when she was just 15 years old, but then backed away from that claim a bit the following day after McCready confirmed the affair but denied it became physical until she was 18. The New York Post, talked to McCready's father, who also denied that the affair was consummated until Mindy turned 18, and said that Roger was nothing but a "gentleman." You have to laugh when a married man with (at the time) two kids fools around with your 18-year-old daughter, and you still consider him a "gentleman."

I bring this up, in part, because journalists have always struggled with where the line is when it comes to writing about the personal lives of athletes. A lot of people like to get righteous about stories like Clemens and McCready -- or any number of salacious affairs that athletes occasionally have -- but it's obvious their curiosity outweighs the cry for standards. The Clemens-McCready story was one of the most e-mailed and most-viewed stories on our Web site yesterday, and it continues to be today. That was the case pretty much all over the country, ever since the story broke. In some respects, it has a lot to do with our love of schadenfreude and hypocrisy, because Clemens is claiming he's not the kind of person who would ever use steroids, instead painting himself as a guy who is "all about family." But we also just like dishy gossip. The numbers do not lie.

The issue is a complicated one as newspapers struggle to adapt to people's changing reading habits and declining circulation numbers. Web sites like Deadspin.com, TheBigLead.com and Withleather.com regularly post pictures of athletes in various states of inebriation or embarrassment, mostly for comedy purposes, and their popularity continues to climb while newspapers continue to look like dinosaurs, trying to cling to standards those Web sites (and hundreds of others) choose not to. There is a new generation of readers out there and Deadspin speaks to them the same way that Sports Illustrated spoke to me growing up. They want their sports news to be more of an exchange of ideas and snark, like friends sitting at a bar or at a game making jokes about Matt Leinart and his harem of hot tub lovelies.

There is nothing wrong with that attitude. In fact, it's some of what we're shooting for here at The Life of Kings, (albeit with less swear words, since I'm still interested in earning a paycheck from The Sun). But for a lot of my colleagues, the whole traditional media vs. non-traditional media has turned into an angry holy war, and it came to boil last night on HBO on an episode of Costas Now, when Friday Night Lights author and Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist H.G. "Buzz" Bissinger absolutely unloaded on Will Leitch, the founder and editor of Deadspin, saying essentially that if Leitch was the future of sports journalism, we're all doomed. (Here is a video link of the testy exchange. HBO is replaying the show, which focused on the state of sports journalism -- including TV and talk radio, tonight at 6:30 p.m.) I like both Bissinger and Leitch, so it was uncomfortable to watch, but not nearly as uncomfortable as listening to Bob Costas, who clearly doesn't know the difference between a blog posting and a blog comment, and may still require that one of his assistants log onto his computer for him.

You can read Leitch's written response to Bissinger here, which claims that it comes to praise newspapers, not to bury them. I feel bad for Leitch, who too often is unfairly asked to represent the entire sports blogging universe, but I also understand some of where Bissinger's frustration comes from. (I did think, though, that he should have handled himself better; it's kind of unfair to complain about Kissing Suzy Kolber's Big Daddy Drew being too profane when you do it by launching into a profanity-laced tirade.)

The profile I wrote about Phelps today (which is really just the first in a series of stories about him) took a long time to piece together and write, and it required some trust from Phelps, who let me follow him around for two days in Ann Arbor. I'm hopeful that people will read it, because even though it was shorter than I would have liked, I think it offers a tiny window into his life and his character. Had I simply posted a photo of Phelps with a group of big breasted women taken in a bar (Note: This photo does not exist as far as I know), I know people would have clicked on the story. Hope would have nothing to do with it. It would have been forwarded around the internet at the speed of light. It would have been posted on Deadspin and The Big Lead and mocked by some funny people -- as well as by a large number of unfunny people -- and it probably would have made Phelps even more cautious about his image.

