Have you ever ....

...done something so blitheringly stupid you wish you could go back in time and take it back?

We've all had moments like that -- I'm sure buried in everyone's memory or subconscious there's more than one moment like that. I can safely say I have had several, but there has been one nagging at me for a long time now. So here goes ... maybe this will help get it out of my system.

I couldn't tell you the year, but if I had to guess, it would be 1984 and I was the tender age of 19. For those who knew me back then, I was a fairly heavy drinker, having discovered alcohol five years earlier at a Knicks game of all things. I drank for much the same reasons I overate -- fear, loneliness, rejection, all the bad juju.

Anyway, I was in my second freshman year at Queens College, and I was at a party, probably for something called Freshman Weekend -- a Bacchanalian orgy of booze and drugs held at a farm in upstate New York. Now, this party wasn't the Freshman Weekend bash. There also was a pre-Freshman Weekend and a post-Freshman Weekend party.

You know, teenage livers can absorb a lot of punishment. I'm living proof.

These parties were held at a house on Reeves Avenue, just off campus. I have no clue how much I drank that night ... I know it probably started with at least 12 beers. Minimum. It was a Friday night, and I was working on drinking myself into a stupor.

Later on in the night, and I don't exactly remember how this happened, but someone I was very attracted to -- I'll call her "Nicole" (disclaimer: not her real name!) -- ended up driving me home.

While in her car, I had an open bottle of Tango. This is something no one should ever drink under any circumstances. Basically, take Tang breakfast drink and mix it with cheap vodka and there you have it -- total retail value, maybe $1.69 tops.

After somehow giving her directions where to drop me off, I exited Nicole's car, bottle still firmly in hand. Stupid as it sounds now that I am almost 41, I had the biggest crush on "Nicole" since the high school days. Months earlier, I shared my first slow dance with her in a darkened room during a party, but didn't kiss her then because I was coming down with a cold and didn't want her to get sick.

A peck on her forehead was all I gave her.

Anyway, back to her dropping me off. So many things in my drunk state that I wanted to say. So many things I didn't want to hear. So much frustration in not being able to say what I wanted, or to be taken seriously. The bottle was smashed on the ground and was left out there when I woke up the next day. No one in my family said anything, but I heard over time that others in my neighborhood were eating that all up.

Many years later, I met up with "Nicole" again when she came to NYC to visit and over coffee, I told her how embarrassed I was over that episode and apologized. She said she did not remember it, much like I did not remember going to a "Battle of the Bands" event with her and some other college friends back then.

Twenty-two years later, I still wonder what if. Not a healthy way to think, sure. I guess with this blog entry, the best thing to say is sometimes go with your gut. Say the things you want, need to say instead of holding back. You may not like the answer you get, but, you may also save yourself time asking "What if?"

Still out there ...

Well, I survived a weekend in NYC and a birthday dinner at Peter Luger's. I think that will be the last time I try to help put together a family thing -- behind a sister, nearly blind from several eye operations, feeling her way around the table and almost shouting "What's this? What's this?" while touching everything on the table (including a shrimp from the shrimp cocktail) to a mother who felt the need to tip the waiter after we already gave him $75 ... I'm tired of being embarrassed.

Nothing much else is going on ... feeling a little blue. I was supposed to meet someone on Wednesday through Yahoo personals, but she backed out the night before, saying she "had to clean her apartment." Why not just say she had to wash her hair, or tend to a parent undergoing back surgery (Yeah, I've gotten those in the past.) ...it's enough to give someone a complex.

Oh, I forgot, I had one of those.

Let's see, what else ... Lay and Skilling found guilty in the Enron case -- not a shock there, they were tried and convicted when the company went under ... Reggie Bush will wear No. 25 for the Saints instead of No. 5 -- not a shock there either; the NFL isn't called the No Fun League for nothing ... the Royals have lost 13 in a row -- they may not be as bad as the Cubs though.

I'll try to keep up with this a little better. I'm just going through one of those times now.

Request denied

So after taunting the U.S and victims of Sept. 11 during his trial, Zacharias Moussaoui NOW thinks he can get a fair trial in the United States because he was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole rather than be executed -- and ostensibly be a martyr to enjoy whatever fruits of Paradise have been implanted in his mind by those he followed.

According to Michael J. Sniffen of The Associated Press, U.S. District Judge Leonie Brinkema quickly rejected a motion the confessed al-Qaida conspirator filed Monday to withdraw his guilty plea and get a new trial. He was sentenced Wednesday by Brinkema to six life sentences to run as two consecutive life terms.

"I had thought I would be sentenced to death based on the emotions and anger toward me for the deaths on Sept. 11," Moussaoui explained in an affidavit. "But after reviewing the jury verdict and reading how the jurors set aside their emotions and disgust for me and focused on the law and the evidence ... I now see that it is possible that I can receive a fair trial even with Americans as jurors."

I wonder what changed his mind. Could it be that he is in a federal supermax prison in Colorado where he will be in solitary confinement for 23 hours a day, every day until he dies? He gave all indications that he would not be broken, remaining defiant to all in his way. Five days the country's most stringent prison did it.

So all this leads to these questions: Is he mentally ill and is it right to imprison the mentally ill under these circumstances? I believe Zacharias Moussaoui is bi-polar, going from the highest of the highs -- saying that he won and America lost after sentencing -- to the lowest of lows in trying to get a new chance for freedom.

