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It was a dark time for the National Basketball Association. With the fall of Agent Zero, the league beckoned for a new hero. A man who would seize the moment and capture the hearts of fans everywhere. A man who could excite the passions and the fervor reserved only for the legends of the game. Fortunately, the league did not have to wait long for its new savior to rise from the ashes.

Hailing from Goodwater, Alabama (pop. 1,633), Toronto Raptors forward Jamario Moon has eclipsed the Celtics juggernaut and the Knicks debacle to become this season’s biggest NBA story. His arrival comes not as many others’ have, with tales of glory and acclaim, but as the result of an international quest to achieve the impossible, to turn the improbable into reality.

As with most tales, the legend of Jamario Moon begins at the beginning. According to Henry Abbott, after an interesting excursion in the machine that is high-stakes high school basketball, Moon settled at Coosa Central High School in Rockford, Alabama, earning Second Team Class 4A All-State honors from The Birmingham News.

After the close of his high school career, Moon attempted to play ball for Mississippi State. Unfortunately, fate was not on his side and he was forced to take the court for Meridian Community College, where he again excelled, averaging 20 points and 8 rebounds a game.

After withdrawing from Meridian Community after one year, Moon declared for the 2001 NBA Draft. In an obviously regrettable lapse of judgment by those responsible, no team selected Moon despite nearly 60 selection opportunities. Undeterred, Moon set off on an incredible voyage that would send him to Rome (Ga.) and back, from Albany to Kentucky, from Mexico to Gary, Indiana. He even moonlighted with the Harlem Globetrotters. In five short years, Moon became a basketball vagabond, a nomad, a wanderer, an untold story of a basketball dream gone unfulfilled.

But on July 10, 2007, a day that will be forever celebrated, Jamario Moon signed a two-year contract with the Toronto Raptors. By merit of his performance during the Raptors’ free agent camp, the organization deemed him worthy of a shot at the NBA. The long arduous quest was over. The 27-year old Jamario Moon was headed to the world’s highest level of basketball competition.

Since establishing himself in the Raptors’ starting lineup, Moon has averaged over 8 points, 6 rebounds, 1 assist, and acquired a reputation for his energetic play. By taking a chance on a well-traveled basketball journeyman, the Toronto Raptors found a new starting forward and the NBA found its new hero.

This weekend brought yet another chapter in the state of Florida’s greatest rivalry: Florida State vs. the University of Florida (all apologies to the Florida Classic). Although the Gators won the main event, my beloved alma mater won enough small battles to claim an overall victory.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the FSU mens’ basketball team beat the UF basketball team of the same sex, 65-51. This is the second year in a row FSU has upset a higher-ranked Gator team and the first time the Noles have won in Gainesville since the early 1990s.

Also on the hardwood, the FSU womens’ basketball team defeated the UF womens’ team, 81-78. According to the official FSU sports website, the win was just the second for the Seminoles in Gainesville since the 1990-91 season. Congrats to the 20th-ranked FSU womens’ team.

Sadly, unfortunately, and much to my disappointment, the Gator football team whooped up on the Seminole football team Saturday, 45-12. In the midst of this horrific defeat, however, the Noles achieved two memorable victories.

1) Field goal kicker Gary Cismesia booted a 60-yard field goal, establishing both a new ACC and FSU record. I’ve seen kickers practice long kicks before games, but to accomplish a kick like that during a game is mighty impressive. On that kick alone, Cismesia should win the College Kicker of the Year Award.

2) Tim Tebow broke his hand during the game. I’m not sure how he did it, but while running in one of his 67 touchdowns, Tebow somehow broke his hand. While watching the game, I suggested Bobby Bowden insert a fourth string linebacker to take Tebow out Daniel LaRusso-style (sweep the leg!). Unfortunately, my suggestion went for naught. Despite his Superman-esque performance, knowing Tebow broke his hand is a nice consolation prize. Hopefully a replay will show an FSU defender gnawing on Tebow’s hand amongst a crowded scrum and cracking all of his precious phalangies.

In conclusion, not a bad weekend for Seminole sports. One expected win, one upset, one acknowledged outright butt whoopin’, and hopefully one permanently handicapped quarterback.

Go Noles.

For the second year in a row, Florida State defeated the University of Florida in basketball. Behind 20 points and 11 rebounds by senior forward Jason Rich, the Noles handed the Gators their first loss of the season, 65-51, and ended the Gators’ 24-game home winning streak.

Although this year’s game lacked the star power of last year’s match up (which featured NBA first round picks Joakim Noah, Al Horford, Corey Brewer, and Al Thornton), the game was still a big one for both teams. For the Gators, it meant revenge, state supremacy, and a way to prove themselves against quality non-conference competition. For the Noles, the game was a must-win in order to re-establish credibility following last week’s embarrassing losses to Cleveland State and the University of South Florida.

