Classic card of the week

Doug West, 1996 Skybox

Quite possibly you recall a mysterious yet magical time when Kings’ forward Michael Smith was catching hot flaming balls. Now, you can believe this or not -– your call –- but other NBA players at the time enjoyed a similar experience. In order to sway your belief in what I have just mentioned, I will now post several cards as proof of my honor:



Here is the patented Charles Barkley: “Ouch! This flaming hot basketball is hot!” face.



And here is Dale Davis with the “I realize that this basketball is, literally, on fire. But I am going to rebound it anyway. Here goes…mother f-!” maneuver.



And of course, what would a flaming hot basketball feature be without Gheorghe Muresan’s famous “I am 10 feet tall, but this comet ball still alludes me!” low post move.

Which brings us back to Doug West. Now, let’s say you are the Skybox Company of basketball cards. Your ace young executive has just wowed the boardroom with her -– yes, her –- idea to feature NBA players catching flaming hot basketballs. It is a fail-proof idea. Why? For one thing, it makes sense. Secondly, who doesn’t love a good hot ball card? Nobody. That’s who. And also, this idea is versatile. There are a million ways you can go with it.

You can have a guy rebounding a flaming ball. Awesome. Or, shooting a flaming ball. Even awesomer. And hey – how about passing a flaming ball? Crazy awesome. That is three ways right there. Add a few more and you have a million. But here is where Skybox refused to rest on its laurels. Because check this out: How about having a guy calling a timeout within the comet tail left by a flaming hot basketball?

Think about it.

Skybox did. And the rest is history. Notice how the flaming hot basketball doesn’t even make an appearance, so that the card -– taken out of the context of other cards in the series –- makes absolutely no sense. And that’s not to mention that the series itself is largely nonsensical.

But you go, Doug West. Only a true leader realizes that when an escape comet-like, flaming hot basketball has mysteriously surfaced, you call a time out.

You don’t want to get burned like stupid Barkley.

Did you know?
This idea was an offshoot of the popular video game NBA Jam, in which the ball could catch fire when a player was “hot.” Said Skybox executive Consuelo Finkleberg with regards to the concept: “There's obviously a market out there for flaming balls. We're just trying to tap into it.”

When pretending not to be home doesn’t work

Note: This column appears in the 11/5 issue of The Glendale Star and the 11/6 issue of the Peoria Times

My wife and I are utterly annoyed by –- and sometimes scared of –- people coming to our house and trying to sell us stuff.

This wasn’t much of an issue back east, for the most part. With the exception of Jehovah’s Witnesses –- who, long ago stopped coming to my parent’s house lest they be dragged into a dialogue with my Catholic deacon father -– people stopped ringing doorbells years ago. I think it was 1985 when the chances of getting injured or killed began to outweigh the chances of making of a sale.

And the fear was mutual. One year back in NJ, a few days after she had watched a special on Oprah about home invasions, my wife called me on my cell phone in a panic. She was at home, and pretty much hiding under her bed, and yelling for me to come home because “somebody keeps ringing the doorbell!” Luckily, I was just around the block at my sister’s house. When I pulled up to our place, a frustrated flower delivery guy was standing there on his cell phone. My in-laws had sent my wife flowers. Because it was her birthday.

The fact that we are abnormally skeptical about people coming to our house on our birthday is a testament to the fact that we would prefer that nobody came by during every other day of the calendar year. But alas –- such is not the case here in Arizona. In fact, I am fairly certain that a Valley-wide alert went out to every business within range when we first moved here. Every single time the doorbell rang and I thought it was a friendly neighbor who had baked us a “welcome to the neighborhood” cake, it was instead a 20-year-old dude who wanted to sell us bug spray services, a soft water system, blinds, or the irony of a home security system to keep out intruders.

Shooing away unwanted –- they are all unwanted –- solicitors has not been an issue. Were it not for the hassle of getting to the door, it can be a pleasurable endeavor. But most recently my wife and I have begun the unpopular campaign of shunning children.

I’m just going to say it: Kids selling stuff is the worst. And believe me, because I was one of them. I used to have to sell 800 Reese’s peanut butter cups just so our Little League team could have socks, half of which I ate myself (the candy, not the socks) and my parents had to pay for. But it’s not the kids themselves we’re against –- sort of -– but the entire process.

First of all, kids have no idea what they’re talking about. They can’t give you any information –- you’re just supposed to buy it because they’re kids. Well, that’s not how we roll. Consider us scorned.

