I like to make predictions. Sometimes they are right. More of the time they are not. It’s fun though, so I do it anyway.

Here’s my latest prediction: Lance Armstrong will confess to doping when he is interviewed by Oprah (airing) on January 17th. I’ve written about Lance Armstrong before. Things have gotten even worse for him since then.

When it comes to baseball’s steroid users or anyone in the public eye who do anything bad like this, the almost-cliche response about what they should do is, “Go on Oprah and come clean.”

Alex Rodriguez did it. Instead of Oprah, Rodriguez chose ESPN’s Peter Gammons to come clean with. He wore a blue sweater, sat-down in a homey environment, and came clean. He came off as mostly honest, admitting that he used steroids and saying he was sorry.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WSwiYnSBis

Lance Armstrong is riding his way straight to a confession, I believe. By Daniel Norton (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0) or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

What does this have to do with Lance Armstrong? Well, if he was smart he would be studying the A-Rod confession. He would also be looking at the respective sideshows that Roger Clemens, Sammy Sosa, and Rafael Palmiero participated in. All those guys look like clowns now. Rodriguez may be perceived negatively, but not like those three.

Another great role model for Armstrong might be Mark McGwire. Big Mac vehemently denied use for years and finally capitulated and came clean, and has been better-respected for it over the past two years, serving as hitting coach for the Cardinals and now the Dodgers. He wanted to be back in the public eye and had to pay the price to do so.

Armstrong has also denied PED use with about as much force as a person can. He has been tested hundreds of times and always pointed to the always-outmoded tests as proof he didn’t do it.

If you are not easily offended, aren’t worried about foul language and are a fan of South Park, Lance Armstrong, and/or the Sneetches, you’ll probably want to look at the South Park episode HERE. South Park’s Trey Parker and Matt Stone are the kings of modern satire. The sports world and its reflection on society are so easy to make fun of sometimes…

Anyway, back to Lance and Oprah. It is happening at Lance Armstrong’s home, so the “softer” non-studio, private environment is already in-place. I’m sure Lance will have lots to say. I’m sure millions will watch.

I play two scenarios in my head:

Scenario 1: Lance goes all Rafael Palmeiro on Oprah. “I never did any of that,” he says. “My teammates were forced to lie by USADA and WADA. Everyone is turning on me.”

Scenario 2: Lance goes all A-Rod: “I did it, it was the culture, everyone was doing it and I got caught-up in it. I’m sorry for any hurt I’ve caused.”

I just don’t think there’s a third scenario. I cannot imagine that, 10 years from now, Lance wants to have an embarrassing Palmeiro-like moment on tape when definitive proof emerges that, beyond any shadow of a doubt, he doped. I can’t imagine anyone would put themselves in that position, and because of that, I think Scenario 2 happens. I think Lance admits he doped. Two years ago, some people would have been surprised. Not anymore.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAxo4pCITRM

I can’t imagine Lance letting himself have a Palmeiro moment, especially with Oprah.

From the anti-sports dungeon, succumb in stacks of notes, I’m running rampant in my mind’s eye, just to scope a look at a few sports highlights.

It has been a solid week since I’ve had a chance to really take in and swallow the world around me. I’ve been trampled with a traveler’s bug–unlike the type you scratch on a wayfarer, freewheeling Euro-trip — tugging behind a roller suitcase filled with foul, unfolded laundry in the pits of what Cheech calls Al-Laye.

Yes I said foul. And no, I won’t take back the roller-suitcase. I’m 31-years old and fighting tennis elbow without even playing tennis, so give me some grace. Sheesh.  And as for the Cheech reference, if you don’t know who he is I suspect you grew up in a Monastery conducting a dozen Hail Marys for drinking one-too-many cokes.

Jest and non-jest aside, I’ve noticed a few things this last week that might mean something to both our sport-opinions and our everyday lives. Here goes….