I’ll admit, I tuned in a little late. By the time I returned home from my Thanksgiving excursion, the game was already in the second half and the Noles were up by 15. Throughout the 13 minutes I watched however, the Gators never got within 10. Needless to say, I was quite pleased.

Therefore, continuing my tradition from last season, I’m handing out upright tomahawks for what I saw positive, and, because the Seminoles beat the Gators, I’m declining to hand out any upside down tomahawks for negative play.

Jason Rich – I have watched this guy for four years. I never thought he could bring a double-double like he did tonight. He is not that type of player. He is an average college forward with slightly above-average offensive rebounding skills. However, with the loss of Thornton, this year’s Noles have had to score by committee. Tonight Rich had the hot hand.

Controlling the Boards – Although FSU has seldom done well playing inside this season, the Noles were able to exploit the early foul trouble of Gator big man Marreese Speights and control the boards. Besides Rich’s 11 rebounds, two Noles had 6 rebounds, and two others had 5 each. Overall, the Noles had 37 rebounds to the Gators’ 22.

Ball Movement – I have a feeling this category will be commented on every time I watch the Seminoles this year. Last year, too often four Seminoles would stand around and watch Al Thornton attempt to take his defender off the dribble. There would be no ball movement and little to no movement by players without the ball. In order for the Seminoles to be successful this season, they have to move the ball around and find the open shooter or player streaking towards the basket. Tonight, they were able to do that, with guard Isiah Swann leading the way with 8 assists.

Overall, although there were mistakes and far too many turnovers, I was impressed. Hopefully, the momentum seized on the hardwood can translate into energy on the gridiron come Saturday afternoon.

My most loyal readers probably remember back in September when I wrote about an outpatient procedure I had done on my neck. That procedure was done in Brandon Regional Hospital in Brandon, Fl. Sadly, this hospital reached national notoriety Friday as it was where former Major League pitcher Joe Kennedy was pronounced dead.

Ex-Rays Pitcher Kennedy Dies (Tampa Bay Online)

Kennedy was only 28 years old.

It was a cold, dark, dreary Thanksgiving in 1990. I had just entered my teen years and knew little of the world around me. I knew there was something going on in the Middle East with some guy named Saddam, I knew the Arsenio Hall Show was cool, I knew Lisa Matthews made me feel different than the girls in school did, and after Thanksgiving I knew my life would never be the same. That was the year my eyes saw something so shockingly putrid, so horrible, to this day I still occasionally awake covered in sweat.

My eyes have seen a lot in their day. From the familiar to the foreign, from rainbows and sunrises to some Internet video of girls puking on each other (don’t ask – thanks, softball teammate!). Yet never have I been more disgusted and appalled then when I saw what I have posted below. Perhaps the worst thing to ever grace the small screen.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving, enjoy your turkey, and remember, it doesn’t matter how the bird got there, what matters is what kind of gravy you put on it. You hear that, Rob Zombie?

Exactly one year ago today, I wrote a column on my site informing the masses about the United States Basketball League. The USBL is the only publically-held professional sports league in America. It is the only league that the common fan can own a piece of the action.

Since I last reviewed the USBL, the stock price for a share of the league has fluctuated from 95 cents to 1.57 to its current November 20th price of 51 cents. Although the stock price has drastically dropped, I would still recommend the USBL as a great investment and consider the present an ideal time to buy.

Recently, the powers that be at the USBL have made a concentrated push to attract investors. They have recently both advertised in the Wall Street Journal and moved their headquarters to a more profitable location. These efforts, according to media reports, have been effective, as numerous investors have approached the league.

For those looking to do more than buy a few shares, the USBL has cut its cost for new franchises by 50% in the last year, from $200,000 to $100,000 dollars. Not a bad investment, when you consider most fast food restaurants usually cost between $50,000 and $100,000. And as a USBL franchise owner, you don’t have to worry about trans fat.

So why invest in the USBL? Because it was the original home to basketball legends Manute Bol, Spud Webb, Sun Ming Ming, and current Toronto Raptor Jamario Moon. Because a dozen NBA players have graduated from the USBL. Because fantasy players just aren’t real enough. Because you want an official reason to call a team “we”. Because what else are you going to do with 51 cents?

So check out the United States Basketball League at their home page www.usbl.com, and my previous post on the league, to include four more reasons to invest, at The Serious Tip and buy a part of the league.

(Note: I do not own any shares of the USBL, nor is this a paid endorsement. I just think it is cool to talk about owning a piece of a pro sports league.)

