I feel a little disenfranchised. And no, this is not a sob story.

I’m heading out to Arizona in a matter of weeks, to engage Spring Training and rounds and rounds of beer. I’ll be attempting this feat with good friends. Something I’m thankful for — this is my first time participating in the classic.

There are no bad seats at spring training, especially if you’re trying to get your tan on. By Owen Main

But as you can imagine, the majority of the nuts going are Dodgers fans. It’s something I don’t have a problem with. I just wish I didn’t feel so Khloe Kardashian about it. Let me explain.

I am a long standing Halos fan. I grew up glorifying at best, above average players, like they were perennial All-Stars. Gary DiSarcina, Dick Schofield, Dante Bichette, Chili Davis, and Devon White, were a few. Just say the name Wally Joyner and I shiver. That name alone invokes the thickest bond between brothers. That went a little too far…

But no, seriously, I’m heading to Arizona to watch a bunch of Dodgers games against crap opponents like the San Diego Padres. I’d rather watch lizard porn. Can you imagine the Padres putting up anything more than a run against the Dodgers pitching staff?

Yet despite this hard reality, I am looking forward to the experience more than I am the actual games themselves. It’s about brotherhood. And it’s about drinking. It’s not about the Halos of Orange County, hence the Khloe Kardashian comparison.

In case you’ve forgotten, this nation has a deep history in the art of intoxication. From Napa Valley to the Whisky Trail, America knows how to party.

I’m unsure whether I’ll remember much of the experience. So before I go just know this my darling reader: I am the beer pong champion. I am the Kim Kardashian of beer pong. And I am Wally Joyner’s brother.

Where does the line fall between supporting your team unconditionally and having high expectations? By Owen Main

I’m under the impression that sunny San Luis Obispo isn’t the most ravenous sport town. It’s guilded with gorgeous pacific waters, rocky cliff dwellings, winding Irish hills and a vibrant downtown life. Our own Cal Poly Mustangs fall in order behind such necessary beauties, but not for all of us. For some, we crave a wild atmosphere in Mott Gym more so than an August day in Avila Beach.

With that passion, we build expectations, and why not? But where do we draw the line between unconditional fansmanship and expectation? Is there in fact a line? If so, why is the line drawn? Is there a shorter ceiling of expectation?

I’m aware that it isn’t the most realistic expectation to demand a National Championship or even a Big West Conference title each and every season from Coach Callero and his basketball team. I know we don’t sign the kind of athletes Kentucky, North Carolina or Duke does. We play in a small conference, are universally an academic school, lack national buzz and don’t have the amenities to draw a lot of big recruits. As a result, Callero is and should be, held accountable at a variable standard. So where then, is that standard?

That standard for me is simple. Win the Big West Tournament from time to time. Go to the NCAA Tournament as much as or more than other top Big West teams. Our greatest rivals are Long Beach State, UC Santa Barbara and UC Irvine. These aren’t unbeatable programs. Use our coastal shores, beautiful women, elite yet affordable academic standing and interesting downtown life, to draw the kind of young men talented enough to out-duel the three teams above. Exhaust more heart. More hustle. Use hope. I don’t believe that is asking too much.

Therefore, the expectation is that local fans see their Mustangs in the Big Dance. From there, who knows? Maybe we begin rivaling the likes of George Mason, St. Mary’s, Utah State and VCU as an upset favorite.

I’m probably getting ahead of myself, but that then is the last piece in the evolution. Become an upset favorite.  Let me rephrase that: be respected, or more respected, on a national stage. That doesn’t mean when you get in you get anywhere other than the 1^st round. But make it interesting. Head into half time down a couple buckets, making the big dogs sweat a little. Playing the best teams in the country over the past few years is one way to make that possible. The win over UCLA last season was a huge step.

I want more.

Call me a dreamer or a real hard ass. I know some of you reading this think an expectation to make Cal Poly a consistent NCAA Tournament team is a little unfair and outlandish. This team has never even been to the NCAA tournament and I’m talking about a vision where they are consistently earning invitations to the Big Dance.

Others may be comfortable as a fourth- or fifth-place finisher in the Big West, but I don’t. I want to see San Luis Obispo exalted for more than its choice accolades from Oprah Winfrey. I’m a proud born and raised local. I love this town, this area. I love Mustang gold and green. Why not us?

