A paragraph today

Ed Asner looked handsome and aged in a simple tuxedo, his 82 year-old frame reinforced by a mahogany colored cane. But his wit remains nimble, unharmed by time, very much like the Santa he played in the movie Elf. An almost jumbo-tron screen with a cartoon face in the left corner hovered high behind him on the stage at the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC. Eyes squinting and subtle sweat beading from the lights above, Asner introduced the audience to a video clip of Will Ferrell, who that night was awarded the fourteenth Mark Twain Prize for Humor (and was, as Ferrell would later note, the eleventh Caucasian recipient). Then he introduced them to Tim Meadows, also there to honor Ferrell. Meadows and Ferrell fortified a late 1990s cast of Saturday Night Live that preceded an era of pedestrian comedy on the 36 year-old show. Meadows too emerged with dapper flare: a black tux, his white shirt collar corralled by a black Windsor knot, thick-rimmed glasses and a less-salt-more-pepper goatee divided attention drawn to his face. The mostly middle-aged crowd--dressed in attire saved for evening affairs at the Kennedy Center--brought its brief applause to an end. "Wow...I know what you're thinking," Meadows deadpanned. "What's Don Cheadle doing here?"

Costa Rica from the road

We went to Costa Rica. Got back last night. We roamed the coastline for a week looking for surf around Playa Tamarindo, a beach town that succeeds, if you want it to, in making turistas de Norte Americanos feel comfortable in southern Central America. At the northwestern perch of the country, Tamarindo occupies Costa Rica’s westernmost point along the Pacific, on a peninsula that hooks downward like the trigger of a hand-grenade. The volume of rain that falls during October should simply rinse away the mountainsides. Approaching from beyond—from the valleys and offshore—dark, bulbous clouds empty like watering cans until they are on top of you, rain pelting you with the force of a garden hose in close proximity. The sea turns murky, especially near the rivermouths, where sand and sediment and surely varying quantities of sewage from upriver color the near shore waters a suspicious brown. But the fields where the bulls gnaw grass, and the jungles where the monkeys swing and the furtive big cats hunt—the roots that keep the mountainside in tact—grow into a deep, hydrated green for miles. Now is the wet season; the local guide Flash—a stoner whose nickname derived solely from his Caucasian features—says you knew that before you came, so no complain, man, we surf.

This part of Costa Rica, known unendearingly as Tamagringo, owns a visible influence of western tourism. You probably knew that before you came. A hundred yards from our base at Witch’s Rock Surf Camp, a tiny strip mall houses an HSBC branch, the England-based global banking giant, and a neon Subway sign glows where Jared sought a slimmer self through five dollar footlongs. English is as much of a second language there as Spanish is here—although not formally recognized, public notices often serve warnings in both tongues. All over town, cheeseburgers “as big as your head” don’t taste like authenticity. Lots of light skinned folks travel here to try surfing, search for better waves than they find at home, or to drink on top of a different bar stool. Other parts of the world could be less familiar to Americans.

But one only needs to take to the roads to find elements of life that are steadfastly un-American. Tamarindo is about an hour drive from Liberia airport, an easier arrival alternative than San Jose. (The Freds, a father/son duo from San Clemente, California, drove five hours from San Jose around landslides and over washed out roads.) Double yellow lines, pedestrian right-of-way, dog leash laws and the police that enforce them in the States inflict no similar version of civil order on the roads of Costa Rica. Vans packed with tourists, luggage and surfboard bags strapped to the roof, regard the confines of opposite lane traffic as nonexistent. Shitty Kia 4x4s and dented Toyota sedans with jet black tinted windows pass parades of rusting dual-axle flatbed trucks and whining scooters at 100 kilometers an hour as oncoming traffic grows larger with speed. Stopped school buses solicit no more than a slight tapping of the brakes—an otherwise costly offense in the first world. Soaked locals exert as much ownership of the road as drivers—shoulders as we know them are nowhere to be found. A parent shuttles his child wearing no helmet on the top tube of a bicycle past an aging ranch hand smoking a cigarette, teaching his horse to Spanish step on the side of the road. Pedestrians walk the edge of the macadam, umbrellas open, moving for no vehicles. Dogs crisscross the freeway during lulls in traffic, trudging through ankle-deep mud in the roadside trenches, seeming to have evolved enough to dodge death like Frogger at the arcade. But vultures drift above, wings spread as wide as a human is tall, waiting for a misstep. In the States, there is a hierarchy to the roads: bikes yield to humans and cars yield to both, and law enforcement is quick to remind you. But Costa Ricans enjoy less structure; rather, pedestrian, cyclist, driver, chicken, and dog demand their piece of the pavement equally.