A few months after we moved in, two girls came to our door. They were selling candles for school. Why? I don’t know. The one girl talked too fast and the other girl was facing the street. I felt bad, so I ordered one. They didn’t take any of our info -– except our money –- and I got no receipt. About six months later, I suddenly realized we never got our candle. I had to call the school and after weeks of research, we eventually got it.

Since then, we have unabashedly turned kids away.

And so this past weekend we were driving home and saw a woman standing on the corner. We waved. She did not wave back. We pulled into our driveway and began the process of getting the kids and all our bags out of the car. From behind the car emerged a boy scout. Amidst the chaos, he nervously mentioned he was selling popcorn. We realized it was his mother who was standing on the corner. We told him sorry, but it wasn’t a good time.

We didn’t buy popcorn from a boy scout because we were too busy and he was too timid. But mostly because his mother didn’t wave to us.

I don’t think we are getting a cake from our neighbors anytime soon. This is all Oprah’s fault.


I can tell by the excitement in your face that you are interested in our brand of organic shutters. And according to my clipboard, you also need a kidney. Well, I'm glad I stopped by...

The Underground

This is the first line of Peter King's Friday column:

Brett Favre's pretty much gone underground this week, except for his regular Wednesday press conference, Thursday's NFL Network interview with Steve Mariucci and a one-on-one with Terry Bradshaw, which will air on the Fox NFL Sunday pregame show.

That guy is like a hermit!

Classic card of the week

Oliver Miller, 1992-93 Topps

Here is a “Time-Life Magazine”-worthy floor shot of Oliver Miller throwing it down with lukewarm authority. How he got down the floor before everybody else on this play is anyone’s guess. Though my hypothesis would be that he was not an active participant in the previous defensive series.

But let’s see how long it takes the back of the card to mention Oliver Miller’s weight:



They called Oscar Robertson “The Big O,” but the massive Oliver Miller gives new “dimension” to that nickname.

That dimension is fatness. I also appreciate how “dimension” is in quotes, as to imply that Oliver Miller is so fat -– How fat is he? -– that he can only fit in an alternate dimension. That is not nice. But what else?

On offense, Miller was nearly “automatic” –- the Razorbacks’ most accurate shooter ever.

I am at a loss as to why “automatic” is in quotes. As far as being Arkansas’ most accurate shooter -– that is what happens when you do not/cannot move from the five-square-foot parameter directly underneath the basket.

So we know about Oliver Miller’s weight issues. But can Wikipedia shed any new light on his basketball career? Of course they can:

In December 2001, after another brief term with the Globetrotters, Miller was released for showing “no appreciation for what it takes mentally and physically to be a Harlem Globetrotter.”

Let me start by saying this: You can get released by the Globetrotters? To the point where they need to issue a statement? I had no idea. Also, how in the hell do you lollygag it on the Harlem Globetrotters? They’re whole shtick is bringing energy and excitement to the crowd by executing incredibly difficult and detailed basketball trickery. What did he expect? I can just picture Oliver Miller standing on the court, holding a stick with a spinning basketball on top of it with one hand, and a hot dog with the other, and then taking a pass to the face because he wasn’t paying attention to the rest of the routine. Then he gets chewed out by the head Globetrotter as the confused crowd looks on, wondering whether or not it’s all part of the act. And if you think that’s a hypothetical scenario, believe me –- I was there.

So anyway, if you’re the Phoenix Suns, how can you not draft a 300-lb center with your first round pick? And was that shot at the Phoenix Suns just sarcasm based on retrospect? Possibly. But please allow me to relay a question that, for me, has become one of the great mysteries of life: How can you play basketball and, simultaneously, be fat?

Honestly. This is something that has absolutely, positively befuddled me for years. I mean, basketball is one of the most physically taxing sports out there. You can burn up to 80 calories just watching a game of basketball. For the average person who plays the sport consistently, it is near impossible to not remain in adequate shape. To play the game professionally -– as in, it’s your freakin’ job to play a game that intrinsically prevents you from being fat -- and to remain overweight in the process shows an uncanny lack of discipline and effort both on and off the court.

I guess I just answered my own question. Still though.

Did you know?
Oliver Miller was the reason Krusty the Clown bet against the Harlem Globetrotters.

Smashmouth: "All Star," explained

Today we continue our randomly strung-together series breaking down "classic" songs that I am reminded of when I hear them somewhere and suddenly come to the realization that, "Wow, that song is stupid." Featured here is Smashmouth's "All Star," which you may have heard during every movie you've ever seen within the past decade. Please enjoy.

