Bucky Fox

Super Bowl Recall: A Giant Of A Dad

2012-01-28T19:37:00.000-08:00

My dad would be turning 100 on Feb. 4.

The name of my all-time hero was Charles Dickens Fox.

Terrific timing. Three days later, on Feb. 7, 2012, the author he was named after celebrates his 200th birthday.

Charles Dickens and Charles Dickens Fox. So the former wrote "A Christmas Carol" among his library of brilliance. But on the pedestal of my life, Charles D. Fox stands tallest. He was a fearless World War II and Korean War Army officer. He shone as a husband and father. And so what if he didn't produce "Great Expectations"; Dad wielded the cleverest fountain pen I ever saw in action.

Typical missives (his word) included:

Alas alack, anon and enow felicity from Shakespearean English.

Inconsistencies of opinion, due to a change of circumstance, are often justifiable, a variation of Daniel Webster's line.

Sydney, please draw my bath, from his WWII trans-Atlantic crossing.

Then there were Dad's names for me:

Buster, from Buster Brown.

Lefty, from Lefty Grove, joined the vernacular after finishing in the running for greatest righty pitcher in the Stars & Stripes baseball centennial poll in 1969.

Boy, because I was one.

Right this minute I'm watching highlights of the January 1972 Super Bowl, the one in which Dallas won its first title by manhandling Miami. And man, does that rewind our joy watching it together.

In those black-and-white days living in Germany, Americans had to find an Air Force base to catch big games on TV. So we traipsed (another Dad word) an hour north from Heidelberg to Frankfurt's Rhein-Main Air Base to see Tom Landry finally win the big one.

How we could've cheered together now. ESPN. NFL Network. MLB Network. The NBA all over the tube and Internet. Email. Texting. FaceTime.

Charlie Fox and I would be having a ball discoursing, especially now in the thick of Super Bowl week. Forty years after that Cowboy-Dolphin clash comes Giants-Pats. Dad was a New Yorker. He relished recalling the 1958 Greatest Game Ever Played, the one Johnny Unitas pulled out for the Baltimore Colts at Yankee Stadium.

Eleven years after that, Dad and I huddled near the radio as the Jets' Joe Namath returned football's crown to New York by stunning Unitas and the Colts.

Gotta believe that now Charlie Fox would be pulling for the Giants. He and I would be tackling the Eli-Brady rivalry, the parallels with the 2007 season, whether New York's D could pressure Brady the way it did in the Giants' upset four years ago.

I visualize us pulling for New York and wondering how the oddsmakers could make New England a three-point favorite.

Wish he'd be watching with me Sunday. Wish he were alive and not at Arlington National Cemetery, where we buried him in 1989.

As it is, old Heidelberg buddies Derrick and Warren Jones will be here for kickoff. We'll roar for the Giants and laugh up our growing-up days.

You can bet that a couple of times one name will bounce around the Bowl: Charles Dickens Fox.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California: BuckyFox@yahoo.com.

Albert Pujols Joins Shaq, Kobe, Tebow In Scoring For The Ages

2011-12-11T19:51:00.000-08:00

Suddenly 2012 screams Angel scarlet. After 2011's Cardinal red.

Who maintains the color for the new year?

Albert Pujols.

The superstud turned from Redbird to Halo at the drop of a $25 million annual check.

So now Sir Albert plays first base for Los Angeles. Baseball mania is back in the Land of Disney. Ten years after the Angels won their only world title, they're ready to ride Pujols to the peak again.

So watch Angel Stadium sell out nightly in 2012. That's the one downside. No more easy tickets.

The upside? Homers into the rocks. Winning. Hysteria. Locked in to the key to it all: Albert Pujols.

So here we are in December 2011, celebrating a dandy dozen of years for TheColumnists.com. And counting.

So many games. Athletes. Championships.

What was the site’s first full year of 2000 like again?

Shaq and Kobe’s Lakers won the first of three straight NBA titles.

Derek Jeter and Mo Rivera’ Yankees captured their third straight World Series.

Three horses — Fusaichi Pegasus, Red Bullet, Commendable — won each of the Triple Crown races.

Really doesn’t seem that long ago. Who's been keeping us mesmerized all this time?

2000. Shaq. This was really his one megayear. MVP of the regular season and NBA Finals. And a Blazer-banishing dunk for highlight heaven.

2001. Andre Agassi. He was perpetual youth. Won the Aussie Open again. Simply the biggest reason to watch tennis at this point.

2002. Troy Glaus. Classic power in a classic World Series. When the seven games and Frisco were done, Glaus and the Angels were giants of baseball.

2003. Eric Gagne. He was on the greatest relief-pitcher run in baseball history. When he came on, the Dodger scoreboard flashed his goggled face and Game Over. Because it was.

2004. Roger Federer. The Swiss Swatter couldn't miss. Certainly not in the U.S. Open, his ultimate display of tennis brilliance.

2005. Kim Clijsters. The Belgian Belter had shown grand tennis for years, but never at a Slam. Until now. In the U.S. Open she bounced back against Maria Sharapova in the semis and polished off Mary Pierce in the title match.

2006. Manny Pacquiao. I'm married to a Filipina, so when the Filipino Fist fights, Saturday turns into PacMan Partytime, decked with serious grub from the Philippines. And at middecade, Manny was in the thick of his title bulge.

2007. Tom Brady. He beat 'em all. Even the Giants, who would avenge that game and turn his Pats' perfection into 18-1 by the end of the Super Bowl. Still, when Brady passed this season, you had to catches his act.

2008. Brett Favre. Finally my Jets had a Dude at quarterback. He was the talk of the country after his marathon exit from Green Bay. And staying with that color, he had New York soaring into contention — until a dud landing.

2009. Kobe. Now he had his own championship with the Lakers. Shed of Shaq and sharing the ball with Pau Gasol, Bryant blew by Orlando in the NBA Finals.

2010. Aaron Rodgers. His wizardry with Green Bay sent every other NFL team Packing. And let every radio host forget Favre.

2011. Tim Tebow. Name one other Bronco. Thank you. Denver is so close to a Mile High because of the Florida lefty. Every week he runs and guns the orange and blue to nut-cuttin triumphs. Like on Dec. 4 in Minnesota. As I sat at the sports book in Primm Valley, between L.A. and Vegas, multiple screens offered NFL games. I felt myself glued to one quarterback: Tebow. His direction past the Vikings was worth the hypnotism.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California.

Mike Napoli, David Freese, Tim Tebow, Cam Newton, the unbeaten Green Bay Packers

2011-10-27T19:50:00.000-07:00

Boo!

That's exactly what Los Angeles Angel loyalists were screaming while watching the World Series.

And they didn't need Halloween to scare them into that rage.

All they had to see was Mike Napoli in his Texas Ranger costume. The same Napoli who slugged and squatted as a rock of an L.A. catcher for five stout seasons starting in 2006.

Why the Angels let the Italian Ignition go after three straight years of at least 20 homers is harrowing to Orange Countiers batty over baseball. Then to see him land in hated Texas, carrying the Rangers thisclose to their first title?

It's simply all trick and no treat.

Missouri's party. 'Twas terrific enough that my Tigers hoed A&M on Saturday.

How about Mizzou's David Freese the night before? The frat boy battered another Texas version, those Rangers, in Game 7 of the World Series. He won it for his hometown St. Louis Cardinals and collected the Series MVP trophy.

And did anyone else notice Deep Freese is the spitting' image of Wayne Gretzky?

Star power. Tim Tebow just has it. Which is why he fills TV and radio sports shows.

A winner. Great looking. Cool communicator. Tebow has the package. His latest exclamation point came in Miami, where he quarterbacked the Denver Broncos to that miraculous comeback.

Another Heisman quarterback with a national championship is Cam Newton. Talk about the face of the NFL. Gotta be the handsomest dude in the arena.

When he has the Carolina Panthers on the upswing along with Denver, it'll be Cam-Tim Time something fierce.

Who else has it? Manny Pacquiao for sure. He embodies boxing.

Kobe Bryant. Champion on the basketball court. Plus all style and syntax.

LeBron James. A magnet for cheers and jeers. Hasn't won a thing, but draws interest like no one else in sports.

Sidney Crosby. The only hockey player regular fans can pronounce.

Alex Rodriguez. Won that elusive crown in 2009. Throw in his muscular numbers and sexing dates, and he lives up to his A Rod title.

Derek Jeter. Another Yankee, only this one with five titles and cleats on the ground. Really the biggest hero of the current crop.

Among former athletes? Muhammad Ali, Joe Namath, Mike Tyson, Reggie Jackson, Pete Rose, O.J. Simpson.

They're Packin'. Seven down, 12 to go. That's the map as the Green Bay Packers roll toward a perfect season.

They sweep those last dozen, and they’re the first undefeated champions since the 1972 Miami Dolphins.

Can Green Bay do it? You bet. Look at its schedule. Filled with Bears, Lions, Vikings and other ne’er-do-wells: Chiefs, Raiders, Bucs.

The only ambush could come at Diego on Nov. 6.

I say they do it. The 19-0 Packers of 2011. Nice ring.

Then again. If the Packers take an 18-0 record into the Super Bowl, they'll try to avoid the crackup of four years ago. You might recall the New England Patriots took that haughty mark into the NFL final, only to cash against the New York Giants.

Who would be waiting to ruin Green Bay's sweep? Maybe the Pittsburgh Steelers. They're the same AFC bunch that gave the Pack a run for the Bowl money last winter.

Will Pittsburgh double up this time — avenging last season's loss and ruining Green Bay's golden day?

One Steeler zealot yells yes. His name is Derrick Jones, the biggest black-and-gold backer in California. He's also my old Boy Scout buddy, and when he says Scout's honor his boys will win it all, I gotta honor that.

Plus, he was planning to have me over for the Steeler-Pat game. Plenty of reason to root for Derrick's home team.

From Newton to Newt. That's Newt Gingrich, who makes up for his nonathletic look with champion discourse. The man can hit points like Kobe at the buzzer.

Because of that brilliance, I'm pulling for Newt this election season. As vice president.

Why not prez? The answer hit me the other night while watching him speak in Iowa. He's too serious. Call him the Pouty Professor. He delivers his message with all the joy of Mudville after Casey's strikeout.

For all the details we want our president to retain, we also demand zest. Think Theodore Roosevelt, Harry Truman, Ronald Reagan. They gave 'em hell. Newt gives us, well, paragraphs without bold and ital.

Rather Herman Cain for the top spot. He raises Cain like the Herminator he is. With a laugh.

And he's right on the issues. Like fellow Georgian Gingrich.

Cain-Newt. Now that's a championship ticket.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California: BuckyFox@yahoo.com.