This minor absence of regulation feels freeing from a New York City life chaperoned by cops wielding rifles, clearly delineated bus lanes, signs, crosswalk signals, orange tollbooth cones, so many, many signs. It reminds you that beings can, at times, function without menial ordinances. Left to their own devices, cars will pass others safely despite painted lines, students will reach school on time, dogs will learn not to become road kill, and surfing instructors will only fall asleep after smoking herb.

Surf as I surf

Back in 2009-2010, pro surfer Fred Patacchia and his friend Andrew Oliver set out to create a website that would give a more authentic take on pro surfing on the top Association of Surfing Professionals' world tour.

They were great at it. Patacchia had access--he was a competitor who dealt with the same travel and contest and sponsorship bullshit everyone else did--and provided a unique perspective that only a surfer on tour could. He and Oliver had morphed in different type of media, one that the surfers trusted and enjoyed talking to.

But it costs some jingle. And when Patacchia and Oliver chose to scuttle INS dot com, they left a lot of surf fans jonesing for more. It made sense. The demands of creating web content and the costs to do so on an a regular basis grew too much, Patacchia said so when I interviewed him once.

They produced some unbelievably candid and insightful videos--from Joel Parkinson's recollection on the 2009 season that he dominated only to bust his ankle between events and to lose the world championship at the final contest of the year in Hawaii to his boy Mick Fanning, to interviews of surfer and shapers that hadn't been given much thought, Patacchia and Oliver shared their connection to the realm of elite competitive surfing.

They have nearly 200 videos still posted on their Vimeo page that will eat an entire day's worth of productivity. But the most useful video they ever posted is called "J Bay Round One Perspectives." It's under five minutes long, from 2010 at South Africa's annual ASP contest. The details they extract from the late Andy Irons, two-time world champ Mick Fanning, and recently ASP-estranged back-sider Bobby Martinez are the type of knowledge NFL coaches couldn't dream of receiving from their Sunday opponents. On screen they carve through overhead-plus Jeffreys Bay point break waves, and on the voice-over they open-up on heat strategy, wave and board selection, style, and wind.

And you get to learn from it.

Insurfnews.com - J Bay Round One Perspectives from Andrew Oliver on Vimeo.

What is J-O-B?

(Note: if you don't surf, this will bore you.)

Lately there's been a stir in the world of professional competitive surfing. The last couple of years have seen mediocre surf conditions at borderline above-average waves, rumors of breakaway tours to compete with the Association of Surfing Professionals' World Tour, and complicated rule changes that weren't easily understood at first. But the ASP, ripe with curious timing, just announced that it would be adding a twelfth event. In Fiji, next season, where it had an event for several years, the last in 2008.

Two weeks ago, a major swell hit Fiji and a sqaud of upper echelon talent trekked across the South Pacific to ride it. The group included Mark Healey, Bruce Irons, Kohl Christenson, Dane Gudauskas, and so on. And Kelly Slater, the only of the group competing on the World Tour. The swell's arrival conflicted with the early days of the ASP's Jeffreys Bay contest in South Africa. Slater chose to surf Fiji. He wasn't the only one to no-show; Bobby Martinez and Dane Reynolds stayed home too.

An outbreak of debate ensued, including whether surfers should be able to skip events, and how competitive surfing is suffering its dying throes, and thank god it is, etc. But what I found most interesting was a discussion on professionalism. To that end, a fellow writer I know named Tet Endo wrote a post for TheInertia.com that cuts to the "pro" in surfing: the absence of professionalism. Endo asks, somewhat rhetorically, if a surfer has lost the competitive drive, "should he be allowed to simply show up when he chooses when there are hundreds of guys fighting tooth and nail for a spot on the World Tour?" Endo's answer, and mine too? No. But while I agree with some points of his case, not so with Endo's assertion that "the very nature of surfing is antithetical to professionalism."