Leitch argues that it humanizes the athletes when we see them doing the things that regular 20-something men do all the time, and there is some truth to that. If you think Tiger Woods or Michael Jordan or even Ray Lewis doesn't put on a public face, you're kidding yourself. In some respects, athletes are selling us an image that's simply not the truth. And the truth is supposed to matter, no matter what kind of journalism you're doing. But there is a fine line between what truths matter about a public figure's private life, and what is being used just to embarrass him for the sake of humor. As Leitch said, you have to examine it on a case by case basis. Nobody gets it right all the time. Not even The New York Times (See: McCain and his lobbyist friend).

There is no doubt that sports journalism in newspapers and magazines can be stodgy and antiquated. And sports commentary and blogging can be immature and irresponsible. There is a danger, however, when either side tries to group the other into one giant, singular-thinking monolith. It's the same point I tried to make with several commentors when we discussed whether or not Miguel Tejada was ambushed by ESPN, and several of you said "this is why I hate the media." My response was: Look, we don't all think alike. All of us don't push secret agendas, or play fast and loose with the facts, just because some of us do.

Newspapers are struggling to adapt. And readers, especially younger ones, do seem to be more interested in the looser standards and more interactive format that new media offers. I wish traditional print media would ditch the tired line about bloggers "working out of their mom's basement" and I wish that new media would stop showing so much glee over the financial peril newspapers are in. We are, after all, real people with real families. It would be nice to find a way to coexist peacefully (like we do here!), because there is value in what each of us do.

How much value there is in each is, as always, up to you. The reader.

Photo: AP

Two stories that'll make you want to root for Ravens RB Ray Rice

2008-04-28T17:06:17Z

It's impossible to predict whether or not Ray Rice will ever develop into an NFL starter, much less a star. We can say that it's tough to hold up to the pounding when you're only 5-foot-9, and for every Barry Sanders (5-foot-8), Priest Holmes (5-foot-9) and Maurice Jones-Drew (5-foot-7), there are literally dozens, if not hundreds, of good college running backs who can't translate that success to the professional level.

I do, however, think Ray Rice is worth rooting for, in part because of his compelling backstory, which you can read below. Rice -- who in many ways helped the Rutgers football program transition from the laughingstock of college football to one of the best programs in the Big East -- lost his father, Calvin Reed, in a random drive-by shooting when he was just a 1-year-old. Reed was walking home from work, and got caught in the crossfire of a hit intended for someone else.

His older cousin, Myshaun Rice-Nichols, became a father figure to Rice, and as a kid, Ray would sit for hours and listen to "Shaun" write rap songs. It was Shaun, who called himself S.U.P.E (Spiritually Uplifting People Everywhere), who encouraged Rice to pursue his athletic gifts. Shaun's music was never about guns, drugs, women or violence; he instead wrote about (according to the New Jersey Star-Ledger) "youth communities, God, spirituality and self respect."

Sadly, Shaun Rice-Nichols was killed in a car accident on St. Patrick's day of 1998 when another driver lost control of his car and drove across the center line, colliding with Rice-Nichols head on. Before each game in college, Rice would write "R.I.P. 914 S.U.P.E" on a Breathe Right strip he'd stretch across his nose.

The link is a little slow loading, but you can read this story by the Star-Ledger's Kevin Manahan about Rice's relationship with his cousin.

The one constant in his life, however, was his mother Janet, a special needs teacher in New Rochelle, N.Y. Rice would regularly show up in her classroom to talk to the kids about doing their homework, staying out of trouble and being respectful of others, and he liked it enough that he made regular stops at several other schools in his hometown. USA Today's Kelly Whiteside penned this piece about Rice two years ago that's explains Rice's desire to prove himself, and the special bond he and his mother share.

Allow me to explain the quality of Joe Flacco's 1-AA competition

2008-04-26T21:23:01Z

Let me come out and say this upfront: I was not a very good college football player. A little too slow, and a little too short, I didn't have the physical tools to get on the field very often during my brief career at Montana. But I do know a little about the level of competition that Joe Flacco -- the Ravens' first-round pick -- faced at Delaware, because like Montana, it's considered one of the elite programs in 1-AA, which the NCAA now ridiculously asks that I call the Football Championships Subdivision.

