A big day—two Journal stories for one low price.

The first was sorta quirky—my experience on the Gayle King Show, based upon my longtime dislike of Oprah.

The second features an opinion I’ve long held—an essay on why talking about sports far surpasses watched sports.

If you haven’t yet jumped at the opportunity, take a moment out of your life and read Rick Reilly’s excellent ESPN.com column on the kid who was bullied at school, and the Philadelphia Eagles who befriended him. Truly an excellent piece of writing; Rick at his best.

Ever since he departed Sports Illustrated for ESPN in 2008, Rick has taken a ton of crap for the quality of his material. And, I’ll admit (and I’m willing to bet Rick would admit), it hasn’t all been his best stuff. But what people forget—and what readers definitely forget—is that maintaining one’s fastball, in writing, is really hard. It’s certainly not a matter of talent: I can assure you that Rick, age 52, is as talented as he was at 35 or 40 or 45. No, what becomes more difficult is the motivation; the drive; the passion. Cover sports long enough, the story lines repeat themselves. Over. And over. And over. The kid overcoming the odds. The yin-yang teammates. The big trade. The first-round bust. The woman making her mark in a man’s sport. The fan’s perspective. Profiling a food. Because we are humans confined by the limitations of organized athletics, there is a finite number of things that can happen. A team will overcome the odds. Another team will fail to meet expectations. At the end of the season, there’ll be a large celebration involving bubbly and goggles. Someone will say, “Nobody believed we could do this!” Someone else will say, “We’ve stuck together and fought like crazy.” Before Tiger there was Jack. Before Jack there was Arnold. On and on.

So when you’re Rick, or Steve Rushin, or Jason Whitlock, or Bill Simmons, or Mike Lupica, or Tom Verducci, or Selena Roberts, or Dave Anderson, or, well, any of us, the challenge isn’t staying sharp.

It’s continuing to care, when you’ve witnessed it all before.

People have said, “Why doesn’t Rick write the long features he used to do so well at SI?” I’ve never asked Rick, but I’ll take a guess: Because he doesn’t want to. He mastered that, and desired to move on.

I don’t blame him.

I’m sitting across from my wife today. We’re working together for a few hours. It’s one of my favorite things to do. There’s something about gazing up and seeing her sitting there—makes my day. Truly does.

Anyhow, this morning my wife gave a talk about emotional IQ and children at a nearby high school. She was told there’d be a lot of people there—and there were seven. I’ve had many similar experiences in my life. When my first book came out, I was invited to my hometown library in Mahopac, N.Y. to talk. I’d say three folks attended—plus my parents and wife. For Boys Will Be Boys, I was invited to the Ft. Hood military base. Was led to believe it’d be a bunch of soldiers in a room. Instead, I was placed in the front of the Ft. Hood answer to Target. Me, a stack of 200 books, nobody. When I hear “Attention shoppers, Jeff Pearlman is signing copies …” I wanted to hide.

The wife, however, was magical. The room was large, a kid was screaming, seven people were scattered throughout 10 rows of folding chairs. Somehow, she was on-point, bubbly, informative. Amazing.

In life, we always look for the great moments. Well, sometimes great moments aren’t so great. They’re little and obscure and hidden. When the situation looks crappy, the amazing step up.

My wife is amazing.

… based off of this insanely funny and well-done video.

Looooooooooove it.

Someone I know sent me the link to his Bob Sollish’s website. I don’t know Bob, I’ve never heard of Bob, I don’t even know if Bob is good at being a director of technology. Hell, I don’t even know what a director of technology does.

But in these rough times, where landing a job often seems impossible and corporations and politicians callously brag about cutbacks (as if they deserve props for ending employment opportunities), a person’s gotta do what a person’s gotta do. I am actually the son of a (semi-retired) executive recruiter. If there’s one piece of business advice my dad offered through the years that works, it’s the idea of making yourself stand out; of separating yourself from the crowd; of placing your name in neon lights without using neon lights. The best cover letter I’ve ever seen was written by a friend, Greg Orlando, who years ago was applying for a summer internship at The Tennessean. He didn’t write the standard blather about “I can contribute this …” or “If given the chance, I’ll …” No, Greg’s letter was, in essence, a list of everything he couldn’t do. I can’t dance. I can’t name six songs by Men Without Hats. I can’t write with my left hand, I can’t bake a decent cheesecake, I can’t … on and on and on. Then, at the end, he wrote something along the lines of, “The one thing I can do is write …” It was spectacular, and he landed the opening.