Over the last two years I’ve grown increasingly fond of Marcus Smart. The six-foot, four-inch sophomore guard has reignited Oklahoma State basketball and displayed a mature calm on the court, similar to his pro comparison: Jarret Jack.

I believe Smart has a higher upside than Jack, reminding me at times of James Harden who, like Smart, felt comfortable as a controlled combo guard playing in a post-oriented offense. Smart is dangerously athletic, a great finisher around the rim and, like Harden, he is a lockdown off-ball defender.

On Saturday, my flattering opinions of Marcus Smart were in question.

Gallagher-IBA Arena is one of the most iconic in the midwest. Away from home Marcus Smart has been the subject of controversy this week. By Ashlux at en.wikipedia, from Wikimedia Commons

The star Oklahoma State guard was ejected from a game against Texas Tech, after shoving a fan. That fan, a fifty-something “super fan” named Jeff Orr, sat three rows from the court. Diving for a loose ball, the gritty guard worked his way back up with his teammate’s help, and then wham: before anyone could react, Orr was thrown back and the broad shouldered guard led off the court.

Memories of that epic Pacers-Pistons fight came to memory, something I, along with many college hoops fans, never would have associated with the court-quiet Cowboy star. But as the story continued to cycle, the truth illumined.

It has been reported that Jeff Orr called him a racial slur. Jeff Orr says he called him a “piece of crap.” Orr’s self-suspension (he vowed not to attend any Texas Tech games for the rest of the year) on the surface, seems noble, but not entirely honest either.

The resolution for Marcus Smart was a national apology, an ensuing character assassination and a three-game suspension handed down by the Big XII. And I have a serious problem with that.

While I understand a 3 game suspension—considering the slippery slope the Big Ten would find themselves in, if letting Smart off free—I don’t understand sports pontificators siding with Orr in the incident.

Driving home Sunday from the bay area, radio personalities Adam Schein and Chris Russo characterized Smart as an irrational teen with a serious bone to pick; Russo at one point referencing Smart as a ‘hot head.’

My issue is that the majority of sports TV and radio personalities are white. The majority of those calling the kid a ‘hot head,’ or wishing he’d ‘been the bigger man and walked away,’ have never experienced vehement racism. It’s easy to have demands of others when never having walked in their shoes.

But I won’t do the same.

Yes, I’m white, middle class, live in a predominately white suburbia, and have only a small handful of African-American friends. But that doesn’t make me ignorant either. I’m fully aware of racism’s insidious prevalence in today’s “progressive” America.

Smart has never been ejected in nearly two years, until Saturday. He’s never even received a technical foul. His coach Pat Ford, called Smart a young man with a “tremendous heart.” Smart himself — though (at some level, possibly) justified in his actions — apologetically asked the media, his fans and teammates for forgiveness. That doesn’t sound a whole lot like a hot headed thug. That sounds like a young man learning to live in his skin. Something I, and many of you reading this, will never have to confront.

Can Doug McDermott Translate His Game at the Pro Level?

I say a resounding yes. Have you seen the man shoot? Not only is the Creighton star a seasoned four year collegiate player, but arguably the best shooter in College Basketball history. Sorry, Larry Bird. Sorry, Shawn Respert, Adam Morrison, JJ Reddick, and Ray Allen, move over.

In a recent crushing of the four seeded Villanova Wildcats, McDermott calmly cast an array of deep, pro-length threes from all over the court. Spinning off screens, stop and pops or flat guarded, the 6’8” swing hit on 7-12 from beyond the arc, finishing with 25 points.

He currently ranks 4th in the NCAA’s with his 24.8 point per game average. But it isn’t just the numbers. I wouldn’t be dumb enough to think it is.

McDermott will be compared to players like Adam Morrison (above) and Larry Bird. His ability to find his own identity will be a key factor in his success at the next level. By Davej1006 at en.wikipedia, from Wikimedia Commons

As most of you know, McDermott has a couple things going against him. He’s white (not that there’s anything wrong with that, but…), slower (in comparison to more athletic combo forwards), and average athletically (again, he’s white.) But he’s calm on the court, he’s a leader, he’s ready to run fluid ball sharing offensive sets, defensively good enough, and a gifted three point specialist.

The reason I think he’ll be better than just a stand-still shooter like J.J Redick, is found in his size. He’s a more agile dribbler in comparison to former lengthy college shooters like Adam Morrison, and with his height and weight (225 pounds), a more viable option both in and outside the post — Something Redick has never been able to be either in college or the NBA.