Yes, the history of surfing stems from an outsider culture--composed of pariahs uninterested in mainstream society. But that's not so much true anymore. Look out my Times Square office window onto the Quiksilver store with videos of Slater, Reynolds, and ASP veteran Jeremy Flores ripping Mexican pointbreaks on a bigscreen. The days of surfers living in VW buses, surviving on loose change, are long gone. (That's not so say there aren't those guys--just watch the clip of the kneeboarder at Tourmaline in Cy Sutton's and Ryan Burch's flick "Stoked & Broke.") Today it's big money. Enough money that some make it their job--at which point they become professionals. That's the definition. And at that point, they should behave like it's their job. Which both Endo and I agree hasn't happened in regards to the Jeffreys Bay event.

Trains of thought on this tend to fall less on the predictable competitive vs. soul surfing side of the tracks. Surfer is popular now and the divergent opinions to it aren't concrete. I'm a clear example of that. I genuinely love surfing. I'm dedicated to it; its one of three things my life revolves around (family, job, surfing--in a variety of orders). I surf (mostly) year-round where I live. Crowded lineups suck. But people interested in surfing means money in my pocket as a journalist who covers it. Conflicted? Something like that... But when a company builds its business model around you, you're a professional.

Endo knows that. "Reynolds and Slater don’t need to show up in South Africa," he wrote. "They are already heroes, and more importantly, they know who their real organ grinders are. As long as they dance for Quiksilver, they are the best surfers in the world."

And as long as Quiksilver takes them to the dance, they are professionals. Acting like it wouldn't hurt.

That said, who really gives a shit? Go surfing.

He's talking again

I didn't make it through the Hollywood Reporter story on Keith Olbermann. About a quarter of the way in, hearing Olbermann's loquacious drone from the page, only Ben Affleck came to mind. And I stopped caring about Keith Olbermann, despite sharing a considerable chunk of his ideological slant. The guy is a character. A Times Square artist's sketch where the head covers 2/3 of the page and the body only an inch. A cartoon.

In the same way Family Guy's humor took a hit in my mind after Southpark clubbed it with manatees, Affleck reminds folks too never take Keith Olbermann too seriously.

The beautiful has been damned

It seems all the opposition to the damming of the Baker and Pascua rivers that slice through the rugged Patagonia region of southern Chile hasn't worked. This week the Chilean government approved a plan to make the $7 billion project a reality.

"The HidroAysen project envisages five dams to ... generate 2.75 gigawatts of power for Chile's booming economy," writes Australia's Sydney Morning Herald in an article from tomorrow. (It's always tomorrow Down Under.) "The government has championed the dams as vital to poverty alleviation and growth, but public opinion has split, with many saying the project is unnecessary and will devastate an ecological haven."

An Ipsos poll puts 61 percent of average Chileans at odds with the hydroelectric dams. In Coihaique, where a government panel voted 11 to one abstention in favor of the dams, the SMH reports police arrested several protesters among roughly a thousand who were evidently unconvinced by the government's three-year environmental review of the project. Not very surprising considering that the members of the review panel were political appointees of President Sebastian Pinera.

According to the Associated Press, analysts predict Chile will have to triple its energy output in the next 15 years to meet the demands of its growing and progressing society. The rivers in that part of the country are seen as a way to increase output without disrupting a huge human community. Indeed, only three dozen families would be uprooted, says the AP, but "the dams would drown 14,000 acres (5,700 hectares), require carving clear-cuts through forests, and eliminate whitewater rapids and waterfalls that attract ecotourism. They also would destroy habitat for the endangered Southern Huemul deer: Fewer than 1,000 of the diminutive animals, a national symbol, are believed to exist." The electricity would travel through a series of power lines at the bottom end of the continent--another point of contention is the infrastructure required to move energy from point A to point B--bound for Santiago and other urban areas some 1500 miles north.

Yet, the fact is Chile has to sustain itself somehow; it's energy dependence is increasingly volatile. It imports 97 percent of the fossil fuels it uses and regional instability can affect those imports, says the AP. And its reliance on domestic hydroelectricity strains reservoirs during periods of drought.