Barack's Blame Game: From Bush To Lincoln To Washington

2011-10-01T17:08:00.000-07:00

With Barack blaming Bush for everything — joblessness, hopelessness, Loch Ness — we're here to help.

Word to the Red House: W wasn't the only prez leaving a mess for our saintly Obummer. Let's run down the crises and culprits.

Teen pregnancy? All Zipper Clinton's fault.

High cholesterol? Blame Bush Sr. and his pork rinds.

50% divorce rate? You know, Reagan was the first to split — way before he met Nancy.

We're soft? Carter started it in his cardigan.

We're tripping? Watch Ford clips.

No draft? Nail Nixon for his all-volunteer force.

Pet mistreatment? LBJ should never have yanked his beagle up by the ears.

Can't befriend Cuba? JFK could've talked sweet to Castro.

Highways full of potholes? Ike should've built 'em better.

Foul language in the discourse? Rewind to Give 'Em Hell Harry.

Pinko Cabinet can't right the economy? Hey, just following the FDR model.

Stock market not cooperating? You should've seen Hoover.

Cool approach not working? Simply in step with Coolidge.

Solyndra about to boil over? Nothing like Harding's Teapot Dome.

Taxes too high? Wilson started it.

Americans too fat? Trash Taft.

America a bully? That's all on TR's pulpit and big stick.

Quick wars a pain? Remember McKinley and the Maine.

Campaigning a chronic annoyance? Cleveland won, lost, won. Talk about a broken record.

Zero feats if commiecare and dudd-frank die? So what did Ben Harrison do?

Too many scams? Nothing like Chester Arthur, who wanted to sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.

Waste in civil service? James Garfield paid the highest price in that arena.

Southern states not into lefty? Hayes had to cause that.

Righty expected more experience? U.S. Grant set too high a standard.

Congress a drag? Exactly; look how it nearly booted Andrew Johnson.

Housing teetering? Thank Lincoln and his Homestead Act.

Presidential rating lousy? Can't undercut James Buchanan.

Democrats thinking of nominating someone else? Franklin Pierce set that low standard.

People won't remember this administration? Do you recall Millard Fillmore? Didn't think so.

Mexico still bummed we took its land? All goes back to Zachary Taylor.

California a debt-full anchor ? James Polk should never have conquered it.

Overpopulation scary? Check out John Tyler and his 15 children.

One term and done? At least that's more than William Henry Harrison's one month.

Won't drill enough for our oil? What, and Martin Van Buren did?

Down on the Fed? We could always return to Andy Jackson's bank paranoia.

Not into Hussein as a middle name? Sure beats Quincy.

Western Hemisphere centric? Put that one on Monroe.

Oval Office feeling the heat? Nothing like Madison and his burning mansion.

Hurricanes in the Gulf? Slam Jefferson for buying the whole territory.

Too many lawyers around here? John Adams set the trend.

Too much of this America First stuff? Can't live up to George Washington, first in everything.

There you have it. Forty-plus reasons to lay off Prez 44.

If these don't convince you, his beloved White Sux have a managing opening just waiting for Oblamer right now.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California: BuckyFox@yahoo.com

Fun Stuff Comes In Threes

2011-09-29T16:41:00.000-07:00

Thoughts of trios while waiting to tutor my favorite Kuwaiti student.

Top helmets: Mizzou, Jets, Colts.

Snappiest baseball cap logos: Mets' NY, Nats’ W, Giants' SF.

Sharpest NBA uniforms: Warriors, Knicks, Sixers — all circa 1968.

DVR magnets: "Suits," "Fairly Legal," "White Collar."

Screen dudes: Sean Connery in "Dr. No," Robert De Niro in "Ronin," Gabriel Macht in "Suits."

Sexiest TV hosts: Julie Banderas of Fox News, Andrea Tantaros of Fox News, Kimberly Guilfoyle of Fox News. Think I like my namesake network?

Automatic reads: Ann Coulter, Charles Krauthammer, Lee Child.

Leaders with pop: Sarah Palin, Herman Cain, Newt Gingrich.

Best chance to beat obummer: Palin, Cain, Mitt Romney.

Cars I’d love to buy right now: Aston Martin, Tesla, Maserati.

On the way to watching 50 times: "From Russia With Love," "The Family Man," "The Bourne Supermacy."

Before I die: Iran comes to its senses, Korea unites, we recognize Cuba.

Hottest politicians: Palin, Kristi Noem, Michele Bachmann.

Dem faces: Bev Perdue, Janet Napolitano, Deb Schultz.

Days I treasure: boating to Corregidor, sailing in Miami, marrying my lovely Filipino wife, Maria, in the Catholic Church.

White lefty cares nothing about: deficits, border security, Christianity.

Delish: lasagna, filet mignon, picadillo.

Turn ’em up: the Beatles, Doors, Zeppelin.

Tune out: Sting, the Who, Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Top TV channels: Fox News, USA, HGTV.

Far-out feats: Michael Phelps’ eight golds, Steffi Graf’s Golden Slam, UCLA’s 88-game winning streak.

Break up: ESPNESPNESPN. Enough with the monopoly.

YouTube bookmarks: George Harrison's "What Is Life," Erroll Garner's "The Man I Love," Peter Nero’s "It’s Alright With Me."

Who watches: MSNBC, CBS News, PBS.

Cities calling me: Heidelberg, Paris, London.

Greatest Americans in my lifetime: Eisenhower, MacArthur, Neil Armstrong.

Tech that works: iPhone, iPad, DVR.

Actresses who have it: Meghan Markle of "Suits," Sarah Shahi of "Fairly Legal," Piper Perabo of "Covert Affairs."

I could listen for hours: Gingrich, Pat Buchanan, Jedediah Bila of The Daily Caller.

Top structures: Heidelberg Castle, Heidelberg's Old Bridge, Heidelberg's Red Ox.

Dialed in: Rush Limbaugh, Mark Levin, Laura Ingraham.

Studs: Manny Pacquiao, Aaron Rodgers, Kobe.

Electric events: heavyweight title fight, Olympic track 400-meter relay, Game 7 of the NBA Finals.

Movie villains to vilify: the Joker in "The Dark Knight," Oddjob in "Goldfinger," the scum Hans Landa in "Inglourious Basterds."

Books atop the stack: "Stalin: The Court of the Red Tsar" by Simon Montefiore, “The Spy Who Came in From the Cold” by John le Carre, “Before the Fall” by William Safire.

If I had an iPod: Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone," Tom Petty's "Free Falling," the Doors’ "L.A. Woman."

Super screen lines: James Bond: “That's a Smith & Wesson, and you've had your six.” T.E. Lawrence: “No prisoners!” Charlie Harper: “My weirdness bar for chicks is pretty high, but you are clearing it in street shoes.”

My zippiest interviewees: Pete Rose, coach George Allen, Roger Goodell years before he was NFL commish.

Speeches for the ages: Nixon’s 1968 nomination acceptance, W after 9/11 at the National Cathedral, Reagan's Pointe du Hoc classic in 1984.

People I miss on radio: Tammy Bruce, who only podcasts; Lisa Ann Walter, whose weekend gig on KFI in Los Angeles is tough to catch; Larry Elder, who's back on KABC in L.A., but during work hours.

Love: jogging, tennis, the library.

And the library is where I'm heading to tutor that Kuwaiti Kid.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California: BuckyFox@yahoo.com.

Mizzou, Chris Christie, Jets, Newt, Palin

2011-09-20T18:22:00.000-07:00

You’ve never heard of Henry Josey. If you know that surname at all, it’s from “The Outlaw Josey Wales,” the 1976 Clint Eastwood classic.

Time for a remake: The Tiger Henry Josey. Wearing cleats for spurs, he galloped 263 yards Saturday in Missouri’s mashing of Western Illinois. In one half. No wonder he sat out the last 30 minutes. My Tigers were on the way to a 69-0 rout. And up next is No. 1 Oklahoma. In Norman.

Saddle up again, Josey. Only this time we'll need you for all four quarters. Hope you have another Wales of a game.

Big Jersey Boy. Chris Christie better run. Not for president. For his health. If he keeps gaining weight, he'll gain a new name: Chris Crisco.

Did you see him this summer beside obummer overseeing the New Jersey flooding? The governor looked like an inner tube against the President's Council on Physical Fitness.

Right there, Christie would get punctured in a medical debate. Imagine him taking the wise stand and stressing personal responsibility: "Lose the pounds, America. Quit sowing out and start jogging — right past the hospital." If the Jersey boss made that case, he'd sound like a fat stand-up.

So no, 2012 is out for Christie's presidential ambitions. Get fit first. Then fight in 2016 — if lefty's still in the red house.

Dang Green. The Jets have that winning color: 2-0 and cruising toward what could be their first Super Bowl triumph in 43 seasons. Mark Sanchez does look like the Sanchize. Only here's the problem for us Jet ments. No matter how strong his arm is, he still stands 6-2. That made him a twerp against the towering Steel Curtain in last January's AFC final. As long as defensive linemen resemble Wilt the Stilt, our New York boys are facing a slam dunk at crunch time.

Code Green. Here we go again with darts at Sarah Palin's intellect. Now even Ann Coulter — the coolest columnist on the planet — has to join the lazy crowd laughing at Palin's brain. Yes, too bad the governor doesn't sink to the brilliance of pinkos swindled by weather justice — to the tune of half a billion tax dollars in the Solyndra scandal. Ride above it all, Sarah, right into the White House in January 2013.

MVM. That's Most Valuable Man for Kirk Gibson. He's the only dude in an Arizona Diamondback uniform you recognize. And he's the manager. The players? Faceless. All he's done is lead them to the brink of the National League West title. Everyone figured the San Francisco Giants would ride herd in the West like they did on way to last year's world championship. Only Gibson is whipping his Backs to the playoffs instead. Kirk has that clutch fiber, as he showed something fierce in the 1984 and 1988 World Series.

Wake up. The sharpest presidential candidate in the race right now? Newt Gingrich. The man soars with sagacity. While the other Republicans waste time in the debates grumbling among themselves, Gingrich presses the crucial point — beat Obama — in presidential prose. Newt probably can't overcome Clinton's 1995 demonization of him. But if Palin or Romney deftly puts Gingrich on the ticket, you can only imagine how Newt would handle Joe Biden in the veep debate. As Pat Buchanan put in when pondering a one-on-one against Dan Quayle, it would be child abuse.

Click. The best TV show in 2011? "Suits." The USA lawyer drama rocks with Gabriel Macht, Patrick Adams and the marvy Meghan Markle. Just maddening that it won't return till next summer.

Darn that W. George Bush must be a winning issue for obummer. Hence the 44th prez's stuck needle in W's record. Unemployment is a replay of 1938? Blame Bush. We can't finish off the Taliban? Bush's fault. The White Sox suck? Damn that Ranger fan.