Barry Bonds is a Hall of Famer

And not just a Hall of Famer, but get this…he’ll be a first ballot Hall of Famer. When you hit 764 home runs over the span of a career that consisted of more MVP awards than anyone in league history, you’re due your day in the sun.  It’s true, I like Barry Bonds as much as I do the idea of a colonoscopy. He stinks. But opine aside, the man is one of the three greatest hitters of all time, blessed with a bat speed unparalleled by any of his generation–with or without the juice. Which means…

If the door is opened to acceptance of the juice, so follows Sammy Sosa.

Sammy’s popularity is equivalent to his fading skin color. He’s been cursed with the Michael Jackson disease. But, if we open the door to Bonds, how can we not do the same for a man who, alongside Big Mac in 1998, reignited the great pastime with a record-breaking home run chase for the ages? His 608 home runs rank him 8th all-time, and the man is a legend in his own right.

But get this, Clemens will be excluded.

I know it sounds shady and two-sided, but Roger Clemens pissed off more purists, than either Bonds or Sosa. His unbelievable denial of a drug he popped straight from the hip, to the elbow, down into the jugular vein, will not now, and never will be pardoned by a makeshift conclusion at a ridiculous Federal court hearing. He has turned himself into nothing more than another Pete Rose.

They should let most of these guys in. Especially Pete Rose. By Kjunstorm from Laguna Niguel, CA, US. Color-corrected, cropped and red eye removed by Daniel Case 2008-07-16 (Pete Rose) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

A buddy of mine told me that two summers ago, he stood in a line at what seemed like a 5-by-7 baseball card shop, behind one overly large man wearing a Chris Sabo jersey, and two skin blotchy prostitutes, to get Rose’s autograph. For 50-bucks he walked out with a signed bat. Said Rose looked like hell, had a hollow grayness and smelled of Popov. Not even 4,000-plus hits all-time can save you from the purists’ guillotine. I still think Rose deserves the hall. So what if the man wagered against a game. He was like a switch-hitting Tony Gwynn blessed with an even softer, more fluid swing, and he played relentless and balls-out night in night out.

Which proves the disconnect between the Baby Boomer generation and ours, “ours” being ages-16 to 40.

How hypocritical to think our parents began a movement in the sixties more pornographic, pill popping, sexually explicit, than an uncut version of “Girls Gone Wild,” and yet despite this they want to preach moral stances on drugs, sex and rock n’ roll. The purists need to let it go with Lucy in the sky diamonds. She’s waiting. Because this generation has the right to judge and reinterpret the game for what it is today.  The era “we” were born into fostered PED’s and illegal sport wagering. That’s nothing like running naked in a psychedelic forest after bra-less gnomes. Embracing a moral relative stance on things, muddies the world around us, no doubt. Yet it allows for the right environment to induce all evolutionary phases of our lives.

With this, I propose a Generation X,Y,Z and Z1 rebellion via Facebook, Twitter and text-messaging.

Tweet complaints 2 @puristssuckballsanddie free Peter Rose; Post naty ill-infrmd fb mssags abt raunchy cheerldrs; Nd continue ths mssg by txt. “Lts strt a revolution btchs.”

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=0SsYVu1HkBA

Free Rose! Free Bonds! Free Sosa! Free Clemens! Free Palmeiro! But don’t ever let A-Rod in. Don’t even think about it. Even I have a moral code, and A-Rod is definitely the antithesis to it.

There are easy descriptions regarding the 37- year old veteran, and then there are debatable things the pundits ponder over decades upon decades, before coming to some mixed-form of conclusion.

The older Alex Rodriguez gets, the more polarizing he seems to become. By Keith Allison [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

The man is a megastar and a sex symbol. To go along with his record setting contracts and polarizing personality, A-Rod and all that is his beefy 6’3″ frame has mastered the on-switch of women. From beauties like Cameron Diaz to Madonna and Kate Hudson, A-Rod has been gifted with the right kind of swing if you ask most men.

But he sure as hell can’t hit in the postseason. To think America is up in arms this year is outrageous. A-Rod, minus 2009 and a few MVP awards and 25 million dollar per-year contracts, is an average at best, postseason player. His mental fortitude is in question, as is his legacy as a whole. Not only is the man utterly underwhelming — .263, 13 homeruns, 41 RBI, 75 strikeouts, in 75 career postseason games — in the spotlight of playoff baseball, but arguably, is the greatest regular season trash hitter of all time.

