Fairness is a novel concept, isn’t it?

Tuesday afternoon I was once again late for work because I was captivated watching a soccer game. This time the Italian champions were hosting the European champions in a very interesting contest. It turns out the Italian team decisively won 3-0.

Soccer, nor sport as a whole, is for everyone. But, it serves as a spectacular example that the best teams, the best players, the best coaches, or the most deserving squads don’t always have results that favor them.

The continuous lust after advertising and television dollars has heaped immense pressure on the participants to perform like a peacock on parade.

Hours after losing the European champions fired their coach. The same man who lifted the team to its highest heights in the 107-year history of the team was fired for winning just two out of his last eight games.

It was yet another reminder the world is not fair. It’s probably not the best to be so dismissive of the optimism in people, but the truth sometimes hurts.

My sister would argue “Will, the truth you tell is refreshing, until people realize it’s a golden shower.” But, she has always been funnier than me.

By now most of us with a social media pulse have seen the “30 Days of Thankfulness” campaign waged on Facebook and other mediums. It’s a spectacular reminder to appreciate the small blessings, because bigger ones are frequently not in our control.

Roberto Di Matteo, the former coach of the European champions, may have an impressive resume, but he also no longer has a job.

It’s doubtful Di Matteo will spend the rest of the year wallowing in the unfairness of it all — especially considering he’ll be paid for another 18 months by a billionaire who is indebted to him.

Are you someone who “Cannot Understand Normal Thinking?”

We find out who our truest friends are when we are caught with our pants down in a compromising position. That may not be an adage, at least not yet, but it sure sounded nice.

By all accounts Tampa socialite Jill Kelley has kept her pants on since her role emerged in the resignation of David Petraeus earlier this month.

Petraues is the West Point graduate, former leader of American forces in Afghanistan, and CIA director who resigned because he was caught opening up to his biographer. Based on his previously glowing media coverage one would think he is our generation’s version of Washington, Grant, Eisenhower, Westmoreland, and Schwarzkopf rolled up into one brassy uniform — but I digress.

Kelley was originally a minor player in this story. But the more information that pops up, like Petraeus in missionary, the more people are speaking on the record to the media about the authenticity of the 37-year-old wife of a Tampa cancer surgeon.

While the story arouses one’s curiosity about many things, it should lead us to consider how frivolously we confer status on someone or something.

Money cannot buy one class. Just as a high-profile position does not afford integrity, possessing a few degrees does not make one intelligent and cooking Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t make one a chef, money purchases many things, but not everything.

Kelley probably learned that the hard way this month as countless people have essentially called her a poser in the Tampa Bay Times and other publications because she wanted to enter South Tampa’s high society.

In high school I used yearn “to be popular.” Looking back, it was such a silly thing to strive for. Then, and now, I didn’t have the most money, world-class looks, the fanciest car, or a personality that is particularly flashy.

I would like to think I am funny. However, that may be stretching the truth, and may turn me into one of the “C.U.N.T.’s” that believe all that is superficial is all that matters.

In truth, I am a sports writer in a sleepy South Texas town that prefers to be told selective truths as opposed to the slightly snarky honest prose that has become a trademark of my writing. There is more to me than the byline people see in the newspaper most mornings.

There is more to most of us than what we post on social media, cram into a 160-character text message, or slip into a phone conversation.  The Times story illustrates the Kelley’s didn’t have too many true friends in snooty South Tampa.

While it’s easy to saturate ourselves in the silly, at the end of the day little of it matters. People preen and pretend to care for others all the time. They are the people who cannot stand normal thinking, because everything is about them.

Those who are really in it for the long haul are usually the people who not only — figuratively— know when you pants were down, but tell you where to buy a new pair because your current pair are stained.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

“Is it wrong that I liked your writing before I liked you?”

One of my very good friends told me back in college that my writing style was very distinct. So distinct that one could take my name off the story and it’s still apparent I was the author.

At the time I didn’t believe him. I figured he said because both of us were known for thumbing our noses at conventional methods for sports journalism.

To this day I still do, albeit, with more pragmatism than my college years.

My style is intricately descriptive. I am bluntly honest and routinely write exactly what people are thinking, but won’t say in mixed company. Above all, I’m fair to those who take the time to speak with me.

I’m a sports writer, not a policy maker, or crafting diplomacy dictums.

People may not always like what I write, but, again, I’m a sports writer. I like to make people think about things beyond the realm of sports.

Today’s rapid-fire style of reporting usually prevents that. Context is washed away in the race to get the minutia first, fastest and factual.

The best piece of journalism I ever read was published by Wright Thompson back in 2009. It was about the whirlwind Fall of 1962 at the University of Mississippi.

The story was published on ESPN.com. It was more than 14,000 words explaining the cultural shift that was underfoot at a university that James Meredith later wrote was “the holiest temple of white supremacy in America, next to the U.S. Capitol and the White House, both of which were under the control of segregationists and their collaborators," just two years prior.

Until I read Thompson’s story I had no clue Mississippi’s football team were undefeated in 1962.

The forgotten Rebels finished No. 3 in the country that year. That year was the last time Mississippi rolled through the Southeastern Conference without a loss.