My friends over at The Cleanest Line, the retailer Patagonia's blog, have their own take on the news. The "region of southern Chile is considered one of the world's last, great wildernesses," they write. "Less destructive alternative energy sources are abundant, and the Chilean government may not fully appreciate the significant tourism revenue opportunities that could be gained by safeguarding the natural grandeur of this spectacular area." While it's clear a smart energy policy is needed, southern Chile is not where to start.

Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., JFK's nephew, a loud environmentalist and lawyer for the National Resources Defense Council opposes the plan. So does part-time South American resident and full-on writer Patrick Symmes, who wrote at length about the project in the June 2010 issue of Outside magazine--a story called "The Beautiful and the Dammed."

I can see how a bevy of Americans angry with Chile might send the wrong message to ambivalent Chileans, given the puzzling disparity between our national energy consumptions. Lord knows if defeating shitty policy was as simple as painting a few signs, chanting in unison, and fronting bail money, the U.S. would be in a better place right now. (As would Egypt, Libya, Syria, Qatar, and so on.) But at what point do we protect nature because it's the wilderness and other beings live there? What of the habitats lost? Or the livelihoods erased? Not to mention the tourism dollars spent elsewhere.

The Atacama Desert, on the Chilean end of the altiplano, the highest expanse of plateau on Earth, that covers most of Bolivia and parts Peru and Chile and is partially settled, could surely be tapped for solar and wind power, a point RFK, Jr., has made. Other options exist, although they mostly involve burning rocks: three coal-burning power plants have recently been approved for construction. But if they're going to compound the environmental damage that comes with producing energy, why not keep it where development has already taken root? Why fuck with paradise?

I've never been to Patagonia; it's #2 on my travel list, behind any island in the South Pacific with warm water, no TVs, head-high surf, and a tiny population. But from everything I've read, watched, and heard from friends who have visited, Patagonia's pure majesty seems cause enough to preserve it, regardless of economic and energy alternatives. Every country has the right to employ its natural resources to advance its own future. Unfortunately, in this instance, Chile's resources happen to lie in a backyard thats inherently more attractive than others. My opposition is staked upon looks alone.

Hopefully, before it's too late, Chile will reevaluate its energy options, and try to keep its environmental impact to a minimum. To turn back, in a sense. "Everyone has to, sooner or later," writes Symmes. "Not every future is worth having."

Conservacion Patagonica was established in 2000 and is working to establish the Patagonia National Park--a breadth of diverse terrain the approximate size of Yosemite in California. Visit their site for more info on the park and efforts to defeat the proposed dams: http://www.conservacionpatagonica.org/index.htm

Football, a son and his faithful mother

Imagine you're 17 again. Instead this time around, it's 1973. You're 5'11", a buck-60--a sturdy body on your high school football team in that era. Your easy demeanor and cloud-white smile buckle the knees of female classmates you don't even know. You're not the star, but you circle in relatively close orbit. You're ready to play tonight.

Then, on one play, it's over--the game, your body, your dreams. You stumble towards the ground on a routine tackle at the line of scrimmage. On the way down, an opponent's knee clips your chin, slamming your head in reverse, severing all the vital connections your spine had with your body below the neck. You lay still, but not by choice. A coach, maybe a ref or a teammate: they all say it'll be ok. You just got your bell rung. Give it a minute; you'll be back on your feet.

You never return to your feet. The rest of your days--which doctors across the state will predict to be small in number, but in fact will span some 40 years--are spent horizontally, pissing through a tube, your mom feeding you meals and changing your clothes as she ceases to exist for anything except your total care. Your father--your mother's second husband after being widowed before you were born--and half-brother die from emphysema and cancer. Instead of college, you read newspapers and watch Jeopardy. Friends visit at first, but the visits temper, at least until later in your life, when they realize you're still alive. Some gather the stones to come back again. They're uncomfortable, unsure how to describe how good their lives have been while you never left this room that looks exactly like it did in high school. They have families, careers, the ability to walk. You grew a mustache and drink from a straw. You ask them about everything.

Because you're not bitter. Because while it looks like you've been forsaken by the god your mother prays to daily and sits with weekly, he has blessed you with a parent others can't even dream of. A mother whose love is so devout, and so true, that she'll wipe your adult ass every time you shit your pants. Kiss your forehead and tell you she's proud of you. A mother whose days are built upon your unbroken smile--and whose pride for you, despite your shocking limitations, never nears faltering. A mother who never considers giving up. All she asks in return--from God, not from you--for total dedication to you both, for which she regrets not a second, is that her life outlasts yours by a single day. She wants nothing more than to be the last person you need.