Since that tack works so well, obummer should go back longer. Preteen sex is rampant? Slam Clinton. Highways are rotting? Implicate Ike. Obesity out of hand? Trash Taft. Hurricanes in the Gulf? Hit Jefferson.

See how easy that is? The buck simply bypasses this Oval Office.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California: BuckyFox@yahoo.com.

Tot Mom Means Dead Mom

2011-07-10T19:32:00.000-07:00

Here's what the Disney Jury did last week: legalized murder.

Didn't matter that Casey The Bat killed her precious tot, Caylee.

Which, when you see madmom's celebrating the death for a month, really was a delayed abortion.

No, didn't matter at all. Because the juvenile jurors bought Joan Baez's song and dance and wouldn't send tot mom — Nancy Grace's winner of a moniker — to the gallows.

You know what tot means in German (as my sharp sister Debbie reminds me)? Dead.

That's what Caylee — who would be 5 if her scum mom hadn't suffocated her in 2008 — is.

That's what her madmom should be.

Except in our fantasy court system, she isn't. She's out of jail this week.

The brain-dead ruling is so depressing, you wonder why we even have the Sixth Commandment.

Or why madmom had the baby at all. Kill her before the birth, call it abortion and enjoy the Florida sun.

Regardless, madmom is getting away with the murder of the century.

As for Baez and his Team Lie, I have a terrific surrogate mother for your kids: Casey The Bat.

Tell it like it is. Let's quit this pretense of choice vs. life. It's pro abortion vs. anti-abortion. Period.

Can't we face the literal? Evidently no, if you listen to people debate this issue.

Another tiresome matter. If lez is so hot to call a partner a wife, do it. Quit waiting for mommy government to stamp its approval.

Marriage shouldn't rely on some bureaucrat's OK. If a dude wants to make another hairy bear his lifelong link, call him husband and leave me alone.

A bummer. Wake up, Republicans. Avoid meeting with the red house. All it can lead to are jacked taxes and spending. Want to bludgeon this budget? Refuse a ceiling hike. So when obummer calls, don't answer.

Obomber. My new name for the generals' boss. Amazing how he's qilling qaida with a fury. Kudos to the Nobel War Prize champ.

Who's the dope? Anyone who guys into this medical marijuana line. Medical my ass. Both are full of crap. Tokers are so obsessed with legalizing dope, they'll blow however much smoke it takes to brainwash us. "Marijuana turns you off? How about the medical variety?"

Let's see through the fog. Smoke a joint to make you feel good. Smoke a joint to make you well. If you can cut the difference, you're my PR man.

I'm all for legalizing drugs. Let's just take a deep breath and exhale the truth.

On a light conclusion. Suits. The best show on TV. Stars Gabriel Macht and Patrick Adams playing lawyers you cheer. What a concept.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California.

The P's: Pacquiao, Pawlenty, Palin

2011-05-21T12:15:00.000-07:00

Free at last.

Another master's semester at Cal State Fullerton, another three months of TV fasting.

Now with the books finally gone and the 52-inch flat screen back on — where the hell are the Lakers?

They did what in the playoffs? Lost to whom?

You telling me L.A. blew a shot at Phil's fourth threepeat, Kobe's Jordan-tying sixth title? To Dallost? The same Mats on whom the Lakers wiped their Nikes the past five years?

Does any tradition live? Well, yes. My DVR caught enough of it.

The knockout. Don't say it didn't come in the Manny Pacquiao-Shane Mosley bout. I mean, did you see her ringside? Check the photo above. That's Bella Gonzalez, Sugar Shane's sweet girlfriend. Talk about aptly named. Bella, beautiful. She's so hot, she makes Kobe's bride — Vanessa, the previous scorch queen — look like Rocky Road.

No wonder Mosley revved in reverse all night. No way he was going down for the count and risking losing Bella.

OK, so no official KO at the MGM. PacMan simply pounded Mosley to a pulp fiction. The Pomona Pretender took such a beating, his brown mug turned red.

Mitch the Pitch. Best line of the baseball season, and it's only May: "Anything going this far oughta have a flight attendant on it." So said Mitch Williams in marvel of a Mike Stanton homer for the Florida Marlins. Such Wild Thing comments make MLB Network worth a nightly watch.

Good 'N' Pawlenty. As debates went, the GOP session in South Carolina last month had all the tension of arts and crafts at the library. Still, Herman Cain nailed the one-liners, hooking viewers. And Rick Santorum gattling-gunned us awake.

For heft, give me Tim Pawlenty. He has the stature — 6 feet 3 — and issue grasp to make for a solid standard-bearer. And thank God he said sorry for his cap-and-tax brainwashing way back when. Without that mea culpa, he was global meltdown.

Think. If McCain had picked him for veep in '08 — and he was thisclose to doing that — Pawlenty would be a nationhold name. As it is, Minnesota knows him after eight years as governor. And not many others. I asked a college conservative about him recently and drew a blank face.

Then again, Iowans have to know him. That could be Pawlenty enough.

All in for Palin. What makes Sarah even more appealing than Pawlenty is the heat. I'm fired up over her energy — especially during her drill on oil independence.

She said the other night, "I have that fire in my belly." You can only imagine the comedy routines: "I'd like to give her some fire in the belly." Can't avoid that. Sarah's simply sizzling.

And what the heck. Obummer's gonna win anway, so let's have a ball of a campaign. With Palin-Bachmann in overdrive, we're looking at a helluva '12.

Book it. The neatest mystery author bar none? Lawrence Block. His Keller assassin novels hit the bull's-eye.

Not to jinx them. But have you noticed my Mets? Didn't think so. Crept up to .500 from baseball's dead-last abyss. And with players you wouldn't know if they walked through the door: Ike Davis, Justin Turner, Josh Thole.

Not Agee. A Gee. He's Dillon Gee, to be exact. The Met righty upped his record to 3-0 by swatting the Nats the other day.

Harkens back to a similar name — Tommie Agee, who caught everything in center field while the Mets grabbed the 1969 championship.

Speaking of good times. Just heard that my sweet, brilliant sister Deb doesn't have cancer after a doctor-visiting scare. Yes!

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California.

Michele Bachmann In Overdrive

2011-04-10T21:41:00.000-07:00

Michele Bachmann. With one l. And two n's. Spell her right, because she's right on the issues — so much so, we're looking at a President Bachmann on Jan. 20, 2013. Hope she remembers me after her swearing-in. We met a couple of years ago at my newspaper's office, and I've been swooning since.

The Mess. You might know them as the Mets, short for Metropolitans, New York's National League baseball contingent. Once we called them the Amazins, although the only amazing feat with 2011's version was first place in the first week. Sad to say, my faves are headed for last place in the last week.

Libya. Bet you never thought we'd relive the Marines' Hymn's coolest line — "To the shores of Tripoli." Let's hope this Obama War Prize entry doesn't so escalate. After these ment Muslim massacres in Afghanistan — all over a burned book — let's go the Pat Buchanan route: Get out.

Buttler. Yes, add that t to the Indiana college. It was all behind in the title-game loss for a basketball team that shot like the Dogs they are. And too bad. America had to be rooting for this little university to school the Huskies of UConns.

Run, fat folks, run. That's exactly my solution to America's fake medical problem. Here's another one: Quit that fifth trip to the buffet trough. The only presidential contender who had the guts to share such truth was Mike Huckabee a couple of years ago. He's bulked up since, so never mind.

Lakers land. Right on their third straight bull's-eye. This time they'll do it by beating the Chicago Bulls. And what a way for Phil Jackson to end the greatest coaching run in history. Six championships with the Bulls, six with the Lakers — with a farewell shot vs. his old team in the NBA Finals.

Walker, Wisconsin Ranger. When the Republicans run the table in 2012 — cashing in with the House, Senate and White House — they'll thank the governor who stood tall in the Wisconsin winter of 2011: Scott Walker. His face-off with unions woke Americans to the budget-busting scam: jack taxes so government employees could rake in triple the salaries and benefits of civilian workers. What's really stunning is these labor-group goons haven't gunned down the Ranger.

Better make other plans. Because the NFL and NBA will sit out next season. Guaranteed. Whenever leagues bog down in labor strife, no Hail Mary, no half-court bucket can win it for the fans. For reference, check 1981, 1982, 1987, 1994, 1998, 2004.

Happy days. We're in the middle of them. For all our grousing, come on. This is the greatest country, and we should constantly celebrate that. Just got into a terrific book "Young Stalin" by Simon Montefiore, and the grime and crime that stuck to the future Soviet slaughterer should wake any American to this reality: We have it good, baby.

Bucky Fox is an editor and author in Southern California.

Sex And The Sound Of Music

2011-02-19T18:46:00.000-08:00

When did the 1965 Best Picture Oscar champ turn up The Sound of Sex? Right after intermission in the gazebo.

Julie Andrews’ Maria, a millimeter from Christopher Plummer’s Georg: “The Reverend Mother always says: 'When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.' "

At this point of near kissing, the only thing Georg wants to open is the back of Maria’s flimsy dress.

So he says with a smirk: “What else does the Reverend Mother say?”

Welcome to the salty side, exactly what Plummer demanded upon taking the Capt. von Trapp role. The Canadian wasn’t about to sing through a saccharin script, so Ernie Lehman pulled back on the spoonful of sugar, not to mention the crisp apple strudels.

Lehman was probably the most valuable contributor to the smash musical whom nobody remembers. We know all about Andrews, Plummer and Rodgers & Hammerstein, the duo who wrote the classics: My Favorite Things, Do-Re-Mi, Edelweis, Sixteen Going on Seventeen. And my favorite, The Lonely Goatherd, which my niece Kristina Dazo sings with merry zest.

Lehman? He wrote the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s 1959 film North by Northwest. Half a decade later he further proved his brilliance by adding such edge to love this story amid the Alps.

Watch The Sound of Music for the 50th time, and you hear that the thrills are alive. Georg wants to take Maria right there in the hut. Maria, breathy and eye-rolling, wouldn’t resist if the cameras were turned off. So all that tension is worth the price of the DVD – until the Nazis take the fun off the screen. Thanks to Lehman’s lines, Maria and Georg do the love dance. Even when they seem to be sparring. And it’s funny stuff.

Maria: “When we enter the abbey, our worldly clothes go to the poor.”

Georg, inspecting her outfit fit for the anschluss: “What about this one?”

Maria: “The poor didn't want it.”

Moments later, they’re at it again at the dinner table.

Georg: “You intend leading us through this rare and wonderful new world . . . of indigestion?”

Georg again, whistling Maria into marching his way: “Is it also possible you remember the first rule in this house is discipline? Then I trust that before I return . . . you'll have acquired some?”

Really, Georg is the one who needs a whuppin, and Maria delivers.

Maria: “You've got to hear! You're never home!”