What do I mean by trash-hitter? He can CLEARLY hit 3rd, 4th and 5th starters in a rotation. But after this postseason’s debacle and his career as a whole, he REALLY CAN’T hit 1st, 2nd and arguably the 3rd starters. Considering this, should we include A-Rod in the talk of all-time greats?

If he can’t hit the C.C Sabathia’s, Jered Weaver’s, Felix Hernandez’s and Justin Verlander’s, then he can’t be included in talks with the men who can — Albert Pujols, Miguel Cabrera and the man formerly known as “Mannywood”  — though I’m sure fans of A-Rod would scoff at this, considering his career 647 home runs and nearly 2,000 rbi’s over a famed 19-year career.

But those are regular season numbers. Compare his regular season from his postseason averages.

Regular Season                                Postseason (75-Career Games)

Avg: .300                                               Avg: .263

Avg HR Per 75 Games: 19.6               HR: 13

Avg RBI Per 75 – Games: 59.09         RBI: 41

Avg Strikeouts Per 75-Games: 61.57  Strikeouts: 75

Clearly A-Rod isn’t the same man he is in the regular season. But I’m not certain it’s lack of ability, more than it is a lack of focus. As nuts as it seems to think a three-time MVP lacks focus, it’s not all that unbelievable.

Juggling some of the most beautifully demanding women in the world with the pop phenomenon that is he is — while having the world at his fingertips with a kingdom of unbridled wealth — A-Rod is certain to have at some level lost his original passion — baseball — and replaced it with glory.

Glory, the singular element with the power to breed beauty and victory, is the same with the ability to turn gold to rust and ruin.

History repeats this. For every heroic story there are ten bad ones that follow. From Doc Gooden’s drug abuse to the over zealous rise and fall of Napolean’s France, glory concedes men often, to the arc of failure. It is the element that ceased poet ‘Emily Dickinson long enough to write this lyrical warning:

Glory is that bright tragic thing,

That for an instant

Means Dominion,

Warns some poor name

That never felt the sun,

Gently replacing

In oblivion.

Oblivion is something I’m certain Alex Rodriguez fears. Irrelevance. At 37, his years are waning, and having been the rock star of his generation, he now has to concede his crown to those more deserving in the eyes of his constituents.

I would wager money on younger star players, like Matt Kemp or Ryan Braun, ending their careers higher on the all-time greats list then A-Rod. Yet, that’s not to say A-Rod will ever go unnoticed. His oblivion will manifest itself in the erosion of his character and confidence, and that alone, will sink his name further down the all-time list.  

I don’t believe any of us question whether or not A-Rod has done enough to be a hall of famer, and whether or not he is considered one of the greatest SS/3B of all-time. He’s that good. Within all the backlash and critism, the man ranks 5th all-time on the home run list, and no matter how hard the fans are, he is still one of the most consistently potent and feared powerhitters of all-time.  

But what-ifs linger more for A-Rod, than they do for teammate Derek Jeter, foe Albert Pujols and in another two or three years, reigning Triple Crown winner, Miguel Cabrera. All three have been consistent in both the regular season and the post season, and have been the best players on their teams while doing so. 

A-Rod will always be that guy who couldn’t give it up. Who cheated. Who signed oversized contracts and feasted on his failures with disinterest in it all.

He’ll be the guy who couldn’t hit an 88 to 89-mile per hour fastball in his last solid run at postseason glory. The man who with the entire world at his fingertips and a legacy falling apart at the seams, had the audacity to let a player like Raul Ibanez outshine him.

He’ll be the man who blasphemed the tool that made him who is by using it as a vehicle to score digits from an unknown girl in the stands while his team drops a needed game one in the ALCS.

He’s just that interestingly old. And America and I are clearly over it.

For many of us, Summer means little to our fansmanship. As much as we try to appreciate America’s great past-time, Baseball is too slow and monotonous. We are seeking more than just an old timers’ game; more than five dollar English Leather cologne.