You finally succumb to an infection at a specialty care facility, having bested countless bladder stone and kidney aggravations over the years. Your mom survives you--by more than a day, but not by much. She's pushing 90 now. She wanders the house at night. Old eyes failing, her ears hear sounds of a past life--one where your feet touched the floor. But her prayers were answered. She was there for you until the end, and then she was called home, hopefully to join you in a place where your family's Earthly suffering eased. Because to a merciful god, and most certainly a Buddha, you've earned it.

That's the approximate story of John McClamrock from Texas, called "Still Life," told by Skip Hollandsworth in the May 2009 issue of the Texas Monthly. Peter Gammons selected it to be in the 2010 Best American Sports Writing, a book he guest edited.

I read a lot--books, the Internet, magazines. This knocked me on my ass. It especially knocked my friend Ruben on his ass; he's played full-time caretaker to his recovering mother for the last year plus.

I can’t recall any piece where unconditional love was less a cliché and more a matter of fact. Hollandsworth carried me to that Dallas home, in to Johnny’s room, down the hall from where his mother Ann’s prayer cards lay beside her bed. As age advanced, I watched her ride that stationary bike and lap the block with power-walk strides. Saw Johnny’s room remain untouched for 40 years. Felt his weight as Ann rolled him over to stymie bedsores. Witnessed two lives of struggle conclude with incomparable grace.

The McClamrock's story involves sports only at its periphery, where the lone significance of football was how one moment fundamentally altered the way the family lived. Hollandsworth tells the tale in a way that made me feel not sorrow, but rather grateful for the blessings in my life, for my mother's greatness, and reminded me that lousy circumstances don't have to hatch a lousy perspective. He showed the amazing capacity mothers have for self-sacrifice. If anyone required a spirit of such immeasurable caliber as Ann McClamrock, it was her son John.

Mothers like Ann do well to show us that, as she once told someone, "we can either act hopeless or we can make the best out of the life we have been given."

What better time to remember then Mother's Day weekend?

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The NHL told me history would be made

Last night is why I watch hockey--why my love for the game hasn't waned in 25 years.

I often describe the NHL playoffs as a kind of holy season, where normal activities are briefly suspended for nightly devotions to hockey. In ritualistic fashion, like Christmas or Hanukkah, gifts are given, and no matter how much you shake the box, each game is a surprise. Only instead of one morning or eight nights, it lasts for eight weeks.

Two incredible first round games last night. The first, a must win for the Chicago Blackhawks who, down 3 games to none to the President's Trophy-winning Vancouver Canucks, could have seen the Stanley Cup evicted from the United Center. The second, an early rubber match for the lead in a series between #2 seed San Jose Sharks and the #7 Los Angeles Kings. Both perfect examples of why changing the channel, despite grotesque leads, is unwise.

Chicago will visit Canada for at least one more game. After a 7-2 win, they deserve it. The Hawks dripped swagger from the opening faceoff, exerting the attitude and physical dominance that led to series wins over Vancouver the previous two years. Forfeiting the Cup, tonight anyway, would be postponed. So supreme were the Hawks that no player on their roster finished with a negative plus/minus rating; Vancouver had none above even. And while Chicago's big guns finally fired--Patrick Sharp with two goals, Patrick Kane a pair of helpers, and Jonathon Toews and Marian Hossa each with an assist--success centered on two vital elements: the Hawks defense and the unexpected brilliance of Dave Bolland.

Game 4 was the Bolland's first appearance in the lineup since suffering a concussion on March 9th. On Tuesday he was without equal. The center-iceman wasn't expected to do much, besides shutdown the prolific Sedin brothers--a challenging enough task for players already in postseason rhythm. Not only did Bolland smother the Sedin twins, who combined for one goal and a -7, he added a goal and three assists. He was +4. His lousiest stat was that he lost five of 11 faceoffs. Bolland's play reminded Vancouver that his was the team that had won everything.