Georg: “I don't want to hear more!”

Maria: “I know you don't, but you've got to!”

And he does. As Maria muscles in, Georg weakens.

Maria: “If I could be of any help.”

Georg: “You have already. More than you know.”

They’re not the only ones who feel the heat. Also in the mix is Liesl, the captain’s ripe teen. When Dad pretends he doesn’t know his kids tried to rope Maria back into the fold, the daughter says, “Where do you think we were, Father?” The kid is plugged in.

As is Maria. She might be a nun candidate, but she’s also a fine babe — with a rich, castle-dwelling Georg (in the drop-dead-gorgeous shape of Plummer) in her sights.

If there’s any doubt, a steely-eyed Maria sheds it in this exchange:

Georg: “You are back to stay?”

Maria: “Only until arrangements can be made for another governess.”

Like hell. She’s just hours from steamrolling the competition, Baroness Schraeder, and feels it.

When Maria’s back in the abbey, it’s as a shuffling bride. No black outfit and stuck behind the gate — safe from prying priests — for her. It’s all white as she aims for the knight shining at the altar.

And no listening to the head nun on this night.

Bucky Fox is an author of baseball books and an editor in Southern California.

Jets Devour The Brady Brunch

2011-01-17T12:41:00.000-08:00

Something about New York puts the old before England, the y after Pats.

The Giants had that thing. Erased the un from unbeaten Patriots in the 2008 Super Bowl.

The Jets have it right now. Mugged old England Sunday. And are on a flight pattern to Pittsburgh, then Dallas for the Feb. 6 Super Bowl.

I saw it coming. Got up Sunday with an awakening: The Jets are helmet and shoulder pads above Belichick's bunch.

Braylon Edwards. Santonio Holmes. Those are stratospheric receivers. Who catches for the Patsies? Crumpler, Gronkowski, Hernandez. Please.

We were brainwashed into idolizing old England because of three NFL titles in the first half of the 2000s. And Jet fans were led to fear the Belichicks after that 45-3 bombing 24 hours before Pearl Harbor Day.

Good for Rex Ryan that he told all to get a grip. He said the Jets had the talent to win in Foxsorrow. They had more: a superior roster. Mark Sanchez wasn't about to pass that up.

Pete Carroll didn't roll after all. I thought he would after Seattle's Saint slapping. Then came Chicago's wizard-ending blizzard. Carroll looked stone-cold out of his league.

As you recall, that's what the coach told Sanchez he would face if he left Southern Cal after his 2008 junior season. The QB simply took his cue and headed for millions. Now he's in a second straight AFC title match. And Carroll's in an off-season.

All it took was shedding those baby blues. As soon as LaDainian Tomlinson donned Jet green, he turned into a winner. No more sulking on Diego's bench during another playoff meltdown. Dude is rushing, catching and scoring like he knows what time it is: clutch.

Speaking of green. Amazing the Jets won with green pants Sunday. Always seemed like it took all whites to scrub the best into them. Like in Miami in January 1969. All whites all the way in the Super Bowl. Shocked the Baltimore Colts, thanks to a delta force D and Joe Namath. Now D and Sanchise spell title No. 2.

As for the Bowl. The Jets will have matching Supe colors in the form of Green Bay. Brother, did the Packers flex their stuff Saturday in Atlanta. Aaron Rodgers showed exactly why they were dying to see Brett Favre go in 2008. With Rodgers' receivers and that secondary, Bay is a beast.

The Brady hunch. You see teetering Tom and Jolly Rodgers, and the NFL horizon is clear. Your quarterback better move it or he's done.

Brady's stock sank vs. the Jet strafing. Much more of that, and he'll make way for the son of my old high school pal Axel Hoyer: Brian Hoyer.

I had Brady fifth on the all-time QB lists, but he's slipped to sixth behind John Elway. The guys on top are Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana, Bart Starr and Terry Bradshaw.

Then there's Ben Roethlisberger. He could pass Brady if the Steelers win a third title under him. Will Big Ben pull that off this season? No.

The call. My Steeler zealot buddy Derrick Jones says his beloved will win 31-17 Sunday. Gotta break it to Derrick and the rest of Steeler Support.

With Rex Ryan calling the shots and cheering with his boys in the end zone after a limp that Deion Sanders hilariously imitates on NFL Network, the Jets win 24-21.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

The Golden Player Mine Since 1999

2010-12-15T17:00:00.000-08:00

Now that the first decade of the 2000s is in a two-minute drill, it's time to write about what life was like before the turn of the century.

People looked starkly different.

For one, we stared ahead. Look around now. Everyone’s locked on their smart phone — eyes straight down.

For two, we followed muscular teams that today are pipsqueaks: the Rams, Broncos, Bills, Vikings in the NFL; the Orioles, Indians, Diamondbacks in baseball; the Knicks and Timberwolves in the NBA.

For three, we spotted the ragged that now are rugged: the Jets, Pats, Steelers, Bears, Falcons, Saints in the NFL; the Rays, Twins, Angels, Cards, Rockies in baseball; the Celtics, Mavs, Nuggets in the NBA.

For four, we tracked only big men on campus 11 years ago: UConn in basketball, Florida State in football. Butler back then was the punch line of a murder mystery. Now it’s in the national basketball conversation. As is Boise State on the gridiron.

What about sportsmen? Eleven years are eons in athlete lives. So many stars weren’t even in our conscious universe in 1999. Such as these 11:

Tom Brady. Sure, he started at quarterback for Michigan in 1999. But after he wallowed on the New England bench his rookie season of 2000 and took Drew Bledsoe’s job early in the 2001 season, a pile of fans said Tom who? His answer was an NFL title, then two more in the decade. Now he’s fifth on the list of greatest NFL QBs after Johnny Unitas, Joe Montana, Bart Starr and Terry Bradshaw. Then again, the way he's darting toward Lombardi Trophy No. 4, he could rank No. 1.

LeBron James. What, we had sports without the man who would be king? ESPN lived before endless footage of James Jams? The NBA sold jerseys before Cav 23 and Heat 6? Yes, yes and yes. Eleven years ago, he was about to turn 15. OK, he could've made the Ohio State starting five. As it was, he skipped college, or kindergartren for him, and flexed right off in the pros. Yet talk about the emperor who wore no shorts. Millions put him on a throne, but what crown has ever won? None. He could turn out to be the Ted Williams of basketball. All underwear, no hardware.

Tim Lincecum. He was 15 in 1999, no doubt into grunge and video games. Just like at 26. Only now he’s rich and just about the best pitcher in baseball. Proof? He won the Cy Young Award in 2008 and ’09. And this year his clutch arm helped wing the Giants to their first world title since moving to San Francisco in 1958. Lincecame, all right.

Roger Federer. He’s dominated courts for so long, you can’t recall tennis without the Swiss Swoosh. Yet in 1999 about the only folks who knew him were Basel boosters. He didn’t start gripping the sport until 2003. Now he owns 16 Grand Slam trophies, the most of any man in history. Is that record untouchable? Hmmm, maybe by the next fellow.

Rafa Nadal. In 1999 he was a 13-year-old twerp living at home. So he’s still crashing with Mom and Dad in Majorca. At least he’s 24 and all man — muscular and mashing out Grand Slam tennis titles that add up to nine, already one more than Andre Agassi amassed in his two-decade run. As Henry Higgins would put it, the reign in Spain falls only when the forehand wanes.

Manny Pacquiao. In 1999 he was a Filipino Fly. The few fans who knew him were hanging around his hometown in the meat of Mindanao, way in the Philippine south. Good for PacMan that he chomped his way out of that Muslim haven toward one of the great careers in boxing history. Now he’s the Filipino Fist, full of 10 titles in eight divisions. Only this Fighter of the Decade could draw 42,000 to Cowboys Stadium to see him bloody Tony Margarito last month.

Sarah Hughes. In 1999 she was 14 and unknown. Now she's 25 and pretty much still foggy. Think great figure skaters and whom do you list? Peggy Fleming, Dorothy Hamill, Michelle Kwan. And that last one didn't even win Olympic gold. Hughes did. When she was done with that magnificent final at the 2002 Salt Lake City Games, the New Yorker was the Ice Queen, and California Kwan had melted in yet another Olympic competition. I'm no skating nut, but Hughes’ big-Game routine is my frozen-in-time moment of the past 11 years.

Ichiro Suzuki. Sure, he was huge in 1999. In Japan. And real American fans know that if the action isn’t here, it might as well be on one of Mars’ moons. In Ichiro’s case, he was swinging and sprinting for something called the Orix Blue Wave in 1990s. Then he took his baseball to Seattle and, man, did we wake up to more than a major leaguer. He was a general leaguer from the get-go, catching every shot in right field, pounding pitchers and vacuuming the 2001 MVP/Rookie of the Year trophies. The dude is a streak, swatting 200 hits in 10 straight seasons. No wonder he goes by the tag of a true star: his first name.

Ben Roethlisberger. Big Ben. The Man of Steelers. You can’t miss that 6-foot-5 Berg in Pittsburgh’s backfield. Or his two NFL championships. But you couldn’t find him in 1999. He was 17, about to pass into Miami, and not even the Florida version. He was bound for the college in Oxford, and not the one in England. No, the guy with the marathon name went to Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Seven pro seasons later, he’s rising toward the Hall of Fame.

Usain Bolt. The coolest name this side of Thabeet, which sounds like what you hear in downtown Memphis and is really the last name of the Grizzlies' 7-3 center. Back to Bolt, exactly what the Jamaican does to drive enemy sprinters Usain. What was he doing in 1999? Running around his Caribbean hometown like a fast 13-year-old. By 2008, Bolt was living up to his name something fierce. If you blinked from the Peking smog, you missed him Bolting to Olympic golds in the 100 and 200 meters and in sports' most exciting 37 seconds, the 400-meter relay. If not for Michael Phelps, this Usainity would've left the greatest mark on China since the wall.

Michael Phelps. In 1999 he was a Baltimore bass, 14 and hardly making waves. The only people watching him were parents and fellow teens. By 2004 he was a swimming shark, gulping six golds at the Athens Olympics. Then came Peking and his chance to lap the Spitz Seven. He did, winning 8 in ’08. The seventh gold, in the 100-meter butterfly, stopped the clock and every American heart. Phelps fished it out by 0.01 second. You get any closer, you push the timer to infinity. As it is, Phelps floats forever in Olympic lore.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern Califlornia who at the moment is euphoric over Mizzou and about to take the gaspipe with the Jets.

Sack Football's Replay; Quit The Homilitary Charade; Pacquiao's Pow

2010-11-17T17:07:00.000-08:00

Under review.

Under review.

Under review.

Bored yet?

Zzzzzzzzebras aren't. They're out to review more plays than Randy Moss teams.