The best writing, sports or otherwise, the author invests something in every word they share. Words are tools to take you to the scene of the action, even if the action is fictional, takes you there. An empty soul produces hollow copy that lack passion, zest and credibility.

Great writing can be a teaching tool. It can expand vocabularies, horizons, and understanding. The best of us do it consistently.

Every Monday, I log onto ESPNFC.com to read Phil Ball’s column. It’s supposedly a column about Spanish soccer, but it intertwines politics, culture, current events and behind-the-scenes context about the game in the Iberian peninsula.

Of course there is more to the world than sports. And, we all prefer different styles of writing.

My style may not be the most popular, yet, but it certainly has its devotees. My fiancé might be the most committed, considering she once told me “…I liked your writing before I liked you?”

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

What if the shots were only fired on the field?

When the American embassy in Cairo released a preemptive statement deploring religious incitement earlier this month, a question immediately popped to mind.

How much of the anti-American sentiment in Egypt would subside if the country’s soccer team qualified for the 2014 World Cup?

Granted, the question is well beyond the realm of group think, and certainly not on the mind of diplomats trying to resolve a delicate situation in the Arab world. But, it was nevertheless interesting.

Considering, Egypt is coached by a New Jersey-born man whose last job was leading the U.S. Men’s soccer team. And considering Egypt has qualified for the World Cup only two times, the last of which was 1990, it seemed a totally legitimate question.

The Pharaohs have a long way to go when it comes to securing their ticket to Brazil. Egypt is in the second of potentially three rounds of qualifying for the 2014 World Cup.  At the moment, they are in good shape to advance to the third round of qualifying.

Egypt was 38^th in the most recent FIFA World rankings, five places behind the United States. Sandwiched between the two countries — Libya. Yes, war-torn, Libya.

It wouldn’t be the first time politics have been the elephant in the room when it comes to African soccer.

Didier Drogba is hailed as a hero in Cote d’Ivoire, not because he scored the winning penalty kick to win his club the European Cup last spring, or the fact he’s been a world class soccer player for the past decade.

Drogba is revered in his homeland because he encouraged warring factions in his country to suspend their civil war and support the national soccer team back in 2005.

The north was dominated by Muslims and the south was predominantly Christian. The policies and divisiveness of former president Laurent Gbagbo led to the southerners resenting the mostly immigrant class that lived in the north producing cocoa. The warring started in 2002 and didn’t subside until the star striker pleaded with his compatriots to stop the fighting moments after The Elephants qualified for the 2006 World Cup.

Clearly, the Anti-Americanism displayed in northern Africa will not be eliminated solely by soccer — or speeches at the United Nations.

The resentment is too entrenched, the politics of the current situation are more complex and too many lives have been lost for a few games to wipe away recent history. However, it does make one wonder how much diplomacy could be accomplished through sports.

Besides, if North Korea and South Korea can face off in a meaningful soccer match, anything is possible.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

Why did it take four plane crashes to unite America?

We were in the locker room talking about how the New York Giants had a black punter. My teammates joked Rodney Williams was proof that I just might make the NFL one day.

I told them I went to bed early Monday night, so I didn’t see much of the Giants 2001 season opener.

Since we were all changing after our first period weightlifting class when this conversation happened it had to be a little after 9 on that Tuesday morning. That is when someone mentioned a plane crashed into the World Trade Center.

Clear as day, I remember dismissing the news, and telling others to do so, because someone tried to down the World Trade Center eight years earlier. I figured it was something similar to that.

As I cleaned up and walked to my second period class it seems there were whispers in the halls about what was going on in New York. But, they were just whispers. It wasn’t until my Algebra teacher turned on the television that we realized September 11, 2001 was not anything like 1993.

Almost everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when it was apparent America was under attack. Time does not erase the memories seared in our minds.

But, as we solemnly remember those who lost their lives through no fault of their own, and especially those who lost their lives trying to save others, let’s not forget the supposed togetherness America displayed in the days and weeks after the attacks.

To me, the enduring lesson of that Tuesday morning in September had nothing to do with “terror”, “patriotism”, “liberty” or other politically loaded terms.  It was our unity.

On a day that shook America to its core I watched a Canadian broadcaster disseminate the news.

The specifics evade me, but that night, while watching Peter Jennings, ABC News cut to a stirring tribute on Capitol Hill. Immediately after the then Speaker of the House of Representatives and the Senate Majority Leader said their obligatory remarks politicians from both sides of the aisle collectively and instinctively sang “God Bless America” as a sort of defiance to those responsible for attacking America.

In the 11 years since 9/11 I think about how that would never happen today.

This country has become so polarized along political lines. We are apparently incapable of respectfully disagreeing with someone. Our congressional and legislative leaders have been some of the architects of this divisiveness.

If most of us are honest, our elected officials are a reflection of the people they represent. Many of us pull the same tactics in our personal lives, albeit on a far smaller scale.

This summer the Pew Research Center published its 2012 American Values Survey where it found the thing that divides America is not class, or race, or religion, but our politics.

“…The defining change in American politics over the past quarter-century is not in overall public beliefs, but how these beliefs are increasingly being sorted along partisan lines,” is what the Pew study stated. “Today, the partisan bases are more homogeneous and less cross-pressured, and hold more consistently liberal or conservative views across a wider spectrum of values.