Is it right to imprison him? Yes. But I also think he needs to get help, and the humane thing to do is give it to him. No judge now or ever is going to let him back in the free world, and that is the right call.

Under construction

I really have been slacking of late. Workouts have been dwindling to two times a week instead of four, and work has just been taking a toll thanks to three people who cannot write well.

One bright note is I will be going home to NYC in a couple weeks for my father's 80th birthday, and the obligatory trip to Peter Luger's on Long Island.

And again I missed predictions on the NHL semifinals. All that needs to be said is with three straight playoff shutouts for the first time in 60 years, Anaheim's Ilya Bryzgalov is going to be in for quite a payday.

How did I let this get by me...???

Not sure what I was thinking, but I never made any predictions on any of the NHL quarterfinals that are being played now. Since there is no point now, I will make these observations ...

1. RANGERS-DEVILS: I don't think this is so much a case of the Devils being that good -- which they are -- as the Rangers' special teams just being a complete horror show. Four and out for the Blueshirts, and deservedly so.

2. CANADIENS-HURRICANES: Given how he is playing, Cristobal Huet's No. 39 may be retired one day. Like at the end of the postseason. Carolina looks nothing like the legitimate Cup contender they puported to be.

3. SABRES-FLYERS: To Robert Esche and Antero Niittymaki -- you cannot give up hat tricks ... to two players ... IN THE SAME GAME. And to whoever takes the Islanders GM job in place of the outgoing Mike Milbury, look closely at J.P. Dumont. New York had him and Milbury gave him up for something named Dmitri Nabokov. Not Evgeni, but Dmitri.

4. SENATORS-LIGHTNING: Ottawa has a big lead in the third period. If they were to lose this game, they would be primed to lose this series.

5. OILERS-RED WINGS: Though the series is tied as it goes to Edmonton, the Red Wings are one thrown puck from boards in overtime away from being down 2-0 as they head to Rexall Place.

6. AVALANCHE-STARS: At first glance, this looks as of it could be the biggest upset of the first round, but if you look closer, I am willing to bet that Dallas goaltender Marty Turco will need some sort of surgery after the season. He has not played well consistently since January. Enjoy Colorado's Joe Sakic for as long as he plays.

7. DUCKS-FLAMES: Jean-Sebastien Giguere missed Game 1. The Ducks lost. He came back for Game 2. They won. Truly valuable. Calgary can challenge for the Cup, but someone needs to step up on offense.

8. SHARKS-PREDATORS: Jonathan Cheechoo is good. Really good. If San Jose keeps him and Joe Thornton, deals Evgeni Nabokov for a front-line defenseman, Lord Stanley will eventually reside in Northern California. Tomas Vokoun's blood clots has put a lot of pressure on Chris Mason, but through two games he seems to be playing well off it.

I promise, more for the semifinals!

A great day for a ballgame ... or two

In the space of just under 24 hours, I attended baseball games at one of the country's oldest major league parks followed by the newest.

Being in the business I am in, some found it odd that I had never been to Wrigley Field in Chicago. Sadly, it was true. I had never been the old Comiskey Park either on the South Side, but had gone to new Comiskey -- now generically named U.S. Celluar Field -- once in 1995 and again last season in the infamous American League Division Series in which Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski's dash to first started the Pale Hose on their way to their first championship in 88 years.

I got a ticket through one of vice presidents of our company to go Wrigley for Wednesday's game against Cincinnati. I almost didn't make it. I thought I set my cellphone to wake me at at 11:45 AM -- more than enough time to jump on the El and get to Clark and Addison for a 1:20 start.

So, imagine the look on my face when I finally did wake up at 12:45. Minutes later, I was in a cab headed downtown, discovering cabbies in Chicago are not nearly as crazy as the ones back home in New York City. Still, he got me to the park in time to walk in with people pouring out of the local watering holes.

An observation: baseball on Chicago's North Side is an event that is savored 81 times a year. Never mind that the Cubs have not won a World Series since Teddy Roosevelt's second term or participated in one since the end of World War II, fans each year have hope that this year, finally, will be the one where their beloved Cubbies win it all.

Much like the ivy that will adorn the outfield walls later this spring, it is renewal.

For one day, it looked that way. Future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux won his 320th career game and Chicago took advantage of five Reds errors -- three by third baseman Edwin Encarnacion -- in a 4-1 win.

When I go to a game, I do more than watch what's on the field. I look at the architecture, scoreboards, people. Wrigley has been around forever and day it seems, but they mix the old and the new well from the manual scoreboard in center field to new bleachers in the outfield. Add the charm of rooftop bleachers past the left field wall and across Waveland Avenue, and Wrigley is like an old leather armchair, worn by years of use, but still comfortable.



After working that night and spending about 90 minutes at the gym, I headed to St. Louis to see baseball's newest jewel in the new $365 million Busch Stadium.

Thanks to Stub Hub, I was able to get a ticket in the upper deck for $24 including Fedex delivery. Having been in the old Busch for a few games during McGwire's home run chase in 1998, the difference between the two parks is like that of a Maserati to a Yugo. Old Busch wasn't horrible -- Olympic Stadium in Montreal, for example, was -- but it has the 1970s cookie-cutter feel that until recent years was what ballparks were.

You get pictures from, say, 1979, of old Busch, Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia, Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati and Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh, and put them side by side. Few would tell them apart. Guaranteed.