As a member of the male species, there are several subjects that serve as instant conversation starters when in the company of other males. Depending on location, any male can easily join in a discussion on sports, music, or sometimes politics and automatically be accepted among peers. While beneficial most of the time, sometimes being part of an accepted conversation on a “guy” subject can become a hindrance to fully enjoying a night on the town.

Personally, too often the antagonist in forcing me to regret “guy” knowledge is a drunken sports fan. We have all experienced the Drunken Sports Fan. The type of fan who insists on talking to you as you wish you were somewhere else. The type of fan lets you know exactly where he stands on every sports issue, whether you care or not.

The drunken sports fan creates a new unfamiliar set of problems for casual bar patrons like myself. Avoidance and escape, usually unfamiliar options for a male in a social scene, become the most paramount of notions. Whereas women have perfected the friend rescue tactic, sadly, men, or least not me, have not yet figured out how to bail out of an unwanted social situation. My Saturday night proved a perfect example why I must learn such a tactic.

Having worked most of the day Saturday, I didn’t feel up for an exciting night out. However, late in the evening, around 1 am or so, I decided to saunter to my local pool hall for a satisfactory mix of barley and hops. I walked in, found myself a place at the bar, and ordered an adult beverage. This particular establishment features three televisions above the bar, two of which were tuned to the nightly edition of SportsCenter.

So I was sitting there, minding my own business, watching some highlights, enjoying my tasty brew, when in came two girls, a short blonde, and her tall, also blonde, very attractive friend. (Here is where I must admit I have a weakness for tall attractive blondes. It’s my cross to bear.) These two girls apparently knew some of the other bar clientele and were immediately engaged in social banter. During her conversations however, I did catch the taller blonde sneaking a few gazes in my direction. Surmising the situation, I determined, if given the opportunity, a conversation between us was definitely in order.

To my opposite direction however, was a gentlemen completely engrossed in the SportsCenter broadcast. His enthusiasm for sports was easily apparent by his voiced approval or disgust at nearly every score that passed on the screen. At one point during his outbursts, he engaged the bartender on some aspects of football regarding my beloved alma mater. Of course, being drunk, he was obviously incorrect in his babbling. In a completely ill-fated move, I corrected him, not knowing I opened a Pandora’s Box of non-stop drunken sports analysis. For the next 30 minutes, he went on and on about how great his school was (they are a top-five ranked school), how great their conference was, how tough their schedule was, and how horrible the BCS is. On and on and on and on he went. As I tried to edge my chair away, he moved closer, barraging me with more inebriated opinion. All I could do was nod, mumble “uh-huh”, and hope the girl he was with would round him up and take him if not home, somewhere away from me.

As the alcoholic-impaired banter continued, I watched the tall blonde continue to socialize and eventually migrate over to a pool table with some friends. At least she hadn’t left and hope wasn’t completely lost. And the drunken college football commentary continued. At some point, I thought to myself, he had to run out of things to say. But he kept on. Looking back, perhaps I should have excused myself and left for the restroom. Perhaps I should have gone anywhere. Secretly, I wanted the tall blonde to come over and rescue me, but it was not be.

Shortly before 2:30 am, I finished my final beer. My new found sports associate was still beside me, yammering on about his latest gripe, but the blonde was nowhere to be found. Although her shorter friend was still on the far side of the bar, the object of my admiration for the night was gone. Disappointed, yet slightly blasé, I paid my tab and left the bar. There, outside, speaking on the phone, was the tall blonde. As I walked by, she smiled and said “Have a good night.”

“You too,” I replied, not wanting to interrupt her too much from her conversation.

Ugh.

Damn you, Mr. Drunken Sports Fan. Why did you tempt me into talking about the Seminoles? Why was I not strong enough to plead ignorance at your sports “knowledge”? Why could I have not said “Sorry, I don’t watch football. I think it is a barbaric sport played by overgrown Neanderthals.”? Why?

(Yes, here is where I must admit my own mistake – as I was walking by her at the end of the night, I probably should have at least asked the blonde if I would see her again some time. But this story is not about my social incompetence. It is about how I am blaming my incompetence on a drunken sports fan that ambushed me and made me wish, at least for a night, that I knew nothing about sports.)

Today is the third anniversary of the death of the one of the most charismatic rappers in hip-hop history. Ol’ Dirty Bastard of the Wu-Tang Clan was a hero of mine, an inspiration who stuck it to The Man and lived life on his terms. Ol’ Dirty didn’t make much sense with his off-beat rhymes and sing-song drunken ramblings, but in an age of overproduction and cookie-cutter YouTube hip-hop dance songs, the surviving work of Mr. Russell Jones serves as a beacon of originality, a lighthouse on a coast of commercialism.

