No sympathy for old men

Do not, for one second, feel sorry for Joe Paterno.

Yes, he has had a long and storied coaching career. He has won national championships. He has helmed a powerhouse for decades. He is one of the most successful, decorated, and venerated college football coaches of all time.

None of that means anything anymore. Not after what we've learned.

Football is a game. It means nothing. The abuse of young children is deplorable and heinous. Punishing those responsible, and preventing it from happening again, means everything.

Children were being raped. Paterno knew about it and did nothing to stop it.

Instead, he was a part of the cover-up. Assistant coaches, graduate assistants, Athletic Directors, University Presidents, and yes, the head football coach, all played some role in letting the abuse happen. They all knew what the scandal would do to the program, and that led all of them to do the bare minimum. Saving their skins, but not their souls.

Paterno was part of a larger pyramid of enablers who took the protection of their multi-million dollar footbal program more seriously than protecting innocent kids who were being preyed upon. For years, each man in that program had a chance to step up and do the right thing.

No one did.

Wednesday, Paterno was fired from his position as head football coach. He's had a long career. He has the money. He still has the wins. He'll be fine.

Don't feel sorry for him. Feel sorry for the kids he failed to protect.

They won't ever be fine again.

Legacy, Honor and Scandal at Penn State

 And just like that, the walls of an institution come tumbling down.

I don't know if the allegations against Jerry Sandusky are true. I'm not privy to what Joe Paterno knew, or what he told and who he told it to. I'm unclear about how far up the alleged cover-up went.

All I know is that it makes me feel sick, shocked and jaded.

The Penn State Nitany Lions are one of the most revered programs in all of college football. Even a casual fan knows about the school's storied history. We all know about the legacy of Joe Paterno and his tradition of winning.

All of that means nothing now. Not after something like this. Not while so many questions remain unanswered.

How could no one step up and stop this?
Because of so many selfish reasons. Wanting to protect a friend. Wanting to protect your own skin. Wanting to save a successful football program. And everyone bought into this mentality. From Sandusky for allegedly doing it in the first place, to Paterno for not telling police, to the higher ups at the university for doing nothing once they were told. One by one, the dominoes fell.

How could this happen at Penn State, where they are all about honor and tradition?
Unfortunately, it's becoming clear that those are simply buzz words to bolster recruiting and increase donations to the athletic department. Really, it's all about keeping the money coming, no matter who gets hurt.

Why didn't Paterno go to the police?
Because he's either a selfish football coach wanting to avoid scandal at his program, or because he's a loony old man who didn't know any better. Neither of which excuses what he failed to do. As a leader of young mean, he failed in his responsibility.

It's all coming out how about the hypocrisy of this major football program. All of the accolades, honor, and legacy with that school and team don't mean anything if no one steps up and does the right thing.

It's ironic that it's exactly that honor and legacy that led to this downfall. Paterno was protecting a longtime friend and assistant coach. Paterno, in turn, was having his legacy protected by school administrators who know how important the coach is in college football history. Because these men put so much stock in a tradition of winning and excellence, they completely shut themselves off from the horrible actions that were taking place.

To them, football was more important over whether kids were raped.

And all that honor and integrity allowed it to go unpunished.

Out of Ammo

Adam Morrison was once the greatest college basketball player I had ever seen.

He was also a disappointment, a bust, a heartbreaker and a joke. All in just six years' time.

To really understand, you have to go back to the fall of 2005. The Gonzaga Bulldogs were beginning a new season with high expectations. The team's hopes were pinned to Morrison, the moptopped, sweet-shooting swingman.

As a freshman that year at Gonzaga, I had heard this story before. Like Matt Santangelo, Richie Frahm, Blake Stepp and Dan Dickau before him, Morrison was the latest Great White Zags Hope. Besides, anyone looks good playing against the weak West Coast Conference competition. What was going to be so different?

And then I saw Morrison play.




The buzzer-beater may have hooked me, but it was his sheer ability that kept me around.

I saw him play on TV, and he was incredible. I saw him play live at the McCarthey Athletic Center, and he was phenomenal. I stood in the stands with my jaw hitting the floor, amazed by the absolute ability of this guy.

I didn't think it was possible, but Morrison worked so hard in every game, while simultaneously making it look easy. He could hit shots from 30 feet out. He could go off the dribble and pull up, or power to the basket. He could curl off screens. He could run the fast break.

I had never seen a player like him before, and I have never seen a player like him since.

He could do it all.





That season, Morrison averaged 28 points per game, shot 43 percent on 3-pointers, grabbed five rebounds per contest, and was named co-player of the year.

He had five 40-point games and 13 30-point games, all the while hitting shot after shot from every conceivable angle. He carried the Zags through the WCC season and on to the 2006 NCAA Tournament.

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Fast forward six years. Morrison is now playing basketball in Serbia, getting more press for his ejection that his play. Just six years after that incredible campaign at Gonzaga, during which he was named the best player in the country, he's not even in the country anymore.