I think it's worth attempting to clear up some misconceptions for any of you that have your doubts, and I know there are doubts, because I've read a few of them on Ravens message boards and in comments recently here at The Life of Kings.

Do we really want a guy who played against Towson? Why would we draft a guy who was essentially the star of college football's JV Division?

For starters, it's not always that simple. Flacco, you should remember, was originally recruited and signed by Pitt out of high school, and could have, for all we know, been a star in the Big East had he decided to stick around instead of transferring to play for the Blue Hens. That's fairly common at the 1-AA level, which is littered with players who originally signed with big schools, but for whatever reason (playing time, grades, criminal behavior, homesickness) decided to take their chances playing in football games you're rarely going to see on television.

What it doesn't mean, however, is that the teams are flat out inferior. Appalachian State showed Michigan that the top 1-AA teams do, in fact, have the speed to compete with some of the biggest programs in the country. What schools like Delaware can't do is go toe-to-toe with big Division I schools on a week-to-week basis because they simple don't have the depth. Most 1-AA starters could see significant time at the I-A level. Look at Maryland's Madieu Williams, who transfered from Towson, starred at Maryland, and is playing well for the Cincinnati Bengals. It's their backups (guys like me!) who wouldn't sniff a Division I roster, and thus one major injury can have a devastating effect against teams that have talented freshmen all-Americans ready to step in if a similar situation happens to them.

What most I-AA stars have in common is, for some reason (maybe height, maybe exposure, maybe speed), they were overlooked by major programs who, two years later, would love to have them on their team instead of some of the talented, highly-rated busts who lack the desire to be truly great.

I'd argue that Delaware would have given Maryland a hell of a game last season, and probably would have won. What the Blue Hens wouldn't have been able to do, however, is play an entire ACC schedule. Flacco would have taken far too much punishment.

Sometimes, though, stars like Flacco can benefit significantly from going to a school like Delaware because they learn to elevate their teammates. They can't rely on the crazy athleticism of an all-American wide receiver to bail them out when they make poor throws under pressure.

Flacco was a late-bloomer. Just check out this recent New York Times profile on Flacco. He had no idea he might be a first-round pick in the NFL draft 12 months ago. He thought his future might be in baseball. Sometimes late-bloomers end up turning into the perfect fit because they seem to get stronger each time they take a step up in the level of competition. They've learned to dominate, no matter who they're playing against, and that's not something you can teach.

The Ravens will certainly hope that's the case with Flacco.

What if the Ravens had taken Phillips instead of Ogden in 1996?

2008-04-25T20:59:14Z

Throughout history, man has always pondered the possibilities of: What If?

What if Friar Lawrence had gotten word to Romeo that Juliet was only sleeping, and not dead? What if President John F. Kennedy’s motorcade had taken a different parade route that day in Dallas? What if George McFly had not been hit by his future father-in-law’s car, a premise that was explored by Michael J. Fox in the Back to the Future trilogy? What if Jeffrey Maier had been in school that day instead in right field in Yankee Stadium?

Rarely is this exercise more popular than in the weeks and months leading up to the NFL draft. Today, we attempt to reimagine history as we look back through the Ravens’ drafts, and see how things could have played out differently. In the course of our journey — especially the first scenario, which really did almost happen — we realize that “What IF?” can be a scary proposition.

April 20, 1996 — Desperate to fill Memorial Stadium after moving the team from Cleveland, and confident coach Ted Marchibroda can deal with any character issues that arise, Ravens owner Art Modell quietly decrees that the team must select Nebraska running back Lawrence Phillips with the fourth pick in the draft. UCLA offensive lineman Jonathan Ogden is selected seventh, by the New England Patriots. The Denver Broncos, torn between linebackers John Mobley and Ray Lewis, grab Lewis.

In a post-draft press conference, Phillips puts his arm around Mobley, the Ravens' other first-round pick, and declares that the duo will win four Super Bowls together.