This polarization along partisan lines stands in contrast to other social divides such as race, ethnicity, gender, class and religion, all of which remain significant factors, but which have neither grown nor receded in importance.”

Pew’s American Values study has been conducted annually since 1987. This study predates America’s first invasion of Kuwait, the series of terror attacks, domestically and abroad, in the 90s, before 9/11 and before the hyper-polarization of the George W. Bush and Barack Obama presidencies.

Many of us say we will “Never Forget” those who lost their lives on 9/11. And we shouldn’t.

However, the best way to honor the dead may not be to wrap ourselves in the flag and all the self-righteous beliefs that are uniquely American. We would be better served wrapping ourselves in understanding of others, so no one has so much hate in their heart as the 19 terrorists did that Tuesday morning 11 years ago.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

Fish Fanaticism

There has always been a hat.

The first one was a teal adjustable hat I bought at Woolworth’s. I wasn’t a fan of the black stripes stitched into it so the cap rarely left my closet.

There have been others, adjustable hats, warm-up hats, vintage hats and more. But, through the years, I have always had a Marlins hat.

The caps serve as my connection to a team and a sport that captivates my attention only long enough to elicit frustration. For 20 seasons my relationship with baseball recedes and flows like slow waves to shore.

On occasion there is a high tide and the Marlins are having a successful season. In others the sea is gone, revealing shells and other undesirables that are masked by a winning season.

Through it all, there has always been a baseball cap.

It’s a relationship born out of proximity, and a lust for leaning my baseball fanaticism on some team I could relate with. Atlanta appeared to be an alternative universe to an inquisitive baseball fan in Southwest Florida. Miami felt just as foreign, but at least it was in Florida.

Spring training in Sarasota brought all the stars to me. But once April came, the players and teams were only as tangible as the television or newspaper box scores would allow.

That hideous teal cap made Charlie Hough, Benito Santiago and Jeff Conine more than names in a box score. Even if I was never closer than a box television in my bedroom, the Marlins seemed to be a team there for my own summer entertainment.

A collection of errors has hindered any ability to see this routinely mediocre team in person. But, the hat has always been there. In the good years and the bad, the hat has been a tether to a team teetering along in the National League.

Every April my optimism would heighten that this would be the year. They would flirt with my emotions for five weeks, only to go on a losing spell, stinking like rotten citrus as May drifts toward June. Father’s Day would be the barometer for the rest of the season, saving cranks like myself from suffering through summer’s dog days in the fabulous Florida sun.

I was never too good at baseball. My swing had a hitch in it. My throwing motion was never consistent. Plus, I always took circuitous routes to fielding my position.

Personal shortcomings never hindered my Marlin-inspired mania.

Mr. Marlin winning the All-Star MVP award in ’95 was the highlight of my summer. Meeting Charles Johnson six years later was such an experience I nearly hyperventilated. Little compares to dressing up as Marlins player — hat and all — for a Halloween party days after Craig Counsell floated home.

It’s been nearly a decade since Josh Beckett tagged out Posada to shutout the vaunted Yankees. Since then, there have been occasions, large and small, to proudly wear the hat of a team that defiantly represents Florida — whether it’s the booms, the busts or the steady promises for future growth.

As I’ve grown up with the Marlins, the hats have changed. My fanaticism has never wavered, even when the team is floundering in fourth place.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

How conveniently can you forget your (trivial) history?

It couldn’t be possible.

Spain, the serial underachievers were about to win at an unprecedented pace, should they find a way to be victorious at Euro 2012.

Broadcasters, and others in the media, nearly led me to believe a triumph by La Furia Roja would be the first time in soccer history a country won three straight major tournaments. Spain’s emphatic victory Sunday meant they completed the treble.

Throughout Euro 2012, something in me remained skeptical each time I heard someone trot out that useful piece of history to justify the Spanish as the best team of all time. I just had a hunch there was a long-forgotten South American team that won successive major titles.

The Brazilian teams of the early 60s led by the incomparable Pele came to mind. But, after winning the 1958 and 1962 World Cups, the Brazilians faltered in the 1963 South American championships to Bolivia of all teams.

Turns out it wasn’t the Brazilians that set the standard for winning in the beautiful game.  It’s their neighbors — Uruguay.

For a country with fewer inhabitants than greater Miami, it’s pretty remarkable they won Olympic titles in 1924 and 1928, the 1929 South American championship and the first World Cup in 1930.

The current Spanish soccer team would likely wipe the floor with the Uruguayans, because soccer, like so many sports, has changed over the past 80 years. To me, the bigger annoyance is how those past accomplishments were conveniently swept under the rug when a more colorful narrative arises.

Sunday night, I sent a text message to some very close friends highlighting that frustration:

“I find it funny people have fallen over themselves to say Spain is the first team to win three major tournaments. … My point is the Euro-centric media is quick to omit or forget history when it doesn’t suit them. South America and Africa held continental championships long before Europe, but that’s forgotten.”

South America held its first continental championship in 1916. The Asian Cup was created in 1956, while the first African Cup of Nations was first held a year later. Europe didn’t get around to hosting its first continental championship until 1960.