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Somebody once told me the world is gonna roll me

Allow me to begin my endeavor by acknowledging the popular adage: The world is gonna roll you. This is a clever way of saying that the world –- which is like a ball -– will eventually roll you over. With hardships. As far as the “somebody” who told me? None other than William Franklin Shakespeare. Yeah. I drew the line from the wonderful yet largely ignored Shakespearean play entitled “All-Star,” in which the antagonist, “Smashmouthikus,” utters the dramatic line, “Thy world shall roll thee.”

I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed

Allow me now, as a follow-up to my previous sentiment, to acknowledge that: I am a dumbass.

She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an “L” on her forehead

I hope you have enjoyed the imagery of a female character I have yet to introduce making the “loser” symbol on her forehead. How this relates to any other part of this song has yet to be determined. Is she making the loser sign at me because I am a dumbass? Or at herself because she is also a dumbass? It’s difficult to say. I do however, find it interesting how “shed” sort of rhymes with “forehead.”

Well the years start coming and they don’t stop coming

New thought alert! Listen -- I graduated with a 2.9 GPA from the Northeast Technical Institute of Smartness. I have done an exhaustive amount of research on the subject, and was awarded the Achievement in the Field of Excellence trophy by my brother-in-law at our annual family reunion, which is where I revealed my thesis. And what I had discovered is this: Time does not stop.

Seriously. One year it’s this year, and the next year it’s a different year. It’s crazy!

Fed to the rules and I hit the ground running

This line has two meanings. On one hand, I equate rules with hungry animals. And society always tries to feed me to those rules. Because rules, like caged animals, are insatiable in their hunger for obedience. On the other hand, I am also fed up with those rules. So, in my quest to rid myself of being eaten by rules or to simply avoid adhering to them, I have decided to hit the ground running, which is just a nonsensical cliché that cannot actually be incorporated into any aspect of my life. Take that, rules!

Didn’t make sense not to live for fun

Ya’ know what I realized doesn’t make sense? Anything in life in which the end result does not equal fun. I thought of this while trying in vain to put together a rolling filing cabinet that I bought from IKEA. So I just dropped those mini tools, ran outside –- hitting the ground running, mind you -- and got drunk. It was the funnest day ever! I assume that this philosophy of living solely for fun can be easily translated to all areas of everyday life. Like parenting.

Your brain gets smart but your head gets dumb

I hate it when your brain gets smart but the rest of your head -– all the parts that can neither retain or reject intellect, as they do not themselves have brains -– get dumber. This only happens to me on two occasions: 1) when I’m living for anything but fun, and b) when I am reading James Joyce’s “A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man” while drinking a Big Gulp slurpee.

So much to do so much to see so what’s wrong with taking the back streets?

There is too much to do and see in life to waste your time in getting there faster by taking I95. What you need to do is live life to the fullest by taking the back streets, so that you can see what life really has to offer. Which is mostly residential housing.

You’ll never know if you don’t go

You cannot really know anything unless you actually go there. For example: South Dakota? I remain skeptical.

You’ll never shine if you don’t glow

“Shine” and “glow” are both figurative terms used to describe standing out. So this is sort of like saying, “You’ll never stand out if you don’t stand out.” Pointless? Possibly. But you cannot deny it as a truism. It should also be mentioned that this song reached No. 4 on the Billboard Hot 100.

Hey now, you’re an All Star, get your game on, go play
Hey now, you’re a rock star, get the show on, get paid

I hope that I have adequately motivated you do something via my song-writing technique of randomly strung together words and awful clichés. What’s that? You’re still not going to hockey practice or your clarinet lessons? Hold on…

All that glitters is gold

This is actually in direct contrast to a truer and more meaningful cliché. Nevertheless, I recommend you get out there and glitter as a means of displaying your overall worth as a human being.

Only shooting stars break the mold.

You? You are a shooting star! Now get out there and break the mold with your glitter! And bygone it -– don’t forget to shine! And when you go, take the back streets, and try not to get a dumb head, okay? Just remember –- hit the ground running and don’t look back at the rules that are trying to eat you. And hey -– live for fun, alright? Because time doesn’t stop! And pay no attention to that girl making the loser sign at you. That’s my sister. And she’s a bitch.

Classic card of the week

Jeff Hostetler, 1992 Collector’s Edge

If I’m Jeff Hostetler, I am pissed. In fact, let’s for a second just pretend that I’m Jeff Hostetler, okay? Okay.