Six years ago, it would be hard to fathom that this would be the arc of Morrison's career. Because as the Zags rolled through the NCAA Tournament in 2006, it seemed "Ammo" was destined for greatness.

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The downfall started, like many do, with teardrops.

In the 2006 Sweet Sixteen, the Bulldogs were up by 17 points against UCLA, and cruising. A curiously shirtsleeved Morrison was leading the Zags in scoring, and the team was looking to move on to the Elite Eight.

Then things fell apart.

The Bruins locked down Morrison in the second half, swarming him and keeping him away from the ball. The rest of the Zags looked lost, and UCLA started to chip away at the lead. Everything was coming unraveled. 

With 14 seconds left and the Zags leading by one, Morrison was swarmed in the backcourt by Bruin defenders. Morrison passed to power forward JP Batista. And in doing so, passed away his career.

Despite point guard Derek Raivio, a 90 percent free throw shooter, being open six feet away, Batista held the ball, which was stolen by UCLA. They got the ball inside for an easy layup, and with two seconds still on the clock, still time, possibly, Morrison collapsed on the court in tears. It was done.

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Despite the setback, Morrison's talent was never in doubt. I'll admit, I was a member of the Blazers' "Draft the Stache" campaign. I believed in the talent and work ethic I saw at Gonzaga. But his tears during the Sweet Sixteen earned him equal amounts of criticism and praise. He was still considered a good prospect, but now he was becoming equally known as "the guy who cried."

Morrison was taken number 3 overall by the Charlotte Bobcats in the 2006 NBA draft. His rookie season was solid if unspectacular, averaging 11 points per game. For a time, he was briefly in consideration for Rookie of the Year before fading near the end of the season. You could think that, given time and conditioning, he could play at the NBA level.

The next season, the wheels fell off.

A torn ACL ended Morrison's season in 2007, and by the time he returned the next year, he couldn't find a spot in the rotation. His defense was invisible, and he couldn't hit any of the shots he took. His bread-and-butter at Gonzaga was his ability to create his own shot. Now, he lacked that ability. A game that used to come so easy for him now seemed like the most difficult task in the world.

In the 2008-2009 season, he was traded to a contender, the Los Angeles Lakers.

And that's when a former College Player of the Year became a complete joke.

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Adam Morrison is a two time NBA champion.

He won titles in 2009 and 2010 with the Lakers, coached by Phil Jackson and featuring one of the greatest players ever to pick up a ball, Kobe Bryant. For most players, this would be a crowning achievement for a career. But Adam Morrison didn't receive that luxury.

Yes, Morrison won two championships. No, he didn't play. Morrison was more often inactive, wearing street clothes and sitting on the bench. He didn't play a single minute in either NBA finals.

Years earlier at Gonzaga, we predicted that Morrison could someday have a major impact on a championship contender.

What we didn't expect was that he would have no impact at all.

Instead, he became a joke. Without significant playing time in years (and without significant production when he did play), no one remembered the greatness on the hardwood at Gonzaga, they only remembered the crying during the Sweet Sixteen. The awkwardness on the Laker bench. He became fodder for late night TV shows.

What should have been the two happiest moments of Adam Morrison's career became nothing but a reminder of how far he had fallen.

Morrison has not played a game in the NBA since.

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Adam Morrison now starts at small forward for KK Crvena zvezda in Serbia. Judging by highlights and my inability to understand Serbian, it seems like he's playing well, with a recent 30-point game.

It's not the worst way to make a living, but it's nothing like what was expected so many years ago.

How did Morrison end up at this point? Was it the level of competition? His defense? His desire? We may not know. The question now is: what's next?

It's easy to laugh at the legions of die-hard Zag fans who still say Adam Morrison got a raw deal. To them it was always the coach's fault, or the injury's fault. Many of them are probably watching Ammo's Euro highlights and thinking "See? He can still do it!"

And deep down, I desperately want them to be right.

Deep down, I want to feel what my freshman self felt in the bleachers six years ago. I want to feel that excitement, that wonder about how a young man can play basketball so well.

We didn't appreciate the phenomenon we were seeing at Gonzaga. It came and went like a gunshot. Too fast. We weren't prepared for it to be so finite. Deep down, we just want to see it one last time.

But the heartbreaking idea no one wants to admit, is that maybe there's no bullets left in the chamber.

Five columns I won't be writing in October

• The genius of Terry Francona 

Muhammad Ali had the rope-a-dope. Terry Francona just makes the rest of Major League Baseball look like dopes.

At first, it wasn't an easy sell to Red Sox management. When team officials and coaches met in the now-legendary closed door meeting on September 4th, the topic was how to gain the most momentum heading into the playoffs. Theo Epstein suggested the starting pitching staff be rested, and Jonathan Papelbon get a few days off to be ready.

At one point, Francona stood up and bellowed to Epstien: "That's what everyone expects us to do."