The deification of the Spanish national team was a reminder of the European World View, a term I was taught in a black psychology class back in college. I digested most of the lessons from that course with a raised eyebrow and a quizzical look. However, some fragments stuck around like broccoli in incisors.

One such lesson came in a chapter titled “The Development/Acquisition of Cultural Misorientation. The following sounds like a mouthful, but it made all the sense in the world this weekend as journalists exalted Spain, and brushed aside everyone else.

“Eurocentric curriculum content, which presents European history and culture as the frame of reference for world history and culture; denies, fabricates and distorts true African History and Cultural contributions to the world; and presents the Eurocentric models of reality in the liberal arts, natural sciences and social sciences as universal standards for optimal human expression and European culture as the universal referent for human culture.”

In layman, and soccer-specific terms, Spain is not the first team to win consecutive continental championships.

Asia has had four repeat champions, including an Iranian trifecta in 1968, 1972 and 1976. Uruguay, Argentina and Brazil have won the South American championship/Copa America multiple times. Ghana won consecutive African championships in the early 60s. Cameroon did the same four decades later, while Egypt won three straight African Cup of Nations tournaments in 2006, 2008 and 2010.

Soccer is certainly not the sport for everyone. But, when history is conveniently forgotten in a sporting context, we should all take note to ensure other, more important issues, are not being whitewashed from our conscience.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

Is your information up to date?

It was late one night and I was killing time after deadline reading the many newspaper websites that are part of my daily reading.

Some nights I go off on these tangents, reading articles and commentaries that are far removed from that day’s events. It was on one of these meandering searches I ran across a discussion about the importance of encyclopedias.

The New York Times had a roundtable discussion about the fact Encyclopedia Britannica will no longer publish a print edition after 244 years. Titled “Britannica: Define Outdated” it featured researchers, novelists and others to discuss whether the announcement, which was made earlier this year, was some substantial loss to our collective knowledge.

I was hooked. Not because the lower two levels of my bookshelf are filled with a complete Funk & Wagnalls New Encyclopedia from 1993, but because I occasionally get lost on a website, or Wikipedia or that complete encyclopedia set at my apartment.

Admittedly, I am a nerd. Owning an encyclopedia set should have been enough to charge me of that. Admitting to opening it is sufficient evidence for a conviction.

One of the arguments of the discussion is that knowledge and information has become more democratic in the information age. It is easier for people to disseminate or receive information.

That is undeniable.

However, the reason I never trashed my archaic collection of books was because there was something permanent about the words being collated into books. Once something is printed it’s tougher to confiscate than words written electronically.

Maybe that is the newspaper man in me thinking.

The elimination of the Britannica came to mind this week when I heard about the origins of Memorial Day.

Two different people told me the holiday to honor the millions of American soldiers that gave their lives fighting in wars — under real and perceived threats — began in 1865 in Charleston, S.C. … by black people.

The first person to tell me is a decorated American veteran who has seen time in combat. The other is a colleague. The former was even invited to speak about Memorial Day at a church over the weekend.

After digging through the democratic wellspring of information called the Internet I found an article by David W. Blight, a Yale history professor who is one of the nation’s foremost experts on the Civil War.

Blight writes “thousands of black Charlestonians, most former slaves, remained in the city and conducted a series of commemorations to declare their sense of the meaning of the war. The largest of these events, and unknown until some extraordinary luck in my recent research, took place on May 1, 1865.”

Funnily enough, my Funk & Wagnalls omitted the dark origins of the most somber of American holidays.

“The holiday, originally called Decoration Day, is traditionally marked by parades, memorial speeches and ceremonies and the decoration of graves with flowers and flags, hence the original name. Memorial Day was first observed on May 30, 1868, on the order of Gen. John Alexander Logan for the purpose of decorating the graves of the American Civil War dead.”

It’s possible, even probable; this information was not available in 19 years ago. Or maybe the omission was as honest as the 19^th century argument among Southerners that the war was about state’s rights.

This weekend once again reaffirmed my belief that “he who wins writes the history, whether it’s true or not.” Perhaps its best that line of thinking becomes outdated.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

Police reports are public records, right?

I don’t hide my annoyance well.

When someone or something has irked me my mannerisms and body language completely changes. Apparently, expletives explode from me more frequently. Few things bother me more than having to suspend the writing process when I am in the middle of a groove.

Yet, that is what happened Tuesday night when a random Austin number called me. I figured it was a source trying to get in contact with me about something.

Nope. It was a friend of a friend of a friend of the man who burglarized my home 15 months ago. Apparently, this gentleman is facing a few decades in prison because he is a habitual offender.

 Among other charges he’s faced in his life: aggravated assault, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, cocaine possession, possession of meth with intent to sell and a few more. There were others, but I couldn’t write them down nearly as fast as the prosecutor reeled them off to me.

Upon receiving the call, I felt a bit bad for the guy who burglarized me. His friend of a friend of a friend told me he was facing “25 to life.” As a 27 year old man, serving 25 years in a cell just seemed so excessive to me. (Of course that was before I found out this man’s rap sheet was longer than Warren Buffett’s resume.)