I would hope NBA executives would see what I see. He isn’t the sexy pick or probably an All Star or even a second option offensively, but as a third option or a sixth man, he could arguably be the steal in what should be the most talent-loaded NBA draft in ten years.

For me, his best comparison is a beefier version of Rex Chapman, a player who defied more athletic defenders with a catch-fire peripheral shot, intense demeanor and fearless ball handling. Chapman always wanted the ball in his hands at crucial times of the game, something McDermott clearly has no problem with, dropping 21 in the 2^nd half of a come from behind win, over Cincinnati in last season’s March bracket.

His ceiling comparison would be to Antawn Jamison, a perennial All Star and quiet offensive captain, able to play alongside two other stars. Like Jamison, McDermott prefers the periphery, but if need be, has the strength to post the block both fading away or driving hard to the rim.

He might not go early in this crazily talent-laden draft. But whoever gets him won’t be disappointed.

Let’s face it: As a society we love to hate LeBron James, and understandably so.

Six feet, eight inches tall. Two hundred forty pounds with the speed of a point guard isn’t necessarily fair. As a result, LeBron’s a physical specimen demonized more so than he is celebrated.

“He can’t shoot free throws,” say the haters. “He isn’t clutch. He lacks the heart to lead a team on his own. He took the easy way out. Quitter”.

Surprisingly, after two straight titles not a whole lot has changed. I thought more would, but it’s obvious LeBron James will never be the untarnished champion. He’ll always be the man who crushed the heart of a city, to ride the high life with his superstar cronies. The society has backed off a bit with from banging the not clutch drum though echoes can still be heard. but Lebron’s negative public image has held pat in every other possible way.

Shoot, last year it was “Ray Allen who bailed him out.” Mind you, James hit a three earlier pulling the team to within three, rebounded his own miss the next time down the floor, kicking the ball out to the wide open Allen, for one of his many assists. The year before it was “the three point shooting of Mike Miller.” Again: the man single handedly picked apart the Thunder to the tune of 28.6 points, 10.2 rebounds and 7.4 assists per game.

Even Michael Jordan was hated by some. By Joshua Massel. Cropped by en:User:Quadzilla99 (original flickr source) , via Wikimedia Commons

This Lebron hate is the same type New Yorkers held against Michael Jordan in the mid-90’s. They hated him because he was better than them. Because no matter how many people tried to beat him down, including the wild walrus sized elbows of Charles Oakley, he continued on winning championships, scoring titles, MVP’s, fame, a reverential nickname, and induction to the hall of fame.

The man is the best ever. Period. Nobody’s going to tell him, or me, otherwise. Despite that, there is still a small, lingering camp of idiots arguing against the perennial oneness of his Airness.

The same can be said for LeBron.

I love, love, love, the Indiana Pacers’ toughness and their young burgeoning superstar, Paul George. I enjoy Kevin Durant & his upstart small town Thunder and other teams and players, too. But I can’t help but find myself searching the box score for LeBron on a nightly basis. What did LeBron do today? How good are the Heat? Can he lead his team to a third straight title?

Tell me the last time you genuinely thought about Paul George. You’re working, going about your day, maybe walking to the water cooler or copy machine, when all of a sudden, ah, yes, there he is — the young Pacer and his encroaching legacy. Not a chance. He comes into view the moment he suits up against the best.

But share a cup of coffee with your boss & you’re bound to talk LeBron somewhere in there. The most dominant player of a generation breeds venom, vile slams. Like Kobe, Shaq, and so many others before him, he alone, can split a bar into ruckus thugs. The man is just that polarizing. And whole lot better.

Jonae Ervin can flat-out play. By Owen Main

Jonae, Jonae, Jonae.

Last week, Cal Poly’s senior point guard, Jonae Ervin, dropped 37 & 10 in a come from behind win over a team Coach Faith said should have been picked to finish first in Big West Conference Play? Good Lord girl! Put some water on that hot sauce!

What a week.

A few days later, the 5’3” guard weaved her 391^st career dime to surpass Laura Buehnin as the all time assists leader in Lady Mustang history. She clearly can do it all: third in points, first in assists, third in rebounds & first in steals. My only question is, do the Lady Mustangs have the depth to get themselves back to March’s big bracket?

I think they might.