Anyway, much like Wrigley, going to a Cards game is an event. I drove down Interstate 55 to St. Louis in about 4 1/2 hours, checked into the Radisson (that will be the Adam's Mark next time), walked to the Gateway Arch and checked out a museum there before heading over the stadium for a 12:10 p.m. start. By 11 a.m., red-clad Cards fans were starting to make their way over.

There is not a bad seat in the house from what I could tell. The only quibbles I had were a hot dog, small order of fries and a 20-ounce bottle of diet Coke was $13.75, so it's a good thing I cannot eat a lot. The other was something no one could control -- weather. It was nearly 90 there, and even though I was in the shady section for the entire game, that and a lack of sleep started to make me naseous. I left in the seventh inning, walked slowly back to the hotel and watched the remainder of the game in air-conditioned comfort with the Arch just outside my hotel window.

Cards fall, 4-3 in 11 innings to Milwaukee. Life goes on.

Arbeit macht frei ... work will set you free

This kills me. When someone complains about jobs being outsourced overseas, consider the following item from Reuters' Ellen Wulfhorst titled "Workaholics struggle to say 'no' to work."

NEW YORK (Reuters) - Sam used to sneak into his office before dawn so no one would know how many extra hours he worked. Charles goes on all-night work binges to meet deadlines, and Susan can't say no to volunteer projects, social clubs, bridge games, choral singing, lectures and classes.

Each one is a member of Workaholics Anonymous, a 12-step recovery program for compulsive workers based upon the structure of Alcoholics Anonymous. Each one opted to keep their identity secret.

"It's been called the addiction that society applauds," said Mike, a physician and member of the group known as WA.

"People brag about it and say, 'I'm a workaholic,"' he said. "But workaholics burn out and then you've lost them or they become very dysfunctional and bitter and cynical in the organization and corrosive."

Workaholics Anonymous keeps no central count of members, but organizers estimate dozens of weekly meetings are held in the United States as well as in Germany, Switzerland, Austria and Britain. The group also sells about 100 books about WA a month via its Web site, according to organizers.

WA's roots go back to 1983, when a New York corporate financial planner and a school teacher founded a group based on AA but designed to fight compulsive working.

WA identifies workaholics as people who often are perfectionists and worriers, derive their self esteem from work, keep overly busy, neglect their health, postpone vacations and overschedule their lives.

Workaholics don't even have to have a job; they can just be compulsively busy as they seek an adrenaline high, to overcome feelings of inadequacy and low self esteem and to avoid intimacy, it says.

DESTROYING LIVES

The weekly meeting in New York draws an average of a half dozen people in a city that might be considered a hotbed of workaholism. Such meager attendance invites the predictable joke that most workaholics are too busy to attend meetings, a quip that organizer Charles has heard a million times.

"People think it's funny," he said. "It's amusing until you hear the stories. There have been many people who have come, and work is destroying their lives."

Unlike alcoholics, who can measure recovery by their days of sobriety, workaholics have no quantifiable gauge of their problem, or their recovery.

"In my case, my boss was telling me I had to get my work hours down to 40 a week, and I couldn't do it," said Sam, a former senior project engineer in California's Silicon Valley.

"I was sneaking into work at 5 a.m. on a Sunday so I could get work done and be out of the place before anyone else showed up," he said. "I didn't want people to see how much time I was putting in.

"Now I'm more willing to try to do a mediocre job and keep my own mental health and sanity than to do the perfect job on everything I attempt," he said.

Like AA, WA uses a 12-step program for recovery from addiction. At meetings, members share their experiences and study the organization's literature and guidelines.

"It really forces you to look inside and say, 'What's really going on with me?"' said Charles. "A lot of people don't want to do that."

Even if workaholism is hard to define, you know it when you feel it, said Mike, who has left his high-pressure urban job for work at a rural clinic where cows wander outside.

"After a while one gets a feeling of what driven, compulsive working feels like," he said. "There's a tightness to it. There's a lot of adrenaline surging. There's a lot of worry.

"There's a lot of preoccupation, which is different from just waking up in the morning and saying, 'Wow, I really love what I do'," he said.

... OK, I have a problem with this. For generations, the mantra was essentially work hard, get ahead. That's what drove immigrants to the United States. That was, in part, what brought my grandfather here from Eastern Europe almost 100 years ago and mother from France more than 50 years ago.

Everyone wants more, bigger, better: a newer home, better schools for the children, an SUV or two in the driveway.

Now, hard workers are seen as needing a 12-step program for it? If that is the case, then those same critics just have to sit on their hands when jobs are shipped off to India, China and other parts of the world. Simply put, you cannot have it both ways.

What people should do, and this is strictly my opinion, is focus energies on what makes them happy at work. Find the passion that drives you. I remember going to college with one fellow, and it was pretty much pre-ordained that he was to become a lawyer. I lost touch with him for a while after college, but found out through a third party that he went to law school in Dayton, was miserable there and gave up the profession.

Granted, I do not know what he is doing now. I can point to myself as an example as well. I started as a pre-med major in college. Deep in my heart, I knew it was never going to happen -- I didn't have the drive, funds, wherewithal to do that. I did it to try and please a family member who always wanted a doctor in the family.

Bottom line is, I was miserable. If adults would teach their children that it's not always about the money you make, but whether you deeply, truly enjoy what you do, there would be a lot less rage in the world.

If Bobby or Susie wants to dig ditches or be a butcher or whatever, nuture those passions.

What do you think? I'd like to know.

Frisco freak show

Hey, Barry? Hear that?

That sound of the freight train in the distance?

That sound is getting closer. And it's going to sweep you out of baseball before you can wrongly break one of the -- make that THE most hallowed record -- in the game.