I even contemplated calling someone in Florida to ensure the alleged party only served 10 years. But colleagues, friends and others all reminded me that if someone was dumb enough to break into my home, they deserve whatever comes their way. (Of course that was before I found out this man’s rap sheet was deeper than Kim Kardashian’s To-Do list.)

Throughout Tuesday night, I wondered whether I am too nice a person. The supposed bribe of “money or whatever you need” from the friend of a friend of a friend didn’t sway me as much as the prospect of someone being a permanent resident of Raiford, Florida. (Of course that was before I found out this man’s rap sheet was bigger than Osama bin Laden’s porn collection.)

My fiancé likes to tell people I have a strong moral compass, which only serves to convict me when I’m not doing the right thing. But, I could just imagine what she would say as I waffled on calling district attorney asking them to find a way to stop the annoying phone calls in mid-sentence.

I was tempted to take the easy way out. Of course that was before I found out this man’s rap sheet was so extensive he knows how to find victim’s telephone number in the police report.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

What's the difference between Eve and Steve?

I must have been in elementary school the first time I heard the word faggot.

There wasn’t a seminal moment where a light came on or anything like that. But to my curious mind it was such an interesting word. When my mom refused to spell it for me, I broke out the dictionary to find out it meant a bundle of twigs or sticks.

For the better part of the last two decades if someone says the word faggot, I instantly think of a bundle of sticks.

Maybe that makes me odd, but I thought about my original interaction with the word, which in American English, has been derisively used to label homosexuals Wednesday afternoon. Six months before he hopes to be reelected Barack Obama indicated his support for same-sex marriage in an interview with ABC News.

Some people found Obama’s support of the issue truly groundbreaking. A part of me instantly considered it cowardly, or a ploy to win voters this fall.

It is possible one’s position on an issue evolves over time. Then again, it’s more likely that the president had a slew of fund raisers planned in the next six weeks where important members of the LGBT community will be courted for their dollars, influence and votes.

History always smiles on those who favor justice and equality, even if the timing is curious. Or as Obama once said:  “The pundits, the pundits like to slice-and-dice our country into Red States and Blue States; Red States for Republicans, Blue States for Democrats. But I’ve got news for them, too. We worship an "awesome God" in the Blue States, and we don’t like federal agents poking around in our libraries in the Red States. We coach Little League in the Blue States and yes, we’ve got some gay friends in the Red States.”

Whatever may have been Obama’s motivation Wednesday, the man deserves credit for taking a stand on a divisive issue. This is the same man who introduced himself to us by reminding America that “e pluribus unum” means “out of many, one.”

In high school I used to say “I don’t hate gay people, I hate annoying gay people.” The point then, as it is now, is that I could care less what someone does in their bedroom.

If you are going to be a jerk I don’t care who you sleep with, I don’t want to be around you. Of course, it would be hypocritical to write about tolerance, and my disdain for annoying gay people, yet not admit to laughing at a well-time gay joke with just as much zest as I would a laugh about anything else that straddled the fence of polite speech. But, the point remains the same.

In 2001 I was a pudgy junior in high school who likely would have been turned down for a date by a blow-up doll. Girls were in no rush to hang out with me. For crying out loud I was six weeks away from my 17^th birthday when I kissed someone for the first time.

A boy in my English class once said I looked like Steve Urkel. When I quipped I could wear a pink button-down — as I was that day — without people questioning my sexuality he got offended. People said I was mean for picking on him. However, I reminded everyone that I wouldn’t have said a word if her friend hadn’t tried to be funny in the first place.

It’s the same with public displays of affection. If two men, or two women, are walking somewhere holding hands or kissing, I might look for a count longer just to ensure my eyes are not playing tricks on me. But after that, I get just as disgusted as I would were a man and woman groping each other for the entire world to see.

A half-decade after the Urkel incident a college friend of mine tried to tell me a “friend” of hers was dating a woman. Quickly, I interjected that I figured that “friend” was her. Before she could even finish her sentence asking my thoughts on her sexual situation, I reminded her that I didn’t care who she slept with since she wasn’t sleeping with me.

Wednesday’s announcement from Obama doesn’t change any laws. The bigger news on the gay marriage front arguably came Tuesday night in North Carolina. Regardless of where one resides on this steamy issue, we should all agree that discrimination or the intentional mistreatment of anyone has no place in society.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

What is fatherhood?

All it took was a text to make me erupt in laughter. My editor told me the wife of Antonio Cromartie, a professional football player for the New York Jets, is expecting twins later this year.
When I recovered from my fit of laughter, I responded: “that means he has a soccer team and a super sub.”

That makes 12 children with eight women for the condom-averse cornerback. The news, if one can call it that, meant the last time Cromartie wore a Trojan was back when he played football at Lincoln High School in Tallahassee.

Earlier in the week, my colleagues and I picked on the fertile football player. But after the laughter and sophomoric jokes subsided, I was left wondering how a man can a man sustain $24,500 in monthly child support payments. A part of me pitied this man’s estranged children, which are in Florida, Georgia, California, North Carolina, New Jersey and Texas.

By now, most of us know more than six in 10 black children in this country are born out of wedlock. There is a glut of information out there about the impact of fatherlessness and children born out of wedlock.