Hi. I’m Jeff Hostetler. And I am pissed. Seriously. I mean, I am the starting quarterback of the New York Football Giants. I led my team to a freakin’ Super Bowl title like, a few months ago. I have a ‘stache to die for. Don’t believe me?



So yeah, I’m pretty awesome. As a result, I think that my own football card should reflect at least a modicum of my awesomeness. So how does the Collector’s Edge brand of football cards honor my Super Bowl-winning awesomeness? By showing a picture of me with my eyes closed, getting sacked by some dude on the Rams, and almost certainly about to turn the ball over. I mean really. You could have snapped a picture of me with my jersey on taking a dump in the locker room stall and it would have been more flattering than this.

Oh hey, one other thing. I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly thank O.J. Anderson for picking up the weak side pressure on this play. Thanks, buddy! You were just in time! Ya’ know what? Next time just tackle me yourself, okay? It will lesson the chances of me breaking my back, which is exactly what happened to me last year, amazingly not on this very play.

In fact, ya’ know what I’m going to do? Because I am Jeff Hostetler –- Super Bowl-winning quarterback –- and I am so insanely proud of this football card of me, featuring me, with my eyes closed and getting my ass kicked, I am going to blow this baby up and hang it on the wall of my bagel shop. That’s right. I’m going to take down that stupid picture of me hoisting up the Lombardi Trophy and replace it with this very picture. That way, customers can come by, grab an onion bagel with some lox, and enjoy it while staring at the most unflattering picture of the namesake of the very bagel shop they are at.

What? You don’t think a Super Bowl-winning quarterback with a ridonkulous ‘stache can have a bagel shop? Why not? Everybody loves bagels! Listen man, football is fleeting. But bagels are forever:

Hostetler now lives in Morgantown, West Virginia, and owned Hostetler Bagels. He closed his bagel shop in 2005.

There was a strike, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.

Did you know?
Former Giants’ head coach Ray Handley once said that choosing between Jeff Hostetler and Phil Simms was like “trying to pick between a beautiful blonde and a brunette with a mustache, except the blonde is always injured and can’t play football.”

Kids, Saturdays make Halloween worth the trouble

Note: This column appears in the 10/22 issue of The Glendale Star and the 10/23 issue of the Peoria Times

I was in seventh grade the last year I went trick-or-treating for Halloween. It was that awkward time where I was too cool and definitely too old to go trick-or-treating, but I still liked candy. So I went after school and told various homeowners I was dressed as a “Catholic school kid.” After several dirty looks and fewer Reese’s than I expected, I decided to retire.

Since then, Halloween has just been ehhh. There was brief resurgence in college, when I got to dress inappropriately and act like an idiot for a day, which made the holiday really no different than any other day, I suppose. But Halloween hasn’t been something I’ve really looked forward to in quite some time.

Until this year, that is. The main reason being we actually have kids to celebrate it with. The joy and anticipation of Halloween gets renewed when kids are involved, as you get to live vicariously through them. And eat their candy. And also dress them in silly outfits that make them uncomfortable and possibly give them rashes. In our case, our foster daughter wants to be a cat –- a costume idea that will no doubt disappoint her the very second she sees a better costume –- and our nine-month old foster son will be sweating the excess pounds off in the bumblebee outfit my wife bought for him. It’s going to be great. I think.

But another reason that I’m looking so forward to Halloween this year is that it falls on a Saturday. This really gets the adults involved because -– let’s be honest –- no rational person wants to dress like Winnie the Pooh on a Tuesday.

As for me, I’m keeping it simple this year. I learned my lesson the last time I dressed up for Halloween, which was, coincidentally, the last time it fell on a Saturday. My wife was Sonny and I was Cher. I couldn’t have possibly made an uglier woman, and when the initial shock and laughter of it all wore off at our family Halloween party, I was left hugely uncomfortable and unable to sit down in a manner that did not reveal all of my body parts. To boot, I found it impossible to carry on a moderately serious conversation. A question as simple as, “So, how’s school?” cannot be answered when it is asked by a hairy 6’3” man in a dress and lipstick.

In trying to decide my costume for this year, my wife recommended – because of my omnipresent beard – that I go as the bearded lady. But I nixed that idea immediately. Instead I went to the store over the weekend and, frustrated by the audacity of $50 costumes that you’d only wear once, bought a $7 ship captain’s hat.

I have no other parts of the outfit. I don’t even own any white clothes. But this is my new Halloween philosophy: Buy a hat, and work around it. And hope that nobody asks what you’re supposed to be. Since I’ll be rolling with the cutest cat and bumblebee ever, I don’t think anyone will care.