It’s hard to blame Chris Douglas-Roberts for being proud of his collegiate career. Even as the NCAA declared the Tigers’ 2007-08 season “vacated“, he was still part of a program that, over two seasons, went 71-6 and went to two Elite Eights. Hooray, Tigers, hooray.

(Aw, he’s SOOO CUUUUTE! Who’s that cute kitty gonna rip my larynx out with one swipe? I said WHO’S that cute kitty??)

But while most athletes who want to honor their alma mater do something like buy memorabilia or get tattoos, CDR (as the kids call him) decided to take things one step further and raise bengal tigers in his house. This makes sense because WAIT WAIT WAIT… he’s raising bengal tigers in his own house?! Multiple? Plural? Tigers with an S? Oh yeah, that should work out beautifully.

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Over the past year or so, Twitter has emerged as a great way for athletes and celebrities to build a connection to and communicate with their fans. It’s easy, it’s free, it breaks down the middleman of the media - with all their pesky tough questions and biases - and it can be as much of a one-way or two-way street as one pleases. Even as a business tool, it can help athletes build brand awareness and loyalty amongst fans, helping at the negotiating table with potential sponsorship opportunities and perhaps even with contracts.

(Standard NFL punishment for Twitter infractions.)

Unless, of course, you do it wrong. The thing about Twitter is that everything you say on it goes out for the entire world to see, and stays there.  And undoubtedly, such things tend to be found at the worst possible times - for the average Joe, that means when potential employers are doing due diligence or when an ex’s friend happens across something unflattering you drunkenly, angrily Tweeted on a Saturday night at 3AM (uh, oops). Of course, with an athlete the stakes are higher. Especially when you’re a Washington Redskins scrub who hasn’t even played a game, who called out his team’s fans as “dimwits.” Who’s the dimwit here, exactly?

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Normally, you don’t see a broadcast booth spend a plurality of a football game raving about the “time of possession” statistic. Then again, normally, you don’t see a team win said battle by a full 30 minutes of game time, which is precisely what Miami did to Indianapolis last night. And then again, you don’t normally see a team control the ball for fewer than 15 minutes of the game… and win anyway.

(”Okay, so you just scored the go-ahead touchdown. Allow me to retort: BOOOO THUMBS DOWN TO YOU BOOOOOOO!”)

But lo and behold, thanks to the quickest of quick-strike offenses, the Colts did exactly that; thanks to touchdown drives of 1, 6, and 4 plays, Indianapolis prevailed in Miami, 27-23. Indeed, the Colts’ longest drive of the night was a 9-play drive that led to a 2nd quarter field goal; on the other side of the field, the Fins had exactly one shorter drive: an 8-play, 25-yard drive that ended in a punt. After that, literally every drive of theirs was 9 plays or longer. That’s the longest shortest drive since [ERROR WE ARE NOT ELIAS SPORTS BUREAU CLIENTS ABORT, RETRY, FAIL?].

Ah, but without turnovers, time of possession is effectively meaningless. Read more…

Quick: who’s #4 on the Utah Jazz’s all-time list of most games played? It goes John Stockton, Kark Malone, Mark Eaton, and… well, you probably already read the headline and figured it out. It’s one of the largest, slowest players in NBA history: the one, the only Greg Ostertag!

(Awww, why are the glacial white guys playing against each other? They should be teaming up! When are we going to stop doing this to each other?)

We bring him up not because we merely like celebrating the dinosaurs of the league - though we do enjoy that - but because the Ostertag Era may not be over just yet. Despite not having played in years (and not having been especially productive while actually playing), Ostertag’s got his eyes on a comeback, right in his native land of Texas.

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Like many men of my generation, I once went through a brief & regrettable pro wrestling phase. Mine happened during my sophomore year of college, 1999-2000. It was the age of nu-metal and rap rock; just some months before, I voluntarily attended a Limp Bizkit/Staind concert (10/12/99, Kansas City, MO, in case you want to dig up a setlist). In my defense, I was merely a product of the times, and was not yet wise in the ways of such things as “taste” or “culture” or “bars” or “girls.”