But, because someone is a father, or even in their child’s life, doesn’t make them a good father.

So what does?

What happens when you step out the way?

Not too long ago I was messing around on Twitter when I read a message that immediately grabbed my attention.

“Often we expect God to come to us like thunder, when He's actually being quietly persistent.”

Roy S. Johnson, a former editor at Sports Illustrated and a well-known sports journalist, shared the knowledge with me, and his 2,600 followers.

The message came at the same time I was thanking God for removing me from a toxic situation a year ago. Because the Lord, and anyone else who listened to me, knew I was miserable last April.

My frustration was so apparent my mom reminded me, without prompting, to never lose my gratitude. The next day, my dad implored me not to lose my temper at the office, even if it appeared warranted.

I dreaded going to work, money was tight, I didn’t have a permanent living situation and I wrecked the front end of my car trying to be two places at once for an employer that wanted to get rid of me — and eventually did.

During that dark period, I asked God for a few things, things that will remain between us.

Nearly a year later each one of those prayers was answered. Just like Johnson preached, of course in fewer than 140 characters, it was not a single thunderous action that led me to write a testimonial essay.

Not too many people can say they found another job by the time they figured out how to apply for unemployment. Through His grace, I am one.

Last month The Wall Street Journal reported the average unemployed American has been out of work for 40 weeks. Within 40 days of my layoff I had already accepted another job, a position that included a pay raise.

My steps have been ordered and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

When I announced my layoff to my family and friends in the middle of a sunny Friday morning last year there was a paragraph I wrote in more hope than anything else.

“Each and every one of my friends who used to work at the Democrat has found themselves happier after they have left that office. That is not at all a coincidence and I am confident I will be the next to join in that procession.”

At the time I wrote it, hope was all I had. Now, I have thanksgiving that the statement was indeed true.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

What do tennis and Dr. Suess have in common?

I recently wore a white Florida A&M T-shirt and basketball shorts to work. Incredulously enough, I also played tennis for two hours on the clock in such casual attire.

There is a story, and the pursuit of another, behind the outfit.

Journalism may not make me a monetarily rich man, but I certainly provides for a wealth of experiences. Money might provide for flexibility. However, even that runs out, no matter how fortunate and flexible we are.

My fiancé suggests leaving newspapers for magazine writing and other longer forms of journalism. Other family members have suggested that I switch to broadcasting where there is more money, and relatively more job security. However, I just can’t get rid of the sense of pride at seeing my name in the newspaper most days.

I still hold onto the ideal William A. White expressed nearly a century ago when discussion the fate of rural newspapers, “…Yet we who read them read in their lines the sweet, intimate story of life."

That story White notes is why I took to the tennis court.

There is a 90-year old gentleman in town that is quite the tennis player. He recently won a four-hour-ten-minute match to win a competition in his age group.

Rather than just talk to him and write a story for the newspaper, we played a set. The gentleman retired before I was born so of course it was not a fair contest, but he certainly made it compelling with the placement of his drop shots and other ground strokes.

Virtually all my friends with undergraduate degrees make more money than me. Then again, none of them have the luxury of waking up at 10 a.m., get paid to go to sporting events and remain in a profession they truly enjoy?

That’s part of the reason I bought Dr. Suess’ book Oh, the Places You’ll Go last year.

It was a Friday afternoon and I was a bit homesick.I remember it was a Friday because I was in no rush to get to work that day, and that only occurred on nights I was covering a high school football game in the capital of the sport—Texas.

In the half decade since college I have sometimes forgotten that I have brains in my head and feet in my shoes. I had the ability to steer myself in any direction that I choose. I’m on my own “and you know what you know. And you are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”

They have included dark corners of municipal buildings, the dining room tables of family members and the front seat of my reliable Kia. The night Barack Obama won the presidency I sat in a suite at Doak Campbell Stadium writing the finishing touches on student reaction to the historic election.

It was proof that “out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you.”

The lobby of a police station served as an office. So did a tiny library in Carrabelle, Florida on my 24^th birthday. Between morsels of fried chicken that was not nearly as good as the conversation I ran into the mother, uncle and cousins of someone I interviewed an hour earlier.

“Except when you don’t. Because, sometimes, you won’t.” Certainly it is true, the bang-ups and hang-ups can happen to you.

They happened to me. And it forced me to chase my dream in a town foreign to me.

But, the only things friendlier than the Texas strangers are their restaurants.

Whataburger locations throughout South Texas opened their doors so I could write somewhere besides under a dim car light.  One even took the time to share the history of the stores and how the original Whataburger was just a 25 minute drive south in Corpus Christi.

Then there was the time I wrote a story from a bed and breakfast in Johannesburg just so I could have an international date line on a story. The story was reported stateside, but I waited until I landed in South Africa to send it just because I could.

That experience, just like being a professional tennis player, even for just two hours is proof that I just might succeed. Even if my success rate is only 98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.

How long does it take to find justice?

When people want to bury news, it trickles out on a Friday afternoon.

By the time most of the media has had time to masticate on the magnitude of the topic, it’s Monday morning and the protagonists have spent the weekend consulting a public relations specialist.