Reigning Big West Player of the Year, Molly Schemer, has been dominant again this year. Averaging 18.5 points and 11.0 rebounds per game, Schlemer balances the outside attack of the small but speedy Ervin alongside Ariana Elegado. Elegado, anything but shy, is a guard who is willing to hoist and hoist until she catches fire. This less-than-bashful approach to her game (currently leading the team in shot attempts per game at 15.9) is a double edged sword, though she averages 16.5 points per game. Her and Ervin both shoot about 38 percent from the floor, but it’s their aggression that put teams out of position and on their heels. That’s when Schlemer, who shoots 57 percent from the floor, steps in.

Along with seniors Ervin and Schlemer, junior Ariana Elegado gives the Mustangs three players who can drop 30 points on a given night. By Owen Main

On to the role players.

It’s easy to see the firepower in the Mustangs’ Big Three, but I asked our own Mustang aficionado, Owen Main. He said that key role players include Taryn Garza, Kristen Ale, and Maddison Allen. Ale, a junior from Carson, CA is second only to Ervin in three-point shooting percentage, opening-up the floor for her teammates.

Garza, a scrappy forward, averages just six points per game, but is second on the team in rebounds per game (5.8) and provided the most-clutch moment of the season, scoring on a putback at the buzzer to send the Mustangs’ game last Wednesday vs. Hawai’i into overtime.

Allen is a remarkable athlete. Left-handed and long, the 6’4″ redshirt freshman from Australia is probably the team’s best defender, blocking over a shot per game.

Nwamaka Ofodu, another senior guard, has stepped in to a starting role recently and gets some minutes as a defensive stopper in the back court as well. These players, plus freshmen Hannah Gilbert (6′ 3″, Morro Bay High School), Sarah Lipton, and Rachel Koehler add a layered dimension to a team that could be better than last year’s squad that won the Big West Tournament and went to the NCAA Tournament for the first time ever. Main points to the continued dominance of Schlemer and the balanced guard play of Elegado and Ervin as the biggest reasons this year he’s bought in to the concept of a return to the dance.

If the defense chooses to sag on the reigning Big West Conference Player of the Year (Molly Schlemer), Cal Poly can put 3-4 shooters around the perimeter, including supersub Kristen Ale. By Owen Main

“They have so many weapons,” said Main. “You can double-team Schlemer in the post, but then Elegado, Ervin, Ale, and the others will kill you. If you don’t double Molly, she’s going to do something like score 37 points. Opponents really have to pick their poison and hope that whoever they leave open has a bad shooting night.”

I have a strong desire for Mustang glory. As a proud alumnus, I would more than love to see either the men or women’s basketball teams crowned champion in March. And while the majority of you might think I’m absolutely crazy (I am), I’m not stupid. I love the George Masons, VCU’s, St. Mary’s’ and Gonzagas of the world who prove that small schools can create a large legacy. Some mid-majors have shown they can compete at the highest of levels — yes, even in the Madness of the March bracket. All it takes are the few things happening lately in Mustang country: success, great coaching, a beautiful college town and setting, and great individual performances. The lady Mustangs have crowned four straight Big West Players of the Year. That really says something. And San Luis Obispo, as always, is heaven on earth.

Mike Trout and the Angels have had a second consecutive nightmare start to their season. By Owen Main

I’m not a fan of the new Mike Trout. I miss the old one. I long for the top of the order small ball hitter, who changed games with his speed and his glove. I miss the lead off guy who set the steak for Pujols, not this new power pull hitter looking to eat off the shananigans of Pete Bourjos.

The worst thing that ever happened to Mike Trout was hitting 30 home runs.  He hit them on accident. His compact swing and his plate discipline, resulted in middle of the diamond fast balls.  As a result of this success, the kid gained 15 pounds of unnecessary muscle in the off season and lost his dynamic first step.

Was that necessary in a lineup with Albert Pujols, Josh Hamilton and Mark Trumbo? Through May 2nd, the now left fielder, is hitting a lusterless .263 with only three jacks and four stolen bases. He continues to look for the long ball and his patience has gone to waste as he’s consistently falling into unfavorable counts.

The Angels could muster all of four hits in last night’s 5-1 loss to the visiting Baltimore Orioles. Trout and the rest of the team are pressing. Now 10-18, they sit in last place in the AL West — and I’m worried.

Josh Hamilton, shown here in spring training, has has a rough start with the Angels after signing a big contract in the off-season. By Owen Main

Have you seen Josh Hamilton? Since last June, he’s hit just .239.