He had plenty of support too. Leading into the first round--which Chicago made only after the Dallas Stars dropped their last game of the season that would've leapfrogged them into a match-up with the Canucks--the Hawks relied precariously on their defense for offense. In their final three games (vs. St. Louis then Detroit, twice), the Hawks' defense factored into nine of 11 goals, posting five goals and seven assists. The spirit of Bobby Orr is alive in Chicago.

Brian Campbell, once expected to be the premier blueliner in the Windy City, smoked goalie Roberto Luongo in the second stanza. Seventeen seconds later, actual premier blueliner Duncan Keith did the same, taking a pass from Kane through the slot, winding up, and burying a slapshot. The characteristically reserved Keith exploded, screamed to the crowd, celebrated with a sliding windmill. His went down as the game-winner. Chris Campoli and Niklas Hjalmarsson found the scoresheet with assists. The absence of stalwart defenseman Brent Seabrook, who was leveled by the Canucks' Raffi Torres in game 3, impaired no one.

A game 5 encore by the Hawks in Vancouver is not guaranteed. But for one night, for one game, there was no question who still reigned as Lord Stanley's defenders.

The late game Tuesday evening was the third between San Jose and Los Angeles, having moved to southern California after splitting the first two in San Jose. Sharks coach Todd Mclellan was justifiably angered by his team's game 2 flop. Following a squeaker in the opening game that the Sharks took in overtime, the Kings abused them 4-0 to even the series. "I thought they were a much more competitive team than we were, " he told reporters. "We can talk about systems and what we did well or did not do well on the power play, penalty kill, faceoffs, but it has to start with the competitiveness."

Game 3 started no better, arousing thoughts of prior Sharks playoff collapses. The Kings took a 2-0 lead in the first five minutes and Michal Handzus scored a third with under two minutes left in the period. The Sharks were flat, off the mark; the Kings commanding and syncopated. Their gap widened to 4-0 early in the second period. Goalie Antti Niemi's night was over. (Niemi, who backstopped the Hawks' Cup victory last year, came to SJ in the off season.) Backup Antero Nittymaki filled the pipes with a change of fortune.

The Sharks soon scored one. A second. Then a third. Momentum had abandoned the Kings. The attack relented, briefly, when Ryan Smythe put the Kings up 5-3 on a quick feed from Jarret Stoll. So defensively brain dead on the play was Nic Wallin that the Sharks coaching staff may have wondered if the defenseman had, in fact, been playing in the NHL for the last decade. The shift was short-lived.

Ryan Clowe posted his second goal of the game for San Jose. Minutes later, game 1 overtime hero Joe Pavelski capped what was only the fourth comeback of such magnitude in the history of the NHL postseason. In a fit of cruel coincidence, the most recent had been by the Kings, who in 1982 rallied from a 5-0 deficit to beat the Edmonton Oilers 6-5.

Neither club found the back of the net in the third period. Momentum abandoned them both. To overtime they went.

And just 3:09 into the extra frame, Patrick Marleau, tearing down the left wing, bodies descending upon the net, fed Devon Setoguchi, who ripped a wrist shot past Kings goalie Jonathan Quick. The comeback was complete. The secondary assist that set up the game winning breakout left the stick of Nic Wallin--a fitting reparation.

Two games, two teams, illustrating that things are truly different in the playoffs. That cliches originate from reality. That parity lives. That the intangibles of the game--momentum, desire, urgency, luck--are as hard to quantify as they are to overstate. But they are exactly the reason none of these teams will depend on their last game as an indicator of what's to come. Because it is, after all, still the playoffs.

Big League Tweeting

Freelance work is inherently unstable. I'm experiencing this now as my two-year stint at a travel magazine is about to conclude this month. In my job hunt, I came across a position for a social media editor for MLB.com that, as part of the application, provided a list of eight sample headlines (not pertaining to baseball) and asked applicants to provide the responses they'd write if they were posting on Twitter for MLB.com.

While I've been on Twitter Since October '09 (@J_DiNunz) I only ever posted links to my published stories, like the weekly clips I write for ESPN.com. But last week, I decided to have some fun, donating my unsolicited commentary to the NHL Playoffs tweet-a-thon. My sorry number of followers has increased modestly since Wednesday.