That sound, hard to believe, is being generated by a single hardcover book, titled "Game of Shadows" by Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams, who led the San Francisco Chronicle's coverage of the BALCO scandal.

They recount in exhaustive detail the specifics of Bonds' drug regimen, which they write started in 1998 with injections of Winstrol, a powerful steroid also linked to disgraced Baltimore Orioles star Rafael Palmeiro.

The book describes how the San Francisco Giants star started using steroids because he was jealous of the attention paid to Mark McGwire's home run race with Sammy Sosa in 1998, and felt he needed to bulk up significantly to compete with the St. Louis Cardinals' slugger.

According to the authors, at one time or another Bonds used the designer steroids the Cream and the Clear, insulin, human growth hormone, testosterone decanoate (a fast-acting steroid known as Mexican beans), trenbolone, a steroid created to improve the muscle quality of cattle, Clomid, a women's infertility drug (hmmm...could that be why he dressed up as Paula Abdul??) thought to help a steroid user recover his natural testosterone production, and Modafinil, a narcolepsy drug used as a powerful stimulant.

Furthermore, the book claims Bonds took the drugs in a variety of ways, including injection, pill form or liquid drops, either on his own or through the help of his trainer Greg Anderson. Bonds claimed in grand jury testimony that he did not know what Anderson was giving him.

So, let's see if I have this right ... Bonds -- as surly an individual that has ever existed in sports -- turns into a walking CVS taking drugs including one for things that go moo. And he did this because he thought no one was better, ever.

What galls me, absolutely rankles me to no end, is there are people willing to DEFEND him. Listen to the sound bites on the sports shows or some callers on talk radio. They insist he has not done anything wrong because nothing has ever been proven.

Agreed. But how do you get the chance to test him specifically when neither he nor the player's union would allow it?

Several years ago I was at New York's Shea Stadium, covering a Mets-Giants game for SportsTicker. I walked into the San Francisco clubhouse afterward just in time to hear Bonds bellow out to all, "Fuck all, y'all! I don't need any of you!"

Guess what, Barry? We're tired of you too. We're tired of you berating and belittling, fans and media alike.

The sad thing is a true gentleman of the game -- Kirby Puckett -- is forced out of the game with a debilitating eye ailment and dies way too young while Bonds, baseball's equivalent of something you step in, is still able to play. For now, anyway.

The big difference, though, is Puckett is enshrined in the Hall of Fame. Bonds will be there with Pete Rose and Shoeless Joe Jackson. On the outside looking in.

Do you hear that, Barry? Do you?

So long, Kirby

CORE ^^*2080< ^AP-APNewsAlert<,0018<
¶ PHOENIX (AP) _ Kirby Puckett has died, an Arizona hospital said.

This was one of those "Where were you when..." moments.

At 7:09 CT, news of Kirby Puckett's death came to me at my desk when I was monitoring the AP wire for work.

I first saw Kirby Puckett play in 1986 when I traveled to Minnesota to bring some furniture to a friend's mother. What I remember from by first trip to the Metrodome -- apart from the drunk frat boys sitting behind me yelling at California Angels infielder Rob Wilfong -- was this fire hydrant of a player in center field.

Funny, he did not look like a ball player. He was short. He was rotund. He reminded me a lot of the old swinging beer keg that was the Milwaukee Brewers' logo in the early 1970s.

It would be easy to Kirby Puckett was not. What he was, though, was one of the most exuberant players in an era of self-absorption.

And he could hit. And he could move. And -- if you ask the 1991 Atlanta Braves -- he could defy gravity.

Despite being one of the good guys on the field, it wasn't enough. His downward spiral started when glaucoma forced him to retire after the 1995 season.

Once out of baseball, the 5-foot-8 Puckett (and we're being generous) let himself fall out of shape. Some said he moved well past 300 pounds.

"It's a tough thing to see a guy go through something like that and come to this extent," former teammate Kent Hrbek said. "That's what really hurt him bad, when he was forced out of the game. I don't know if he ever recovered from it."

Though he would not speak pessimistically about his career's sudden and premature end, Puckett's personal life began to deteriorate after that.

Shortly after his 2001 induction to the Baseball Hall of Fame, his then-wife, Tonya, accused him of threatening to kill her during an argument _ he denied it _ and described to police a history of violence and infidelity.

In 2003, he was cleared of all charges from an alleged sexual assault of a woman at a suburban Twin Cities restaurant.

Farewell, Kirby ... and thank you.

Farewell to Puck?

One of baseball's all-time greats is fighting for his life.

Hall of Fame outfielder Kirby Puckett was in critical condition after having surgery for a stroke, according to a nursing supervisor in a Phoenix hospital.

The 44-year-old former Minnesota star, who led the Twins to two championships before his career was cut short by glaucoma, was stricken Sunday at his Arizona home.

Puckett, who broke in with Minnesota in 1984, had a career batting average of .318 and carried the Twins to World Series titles in 1987 and 1991. The Gold Glove center fielder and 10-time All-Star was forced to to retire in 1996 after 12 seasons with the Twins when he went blind in one eye.

Three years ago, he was cleared of assault charges after being accused of groping a woman at a Twin Cities restaurant.

Vindication?

Looks like Michael Brown was right after all.

You remember Michael Brown, don't you? Former head of FEMA? Looked like the biggest jackass after Hurricane Katrina nearly wiped out the Gulf Coast region?