I have a suspicion that he’s pressing. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the former American League MVP is out of sorts. He looks uncomfortable, swinging at bad off-speed pitches and missing his usual meaty low-ball strikes.

I had the pleasure of seeing the star-studded Halos lineup last week, against the Rangers. Unfortunately for us, Yu Darvish was on the mound. Darvish pitched the most dominant game I have ever seen, striking out eleven in six innings.

Is it abnormal to say that any batter looks uncomfortable against Darvish? Not at all. The guy’s five pitch arsenal is the strongest since Mark Prior in 2003, and I have a strong inkling, when it’s all said and done, Darvish will be a 200-win guy with at least a few Cy Young Awards studded in his cap.

But on two occurrences, Hamilton looked elementary in the face of his former teammate. So much so, the easily impressed Angels fan base, uncharacteristically booed the 125-million dollar man. He swung at bad pitches all night, striking out twice, not to mention his two game-altering blunders in the outfield.

And was there any response? Any fire in the belly of the man who nonchalantly smacked 43-home runs last year? Nope. Just the same old same old strike-out strolls back into the Scoscia’s crumbling lair.

So I guess Canada has some baseball to root for, but there don’t look like many people at the game in Toronto. By Oaktree b at en.wikipedia, from Wikimedia Commons

Two weeks ago Erick Aybar was scratched from the Angels Spring Training roster. The reason: He’s needed as the starting 2nd baseman for the Dominican Republic, for the World Baseball Classic.

What is the World Baseball Classic?

According to the International Olympic Committee, baseball is only a sport followed in the Americas, Canada and Asia. Though that is much of the world, Europeans choose not to see it that way. They consider irrelevant socialite experiences like Badminton and Fencing, worth a whole lot more of our time.

Baseball is a game of patience, persistence, clarity, mental toughness and preparation. And while one could argue Erick Aybar is doing just that sort of thing playing in the WBC — a world affair smaller than College Basketball’s somewhat unwatched conference tournaments — I argue otherwise.

Last year, Aybar barely hit .200 through April, May and most of June. This year’s Angels are reliant on his speed and switch hitting versatility at the top of the order, to ignite things for Mike Trout, Albert Pujols, Josh Hamilton and Mark Trumbo.

Had we the 2016 Olympics to look forward to, Major League ball players could focus their attentions solely on the grueling 162-game task that awaits them. Instead we’re left wondering whether or not our franchise faces might land themselves on the Disabled List in March. And all for what? A cheap Olympic-like knock off played on ESPN2?

They’re both nicknamed LJ, but Larry Johnson and Luke Johnson are not, in fact, the same. By Bryan Horowitz, via Wikimedia Commons

I have been thinking lately about what it means to be a man and what Larry Johnson, former all star NBA forward, means to that endeavor.

20 weeks ago, my wife came gleaning from the bathroom with her beautiful blue eyes to say we’re pregnant.

Me? A father? 

It had been seven forsaken months I had tried to do the deed. I was a pinch away from dropping trou and offering a specimen to a doctor with a name like Lionous Hankerworth, just to hear him say son youz be shooteen blank.

Pregnant means that in a matter of five months I will no longer be the same Luke Johnson. My life experience will be about making the completely original life experience of Giana Grey Johnson, special.

But had I dropped bombs and boned out on a million others like Larry Johnson, how special and original would those new lives be? As hard as saying I do is, and all the expectations that follow with it, I have to say that the struggle is worth more than the success: Love is a singular seduction, not an inclusive diatribe.

Working this sort of thing out though, comes in steps, and here is how I have been preparing myself.

* As of last Monday I officially began a fast from NBA 2K13. I failed on Tuesday and attended confession, receiving 10 hail mary’s and 3 lord be with you’s.

* I have begun my search for a shotgun.

* All week I have worn tighty whities and a wife beater.

* I have combated my repulsion to the smell of feces by purposefully whiffing the cat box early in the morning and at midnight.

* My grocery list as of today: High waters, striped tube socks, Toyota Previa, Girl Scout cookies and an off-brand robe.

I wager, had Larry Johnson embraced these simple yet poignant powers, he too, may have marveled in the love one feels when thinking of their first born with their only lady.

But fame got the best of grandmama. Nipped him in the ass and turned him into money coming in and money going out. Should have been bottles and diapers and that faint sound a father hears when his baby begins to laugh.