Sideline catch? Review. End zone rush? Review. Cheerleader shake? Review. I wish.

Really, can we hit the kill button?

Tell it like it is. Pro and college football reviews exist for bettors. I mean, who else really cares if a cleat lands a millimeter out of bounds? I want the game to move it, not take a siesta every other down.

The NFL is supposed to spell entertainment, not PBS. If I want a dead screen, I'll turn to Charlie Rose.

As it is, games last longer than "Ben-Hur" while refs go through marathon research every other play.

Since we're stuck with this malarkey, I say kiss the turf for three other letters: DVR.

Don't ask, don't dwell. Notice Obummer's contortions as homosexuals try to come out of the military closet?

The prez indicates he's perfectly OK with a homilitary. Yet he sends his lawyers to court to keep homos stuffed in a duffle bag while he ponders whether he should give his brass the order to let them out in public.

What? Seriously, if Obummer twisted more dramatically, he'd make the rhythmic gymnastic team.

Contrast him with Harry Truman. He wanted to integrate the armed forces in 1948, so he ordered it. Period. No focus groups. No Capitol questions. He told the generals to mix blacks and whites in the barracks. Dismissed.

The man in charge now acts more like the commander in chef. If he were a true chief, he'd open the officers club dance floor to straights, detours, who cares and worry about the true enemy: Muslim terror.

As a lez pal tells me, what the hell; the uniforms would sure look snappier.

Speaking of rear echelon: Can we do away with the pandering gay tag? Homos are as blah as anyone, and 20% of Americans are even ment, as some survey figured. I don't buy that, but for damn sure hardly anyone is really upbeat.

As for unis. Please, NFL, trash these old school outfit. The Bears and Steelers show up in colors so foreign, you'd think NFL Europe is back.

Word to Commish Goodell: They're really uglier than a Favre sext shot.

I'm not a bitch. I'm certainly not you. What I want as I play off Christine O'Donnell's recent campaign ad is a lard-free government. That means cut the fat and the crap.

Cut government salaries 25%.

Cut drug laws and the billions in DEA waste.

Cut the Cuban embargo.

Cut D.C.'s education, energy and commerce departments.

Cut anti-gambling edicts.

Cut troops from South Korea and A-bomb the North if it trip-wires the DMZ.

Pac's the Man. If Manny Pacquiao had made Tony Margarito any redder Saturday, they'd have had a Bloody Mary. "Margarita shaken, stirred," came a friend's text.

Yet there was the Mexican after the raw rout spouting arrogance about not quitting. How about a dish of praise for the Filipino Fist? Call Jimmy Buffett and order some "Margaritaville" humility.

W. Great to see George Bush again. And not just in book tour interviews. Also on the mound, where he lasered that first pitch in the World Series. The Rangers could've used a giant like him.

Makes you go to YouTube for other Bush zingers, such as his 2002 anti-terror spiel to the press on the golf course followed by "Now watch this drive." Natch, perfect swing.

Now that's a replay worth watching.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

You Gotta Love Julie Banderas, Colt Helmets, 'Dr. No' And Other Hot Threes

2010-09-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

Thoughts of threes while idling at the DMV before football’s kickoff.

Top helmets: Colts, Giants, Browns.

Snappiest baseball cap logos: Nats’ W, Bucs’ P, Mets’ NY.

Sharpest uniforms: Braves, Dodgers, Yankees.

DVR magnets: "Dark Blue," “White Collar,” “Justified.”

Screen dudes: Sean Connery, Matt Damon, Logan Marshall-Green, the "Dark Blue" slick draw.

Sexiest TV hosts: Julie Banderas of my namesake network, Elizabeth “The Best View” Hasselbeck, Dina Gusovsky of RT.

Automatic reads: Ann Coulter, Ralph Peters, Mark Steyn.

Leaders with pop: Paul Ryan, Marco Rubio, Dale Peterson.

Best chance to beat obummer: Rick Perry, Tim Pawlenty, Mitt Romney.

Car I’d love to buy right now: Accord CR-Z, Mustang, Nissan GT-R.

On the way to watching 50 times: “Dr. No,” “The Bourne Identity,” “Kill Bill.”

Before I die: Korea unites, we recognize Cuba, we get bin Laden.

Hottest politicians: Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, Nikki Haley.

Dem faces: Christina Romer, Janet Reno, Janet Napolitano.

Days I treasure: boating to Corregidor, sailing in Miami, marrying my lovely Filipino wife, Maria, in the Catholic Church.

White lefty cares nothing about: terrorists, deficits, Christianity.

Delish: Lasagna, filet mignon, picadillo.

Turn ’em up: The Beatles, Cream, Zeppelin.

Tune out: Sting, the Who, Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Top TV channels: USA, Travel, Military.

Far-out feats: Michael Phelps’ eight golds, Steffi Graf’s Golden Slam, UCLA’s 88-game winning streak.

Break up: ESPNESPNESPN. Enough with the monopoly.

YouTube bookmarks: “Lawrence of Arabia” theme music, Peter Nero’s “It’s Alright With Me,” “Rule Britannia” at the Proms.

Who watches: MSNBC, NBC, PBS.

Cities calling me: Heidelberg, Barcelona, Paris.

Greatest Americans in my lifetime: Eisenhower, MacArthur, Neil Armstrong.

Tech that works: Cell phone, DVR, radio.

Actresses who have it: Marsha Thomason, the “White Collar” babe who should be Jane Bond; Nicki Aycox, the "Dark Blue" bad-ass blonde; Beth Riesgraf, the “Leverage” pouter.

I could listen for hours: Pat Buchanan, Chris Hitchens, Liz Cheney.

Top structures: Hearst Castle, Heidelberg Castle, Nelson’s Column in Trafalgar Square.

Dialed in: Rush Limbaugh, Fox radio’s Stephen Smith and Vic the Brick.

Studs: Kobe, Manny Pacquiao, Brett Favre.

Electric events: Heavyweight title fight, Olympic track 400-meter relay, Game 7 of the NBA Finals.

Movie villains to vilify: The Joker in “The Dark Knight,” Oddjob in “Goldfinger,” the scum Hans Landa in “Inglourious Basterds.”

Books atop the stack: “The Spy Who Came in From the Cold” by John le Carre, “Before the Fall” by William Safire, “The Silence of the Lambs” by Thomas Harris.

If I had an iPod: Billy Idol’s “White Wedding,” the Doors’ “L.A. Woman,” Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 1.

Super screen lines: James Bond: “That's a Smith & Wesson, and you've had your six.” T.E. Lawrence: “No prisoners!” Charlie Harper: “My weirdness bar for chicks is pretty high, but you are clearing it in street shoes.”

My zippiest interviewees: Pete Rose, coach George Allen, Roger Goodell years before he was NFL commish.

Speeches for the ages: Nixon’s 1968 nomination acceptance, W after 9/11 at the National Cathedral, Reagan's Pointe du Hoc classic in 1984.

Radio static: The Angels’ station has a corner on this one. Baseball? Lacking. Too much programming on AM 830 is paid shilling for pills. When sports finds its way on the station, you don’t hear Rex Hudler; he was dumped. You hardly hear Jeff Biggs and sidekick Jason Brennan; their drive-time hours were squeezed into minutes. What’s left? A losing team.

Love: jogging, tennis, steering clear of the DMV.

But hey, they just called my number. Who said it stands for Don’t Move Velociously?

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

The OC Flyers Cook Up Fun

2010-07-18T10:37:00.000-07:00

Finally a hot, happy summer.

Nothing like a sizzling night of minor league baseball to stretch my smile.

For too long, dis and content were teammates this season.

My brother-in-law, Charley Bogdonoff, died, taking his convincing laugh and Redskin loyalty with him.

Then my father-in-law, Procopio Dazo, died, and there went 85 years of wisdom.

The air was just as cold. Hey, this is California. Supposed to be dreamin' weather here, isn't it? This wasn't just June swoon, but more like summer bummer.

Then came Saturday night. If you were at the Orange County Flyers' game in the warmth of Fullerton, you grasped what keeps most Californians from leaving. Jarring taxes and traffic? They can't blot out year-round sun, palms and waves. All without mosquitoes.

Did I mention baseball? The state has five major league teams, two a short toss from my house. But to see the game at its grandest, I like cruisin' to Fullerton — between Dodger and Angel stadiums.

There sits The Station, where the choo-choo Flyers are on track with Golden Baseball League games.

For this double-header that would even the Flyers' record at 23-23, a crowd of 700 had a ball.

The sun-setting aura had the perfection of 1965 Sandy Koufax. Still, the plays weren't exactly that. This is farm ball, replete with shaky fielding.

So when the home side's Eric Pringle grounded to first (1) with the bases full (2) in a 4-4 tie and (3) in extra innings, you felt it was over.

By George, it was. The first baseman for the visitors — the St. George RoadRunners — fired something aimed at home but headed more toward the I-5, and the Flyers were 5-4 winners.

The OC nine sent St. George packing with a 10-2 smokin' in the nightcap, making the fans feel victorious.

Most, anyway. St. George is a town smack at the southern tip of Utah. The ride to Fullerton takes six hours. Yet plenty of RoadRunner fans sounded off on this mid-July eve.

Two were David and Roberta Salazar. They didn't need to drive 375 miles. Just a ways from their Pasadena area home. Why root for the visitors? Relatives. The St. George manager is nephew Darrell Evans, the former Brave, Giant and Tiger great who belted 414 homers. And the RoadRunners' first base coach is son-in-law Dan DiPace.

The Salazars were glad to catch their boys in Fullerton. The shorter trip, yes. And the utopian clime. As they pointed out, St. George is baking at 118 degrees.

Then there was Tyrone Richardson, another fan who trekked in to see the RoadRunners. Really, one Runner: center fielder Victor Butler.

Richardson, a college kid sporting a cap with the coolest logo in sports — the W of the Nationals — and 20 of his pals veered from the L.A.-Vegas pit stop of Victorville to cheer on their hero Butler.

Alas, Victor of his namesake ville couldn't do it. He popped up the first pitch he saw in Game 2 and came to a screeching halt with the rest of the RoadRunners.

As for the Flyer fans, this was party time. Their team won twice, yes. But minor league ball is so much more.

Seats are so close to the field, you sense the players and umps hear your advice.

A mascot — in this case, goofy Coal Train — makes the rounds, hamming it up to the music and PA exhortations.

And does the Flyers' public address guy ever deliver the hits. He's Chris Albaugh, who boosts his PA racket learned from years with the Raiders, Clippers, Angels and Dodgers to a wild level.

Albaugh said between games that when he took this job in the 2005 inaugural season, "I wanted to jack up the energy and have fun."

So he downloads movie sound bites and spits them out through the sound system.

When the Flyers get a man on, Albaugh punches in Tom Cruise from "Top Gun": "I feel the need ... the need for speed."