It is supposed to be the fun-time of the year. Many of us get time off of work to visit the world, sit on the beach, party with friends. Most importantly for us bachelors (and non-bachelors if we’re honest) the quadruple B’s are out in full force–blond, bronzed, bikini’d, bodies.

Head out to Avila Beach or Pismo for an hour and you will have plenty of memories by the time you’re done eye-surfing the summatime candy.

But hold on. Just hold up a bit. We don’t want to be creepers now do we? When you took the career job or said I DO, life took a turn for the better. Life was no longer a never-ending scene from Baywatch, and you are no longer David Hasselhoff and his abundantly woodsy chest.

Promiscuity is a bad bad word now, it will cause you to pull a groin or pat on tiger balm morning, mid-day, and night. It is not meant for us mature ones, but for the spry youngsters with a libido the size of Roseanne.

This my friends is no fun, I know. Yesterday I nearly pulled a hamstring on the stationary elliptical. I was trying to both watch ESPN and fake-run at the same time. Sounds easy enough, but nearing thirty, nothing has become easy. The “honey yes, honey of course, honey I will,” sorts of answers, are all that are easy. My life is a tedium glass house, I say no and the world comes crumbling down.

Summatime…

Remember playing ball nine to five on the blacktop with a few friends? It’s seventy five, a clear ardent blue coats the horizon, and the dead day just slumped on your shoulders with not a thing to do. Each one of your pretended for an eight hour period you were MJ, Scottie Pippen, Penny, Shaq, Larry Johnson, Zo, Grant Hill, or Hakeem.

Those were the days. Now, as a tax-paying citizen you’ve grown to resent the group I listed above. As you collect your unemployment from your poor paying teaching gig, your rose colored glasses including your young affair with believing in the impossible have slapped the basement of your life and crumbled into a million little pieces.

Summatime…

Relax, at some point all of us end up washed up. If an epic duo like Will Smith and DJ Jazzy Jeff could never produce anything more than their one-hit album, then trust me, you and I will be forced to scan, fax, make copies, and staple for a living.

But what Summatime foreshadows are feelings of freedom. Despite our limited free time and fading memories of running the black top with skinned knees and soda pop, we all have a place within us that can go there.

Who would of thunk watching men’s professional tennis could excite me like Pam Anderson’s bobbing twins used to? Now as an unemployed man I have the ability to depressingly relive the glory days and bring back the first loves of season: sports, sports, and more sports.

Yes, sports.

Currently, A-Rod is stepping closer and closer to Barry’s all-time home run mark, Tiger is trying to return to form and assume his rightful place as golf’s all-time greatest, and the best living tennis player is still playing at an extremely high level in Roger Federer. Not to mention on Sunday, Jeff Gordon won his 84th NASCAR race, ranking fourth all-time on the list and assuming at forty one, he may go down alongside Richard Petty as the greatest driver in World history.

All this and it’s Summatime. Some things to keep an eye this Summer as you either bum it or find the time in your hectic life to Tivo something. Keep an eye on the Boston Red Sox, who after starting the season 1-9, currrently own the second best record in Baseball and are on pace to be just the ninth team in league history to eclipse 1,000 runs scored in a season.

Watch A-Rod continue his climb to home run greatness, as he sits just thirty four shy of the great Willie Mays mark of 660 at fourth all-time.

The NBA draft on June 23rd is always an intriguing experience. For NBA fans, this not only can shape your future (think Boston in 07′ with the trades of both KG and Ray Ray), but offers a glimpse in the leagues future. This year the popular names are the tweeners, Jimmer Fredette of BYU and Kemba Walker of Uconn, both highly talented but not sure lottery choices as of now.

Normally the draft would be all fun and games. That is if there was not a looming NBA lockout. According to NBA analyst Charles Barkley, the owners are at a “point where they are going to try and break these players unions down.”

Like the NBA’s situation, the NFL lockout has to be the most intriguing situation for sports fans. Most of us wait the two dead  Summer months: June and July, for August when football training camps report and news regarding trades begin to swirl. As of now, both sides remain at a stall and the idea of living without football for many not only kills their Summer, but does away with Sunday beer drinking hoots around the tube. Now Church is the only sad option.