I unfortunately just found this job last night, although it's been on MLB.com for nearly two weeks. So, despite the minimal likelihood that I'll get called about this job, I felt in good enough tweeting-form to at least catch eye. I could be absolutely wrong. Still, I gave it a go--and below are the headlines with my replies underneath.
---

TWITTER HEADLINES

Handle: @J_DiNunz

1. Carlos Beltran exits game with bruised knee

Late inning injury sends Mets’ Beltran to DL, knee brace to minors

2. Charlie Sheen is arrested for jaywalking

Charlie Sheen found guilty, is sentenced to another season of 2 & a ½ men

3. Yankees, Zack Greinke agree to four-year deal

4-yr deal for lovable Greinke ensures slightly less Evil Empire

4. Kate Plus Eight is will run for another season

Kate plus 8 minus Jon eye return to your living room

5. Baseball celebrates Jackie Robinson Day

MLB players wearing #42 in warm-ups to honor integration legend; Mo Rivera forgets to change jersey

6. NFL lockout ends

NFLPA & owners reach deal to remain wealthy

7. 10% off all MLB.com shop items.

Tough economy no match for 10% discount on MLB.com shop items

8. Donald Trump officially running for president

Trump makes 2012 bid official as casting begins for ‘Congressional Apprentice’

First takes

One of the more interesting, entertaining, and at times frustrating aspects of freelance writing is the unique approach in which editors shape your work. Some nail it right off, not changing your words as much as their arrangement--and including you in the process to ensure it retains both (a) an authentic tone (which is key when restructuring quotes) and (b) accuracy. Others, not so much.

I've been a news contributor for ESPN.com since late 2010, and writing for them generally since 2009, after I didn't get an editor job. Lemonade, friends. I cover action sports--surf, skate, skow, motoX, etc. Now, while I'm a sports fan at large, my particular well of insight is filled with hockey. Learning to skate at age 5, I laced up the skates for my first team at age 6. Twenty-four years later, you'll still find me on the ice at an admittedly unimpressive caliber. So, I began writing about the NHL for a two tiny Web sites a few years ago, even hammering out a short piece about the shocking durability of the Washington Capitals' Alex Ovechkin for the Washington Post when I lived in DC. (Guy is consistently tops in offense and hits.)

So, when I got my first hockey assignment for the NY Times in March, after several rejected pitches, I was--albeit characteristically subdued--amped. (Future stories w/NYT likely, I think.) My editor did a solid job structuring my clearly non-newspaper style into something resembling a soundly reported Times story. But seeing as it's playoff season in these parts, figured I'd post the first take here.
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The American Hockey League is not where Jonathan Cheechoo was supposed to be. But the expectations that come with winning the Maurice Richard Trophy as the National Hockey League’s top goal scorer are not easy to meet.

Following the NHL lockout, and with several rule changes in place to boost offense, Cheechoo’s 56 goals for the San Jose Sharks in 2005-2006 was tops in the league and double his career-best.

But Cheechoo’s success was short-lived. He led San Jose in goals the next year, yet his production sank in each subsequent season. Injuries mounted, his 140-game streak ended, and Cheechoo’s scoring touch vanished. In summer of 2008, “he underwent a double sports hernia procedure,” said San Jose general manager Doug Wilson. “That takes a while to come back from. And that set him back.”

Cheechoo had trouble keeping up, Wilson said, and because the rehab slowed him, couldn’t match the performance that became expected of him.

Cheechoo’s body is frailer than his optimism. He came to the Worcester Sharks bent on an NHL comeback. “The last couple of years weren’t very fun,” Cheechoo said. In Worcester he’s regrouping and remembering to enjoy playing. “The game is still the game of hockey. I always want to play at a high level.”

At the start of the 2010-2011 campaign, only the Dallas Stars invited Cheechoo to training camp. He made it through two preseason games. “I was hoping someone would take a chance on me,” Cheechoo said. “It just didn’t work out.”

Word of Cheechoo’s availability moved quickly. Worcester head coach Roy Sommer called him. “With his talent, at this level, he should be able to get things done here,” said Sommer. “We got a hold of him. He was in here the next day.”

To each other, Cheechoo and Sommer were known entities. San Jose drafted Cheechoo 29^th overall in 1998 as a teenager in the Ontario Hockey League. Two years later, he made his professional debut with the AHL’s Kentucky Thoroughblades under Sommer’s eye.

“I always respect what he did,” Cheechoo said. “He got me playing [in the NHL] and helped me make the transition to pro hockey.”