When a RoadRunner strikes out, the voice of Joe Pesci in "My Cousin Vinny" sneers, "I got no more use for this guy."

After another St. George player fans, out comes the "Top Gun" bald boss balling out Cruise: "Son, your ego's writing checks your body can't cash."

After one of a pile of St. George errors in Game 2, the voice of Tim Allen in "Toy Story" says: "There seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere."

And when a helicopter flies by, Cruise's voice blares: "Requesting a flyby."

Another "Top Gun" moment. Just as Manny Ayala's was. The Flyer righty from East L.A. College outgunned the RoadRunners in Game 2 and stands 7-0.

Maybe Ayala will follow other Golden Baseball League players who hopped to the majors — namely outfielder Daniel Nava this year in Boston, where he jacked a grand slam on the first pitch he faced in the bigs.

He can look up to the GBL managing lineup: Flyer skipper Paul Abbott, who pitched for the Twins and other MLB teams. Abbott's Flyer predecessor, Phil Nevin, the ex-Padre slugger now managing in the Tigers' system. And Nevin's predecessor, Gary Carter, the star Met who led the Flyers to the 2008 championship.

For now, Ayala and the other GBL players toil for squat, as one Flyer season-ticket fan put it. They keep at it for the joy of baseball and hopes of reaching The Show.

Reaping the rewards? The fans in this summer of sudden contentment.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com

St. George manager Darrell Evans and I flank big RoadRunner fan David Salazar.

Riding The Laker Wave

2010-06-05T11:08:00.000-07:00

We were losing it.

Not the series. Our mind.

Such is L.A.’s hysteria these days with the Lakers.

Tied 2-2 with Oklahoma City in Round 1 of the NBA playoffs, fans freaked out. And watched the Purple and Gold thunder back to win in six.

Knotted 2-2 with Phoenix in Round 3, we reached for the gaspipe again. And saw Klub Kobe block out the Suns in six.

Now we’re in the meat of the NBA Finals. If you can call turkey hotdogs meat.

Fellow Laker loyalists dribbled over to my place to sow out on those and chips — with the requisite Diet Coke for a bow to balance — and worked it all off by sweating through … what? Our guys bounced Boston by 13. The only points in question were silly Jeff Van Gundy declarations on ABC.

My neighbor Tom showed up in his Laker jersey, matching my yellow T-shirt. My old buddy Ken came wearing his fanaticism. We comprised a trio in harmony — screaming and high-fiving over every Bynum dunk, every Artest three — while my sweet wife, Maria, came home to the chaos, took photos of the blast and escaped with a laugh.

No sweat. The Lakers are taller, quicker, younger, even meaner than the Celtics. This thing will be over six. And on this night we could kick back. Except when Van Gundy and sidekick Mark Jackson filled the telecast with wisdom on hamburgers, Scrabble and Chris Rock. This wasn’t an NBA broadcast as much as a Disney klatch.

Other than bitching about ABC’s missing graphics that kept us in the dark about fouls, we had one easy eve. A 52-inch Sony. High def. Unlimited food and drink. Which has to be killing sports bars. Why go there when you have a kick-ass aura at home?

And why were we going nuts? Because we love sports. Not for betting. Not for any other profitable motive. Just because. Tom, Ken and I might not click on political issues, but when it comes to the Lakers, it’s hug city. Plug the Koreans into this concept, and the DMZ would vanish.

And yet. The Lakers, the Celtics, the Angels, the Red Sox, doesn’t matter. They better get the message right now: Kiss the court and the turf for our fandom. Because this party is about to turn out the lights.

One day all of those teams will wake to empty stands. And lousy TV ratings.

Why? Two reasons:

1. Young people aren’t into making like hotdogs — steaming and resting on their buns — while mindlessly following the action. Kids today want to BE the action.

That means skateboarding, not vegging while some batter fiddles in the box.

That means video gaming, not remoting between the NBA and NHL.

Have you seen those video games? I saw Laker action on the screen that my grandkids were directing and was stunned by the cartoon’s authenticity. Kobe couldn’t have looked more real if he had hit his own 30-footer with five guys on him.

And this was two years ago. With tech’s progress, Kobe’s probably jumping out of a 3-D screen by now.

Hmmm: Sit while athletes do their thing? Or get in the game by pressing the video buttons?

You know what young people turned adults will be doing the next 20 years.

2. A dearth of dads. Or death of them, take your pick.

They’re just not around anymore. I don’t have the Census breakdown, but you know single moms rule these days. And are multiplying like the national debt.

Stopping that trend has about as much chance as the Clippers contending. Women are prospering on the job. They don’t need men, certainly not to bellow with such gems as “Hurry up.”

As dads disappear from houses, so does the force behind sports.

No dad, no pass with the football. No dad, no catch with the baseball. No dad, no oil in the mitt.

No dad, no drive to the stadium. That ultimately will end sports’ honeymoon as entertainment.

With dads, teams are on a fantasy ride. They play every night in Los Angeles and pack the place, 40,000 at Angel Stadium or Dodger Stadium. Think of how those thousands reach the park — via 20 miles of jammed highway — and fan loyalty reaches another level.

That fandom can’t last. And it won’t.

But that’s a quantum leap away. For now, we’re swimming in Laker Land. And loving it.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Filly's Fab Flyers

2010-05-20T17:52:00.000-07:00

The soaringest sportsmen this year have to be ... let's see:

The Sun-dousing Lakers? No.

The James-jamming Celtics? No.

The Mosley-mopping Mayweather? No.

The Mayweather-hunting, vote-producing Pacquiao? No.

The Favre-flogging, Super-balling Saints? No.

The Butler-besting Dukin' Blue Devils? No.

The Bobby Hull-reliving Blackhawks? No.

Getting warm.

Try another bunch on the ice, this one with wings in their logo: the Flyers of Philadelphia.

You want fabled? The Flyers of 2010 already are.

We're not halfway through the year, and they're flying at a historic clip.

The Flyers shot into the National Hockey League finals by:

1. Outshooting the New York Rangers in the regular season's last game to squeak into the playoffs.

2. Facing a 0-3 series hole and winning the next four games against the Boston Bruins.

3. Facing a 0-3 hole in that seventh game and finishing off those Bruins 4-3.

4. Meeting hockey's other playoff shocker, the Montreal Canadiens, and skating to a 4-1 series triumph.

Fightin', fantastic, folkloric. The Flyers rule the 4-F Club.

And who knows them? Philly fans, no doubt. A few of those loyalists might line your office. Other than them, no one would recognize Michael Leighton if he buzzed in. Or Peter Laviolette.

Introducing:

Goalie Leighton. The Petrolia, Ontario, native has his skate to the gas, with the Flyers riding him to what they hope is their first title since 1975. And what a shift into high gear. Leighton was always how he sounded — late in games. He played backup in Chicago, Nashville, Carolina, even Philly until taking over for an injured starter. Now Leighton is simply IN, stopping every shot that matters. Three shutouts in the five-game mauling of Montreal? Talk about a re-enactment of Ken Dryden circa '71.

Coach Laviollete. He's that rarity in the NHL, a stud American. He directed Carolina to the 2006 Stanley Cup and has Phenomenal Philly on the brink. Boston fans surely are bummed a neighbor nailed them, what with the First Flyer hailing from Norwood, Mass.

Speaking of Boston, it also had to be sickening to swallow its own medicine. Recall the Red Sox rose from 0-3 in the 2004 pennant series. That nuking of the New York Yankees capped baseball's greatest rebound. Six years later, Bostonians had to feel queasy.

The Flyers of 2010. The Sox of 2004. Makes you ponder sports' top comebacks.

How about:

The Giants of 1962. Sure, Bobby Thomson's Giants of 1951 gave New York drama worthy of Broadway. But the San Francisco version 11 years later was more improbable. Behind by four games in the standing with seven to go, the Giants were done. Really? Somehow they rallied to tie the Dodgers and force a three-game playoff. Then in the deciding game, the Giants looked dead again. They trailed 4-2 in the ninth inning. Yet they woke up to walk over Los Angeles for the pennant.

The Bengals of 1970. They started 1-6, hardly surprising for a team in just its third season. Forget it, right? Wrong. Winning its last seven games, Cincy gave Paul Brown the AFC Central title.

The lesson: Never say bye.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Maria Bartiromo's Barometer

2010-04-21T16:27:00.000-07:00

Maria Bartiromo came alone.

That alone was a show stopper.

I figured when she entered the office for our interview, she'd have an entourage worthy of Floyd Mayweather.

After all, Bartiromo is a heavyweight, a few classes above the unbeaten welterweight. As host of two shows on CNBC, she's all business.

She's also a knockout, the original Money Honey.

Now she has a new book out. It's called "The 10 Laws of Enduring Success." After our chat, I can see why she's expert enough to have written it.

The main reason? She sure seems like the woman who arrived without airs. The only thing she carried was a smile.

Here's how she put it in her book: People respond to authenticity, even if you make mistakes or trip over a few words. They want to see a live human being, not a cardboard cutout.

Indeed. More reasons to like Bartiromo and her "10 Laws":

She's armed. Ready to throw out the first pitch before a Yankee Stadium game, I was in front of 60,000 screaming fans, with the wind blowing in my eyes and home plate looking a million miles away, and I thought, "Oh no, I'm not going to do it. I'm going to be booed." And then I took a deep breath and said, "You're exactly where you're supposed to be." And I threw the ball. It sailed over the plate into the catcher's mitt, and the crowd went wild.

She's nails. On her 34th birthday came 9/11. And she found herself in the midst of the terror attack's smoke. One woman was crying hysterically, and I remember thinking that this was not the time for panic or tears, that we had to keep our heads. I went over to her and said loudly and firmly, "Please calm down. It's important that you calm down." And she did, even as the floor we were standing on began to shake with the force of the second tower collapsing.

She's of solid stock. It would never have occurred to my parents to gripe about how hard they worked, to think that their lives were tougher than other people's or to feel entitled to have more for less effort. Even today, if I complain about being overworked, my mother rolls her eyes and says, "Come on, Maria, you're not chopping trees."

She's resourceful. Thinking of switching networks in the early '90s, I convinced my boss to allow me to work longer than the typical day. After my regular shift, I'd go into the field with the morning crews and pick up the news and sound bites when the markets opened. I'd write out scripts, and when I was alone with the crew, I'd ask them to shoot me on camera, reporting, so I'd have some clips. ... With their help I created a portfolio of clips: "Maria Bartiromo, reporting for CNN Business News."

She's upbeat. She quoted chess champion Garry Kasparov as saying, "Most people scrutinize their mistakes. ... I always scrutinized my victories." ... I thought his insight was priceless, and it clearly came from the mind of a competitor.