(Ladies…)

But even though my dalliance with the then-WWF was fleeting, I have remained somewhat interested in the elaborate ongoing storylines of the WWE, both kayfabe and real. Occasionally, a name passes through the news that I still recognize from my days as a wrestling fan and I take note, equal parts embarrassed and proud that I still recognize these names nine years after last giving a damn about pro wrestling for reasons other than to mock it.

But when you take that familiar name and combine it with an amount of drugs that would make Chris Benoit cringe (were he alive today and not, you know, burning in Hell for all eternity), you better believe I’ll do more than just take note…I’m gonna blog about it!

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Doubtless, you’ve heard about the perils facing the Jacksonville Jaguars and other teams who have failed so miserably in their ticket sales for the 2009 season that they’re facing a season-long blackout. Well, nobody really wants that - fans want to be able to see their local team, of course, and franchises would obviously love to sell out by any means necessary. But that’s not the road several teams are on, so here comes the misery.

(”This touchdown was yesterday!”)

Not so fast, though, says the NFL; they’re willing to provide the games for free viewing after all, what with this lousy economy and all. There’s just one teeny tiny little detail that we’re sure nobody’s going to have a problem with; these games won’t exactly be, y’know, live.

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Scene: a lavish, stately office. Pictures of old players and other assorted football memorabilia adorn the walls and shelves. A sharply-dressed man sits at a chair near his desk, smiling.

Man: Hello, folks. Welcome to my office. I’m NFL commissioner Roger Goodell, and I’d like to help you see what goes on in my day to day operations. I get a bad rap as a disciplinarian sometimes, but I don’t want some caricature to be the only side of myself that people get to see. So let me take you on a tour of my day to day business.

(”This microphone? Pay it no mind. This is all normal.”)

As you’ll see, this is my office, and–ah! Here’s my favorite picture. This is Elroy “Crazy Legs” Hirsch. One of the league’s very first superstars. Heck of a guy, too. (The phone rings.) Ah, my first phone call of the day. I’m sure it’s nothing; most of my calls actually are. Let me scoop that up. Yes, this is Mr. Goodell. Oh, hello. Yes, I’m just filming a documentary about a usual day, so I’m free for visitors. Okay, send him on in. Wait, Secretary, I forgot to ask–Secretary? Hello? I guess she hung up. Oh well, no matter. Let’s keep going.

Say, do you hear something rumbling? Read more…

As we all well know, a full 80% of SbB’s readership are dope boys and crack pushers [The previous statement is obviously false. The author went through a “rap phase” when he was 18 and every now and then, this type of stuff comes out. Our apologies.–ed], and as all pushers know, the NUMBER ONE RULE of dealing drugs is you don’t get high on your own supply. Everyone knows that.

(Wine, fennel salt, and Megadeth. Sounds like all the ingredients for a helluva Tuesday.)

We get the feeling, though, that Bode Miller doesn’t have that discipline in mind. No, he’s not selling cocaine or anything like that, but considering his reputation as Mr. Party Boy (no, not him), his latest plans to start a winery seem a little transparent.

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Roger Goodell deserves credit for one thing: he’s not afraid to push anybody around. In his short tenure as Commissioner, he’s already made examples of Chris Henry, Pacman Jones, and Chad Ochocinco as targets of heavy punishment, and doubtless there are plenty of NFL players more carefully toeing the party line for it.

(How can you not want this back?! The London Monarchs were incredible!)

What he hasn’t done as much, though, is go after the underperforming franchises in the league. That seems likely to change, though, considering the slumping monetary performance of so many teams and the resultant threats of blackout and relocation.

But threatening to put a team in London? Soon? Yikes.

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Good: winning your first game of the football season. Not so good: doing so against unheralded Navy. Bad: Only winning by four. Worse: Being the #1 quarterback prospect in the nation two years ago, only to be thoroughly outquarterbacked by Navy’s Ricky Dobbs, whom nobody had even heard of before Saturday.

(Oh dear.)

Ah, but Terrelle Pryor likes to save the worstest for last.  The Ohio State quarterback, whom some OSU fans unironically refer to as “LeBron in Cleats,” played yesterday’s contest with decorated eyeblacks. That’s nothing new or out of the ordinary; Reggie Bush saluted his home area code of 619, and Tim Tebow famously cites Bible passages like John 3:16 and Philippians (shortened to “Phil” for brevity’s sake) 4:13 on his.

But shouting out Michael Vick? Um, that’s a new one.

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