Along those lines, Bob Sollish scores big.

Good luck, Bob. I’m pulling for you.

PS: Here’s his resume. No charge, Bob.

So I just saw on some news site that, toward the end of an Aretha tribute at tonight’s Grammy’s, Christina Aguilera tripped.

Indeed, the above video confirms such.

I don’t know Aguilera and I’m not even much of a fan of her music. But, man, what a shitty year. To recap:

1. She and her husband split.

2. Her CD completely and totally bombs.

3. Because her CD completely and totally bombs, her tour is all but cancelled (I think she kept a few dates—but not many).

4. She stars in a movie, Burlesque, that bombs even worse than her CD.

5. She botches the words to the National Anthem.

6. She trips at the Grammy’s.

Making matters worse, Aguilera has gained a substantial amount of weight. Which isn’t a big deal at all—unless you’re in a profession that:

A. Is as deep as a dime.

B. Spits out its own once they reach their 30s (especially women).

Aguilera, once a teen darling, turns 31 this December. In human years, she’s young. In pop years, she’s Grandma Millie. It’s just hard to hang  and keep up, especially if you’re into experimenting (musically) and not merely going along with the latest trends.

Oy.

… is on Jordan Farmar and Sasha Vujacic, and their adjustments from Los Angeles to New Jersey.

So I just read that Lady GaGa arrived at tonight’s Grammy’s encased in an egg.

Wow.

I always find it funny how certain performers “shock” us. They do “crazy” things, and the next day we (certain media outlets) talk it up. Oh my God! Holy cow! Can you believe [he/she] did [ate a ball of dogshit/appeared naked with a snake/kissed someone's hairy anus/danced in a puddle of spit]. The buzz grows and grows and grows and grows, until we find the next thing to be shocked over.

So stupid.

Truth is, we are limited by the constraints of humanity. We can’t grow wings, attain Superman-esque strength, piss into the sky or walk to Saturn. The best we can do is, apparently, arrive at the Grammy’s encased in an egg. Which is sorta funny, I suppose.

But far from shocking.

Also, along those lines: Have you ever actually watched someone slide into an egg? I haven’t, but I have seen the lights turned off at the end of a World Series game. I’ve seen a PA announcer turn on his mic. I’ve watched ballplayers in the moments before taking a field, when then fart and burp and scratch themselves. Really, the show is just a show … a moment’s escape from reality.

My lazy dog likes sleeping atop clean laundry. Which sorta sucks, because it’s clean and a dog is never clean. I know people say, “Oh, dogs are cleaner than humans,” but I’ve never seen a human sniff/lick another human’s anus (Well, I suppose it happens. But not to me, gladly).

I digress. Was listening to Paul Ryan, Wisconsin representative, rip President Obama on Fox this morning, and while I am certainly not beyond ripping a commander in chief, Ryan—a great GOP hope—seems to be quite the fool. He was arguing for spending cuts to such programs/agencies as the EPA, police departments, etc. And when Chris Wallace, the host, asked, “How does this all help the economy?” his response began with, “It sends a message to businesses …”

Which is a humiliatingly sad way to start such a response. The whole “Send a message to businesses …” mantra began with Ronald Reagan, who believed that if the government, “Sends a message to businesses,” those businesses would respond with hiring and some genre of magical fiscal distribution (Not socialism! Definitely not socialism!).

Problem is, it doesn’t work. I hate to say it, but a government often has to kick start the economy by having money circulated. I like the recently proposed rail system, because it’s needed and it genuinely creates jobs. But to the GOP, that solely symbolzied government spending. Which we don’t want. Under any circumstances. Ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever …

Glub.

Here’s the thing: Whenever I hear the Republicans talk about cuts, I think a lot of their middle- and lower-class followers forget that “cuts” translates to “job reduction.” Meaning, if the EPa (for example) loses $3 billion of its budget, well, that money pays for, among other things, gigs. Lots and lots of gigs. On paper, or on a screen, listing areas of reduction looks good. We wanna get rid of this and this and this. But getting rid of this and this and this means getting rid of that job and that job and that job.

And, last I checked, people like their jobs.

Or at least having one.

RIP Delaware men’s track and cross country.

My program. My team.

In a word: Sucks.

(photo by James Diana)