Later, WJZ reporter Mark Viviano spots Phillips alone in the hallway and asks for an interview. When Viviano asks a question about his checkered past, Phillips drags Viviano down a flight of stairs by his hair.

April 19, 1997 — After going 4-12 the year before, the Ravens' plan going into the draft is to shore up their defense. In a trade that has much to do with financial concerns, they give up their fourth pick to Seattle in exchange for the 11th pick, plus additional picks in the second and fourth round.

Seattle selects Florida State defensive end Peter Boulware, while the Ravens grab defensive back Michael Booker, a teammate of Phillips at Nebraska, hoping a familiar face will settle Phillips down. Phillips greets Booker at his first press conference with a hug, then hands him a ski mask. Sun columnist Ken Rosenthal writes a column wondering whether Peter Angelos’ sons might be drafting for the Ravens from behind the scenes.

April 18, 1998 — Eager to give new head coach (and offensive genius) Brian Billick some offensive firepower, the Ravens convince Arizona to trade the second pick to them instead of San Diego. Baltimore then snags Washington State quarterback Ryan Leaf.

“The fact that he could throw a football 80 yards in the air, through the goalposts, from behind his back while drinking a beer convinced me we’d found our quarterback for the next 15 years, at least,” Billick says.

Billick tells the media he had hoped to lend Leaf his labtop computer so that Leaf could get an early start on learning Baltimore’s 85,000 plays, but that plan had to be scrapped after Phillips stole it and pawned it.

“We are not going to retry the case of Lawrence Phillips here today,” Billick scolds the press. “You are not qualified!”

Desperate to fill their hole at middle linebacker, the Ravens select Ohio State’s Andy Katzenmoyer.

April 17, 1999 — Although the Ravens go into the draft targeting Arizona cornerback Chris McAlister, the Cardinals (using the draft picks they garnered in the Leaf trade) select him instead.

Baltimore decides to take the best player available, Ohio State wide receiver David Boston, who shows up at training camp looking ripped, running the 40 in 4.2 seconds despite being 274 pounds. Boston says he's been training in the offseason with Seattle Mariners first baseman David Segui.

"I'm going to encourage him to re-sign with the Orioles when his contract is up," Boston says. "I think he could really be a great mentor to some of the younger prospects that the Orioles have."

April 15, 2000 — With Phillips serving a 10-year bid in Jessup for assault, battery and theft of cable television broadcasts from Comcast, the Ravens fill their need at running back by selecting Ron Dayne of Wisconsin, passing on Tennessee running back Jamal Lewis because of injury concerns.

As a joke, Sun columnist Peter Schmuck approaches Ryan Leaf — who is coming off a disastrous rookie season — in the days leading up to the draft. Schmuck asks Leaf if the Ravens should consider picking Michigan quarterback Tom Brady in the late rounds to be his understudy.

“Knock it off!” Leaf screams. “Don’t talk to me!”

Five games into the season 1999, Billick yanks Leaf and inserts Stoney Case.

“I’ve found my quarterback!” Billick declares. "I can imagine him taking snaps for the next 15 years, at least."

April 21, 2001 — After trading down, swapping picks with the Super Bowl champion New York Giants, Baltimore selects Oregon State wide receiver Chad Johnson. Billick yanks Case in the third quarter of the season opener and inserts backup Trent Dilfer, who leads the Ravens to a respectable 9-7 record. After the season, Dilfer is released because he doesn't fit into the Ravens "scheme."

The Broncos, led by linebacker Ray Lewis, win their third Super Bowl in five years.

April 20, 2002 — The Ravens make a bold decision to trade Mobley, Johnson, and the 24th pick in the first round to the Lions for the rights to Oregon quarterback Joey Harrington.

The Lions use the 24th pick to select Miami safety Ed Reed.

“I’ve found my quarterback!” Billick says. “The fact that he could throw a football 60 yards through the goal posts, from one knee, while playing the piano convinced me he was going to be our quarterback for the next 15 years, at least.”