So in honor of the rhymes and times of Ol’ Dirt McGirt, I’ve hand-picked five of his lyrics, spread out over his catalog, and applied them to persons of NBA significance. Enjoy.

“My advantage on the M-I-C is the slang/ That I manifest so you could never hang / Obviously you know my name by now/ I done thrown stupid parties all through your town” – “Goin’ Down”, Return to the 36 Chambers (1995)

Only one NBA player seemingly invents his own slang and throws the most stupid parties. The same player who lives in his own hyperbolic chamber and cheats at Halo – the one, the only Gilbert Arenas. Arenas has many NBA fans, especially bloggers, sprung on his every word and will assuredly use that advantage come the All-Star election.

“The things that you learnt in class is trash / You can’t do nothin’ wit’ it, I put you in the past” – “Caught Up”, The Trials and Tribulations of Russell Jones (2002)

The NBA has definitely been rough for 2006 NCAA leading scorers JJ Redick and Adam Morrison. Last year both struggled to adjust their game to the NBA level, with Redick battling injuries and Morrison becoming a punchline on defense. This year, it is Morrison who is hurt and Redick is again struggling, scoring only two points all season.

“Screwface ya bitches put food on y’all / He won’t slip, won’t trip, won’t ever fall / Bitch you better obey me, better not betray me” – “I Want P**sy”, N*gga Please (1999)

Only one man in the NBA is more untouchable than Elliot Ness. The man with the Teflon rep and the smooth smile. The Billy Dee Williams of the NBA, Isiah Thomas. Although the Knicks have clawed their way to mediocrity of late, Thomas’s reverse Midas Touch and ability to weasel out of a possibly career-ending sexual harassment suit and still keep his job will soon be the stuff of legend.

“Crews be actin like they gangs, anyway / Be like, “Warriors! Come out and playiyay!” / Burn me, I get into shit, I let it out like diarrhea / Got burnt once, but that was only gonorrhea” – “Shame on a N*gga”, Enter the Wu-Tang (1992)

With the Warriors struggling out the gate and the Mavericks accounting for one of their losses already, you know Dirk Nowitzki is salivating like Pavlov’s dogs at the chance to get his revenge for last year’s playoffs. Supposedly, Nowitzki took a few weeks off of basketball this summer to recharge. Don’t be surprised to see that his offtime pays off come playoff time and he looks like a man on a mission. Nowitzki isn’t looking to get burnt twice.

“I don’t know how you all see it, but when it comes to the children, Wu-Tang is for the children. We teach the children.” – the 1998 Grammy Awards

For all of Ol’ Dirty’s legal entanglements, his drug possessions, and his general disregard for the rules of society, there is one moment that showed the true nature and giving personality of Mr. Russell Jones. In February 1998, ODB helped save the life of a 4-year old girl trapped in a car wreck outside of his recording studio. This action allowed the girl to get into the care of hospital personnel much quicker.

Like Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Ron Artest’s NBA career has been marked with constant conflict. Like ODB, detractors of Ron Artest feel his inclusion in the league sets a bad example for the youth. However, this summer, Artest participated in a trip to Kenya to help feed underprivileged children in sub-Saharan Africa. Whether or not this proves to be an epiphany in Artest’s life has yet to be seen, but it does show Artest too is for the children.

So R.I.P. to the ODB. There will never be another. Also, if you get a moment, swing on by The Serious Tip for another less-sports-related tribute to the Ol’ Dirty Bastard.

His sound was an acquired taste. Those who like hip-hop liked Ol’ Dirty; those with no affinity for hip-hop thought he was horrible. He was a rapper for the fellas, although he won over the ladies with songs with Kelis, Mya, and Mariah. He became a folk hero of sorts, a pre-cursor to Flavor Flav’s VH1 celebrity. How could he be a famous rapper and still be on welfare, they asked? He was the epitome of celebrity ills, an artist whose character overwhelmed his real self. Where would he have been without hip-hop? Although it may have been his status that fueled his self-destruction, it was the talent behind that status that blazed an unforgettable path in hip-hop history.

Once a year, our country asks us to observe those who protect us. Those esteemed heroes who make safe. Those give their all for a cause and work tireless hours under the most harsh conditions to assure the job is done. We lay our hearts in their hands and pray for life. Hallowed are those who heed the call.

So to you, I say Happy Vet’s Day.

Remember, if your dog isn’t sick, thank a vet.

I’m kidding, of course. As someone who did their time in the Army, I can make jokes. So, for real, Happy Veterans’ Day to all those who served. And to the rest of you, if you didn’t visit a memorial, play bingo at your local VFW, or watch at least five minutes of Saving Private Ryan or any other movie where America kicks ass then you are a commie pinko bleeding-heart liberal tree-hugging terrorist and public execution is warranted. Have a nice day off.