Bartiromo draws wisdom from another guy on top of his game: Joe Torre. It’s all part of a book stacked with wealthy knowledge.

And when Maria said goodbye after our chat? She signed her book, “Thank you so much for everything.”

To that, I'm still sighing "you're welcome."

Bucky Fox is an author and editor who runs BuckyFox.com and is devoted to his own Maria, wife Maria Fox.

Butler's Shot Was Almost The Greatest; Giants Sizzle; Angels Hollow On Air; Braves Title Bound; Bare Baylor

2010-04-10T08:54:00.000-07:00

Gordon Hayward from half-court! No good!

One inch to the right, and Butler wins the championship!

Wow, was that ending for all time or what?

What, really. With the miss, Duke beat Butler 61-59 last Monday for college basketball's crown.

If Butler had cashed in that Hail Hayward? We'd be calling it the shot heard round the universe.

Because it would've been otherworldly. Think of the greatest plays to finish championships. None would touch the Butler Bomb.

Consider the backdrop. Tiny school. Against a hoop giant. Down by two. Full court to go. Heave. Ho, if he had only hit it.

As it is, Coach K's crew won the Carolina college's fourth title.

And the boys from Indiana will forever recall their "Hoosiers" moment — when Jimmy Chitwood's winning movie basket almost replayed in Indianapolis.

After Hayward's wayward shot, I thought of other plays for the ages.

Basketball. Keith Smart. His baseline jumper as the clock melted really was a Chitwood re-enactment. It gave the Indiana Hoosiers the title over Syracuse in 1987, the year after the movie came out.

Baseball. Bill Mazeroski. Game 7 of the 1960 World Series. Pittsburgh and the nuclear New York Yankees were tied 9-9. Bottom of the ninth. Pow. Maz mashed one over the left-field wall at Forbes Field. The fans poured over the Pirates.

Football. Adam Vinatieri. The 2002 Super Bowl. New England was tied 17-17 with St. Louis' big-time favored Rams. Bang. Vinatieri nailed a 48-yard field goal with no time left to give the Patriots their first NFL title.

Hockey. Bobby Orr. Boston led the 1970 Stanley Cup Finals three games to zip. But St. Louis had fought to a 3-3 overtime in Game 4. Orr shot. He flew over the ice. The puck pounded the net. The Bruins were on top.

Too bad Butler didn't do it too.

The good news. Duke and Butler reached the final with a unique concept — upperclassmen, players who attend class. The Kentucky types who rode one-and-done talent went nowhere.

The Duke-Butler way puts the college back in basketball. And gives hope to my Missouri Tigers. Mike Anderson coaches our guys to get degrees on the patch to wealth after hoops. Now that could mean an NCAA title as well.

Giant stuff. You notice San Francisco's sizzling start this baseball season? Brings back memories of "The Giants Win the Pennant" 1962 album that filled my ears. There was Lon Simmons saying, "The Giants were looking for more than hamburgers. They were looking for steaks." Time for more calls like that in Frisco.

Speaking of calls. Can't get into Angel TV and radio games. The knifing of Rex Hudler and Steve "Light up the Halo" Physioc leaves the Orange County team with zero on-air vibe. I'll just have to catch games at the stadium.

So who wins it all? You have to like the Yankees' chances to repeat. I mean, all they did was add silver bullets to their ordnance. But I hate picking the obvious. Mark me down for Atlanta to give Bobby Cox the World Series trophy in his last season as skipper.

Don't look now. But isn't Baylor women's hoop center Brittney Griner a guy? Sure dunks and talks like one. Better check him out, especially after the track people uncovered South African impostor Caster Semenya for what he is.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

PacMan's Pounding Of Pack-It-In Man

2010-03-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

The best bet was on the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders.

Did they ever beat boxing to the punch the other night.

Whereas the welterweight title fight had all the sting of a swatted bee, the Cowgirls sang like miked butterflies.

Did you catch their act? The trio — decked out in stars and not much else — made "The Star-Spangled Banner" flutter. Their a cappella voices had as much beauty as their bodies.

And after "home of the brave," every fight fan was indeed ready to rumble.

Only the main event wasn't much of an encore.

It featured Manny Pacquiao living up to his PacMan billing — chomping nonstop for 12 rounds.

But from the other corner? A turtle, as an office colleague called Joshua Clottey. He crawled all the way out of Africa to spend the whole fight in a shell.

Shades of Ali's 1974 rope a dope in the Congo. That time it turned into Foreman's stumble in the jungle.

This time it was a grope a dope in Texas. With that cover-up plot, Clottey was a Ghana, all right.

So what were fans to do? The 50,000 at Dallas Cowboys Stadium — most of whom had to be Filipinos — erupted for their hero. And booed stuck-like-a-blood Clottey.

Why join them? Glad I avoided the marathon drive from the West Coast and $50 parking. The best way to watch was at a Filipino party near Disneyland. Deep dishes of Philippine food, topped by cheering. The only thing that tasted bad was my $5 raffle ticket. I pulled out a 3, off by nine rounds.

So what's next on the menu? PacMan and whoever else he wants to devour.

The Filipino Fist stands 51-3-2 and on top of the world. Make his win total 52 if he captures his congressional seat he's fighting for in May.

The Honorable Manny Pacquiao would then fly back to strafe Mayweather or Mosley in one rich goodbye party.

Talk about political pull.

With PacMan calling and dealing the shots, he better corral the Cowboy cheerleaders for another national anthem.

That would be the patriotic thing to do.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

'My Fair Lady' Did It

2010-03-13T07:58:00.000-08:00

Let’s set the record — or DVD — straight.

“My Fair Lady” is the heavyweight champ of musical comedies.

The melodies hit the ears with snappy jabs.

The dialogue deals the senses uproarious uppercuts.

The lyrics clinch the performance with one killer knockout.

Left standing: Rex Harrison, who put the pro in professor Henry Higgins.

Harrison’s depiction of the speech fusspot properly led to his 1964 Oscar along with the film’s.

Movie viewers can kiss the Ascot turf that Harrison carried his Broadway act to the big screen. Hollywood blew it on the distaff side, passing on Broadway babe Julie Andrews in favor of Audrey Hepburn.

Talk bout a wayward punch. In Andrews, Warner Bros. had the top singing talent in the stable. No one could touch her voice.

Tough to fathom, but Julie didn’t have the star power of Audrey back then. So the movie “My Fair Lady” is stuck with a pouty player who can’t sing. The dubbed-in music voice belongs to Marni Nixon.

Enough of the nitpicking. “My Fair Lady” rocks because of its superior content. The song package alone stands octaves above any other in musical history.

Let’s strike up the winning strains:

1. “Why Can’t the English”

2. ”With a Little Bit of Luck”

3. “The Rain in Spain”

4. “I Could Have Danced All Night”

5. “On the Street Where You Live”

6. “You Did It”

7. “Just You Wait”

8. “Show Me”

9. “Get Me to the Church on Time”

10. “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face”

This could be a top 10 on the song list of musical comedies. And we’re talking about one show.

Even the atmospheric tune at the embassy ball has one fine flow.

This is pure prolificacy from melody maven Frederick Loewe and word whiz Alan Jay Lerner, who should’ve won the screenplay Oscar.

What did Lerner do? Simply produce stinging verse:

Higgins: By right she should be taken out and hung,
For the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue.

Alfred Doolittle: Oh, it's a crime for man to go philanderin' — but
With a little bit of luck, with a little bit of luck,
You can see the bloodhound don't find out!

Higgins: I'd be equally as willing for a dentist to be drilling
than to ever let a woman in my life.

Eliza Doolittle: Never do I ever want to hear another word.
There isn't one I haven't heard.

Higgins: One man in a million may shout a bit.
Now and then there's one with slight defects;
One, perhaps, whose truthfulness you doubt a bit.
But by and large we are a marvelous sex!

Eliza: You, dear friend, who taught so well,
You can go to Hartford, Hereford and Hampshire.

Put that humor and depth up against more modern productions such as “The Phantom of the Opera.” It has, what, one memorable song?

Even musicals in the running for the showtime trophy — “The Music Man,” “The Sound of Music” — can’t compete in the sophistication ring.

Maybe I was brainwashed with “My Fair Lady.” While growing up, I’d wake up on Sundays to a tape of the show’s music that my dad habitually played.

He’d then pay the ultimate compliment to Lerner by using “jawohl” in his vernacular.

Now I do it. Does this bring back memories of Higgins’ landing “you did it” plaudits for his climactic triumph? And put the crowning touch on this all-time smash hit?

Jawohl.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Jets In The Clouds

2010-01-17T17:12:00.000-08:00

The Amazin' Jets?

You bet. By reaching the playoffs. By winning their first-rounder in Cincy. By sticking it to San Diego in Sunday’s second-rounder.

The Jets have fans like me flush with green bliss.

Watching the Sanchise tame the Bengals two straight weeks trumped Broadway Joe in one respect. Namath faced the Oakland Raiders twice in the 1968 American Football League season and could only split.

Only? What Joe Willie did was lose the Heidi Game, then black out Oakland in the AFL final. That gave New York a ticket to the Super Bowl, where Namath backed his guarantee with football's greatest upset, beating Baltimore 16-7.

The Jets looked Super in their all-white unis and helmets that sport the second coolest NFL logo after the Colts' horseshoe. And haven't won a championship since.

Buddy Ryan was an assistant coach on those Jets. His son Rex is head coach of these Jets. And made a Namath-like call heading into this month's playoffs. "We should be the favorites," Rex said two weeks ago.

Now here the Jets are calling out the Colts again, this time for the AFC championship.

Even if the Jets don’t make it to the Feb. 7 Super Bowl — in Miami, just like 41 years ago — they've been the shock of early 2010. What other surprises can we expect the following 11 months?

February: Lindsey Vonn. As the Olympics hit the snow of Vancouver midmonth, the Babe of Burnsville, Minn., hopes to shed memories of 2006. That's when she crashed while training for the Torino Games and failed to win a medal. Since then, she's skied past them all on the World Cup circuit. Will she come through in Canada? Yes.

March: Manny Pacquiao. The Filipino Fist is coming off a battered eardrum during his otherwise safe pounding of Miguel Cotto last November. With that injury, PacMan is sure to be shaky as he enters the ring against a gun from Ghana named Joshua Clottey. Nah. Pacquiao will somehow pull the trigger on this triumph in Texas in time to return home and win in the political arena.

April: Mizzou. My Tigers own exactly one national championship. It came in baseball in 1954. Now make it two, with the Tigers leaping atop the Final Four in Indy.

May: Andrew Bynum. I've been on a trade-Drew campaign recently. Now he makes me and fellow naysayers look silly by standing tall for the Lakers. Right in the thick of the NBA playoffs.