June gloom is definitely upon us. A marshmallow cloud bank over the Pacific does it justice. Not only are we concerned about our lack of freedoms living as grown adults but we also may have to live without two of our favorites next year. In order to keep the faith, now would be a good time watch Baywatch re-runs or finally take up those dance lessons.

First of all, how this situation was even picked up by the media comes highly into question. Could something have been intentionally leaked by Favre’s long-time yenta, his agent Bus Cook, in an attempt to try and upstage Rodgers during his moment on top of the quarterbacking world?

The events of this situation are eerily similar to Alex Rodriguez choosing to announce his free agency when the Boston Red Sox were winning their most recent World Series a few years ago. Both Favre and Rodriguez are equally transparent and pathetically out of touch as to the right way to handle yourself with even the slightest amount of integrity.

Honestly, ask yourself how the media would even know if Favre were about to give Rodgers a stupid phone call? How would something this simple and personal to the parties involved end up on national media radar? Why this is a relevant discussion point on the afternoon talking head forums of the evil-four-letter defies explanation.

Charles Woodson said in a recent interview that Favre had plenty of opportunities over the past few years to reach out to Rodgers, as most mentors with even a speckle of class would generally do. Did he choose to reach out at any other random time that wasn’t Super Bowl championship time? Of course not. He had to play the role of the spiteful juvenile who was losing the attention to his little brother. It is becoming ever that much more clear that Favre’s only motivation is to try and strategize for the benefit of his now tainted legacy.

My question is, why does Rodgers even need Favre’s approval? He doesn’t. The misconception that he does is only a creation of the media and Favre’s massive, unsubstantiated ego.

Do you think Rodgers cares about getting some sort of blessing from Favre? Of course not. He now has the same amount of rings that Favre won in his entire career. He has only been a full-time starter for three years and is only 28 years of age. With Rodgers’ talent level and the fact that he could possibly display that level of talent for another decade or more, inevitability says there are more rings to come. This should scare Favre’s over-inflated head, and it’s blatently obvious that it does.

There is also a good chance Rodgers will go down in history someday as a greater Packer quarterback than Favre. I guarantee you a personality like Rodgers will not end his career in Green Bay by trying to be bigger than the franchise, and hold it hostage in the final three offseasons of his tenure.

Favre grew up in the sticks of Southwest Mississippi. He stayed in Southwest Mississippi to go to college. I’m no pyschologist, and I only play one on the internet – but I believe Favre’s disconnect as a youth from competing with the world outside of the swamp and mud played a major role in the immaturity he has displayed as a grown-man.

With this recent “news,” Favre wants nothing more than to steal some of the spotlight from Rodgers, like a junior high “it” girl would, who becomes outlandishly envious and jealous when she is overtaken by the next “it” in the eyes of the peers.

The timing of this supposed reach-out, right after Rodgers is “going to Disneyland,” is a clear cry for “please, still look at me” by Favre. He wants everyone to know that he still holds something over the Super Bowl-winning quarterback – well at least something he thinks he still holds over Rodgers. Rodgers was Favre’s understudy in his final three years in Green Bay, and Favre wants everyone to know that. To a certain extent, he wants everyone to think that Rodgers wouldn’t be what he is today without being that understudy.

All this aside, what really is disappointing is how a legend like Favre has wilted away to nothing but a grasping pub-hound that oozes desparation, and how this kind of behavior only cements the answer to the question of whether or not Favre has created all the drama we have seen over the past few years, or if the media simply had over-sensationalized the entire saga.

The link of egomaniacal behavior between the off-season holdouts and this current drama with Rodgers, which cleary bares no semblence of relevancy, significance or time and place, only confirms the personality flaw Favre suffers from. You have become the senile old man, Brett. Nobody has actually cared for quite a few years now.

But what should we really expect? Favre was always the epitome of chuck and duck, going for broke when it means the most, just closing his eyes and letting it rip. So in that regard, I guess it’s not suprising that on the way out the door, he has managed to throw one final embarrassing and befuddling interception, one we have all picked off.

The next move for the ol’ gun-slingin’ “Silver Fox?” You’re a shoe-in for the daytime soap opera circut.