Well, if you have been watching the news, Brown is almost certainly having a good chuckle. A videotape has been released by The Associated Press of a briefing, one day before Katrina stuck on Aug. 29, involving Brown, President Bush, Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff and other officials.

Brown and others warned that the storm could breach levees, endanger lives in the New Orleans Superdome and overwhelm rescuers.

Five days after the briefing, with most of New Orleans underwater, Bush said, "I don't think anybody anticipated the breach of the levees."

The video, obtained by The Associated Press, "confirms what we have suspected all along," said Senate Democratic Leader Harry Reid of Nevada, charging that administration officials have "systematically misled the American people."

Even some Republicans are amazed by this turn. Senator David Vitter (R-La.) said the video "makes it perfectly clear once again that this disaster was not out of the blue or unforeseeable. It was not only predictable; it was actually predicted. That's what made the failures in response -- at the local, state and federal level -- all the more outrageous."

Again (and again), Bush has proved one of three things. Either:

A) he's an idiot
B) he's a liar
C) both

Can we survive until Jan. 20, 2009, the inauguration date of the next president of the United States? I wonder.

What do you think? I'd like to know.

A golden Finnish

I went 5-1 picking the quarter and semifinal men's Olympic hockey winners ... hmmm -- maybe there is a career in this?

SWEDEN-FINLAND: This quote from Finland's Saku Koivu explains in a nutshell how important Sunday's gold-medal game is for that country.

"It does make it bigger when you face Sweden. We feel that they always think that they're better than us," said Koivu, the Finns' leading scorer with eight assists and 11 points. "We've played against them so often for so many years, and I think every country has their opponent that they really want to beat.

"For us, it's Sweden."

Unlike our so-called athletes -- read: Bode Miller, Shani Davis, Michelle Kwan, Chad Hedrick, Shaun White -- the Finns buy into the team concept.

And yes, I know the "Flying Tomato" won gold and all, but trolling for a date from Sasha Cohen (hot, but reeks of being a princess) was fairly pathetic. I hear Spicolli in the back of my mind when I look at White.

But back to the Finns. No one gave them much chance with other teams like Canada, the Czechs, Russia and Sweden there. Instead, they have six of the top nine scorers at the games, and have given up just five goals in seven games.

Sweden is good. Finland is better. ... FINLAND 5, SWEDEN 0

And then there were two ....

That's right! Call 1-900-FLEECED and for $499.95 a minute, I will give you the GUARANTEED winners of Friday Men's Olympic Hockey semifinals!! CALL NOW!!

OK ... just waiting for the hardcore bettors to come forward ...

Still waiting ...

Oh, yeah, with the United States and Canada out, no one cares.

Guess again! (And for those counting, I went 3-1 in quarterfinal picks.)

===

1. SWEDEN-CZECH REPUBLIC: For New York Rangers fans, this is going to look real familiar. The Czechs feature NHL scoring leader Jaromir Jagr, Martin Rucinsky and Martin Straka. Jagr may still be feeling some after-effects of a check into the boards by Finland's Sami Salo in round-robin play that led to nine stitches.

Sweden, though, has rookie goaltender Henrik Lundqvist, who has played in major tournaments before. He is Sweden's answer to a young Patrick Roy. And it doesn't matter how much offense you have -- a good goaltender wins out each time. If Peter Forsberg plays -- and he has been rested for this -- Sweden should move on. ... SWEDEN 3, CZECH REPUBLIC 1.

2. FINLAND-RUSSIA: This shapes up as the best match of the Olympics. The two highest-scoring teams also feature two of the best defenses. Finland's Antero Niittymaki and Fredrik Norrena combined for four shutouts while Evgeni Nabokov has three shutouts.

Finland, though, plays more of a team game with four players in the top 10 in scoring -- Teemu Selanne, Saku Koivu, Jere Lehtinen and Olli Jokinen. Russia only has Pavel Datsyuk in the top 10. The Finns are playing for pride, never having won a gold and not having won silver since 1980.

Russia has won 12 medals, including a record eight golds, since 1924. They won't get a ninth. ... FINLAND 2, RUSSIA 1

Hermetically sealed on Funk & Wagnalls' back porch ...

Because I live for this ... my predictions for the men's hockey quarterfinals in Turin ...

1. Switzerland-Sweden: The Swiss have been the feel-good story of the Olympics, but the run ends here. While the Swiss have two fine NHL goaltenders in David Aebischer and Martin Gerber, the Swedes have more weapons on offense and defense and they have been here before ... SWEDEN 4, SWITZERLAND 1

2. Czech Republic-Slovakia: This is a juicy game with the countries meeting for the first time since the 1993 split of Czechoslovakia. The Czechs are banged up with Jagr still feeling the after-effects of being rammed into the boards by a Finnish defenseman and Hasek out with a leg injury. Two words describe the Slovaks -- upstart and dynamic. If not for Switzerland's surprising run, Slovakia would be the story ... SLOVAKIA 5, CZECH REPUBLIC 3

3. Russia-Canada: Both teams have combined for 14 gold medals since 1924, but one of them will be disappointed at the end of the day. Given the lackluster way the Canadians have been playing, I think they need to concentrate more on Vancouver in 2010. Perhaps by then people from Prince George to Corner Brook will have forgiven them. Canada's goaltending will keep it close, but Russia has way too many players who can put the puck in the net ... RUSSIA 3, CANADA 1

4. Finland-United States: For years, and for reasons I am still trying to figure out, I have rooted for the Finns. This is the year I think they can put it together. They have the offense with Selanne and Lehtinen. They have allowed just two goals in five games. The United States -- like many of the athletes there -- have looked disinterested. The Americans also will have to win three in a row if they want to leave with gold. That's just not happening ... FINLAND 5, UNITED STATES 1

The aftermath

So, like I said .. it's been three years since I had my stomach stapled. First, I want to address some myths.