April 26, 2003 — When the Ravens' phone lines don’t work on draft day — making it impossible for the team to trade up and grab wide receiver Charles Rogers — Billick accuses Sun columnist Mike Preston of cutting them.

Using a borrowed cell phone, Billick calls former Chiefs quarterback Elvis Grbac and asks if he wants to come out of retirement.

"I've found my quarterback!" Billick says. "The fact that he could throw a wobbly spiral into the dirt while sweat dripped out of his tear ducts convinced me he could be our quarterback for the next 15 minutes, at least."

April 24, 2004 — After assuming control of the team from Art Modell, new owner Steve Bisciotti decides to fire Billick and give the job to Iowa coach Kirk Ferentz. Ferentz encourages the Ravens to select offensive lineman Robert Gallery, also of Iowa.

“I really think he could be the next Jonathan Ogden,” Ferentz says. “You don’t want to miss out on a building block like that.”

Not everyone is happy about the Pacman Jones trade

2008-04-25T15:17:41Z

Yesterday, in discussing Ryan Leaf, I argued that character matters when putting together an NFL team. Dale Hansen, a sports anchor in Dallas, would probably agree. Check out this rant directed at Cowboys owner Jerry Jones, after the team announced it had agreed to trade a fourth-round draft pick for troubled Titans defensive back Adam Jones. "Why don't they just sign Osama bin Laden to play wide receiver? They need one, he's 6-4, and we know nobody can catch him."

The best rants in sports history

2008-04-24T19:15:43Z

Our friends at the Chicago Tribune are doing a series this week on the 25th anniversary of the best sports tirade of all time, Cubs manager Lee Elia's 1983 blistering of Chicago fans after an early season loss to the Dodgers.

All these years later, it's still a joy to listen to (this audio link contains a bleeped version) because it not only represents a tired and frustrated manager at the end of his rope, but it also manages to sum up so much about the Cubs star-crossed history their fans' place as baseball's lovable losers. If you've heard the rant, you'll almost certainly recognize this memorable passage, with Elia's curse words redacted, of course.

"The (bleepers) don't even work. That's why they're out at the (bleeping) game. They oughtta go out and get a (bleeping) job and find out what it's like to go out and earn a (bleeping) living. Eighty-five percent of the (bleeping) world is working. The other 15 come out here. A (bleeping) playground for the (bleepers). Rip them (bleepers)! Rip them (bleeping) (bleepers) like the (bleeping) players!"

In addition to the stories about what set Elia off that day, the Tribune also compiled some of sports other most memorable rants. It's definitely worth checking out, even if you've seen them 100 times before.

For some reason, my favorite, other that Elia's, has always been the one by baseball manager Hal McRae, who was with the Royals at the time. He just has a crazed look in his eyes when he starts throwing things that makes you fear for the reporters safety in this clip (one even leaves with a noticeable gash on his cheek).

It looks like the Tribune missed a few (Bobby Knight doesn't make a single appearance) so feel free to add your own below. Or, as Elia might say...

"And print it!"

Photo: Chicago Tribune

Assessing Ryan Leaf 10 years later, and why character counts

2008-04-24T13:29:56Z

It's been 10 years since quarterbacks Peyton Manning and Ryan Leaf went first and second in the NFL draft, and today, for most of you, Leaf is probably little more than a punchline. At best, he's a cautionary tale, a symbol of just how hard it is to predict success for quarterbacks drafted in the the first round when they are handed huge signing bonuses and asked to be saviors. ESPN.com even wrote a story this week that declared Leaf the biggest bust in NFL history and although I disagree (I'm looking in your direction, Aundray Bruce) it's easy to understand why he's so often mentioned in the context of failure. No one flamed out as publicly and as quickly as Leaf, who went 4-17 as a starter, and finished with a quarterback rating of 50.0, one of the worst ever. He retired at at 26, and his lasting image as a professional didn't even come on the field. It was a shouting match he had with a reporter from the San Diego Union-Tribune.