Francona suggested that, instead of trying to gain momentum, the Red Sox just lull the rest of the American League into a false sense of security, then strike when no one expected it. What he proposed is that the Red Sox would look like they are collapsing - letting a 9-game lead disintegrate, letting pitchers drink beer in the clubhouse, and somehow keeping JD Drew on the roster. When other teams finally let their guards down, the Sox would turn it on and cruise past them.

The result of that clandestine meeting? An American League title.

•  Mayweather vs Merchant: A bout for the ages

Is it possible to be surprised and not surprised at the same time?

After his knockout of Victor Ortiz, Floyd Mayweather had been biding his time before naming his next opponent. Rumors began swirling, as they always do, that he would finally accept a bout against the only boxer left worth fighting: Manny Pacquiao.

 But no surprise, Mayweather ducked him again. But to everyone's surprise, his next opponent will be 80-year-old boxing analyst Larry Merchant.

"Larry doesn't know (expletive) about boxing," Mayweather said at a press conference. "I plan on showing him that firsthand in this fight. By the time it's over, he's going to be eating out of a tube."

"The joke's on him," Merchant cackled in reply. "I already eat out of a tube."

•  Ivy not so green for Fitzpatrick 

He wasn't just Ryan Fitzpatrick, he was "Harvard Graduate Ryan Fitzpatrick." And what a success story it was: a kid who went to one of the best schools in the nation somehow finds success. The odds against him seemed insurmountable.

But there was one thing his Ivy League pedigree couldn't overcome: the fact that it didn't exist.

Turns out, Fitzpatrick had been living a lie. An investigation by Yahoo! Sports revealed that Fitzpatrick had actually created a fake transcript. Not only did he not go to Harvard, he didn't even play football. The closest he came was playing Madden on XBOX live while drunkenly clicking through online classes at the University of Phoenix.

• 'Musical Chairs' declared in College Football

Conferences expanding and contracting. Teams switching sides one week and going back the next. Occasionally a football game breaks out. Finally, the NCAA is embracing it.

Starting in October, the NCAA will play Rock and Roll Part 2 by Gary Glitter on a week-long loop, while schools travel in a circle across the country. When the music stops, each team needs to rush toward a conference. If you don't have a chair, you're out. And that's how things will be decided on a week-by-week basis.

One week could have Oregon in the SEC, Florida in the Pac-12, and poor little Texas left out, forced to play pickup football in the parking lot.

•  Cubs on a collision course with World Series

Sure, they may have lost 91 games, but somehow I think they've still got a shot.

Bracing for a year without Blazers

For the past two years I have been living in Medford, and it's become harder to follow my beloved Blazers.

Yes, I realize that the tool I am using to write this post is also part of the largest information-gathering resource known to man, the sheer magnitude of which is capable of shrinking the world in which we live. But for a sports fan, somehow, it isn't enough. We can find highlights, game recaps, interviews, commentary, fan discussions and more online. We can subscribe to satellite TV packages to watch our games from hundreds of miles away.

But to me, there is nothing like being in the city of Portland during the Blazers' season.

Getting up in the morning, and hearing the thunk of the Oregonian hitting the kitchen table. Flipping through the oily newspaper to find the sports section and read that day's game preview. Driving near the waterfront and seeing the roof of the Rose Garden rise up over the horizon. Seeing people walk down the street and wear the jerseys of players who joined the team after 1999.

There's nothing like being there.

I'm just a few hundred miles south in Medford, and it's like being on another planet. To people here, a Blazer is something you wear to a dinner party, not something you cheer for (unless you're at a really bizarre dinner party).

Around this time two years ago, I stumbled across an AM radio station here that broadcast Blazer games. It was my lifeline.

As I worked night shifts, I would drive to stories across the Rogue Valley, catching snippets of the games during the trip. In April 2010, I alternated between covering a welcome party for the troops and welcoming back Brandon Roy against the Suns.

I would wrap up an interview, then run back to the car to get an update. I would scream as I approached Grants Pass and the reception turned to a loud buzz, but I would strain to decipher any details through the static. I would linger for an extra few minutes in the parking lot at the end of the night so I wouldn't miss any of the action.

Hearing the sounds of Bill Schonely's voice interrupt the national radio show to introduce the Blazer broadcast was like Christmas morning.

I wonder if I'll ever hear it again?

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The chances of NBA basketball this season are not good. As what would've been the start of the season approaches, I'm suddenly realizing how much I'm going to miss my Blazers.

A few months ago, I wrote about how I would prefer a lockout over a Blazer team that looked unimpressive on paper. I was wrong.

Any Blazer team is better than no Blazer team.

It doesn't matter if they win 50 games or lose 50 games. They're still our team. I once rooted for the Blazers even as they slogged their way to a 21-win season, and I couldn't have been happier. In the end I was still able to root for my team no matter what happened.

This lockout takes that all away.

It could be an entire season without the Blazers. A whole year with no reason to pick up that newspaper. Nothing to keep be lingering in the parking lot. Nothing but static on the AM radio.

It's going to be a long, dark year.