Cheechoo skated in 66 games for San Jose in 2002. The next season he remained for good, scoring 28 times. But Cheechoo and Sommer kept in touch and visited occasionally as their careers progressed. Seeing Cheechoo without an NHL deal, Sommer sought a mutually beneficial arrangement.

“He’s a special kid, when you look where he’s come from and the long road that he’s taken to get to the NHL. Then he kind of fell out of favor…had a rough year last year. I just thought this would be a good opportunity for him to get back in NHL if he did well here,” Sommer said.

Cheechoo currently leads Worcester in points (18 goals, 29 assists) despite missing over a week due to an upper body injury. The team sits one position away from a playoff spot and preserving Cheechoo is a priority down the stretch.

Cheechoo’s route back to the minors began last year, after San Jose traded him—along with Milan Michalek and a draft pick—to the Ottawa Senators for discontented winger Dany Heatley. Cheechoo only appeared in 61 games for Ottawa, amassing an non-prolific five goals, nine assists, and a -13 rating before being demoted to its AHL affiliate in Binghamton.

2009-2010 was by far Cheechoo’s worst in the NHL. Pucks stopped going in and he began second-guessing his decisions on the ice. “I hit a lot of posts. Goalies made some nice saves on me too. It’s one of those things where you’re gripping your stick a lot tighter. I wasn’t really relaxed and playing my type of game,” said Cheechoo.

At first, Cheechoo welcomed the change. “It was an exciting time in Ottawa, probably the closest place you’re going to get to my hometown,” said Cheechoo, whose family lives in Moose Factory, Ontario. “There were people at every game. It was nice to have that kind of support.”

He was unable to replicate his lone stellar season. “I lost a little confidence in myself,” said Cheechoo. “One or two stop going in, you start trying to get a little closer to the net, you’re easier to check and you take less shots. I think I tried to get too fine.”

The Senators released Cheechoo in the offseason. And as NHL training camps neared, uncertainty enveloped Cheechoo’s career. Then the chance to play hockey in Russia or Europe emerged—an option Cheechoo had no interest in pursuing. Playing in the NHL “was a goal of mine when I was a young kid and that hasn’t changed,” said Cheechoo.

Making it back to an NHL rink meant staying visible. “When you’re overseas you’re more out of sight. It’s harder for anyone to see you and pick you up. I wanted to take a chance here,” Cheechoo said.

Cheechoo is playing to be seen. During games he finds open ice with a composure not always found in the minors. Sommer praised Cheechoo’s experience of knowing how to position himself to score. “He just has a lot of poise when he gets the puck,” said Sommer. Adding that one problem is that teammates often aren’t ready for Cheechoo. “You think he’s going to shoot, he’ll pull the goalie, then he’ll slide it to a guy who has his hands up.”

Cheechoo has focused on improving what scouts have cited as is his primary weakness: speed. “He’s been working on foot explosiveness using ladders and hoops. Quick stop runs, with cones, for ten yards,” said Worcester head trainer Matt White, who’s monitored Cheechoo’s progress with strength and conditioning assistant Jaime Rodriguez. “His work ethic is second to none.”

Off the ice, Cheechoo provides valued experience to a team on the bubble. “He comes to the rink and if anything’s bothering him you’d never know it,” said Sommer. Cheechoo is “the first one here and last one to leave” the rink and the younger players notice that, Sommer added.

Cheechoo needs NHL scouts and general managers to notice too. “It takes a lot of work,” said Cheechoo. But, he said, “I know when I get the puck I can score.” Cheechoo and his agent are researching speed-training regimens for the off-season to help him return to NHL caliber.

For now, Cheechoo must settle for more sentimental honors. Cheechoo is from the Cree population in Ontario and will be inducted into the Little Native Hockey League’s hall of fame on March 12^th. “[He] has the skill, competitiveness, and dedication. The kids look up to him as a hero,” said Lloyd McGregor of the LNHL.

Cheechoo can’t attend the ceremony. He’ll be shooting for the playoffs—and, he hopes, the NHL. If Cheechoo’s fitness level reaches its best, said San Jose’s Wilson, “I would not count Jonathan Cheechoo out from playing in the league again.”

Sommer agrees. “You don’t score 56 goals in the NHL and not know what you’re doing.”