Leaf grew up in my mom's hometown of Great Falls, Mont., a working class city in the central plains of about 56,000. Lewis and Clark passed through Great Falls on their mission to find the Northwest Passage, which remains one of the city's few claims to fame. It's the kind of place where people work hard, walk with a forward lean into the constant wind, and prefer that their athletic heroes remain humble.

Leaf was never truly embraced by the folks from Big Sky Country, even before he flamed out with the Chargers despite the fact that most experts thought he had more "upside" than Manning. He was arrogant and immature, even though his athletic gifts were obvious. He was a few years older than I was so I missed the chance to play against him, but I can remember watching him, on a cold night in Great Falls, throw laser-tight spirals despite having a broken pinkie. He'd dominate basketball games, then when the referees weren't looking, he'd elbow the guy guarding him in the face, or give the middle finger to fans trying who were trying to rattle him. He could throw a football a country mile, but he also used to tell people he couldn't wait to get the hell out of Montana so he could hurry up and get to the NFL. His high school, for several years, declined to retire his jersey because he rubbed so many people the wrong way.

Most people in the state rooted for him at Wazzu despite all that bluster, because, warts and all, he was one of us. Just like Marylanders have a special affection for other Marylanders, Montanans privately took pride in Leaf's accomplishments. To paraphrase songwriter Randy Newman, he may have been a jerk, but he was our jerk. It wasn't until he told ESPN: The Magazine he didn't even consider himself a "Montana man" that we washed our hands of him entirely. It was a surprise to no one from my home state when his NFL career turned into a public train wreck.

I tell you all this not to drag you down my own personal memory lane, but to point out how often someone's athletic gifts blind us when it comes to character. San Diego could have talked with anyone from Montana back in 1998 and learned they had a ticking time bomb on their hands in Leaf. In college, he whizzed a football at the head of a newspaper reporter because he didn't like what the reporter had written about him. All the Chargers saw was a big kid with a cannon for an arm.

It takes confidence to be an elite athlete; to argue otherwise would be foolish. But there is a thin line between confidence and arrogance, and it's hard to know which side an athlete is standing on sometimes. Kyler Boller never seems to have enough confidence. Ryan Leaf always seemed to have too much. Where Matt Ryan, Chad Henne and Joe Flacco fall on that scale, I can't say. But if I were Ozzie Newsome, I'd talk to just about everyone from their childhood, even a 7th grade algebra teacher, before I made my decision. It can't hurt.

Even the smartest guys in football still don't make the right decision when it comes to quarterbacks though. Bill Walsh, who coached a pair of Hall of Fame QBs in Joe Montana and Steve Young, told reporters in 1998 that he'd pass on both Manning and Leaf, then in the second round, take Brian Griese if he were in charge of an NFL team that year. He thought Griese had something Manning lacked. (Tunnel vision? One can only speculate.)

My favorite part about the Leaf saga is that, disastrous as his NFL career was, he eventually realized most of it was his own doing. The Chargers threw him into the fire much too early, but Leaf made things far worse with his attitude and poor preparation. Instead of becoming bitter, he quietly retired, and is now a quarterbacks coach and golf coach for West Texas A&M University, a Division II program in Canyon, Texas. (That's him coaching in the picture above.)

Leaf declines most interview requests these days, even though every spring, reporters from around the country call him wanting to rehash his football failures. Leaf did, however, tell ESPN that his ultimate dream is to someday become a college head coach in -- of all places -- Montana. One day, he'd like to bring pride to the state he blew off when he was young and immature.

I'm rooting for him. I like redemption stories. Leaf was a jerk back in the day, but he was never a criminal. He could teach college kids a thing or two about dealing poorly with fame. If nothing else, he's a reminder to athletes and general managers that nothing is certain in sports. Your athletic gifts will take you only so far. The rest is up to you.

Humbled and hard-working, Leaf seems very much, now, like a Montana man.

Photo: AP