SWING AND A MYTH: You can't eat anymore.
MYTH-UNDERSTOOD: As the doctors and nutritionists told me before all this started ... yes, you can eat again and in time, you can eat anything you want, provided it agrees with you. What you cannot do is eat like you used to.

Technically, that is not true. If **could** eat like I used to, but all I would do is make myself sick ... and I don't know about you, but throwing up is right there with evisceration as the worst feeling in the world to me.

Speaking of eating like I used to, some gastronomic idiocy in my life: Most White Castle cheeseburgers in one sitting -- 26; dinner many nights in Missouri -- one pound of pasta, one stick of butter (time needed to consume it, about 20 minutes); most beers in one sitting -- 24 (an even case in high school ... and since I hated light beer, multiply 24 by 288 to see how many calories I consumed); a normal McDonald's lunch for me when I worked in Missouri -- double QP with cheese extra-value meal, super-sized AND a nine-piece Chicken McNuggets. Amazing I didn't turn my arteries into fuel injectors.

MYTH MANNERS: Gastric bypass is the easy way out.
MYTH BUSTERS: Ahhh, Bill Maher. You fucking jackass.

Before a surgeon takes scapel to skin, the patient undergoes a battery of tests, both medical and psychological, to see if he or she is ready for this. One of the things you come to grips with this change of life.

One of the things you have to do is list all of the diets you've tried, regardless of success or failure. I'm a veteran: Weight Watchers -- twice (including when I was eight!) ... Overeaters' Anonymous ... Xenical ... starvation (like that was going to work?!)

An aside about WW ... I am sure it has changed and been tweaked over the years. My meetings were held on Springfield Boulevard in the basement of an establishment called Zip'z -- a place where you could create your own ice cream sundaes. How's that for delicious irony?

It is not the "easy way out" for most people. I am sure there are some out there who undergo this procedure, lose hundreds of pounds and then go right back to eating the way they used to, completely defeating the purpose. I was taught this is not a solution, but a window of opportunity.

I look at this is akin to clearing a hard drive on a computer.

MYTH COMMUNICATION: Why should my insurance rates go up because some fat slob cannot control him or herself? Just push yourself away from the table.
MYTH-ING LINK: In a way, someone saying this is correct. My surgery cost the same as a mid-sized SUV, about $34,000, and yes, insurance picked up a large chunk of that.

I was 37 when it was done and figure I added, if I stay healthy, about 15 years to my life. Of course, if I hadn't had the surgery, and I lived to say, 70-75, I am sure I would have had at least one heart attack, and I don't want to even consider all the co-morbidities, like diabetes.

I'm sure insurance would be so much more. If I lived. I figure it I kept going the way I was, I'd be dead by 44.

As for just pushing yourself away from the table, I would have liked to, except that walking -- even short distances -- caused my left leg to go weak and then numb. Try having to take a rest on a bench at Wal-Mart because you cannot walk.

By the way, I can walk five miles now easy and probably much, much more.

===

So, what's it like being on the other side?

The "other side" is what the obese call normalcy. It's pretty good, but there is one side effect.

To look at me, I look like a normal person. The gut it still there, something that needs to be worked off -- preferable to further body alteration: THAT would be the easy way out. Really, the only way you would know I had this done is very subtle ... I have bit of a wattle under my neck and there are some folds visible on my neck when I turn it.

But there are times when I see myself in the mirror and staring back at me is that 373-pound individual hell-bent on eating himself to death. He will probably always be part of me, and that's not necessarily a bad thing ... keeps me grounded.

In fact, I keep my ID card from when I worked the 2002 Little League World Series in my wallet. It was six months before my surgery and I figure I was about 365 in that photo. That will always be a part of me as well.

===

Things I can do that I never though I could before ...

Walk long distances ... order food at a restaurant and leave with a doggy bag ... give up fast food altogether (OK, I admit it, I do eat it rarely -- but not 4-6 times a week like I used to) ... give up soda with sugar (since all this, I have had about a third of a 20-ounce bottle of that low-carb Coca-Cola, C2 -- awful) ... buy clothes off the rack at a department store ... fit in the driver's seat of a compact car ... not use a seat-belt extender when I fly ... have sex in positions that were all but impossible or incredibly painful before ... not have to get clothes from a Big and Tall shop ... run.

===

If anyone reading this has any questions or wants to know more, they can leave a message or e-mail me direct at alefko@gmail.com.

Happy Birthday to me!

Happy birthday

I was born in September 1965. I was reborn three years ago today.

No ... I did not find religion. Far from it. On Feb. 18, 2003, I underwent a surgical procedure that turned my life around in ways I could not even start to imagine.

The technical term is "roux-en-y gastric bypass." The layman's term, stomach stapling.

Whatever you want to call it, I know what the end result is: I lost 171 pounds, reaching a low weight of 202. You can do the math -- I was 373 at my heaviest. Three years later, I tip the scales at 216.

Here's what I remember so vividly from that day. I had drive from Joplin, Mo. to have the surgery done in New York City and recover for six weeks at my parent's house. Just in time for a blizzard too as about two feet of snow fell the day before and it took me some three hours to get to upper Manhattan to have tests done.