This is probably what happened in the case of Gescard Isnora, a former undercover detective with the New York Police Department. Isnora was fired March 23 for his role in the 2006 death of Sean Bell, a 23-year old man who was hanging out with his friends in Queens the night before he was to be married.

Bell’s death made national news when he died that Thanksgiving weekend.

People demanded the immediate arrests of those who shot Bell. Others chanted and marched for justice. Truth be told, many people were disappointed when Isnora and the rest of the officers that shot at Bell were acquitted in 2008.

Sometimes “justice” is not always in a legal sense.

Isnora may be a free man, but his firing means he lost his pension. In a sense his future was taken away just like Bell’s; however, Isnora will have to think about the consequences of his actions while Bell is resting peacefully.

Remember Isnora when donning a hoodie or marching in the name of the late Trayvon Martin.

Martin, a 17-year old Miami resident, was shot Feb. 26 in Sanford, Fla. when he went out to get a snack and a beverage. The person who admitted to shooting him, George Zimmerman, has yet to be arrested.

It is possible Zimmerman may not be guilty of murdering Trayvon. A grand jury has yet to hear evidence providing probable cause of the 28-year old Zimmerman’s culpability.

Celebrities, journalists and even Barack Hussein Obama II have lined in to comment about the case. In truth, I am no different than Roland Martin or Charles Blow or Jonathan Capehart, except that their platforms are larger.

Of course Martin’s parents deserve answers about what happened to their boy. The rest of us should demand answers of the men and women who passed the 2005 law that is currently used as a redwood crutch of Zimmerman’s defense.

The Orlando Sentinel, who has been out front of this story from the beginning, reported this week that there were on average 13 justifiable homicides per year in Florida from 2000-05. From 2006-10 that average jumped to 36 justified homicides each year.

Arthur Hayhoe, executive director of the Florida Coalition to Stop Gun Violence told the Tampa Bay Times he’s witnessed a handful of stories like Martin’s. But none of them have received as much attention from the public. "Most of these cases don't go beyond the local paper," he said. "There's been more dialogue in the last three days than we've gotten for seven years.”

I am betting that on the day Trayvon was supposed to celebrate his 18^th birthday, more people in America will be concerned with other things. Unfortunately, it’s likely Martin and Bell will have an additional similarity as it will be forgotten by many except for those who loved him, remembered the incident, or are dedicated news junkies.

However, Friday’s news in the Bell case is a reminder “Justice for Trayvon” might not come when we expect it, but it will come.  Because someone has their freedom, does not mean they are avoiding punishment.

Writing profanity laced e-mails to the Chief of the Sanford Police Department, like one Melbourne Beach man did, or calling for a $10,000 bounty for Zimmerman, as one black organization did, will not douse the inflammatory rhetoric surrounding the Martin tragedy. Not even justice can do that.

Only time and consequences can.

What makes one suspicious?

The adult with a gun and the teenager with Skittles got into a scuffle. One of those gentlemen is dead, while the other is claiming self-defense.

How Skittles, a can of iced tea and $22 make someone threatening is a question a jury should decide. Whether George Zimmerman’s peers will have the opportunity to make that decision is still being investigated.

Zimmerman was the head of a Neighborhood Watch organization in Sanford, Fla. on Feb. 26. Trayvon Martin was a 17-year old fulfilling his younger brother’s request to grab some candy that Sunday evening.

This incident took place in a gated community of an Orlando suburb. Someway, somehow Martin’s presence in this neighborhood was enough to alarm Zimmerman to call police on a non-emergency telephone number.

Per various media reports, by the time police arrived, Martin was shot once and Zimmerman had blood coming from his nose and head.

It’s interesting that Martin was thinking about someone in the moments before he died. Maybe that was why his actions were suspicious. Who thinks about others these days, when it’s more convenient to think about ourselves?

Maybe Zimmerman’s defense of his actions will combine Florida’s Stand Your Ground Law with a quote from Malcom X. “Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone, but if someone puts his hands on you, send him to the cemetery.”

The investigation is ongoing and should be complete in the next week. However, that did not stop the Martin family from hiring a pair of attorney’s and taking their case to the media. Ben Crump, one of two attorneys the Martin family hired, said race is the 600 pound elephant in the room because Zimmerman is white and Martin was black

I beg to differ: the “elephant in the room” is what makes someone look suspicious or threatening? Honestly, ask yourself that question.

Have we become so cloistered that something that if anything is amiss it’s automatically cause to feel threatened?

Could it be someone’s complexion? Maybe, their religion? How about their socio-economic status? Then again, their syntax could be off. And don’t forget people who appearance doesn’t fit our haughty standers of the norm.

Yes, all of those imperfections, and others, must be so threatening that rather than attempt to understand those differences we shutter in fear!

German philosopher Hermann Hesse said it better “if you hate a person you hate something in him that is a part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.”

One could speculate and say Martin probably didn’t fit the mold of non-threatening Negro, which is why Zimmerman shot him. But that wouldn’t make me any better than the people who are hoping the law can be contorted to convict the 28-year-old Zimmerman before his day in court.

Admittedly, the timing of the incident was not lost on me. That same night a heavily tattooed, uneducated black man was running riot in downtown Orlando. But, no one found LeBron James’ presence at the NBA All-Star game all that suspicious.