I was shoveling their walk and ready to dig out our cars when my father called me from the front door.

"Andrew, phone," he said.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is St. Luke-Roosevelt Hospital. I understand you will be having surgery tomorrow. We need you to come for testing," a somewhat cheery voice said on the other end.

I paused, looked outside and pointed something out the somewhat cheery voice may have missed. "Um, you know there's two feet of snow outside?" I said.

"We'll be here," she responded.

"It will take me several hours to get there," I warned.

"We'll be here," she said again.

So I eventually made my way to a subway station in Sunnyside and, as I thought, three hours to get there -- including a 15-minute trek down my parents' unplowed block. Testing wasn't bad only because I had my gall bladder out four years earlier -- two hours instead of eight.

The next morning, my father drove me to a subway station in Flushing at about 4:30 in the morning. Dressed in a pair of sweats and a winter jacket, I got on the 7 train.

I am an anxious sort, so you can imagine the war of words going on in my mind.

"You can still back out," one faction said. "You can always say no."

"You've come this far," the other side said. "Don't back out now."

That other voice was right. It wasn't the testing, the psych profiles and the meetings with nutritionists. It was being made fun of in school while growing up for always -- and I mean ALWAYS -- the heaviest kid.

It was being the heaviest person no matter where I was. Malls. Stadiums.

It was never having a date in high school. It was a girlfriend's father disgusted by the size of the person she was dating and even considered marrying.

It was being turned down for jobs and advancement because of my size. I had a boss when I was in inside sales for a publishing house -- and since this is a blog, I have no qualms about naming names: Dino Battista of the Free Press -- who was visibly repulsed every time I was in his office to meet.

It was the constant pain in my knees, hips, ankles.

It was the frustration in feeling like a freak. No one wants to sit next to a fat person on mass transit or an airplane (believe me, I did my share of apologizing for my size when I flew.)

It was a miracle I didn't kill myself years earlier, because I definitely considered it more than once.

One thing, though ... I blame no one but me for getting to the size I did. I ate the fast food. Hell, I ate anything I wanted and as much as I wanted and didn't care. A six-pack of Coke or Pepsi a day -- 1,080 calories -- was normal. I'm not about to sue McDonald's or Burger King for a lifelong lack of self-control.

For the record: height ... 5-foot-10; heaviest weight ... 373 pounds; largest waist size ... 54"; largest shirt ... 20 1/2" for a dress shirt, XXXL for T-shirts; shoe size ... 12EEEE.

===

Though I am a native New Yorker, I ended up on the wrong train uptown -- took the 2 instead of the 1 and ended up on the wrong side of Central Park. So, here it is, about 5:20 AM, lost in my hometown, scared to death of undergoing surgery that caused some deaths.

Somehow, I lucked out. Despite the early morning and the blizzard, I found a cab. Jamaican driver. Thought I was nuts to be out at that time. Told him I was undergoing surgery in a couple hours. Tipped him $10.

I made it to St. Luke's at about 6 AM. Was scheduled for 7.

I sat in a lockerroom-type area. My clothes and boots stowed away and me sitting on a bench wearing a surgical gown and hat and trying not to break out bawling. Unlike "ER" or "Third Watch," I wasn't wheeled into the operating room. I got to walk in and hop up on the table.

"They're gonna gut you like a fish," that nagging voice said. "You're going to die. Back out."

Once everything was in place -- IV, monitors -- a mask was put over my face and I was told to count down from 100. I think I made to 97 when I was out.

I woke up in intensive care about five hours later. I was alive, awake, aware. I looked under the gown I was wearing. Yeah, they gutted me alright ... a thick black line of stitches and staples from navel to breastbone. The hardest part was over. So I thought.

Maybe it was all the hospital dramas I watched. Maybe it was having an aunt who was head nurse at one of New York's best hospitals. Maybe it was a feeling in my newly sized gut. Something was wrong.

Over the next few hours, I went from feeling alert to tired and then sluggish. At some point, while lying on the gurney in ICU, I was able to look at the monitor above and to my left. Pulse was way too high. Blood pressure dropping -- not a steep drop, but slow and steady.

Around 5 p.m., a ring of doctors and interns were around my bed and they all had the some look on their faces: uh-oh. Given that I felt as weak as I ever had, I knew something was very wrong. A doctor who assisted the one who did the surgery came forward and told me I needed to go back into surgery.

"Am I going to die?" I asked.

"We need to get you back in now," he said (and for the life of me, I cannot remember his name -- but he did have the same procedure done and lost 110 pounds.)

"Just get me out of this alive," I said. "And someone call my parents and let them know what's happening."

This time I was wheeled back into surgery, although I had to boost myself off the gurney and onto the operating table ... no easy feat, I can assure you. About three hours later, I was back in ICU with a new set of staples and stitches.

What was wrong was that something in the new stomach was not tied off properly and I was leaking blood into my abdomen. In between surgeries, I lost about two liters' worth.

Oh, and my parents were never alerted.

===

I ended up spending about five days in ICU and a day and a half in a room with an automated and oversized bed that I imagined could have held someone weighing about 900 pounds. Felt good so long as my legs were higher than my head.

I watched news about a Rhode Island nightclub fire where an 80s hair band lit off pyrotechnics, killing 100 people. The city continued digging out of the blizzard. Terrorism was quickly ruled out as the cause of a refinery explosion on Staten Island.

I was discharged after a week and returned to my bedroom in the house where I grew up. Though I had long since moved out again, they bought a platform bed and an air mattress for me to sleep on.

Things from early on in my recovery ... turning over on my side and feeling my insides shift when I moved; our cat, Summer, jumping on the bed and poking her face at me, sensing I was not well ... needing 45 minutes to eat a portion of one sunnyside egg.

Next: What the last three years have been like.

Czech-mate

I'll make it simple -- if you're favored to medal at the Olympics, YOU CANNOT LOSE TO SWITZERLAND (a noted bunch of chocolatiers and fondue-eaters.)

Really. Part of the rules. When you have international superstars like Jagr, Lang, Vokoun and so on, there are no excuses.

Two days into the men's hockey event at Turin have seen the biggest upset (Swiss top Czechs 3-2) and a near upset (U.S. rallied for 3-3 tie with Latvia). While Canada is still far and away the team to beat for gold, it will be interesting to see who moves on to the medal round.

Next ... Stephen A. for Stephin Fetchit?

Bet this didn't show up in the transactions section of your sports page this past week ...

WALT DISNEY CO.: Traded the rights to sportscaster Al Michaels to the National Broadcasting Company for cable rights to Friday play of the next four Ryder Cups, increased usage of Olympic highlights and the right to Oswald the Lucky Rabbit.

Sorry, but if I was NBC, I would have held out for Goofy, Pluto and a fourth-round draft pick.

A tarnished legacy

I have been fortunate enough to be in the same lockerrom as Wayne Gretzky when he was with the New York Rangers, standing literally inches away from the greatest player in hockey history as he would talk post-game.

One annoying trait about him was that he would never speak above a low tone, forcing the media crush around him to lean in with their notebooks, tape recorders and microphones. For being the best ever at what he did, Gretzky never seemed comfortable being in the spotlight.

He may have to learn to get comfortable with that real soon.

According to Thursday's edition Newark Star-Ledger, Gretzky was caught by New Jersey state wiretaps talking about the multimillion-dollar gambling ring allegedly helped run by his friend and Phoenix Coyotes assistant Rick Tocchet.

Gretzky, the NHL's all-time scoring leader and the Coyotes' coach, denied any knowledge of the ring on Tuesday.



But law enforcement sources told the Star-Ledger that the Hall of Famer spoke about the ring, and that investigators are looking into whether he placed any wagers through his wife, actress Janet Jones.

According to the newspaper, Jones waged $500,000 on sporting events during the past six weeks, including $75,000 on last week's Super Bowl. Authorities are considering whether to issue a subpoena ordering Gretzky to testify before a state grand jury, sources told the paper.

This has the opportunity to become very ugly, especially if it is found Gretzky placed bets, especially on hockey. Think Pete Rose.

What do you think? I'd like to know.

Overstaying the welcome

So, Jerome Bettis gets his Super Bowl ring ... and then announces "The Bus" is being garaged.

Neither bit of news Sunday -- Steelers winning the Super Bowl or Bettis announcing his retirement moments after winning the championship -- was much of surprise. Super Bowl XL will probably go down more in history as the game the Seahawks gave away rather than the Steelers winning.

For Bettis, it was a nice end to a nice career. When you ask who are the top five rushers in NFL history at the water cooler or watering hole, the first three ... make that three and a half ... should be easy. Emmitt Smith, Walter Payton and Barry Sanders should take all of 8 milliseconds to spit out.

Number four? C'mon. You know it. All those who guessed Curtis Martin, take a big step forward.

Number five is that one that makes you say "Oh, I know that one ... I'm gonna kick myself when I hear his name." Big hint. He just called it quits.

And that brings me to what I really want write about. Have you seen Jerome Bettis? Shades of the Bears' William Perry 20 years ago. There is no delicate way to put it -- Bettis is out of shape for a running back. May be just perfect for an offensive lineman though.

Players who stick around professional sports one (or a few seasons) too long are all too common. And then again why not? They are treated as gods and make incredible amounts of money even when not playing.

As for that last point, professional players get a per diem -- meal money -- that they can spend as they please. Why go to Peter Luger's of Chicago Chophouse when you can hit Subway?

So, ESPN radio about a week or so ago posed a question to listeners: if you could go back in time and tell any player to stop and retire before they played that one final -- painful season -- who would it be?

Here are some for you to consider ...

1) Joe Namath: "Broadway Joe" will always be linked with the New York Jets and for trying to get inside the pants of ESPN's Suzy Kolber on national TV. Does anyone remember him with the Los Angeles Rams? Four games in 1977. Three touchdowns. Five interceptions. Just 606 passing yards.

2) Willie Mays: Some say the greatest center fielder ever with 660 career homers, 3,283 hits and 338 stolen bases. Returned to New York to play with the Mets and managed just 44 hits, six homers and 25 RBI in 209 at-bats. Ouch.

3) Michael Jordan: For my money, the greatest NBA player I ever saw. Even though he averaged better than 20 points per game in his final two seasons in Washington Wizards blue, black and bronze, he looked little like the player that averaged more than 30 points seven straight seasons and the Chicago Bulls to six championships.

4) Mario Lemieux. Love hockey. Love that he kept Pittsburgh on the NHL map -- for now. Questioned the decision to come back after the lockout. Seven goals in 26 games before calling it career last month because of a heart problem. In his defense, he got the chance to play with Sidney Crosby, possibly the next Lemieux.

Who would you pick? What do you think? I'd like to know.