Maybe that isn’t a good analogy because, if nothing else, the Zimmerman incident illustrates the consequences of inadvertent stereotyping.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

Is it wrong to be nostalgic on occasion?

The first time I heard the song I was staying up late for no particular reason.

It was well past 1 a.m. and I was beginning to nod off as the television continued to play music videos that appeared to have little point. I told myself I would endure one more song before calling it a night.

Then I heard the song that made so much sense. John Mayer’s “No Such Thing” was a song that made me eagerly anticipate my 10 year high school reunion even though I was still months away from graduating high school.

In a perfect world, I would have returned to Rockledge High School with a beautiful girl. I would possess a decent job, one that took me to a seemingly exotic place beyond the borders of Brevard County, Florida as well as a red car that would put people on notice that in the decade since graduation I was more than the dork I appeared to be in high school.

Admittedly, the song motivated me, all the while stroking my ego.

(As fate, and the good Lord, would have it, I am marrying a beautiful girl in December, live in South Texas and drive a red car that suits my lifestyle as a sportswriter perfectly.)

The first five lines and the chorus always spoke to me. Surely the pricked the consciousness of others, otherwise, Mayer, the former gas station attendant, wouldn’t have been given a record deal.

"Welcome to the real world", she said to me
Condescendingly
Take a seat
Take your life
Plot it out in black and white

That’s what I do. My life is literally written in black and white. Every day it begins on computer screens, before moving to sheets of paper that few my age bother to read.

I wanna run through the halls of my high school
I wanna scream at the
Top of my lungs
I just found out there's no such thing as the real world
Just a lie you've got to rise above

When the single was released in February 2002, I was the last person off the bench for the Rockledge High soccer team.

On those cool nights across Central Florida I would usually sit there and watch my friends win, while carrying on a conversation with a friend who was a student manager. We talked about a host of things, some of which were what we were going to do when we left Rockledge for college that fall.

I always got the sense from those conversations on the bench that we would not let the perceptions of others, define us, shape who we would become. To us high school was a journey with a lesson at every corner if we stopped to pay attention.

Of course our conversations were rarely that deep on the sidelines. I think she was grabbing water and keeping stats, while I was hoping we would blowout another hapless opponent so I could play.

They read all the books but they can't find the answers
And all of our parents
They're getting older
I wonder if they've wished for anything better
While in their memories
Tiny tragedies

Some classmates became larger tragedies than others. One sadly committed suicide. A few others wound up in jail. And, it’s not a stretch to say there are more that are 180 degrees away from the dreams they had as idealistic seniors in a quaint Central Florida town.

On the other hand, there are so many that have become spouses, parents, doctors, lawyers, teachers, nurses, soldiers, models and overall successes. As we all approach 30, some of us faster than others, Mayer’s final stanza applies to all of us.

I just can't wait til my 10 year reunion
I'm gonna bust down the double doors
And when I stand on these tables before you
You will know what all this time was for

 Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb

Are you a maverick

If someone mentioned the word Maverick and Dirk Nowitzki or John McCain were the first things that came to mind few would blame you.

Ah, but some South Africans would beg to differ. Late last year a gentlemen’s club in Cape Town, Mavericks Revue Bar started a unique line of fragrances for men. Titled “Alibis” these colognes were designed to give men, just that, after visiting this establishment.

Cape Town is a gorgeous city with a lot to offer tourists and residents alike.

A friend of mine lives there and the stories she has shared about her adopted city that are an amazing combination of colorful, vivid and strange. She warned me even the most exotic Americans would find some of the lifestyles and people in the city by the sea unique.

When I told her about Mavericks making news on the other side of the Atlantic, she responded with an email recalling an even zanier about her city. She surmised "so yes darling, we are a hell of a lot more sexually liberated then Americas Especially Cape Townians."

As for the fragrances, which are being sold for $40 to $50 depending on the exchange rate, well they are creative to say the least.

My Car Broke Down: with the scent of fuel, burnt rubber, grease and steel.
We Were Out Sailing: with the scent of fresh ocean spray, sea salt, aqua and cotton rope.
I Was Working Late: with the scent of coffee, wool suits, cigarettes and ink.

As a journalist that routinely works until midnight, the latter selection would be the most appealing to me. Of course I don't wear cologne, or drink coffee and abhor cigarettes, so obviously this is not a product for me.

(Just imagine how much someone would make if they created a cologne that masked the sky high HIV/AIDS rate down there. But, I digress.)

The most humorous part of the entire tale for me, however, was the location of this “gentlemen’s club.” It’s on Barrack Street, which is less than three blocks from the museum I tried to visit two years ago when I was in Cape Town.

No, the museum I wanted to visit did not feature naked women. It was collection of artifacts and memorabilia from District 6, a neighborhood inhabited by black and colored people in the 60s that was demolished because the government wanted to redevelop the land for whites.

From all I heard the District 6 museum is a treasure trove of local history. At least that is what the tour bus told me. What the tour operators did not mention was the museum was within walking distance a still-standing structure that is yet another excuse for South Africa to make the news.

Laughs and liveliness,

-Wb