June: Jo-Willie Tsonga. The Muhammad Ali double jabbed to the 2008 Aussie final, but needs a knockout to put him on tennis' list of big hits. He'll swing his way there with a Paris-poppin' performance in the French Open.

July: Lance Armstrong. He pedals all the way back to the peak — over the Alps and into Paris to grip his eighth Tour de France championship. And we thought he really was done after his seventh straight Tour title in 2005.

August: Tiger Woods. Gotta admit I loved seeing this stealth thug mug himself with his thong chasing. But kiss off his career? No way. Thanks to his new sex appeal, Tiger will roar beyond the rough. In time to win the PGA in Wisconsin.

September: Justine Henin. The Belgian Waffles keep stacking up tennis titles. Kim Clijsters won the U.S. Open in 2005, retired a couple of years later, changed her mind, then won it again in 2009. Henin also owns two Open crowns. Her last came in 2007. The next year she left the court as No. 1 in the world. Now she's back and conquers New York for Open trophy No. 3.

October: Garrett Gilbert. No one but his family heard of this alliterative ace. Until he almost won college football's national title game to start the year. Now the Texas quarterback's in his second season. Or in the vernacular of the TV dopes, a true sophomore. And winging the Longhorns past Oklahoma in the Red River Shootout.

November: The Mets. No way they'll let the Jets steal the Amazin' tag all year. New York's National Leaguers claimed that crown in 1969. Now they wear it again, with Carlos Beltran joining Jason Bay in time to power atop the World Series.

December: Pacquiao-Mayweather. Just when you thought this megabout was KO'd, off the deck it comes. Only kidding, says Pretty Boy Floyd after his drug slap at PacMan. The Filipino isn't laughing. He bloodies Floyd's smirk and perfect record. Now Pacquiao stands 52-3-2, on top of the world. And waving bye to boxing.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

The Great Nixon

2010-01-01T12:34:00.000-08:00

President Nixon would be turning 97 next Saturday.

The Richard Nixon Library will celebrate the birthday, with special huzzahs from daughter Tricia. Can't wait to meet her. I'll make a beeline there since the Yorba Linda birthplace is just down the highway from me.

You can imagine the fireworks in three years for RN's 100th. All the living presidents are sure to show up.

They better. In Richard Nixon, they'll be toasting one of the best of the 43 men to run America. There's George Washington, yes. And Lincoln, Ike and Jefferson.

For pure accomplishments, give me Nixon.

America keeps rising because we have always played for high stakes. Thomas Jefferson put serious chips on the Louisiana Purchase. Abe Lincoln bet hundreds of thousands of lives on preserving the Union. FDR gambled on D-Day. They all won big.

Then there was the greatest card player to reach America’s highest office: Richard Nixon. The man who cleaned up playing poker in the Pacific during World War II played for huge pots as president and collected.

Let’s count President Nixon’s winnings for America:

China. This was Nixon’s ace. He saw the world’s biggest population in darkness and drew open the curtain. Since his 1972 drama, the Chinese have been performing an economic boom on the world stage. Amid all that buying and selling of our goods, watch for another act that comforts America: China rejecting communism.

Vietnam. Nixon had a winning hand in January 1973. He ended America’s longest war. South Vietnam looked like it would stay free the way South Korea did. Only when Congress pressured the President to resign the next year and surrendered in Southeast Asia did that hand fold.

Air and water. Nixon started flushing the grime from America’s skies and rivers by opening the Environmental Protection Agency in 1970.

Voting age. Nixon shuffled the law to let 18-year-olds vote. His signature on the bill in 1970 lowered the age limit from 21 in federal elections. The next year the 26th Amendment to the Constitution made the age change for all elections.

Israel. Nixon proved to be a stud at what he called nut-cuttin’ time. He saw the Jews losing steam amid the Yom Kippur War in 1973, so he stepped on the gas. He shipped every aircraft in sight to Israel’s defense. It turned out to be a bigger airlift than the Berlin version of 1948-49 — and saved our ally in the desert.

Desegregation. Nixon faced a weak hand when the Supreme Court ruled in 1969 that schools had to bus children to achieve racial balance. He displayed bluff and brilliance, somehow steering the buses past livid parents and through a Southern Strategy that turned those states his way in the 1972 landslide.

Killing the draft. After China, this is Nixon’s lasting chip. He pledged in his 1968 campaign to end the draft, and he came through on July 1, 1973. Thus started the all-volunteer Army. With soldiers who want to fight for America and earn the good money that comes with service, the Nixon-born military has grown into the most muscular in history.

The moon. Nixon oversaw all six manned lunar landings from 1969 to ’72.

Think big. Act big. That was Nixon.

Just take those moon landings. Each one came while America was in the heat of the Vietnam War. Did Nixon wring his hands like lefty did five years ago over dealing a lousy 4% of Social Security taxes into private accounts? No. The President stared at the cards he was dealt and raised the stakes.

That’s what makes America No. 1.

Now deal. We have a birthday to party for.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Dandy Decade

2009-12-10T18:35:00.000-08:00

Line of the decade hit the office the other day:

Tiger Woods needs a new driver.

Other than that, you won’t see mention of him in this breakdown of the 2000s. This is about sports, not golf.

2000: The Lakers win the first of three straight NBA titles. On their way to Team of the Decade. Shaq provides the muscle, but in four years he’ll flee and rip L.A. The city’s hero is Kobe. He sticks it out during the drag days of mid-decade, scores 81 in a 2006 game against Toronto and wins a fourth championship in 2009. No question. Bryant is Player of the Decade.

2001: The 9/11 World Series. The massacre pushed the Diamondback-Yankee clash so far back, Derek Jeter turned into Mr. November. So much drama at Yankee Stadium: late homers, “God Bless America.” Then came the ninth inning, Game 7, Arizona’s stadium. The D-comebacks won it, thanks to Luis going Gonzo against the arm with the Mo, Rivera.

2002: The Angels win it all. And what a World Series. Seven gut games against San Francisco that rivaled the Fall Classic of the year before. Tim Salmon’s Game 2 heroics. Spiezio’s Scott Heard Round the World in Game 6. As AngelsWin.com relays: By now, most Angels fans can recite Rory Markas' call verbatim: "Here's the pitch to Lofton. Fly ball, center field. Erstad says he's got it. Erstaaaaaad MAKES THE CATCH! The Anaheim Angels are the champions of baseball!"

2003: Andre Agassi is forever Grand. This was his third Aussie Open trophy in four years. While so many players sobbed about the tropical oven Down Under, Agassi simply sizzled. This made his Slam haul eight, up there with tennis’ greats. Yes, Sampras and Fed were better. But they didn’t have that Andre aura. Maury Allen put it this way in a recent piece at TheColumnists.com: “When you are around athletes all your professional life, as some of us have been lucky enough to be, you can spot stardom. . . . Andre Agassi took over the breakfast room.” So Andre lied about his long hair. As a fellow baldy, I’ll give him a pass. And keep remembering how cool he was, from Frankfurt to Paris to London to New York to L.A. to Melbourne.

2004: The Red Sox vault from nearly dead to Yankee killers. Really the Comeback of the Decade. No baseball team had shed an 0-3 series deficit. And Boston had played mitt to New York’s pounding going back to the Joe D days. Not this time. Riding the crunch-time bat of David Ortiz, the Sox stuck it to the Yanks for the pennant and swept St. Louis for the world title. Their first in 86 years.

2005: City of the Decade? Boston, hands down. The Red Sox won two titles, the Celtics one. And the Patriots three. Their third came in the ’05 Super Bowl, a 24-21 thriller over Philly. Tom Brady lasered the football mostly to Deion Branch. In the end, the Eagles were sick of seeing them.

2006: Texas 41, Southern Cal 38. Vince Young with the winning touchdown in the January BCS title game to cap the 2005 season. The Longhorns national champions for the first time since 1969, the last time you’ll ever see an all-white gang pull that off. This was simply the Game of the Decade. I figured the Trojans would blow out the Horns. The California kids had more talent and the best coach, Pete Carroll. They also had a backyard field, the Rose Bowl. And a 12-point lead late. All Young did was win, just as the QB keeps doing with the Tennessee Titans.

2007: Mizzou No. 1. The snapshot was so rare, I bought two Sports Illustrateds freezing my Tigers’ spot atop college football. The Chase Daniel cover and Jeremy Maclin inside page adorn the Fox Den. I knew the moment wouldn’t last long. It didn’t. The next week, Oklahoma dealt us misery in the Big 12 title game. When will Missouri place first in the land again? Maybe 2017 or 2027. The wait is on.

2008: Phil Jackson. Now this is a giant. Not just because he stands 6-8. Also way up there is his championship number: 10. Six with the Chicago Bulls, four with the Lakers. He would get that fourth in L.A. by 2009, but his handling of this team in 2007-08 was exceptional. SI’s preseason edition predicted a Laker sinking. No one figured anything much better. Except me. Early in the campaign I wrote here something that almost came true, if only the Lakers had overcome Boston in the NBA Finals: Many fans dismiss him as lucky to have coached Jordan, Shaq and Kobe. The Jackson jeers get so loud, listen when he leads the Lakers to the NBA championship this season. Instead of lauding him for landing a record 10th trophy, some will grouse that of course he won; who wouldn’t with Kobe and Andrew Bynum? You see how silly this gets?

2009: Manny Pacquiao. If not for Kobe, the Filipino Fist would be 2000s’ Tops. So let’s make him the Foreign First. How stout was he in bouts? Won seven world titles in seven weight classes this decade. By the time he was fitting his last belt after belting Puerto Rico’s Miguel Cotto last month, he needed to let it out a few notches. Suddenly the skinny slug getting rice kicked in his face is flexing welterweight muscles. And aiming to nail Floyd Mayweather. But that’s next decade.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

The Air Goes Out Of Angels' Airwaves

2009-11-27T16:59:00.000-08:00

What’s with Los Angeles radio? It’s as if we’re masochistic.

Here we have the No. 2 market in the country, and the airwaves treat it like Static City, Iowa.

We had Larry Elder, the sharpest libertarian on radio. Fired.

We had Tammy Bruce, the coolest righty on the air. Gone.

We had Doug McIntyre, the gutsiest oral hammer at illegal immigration. Axed.

We had Dave Smith, the aptly named Sports God. Goodbye.

We had Rex Hudler and Steve Physioc, the voices who kept Angel fans awake. Tell ’em bye-bye, baby.

What? Hud and Phyz off the L.A. baseball team?

You heard that right. The Angels announced the canning this week. Evidently had to do with money. The team had too many men in the booth. So they trimmed the staff.

Erased the face of the team: Hudler.

And bounced the top talent: Physioc.

Now Angel fans are stuck with a faceless foursome: Terry Smith and Jose Mota on the radio, and Rory Markas and Mark Gubicza on the TV side.

Fans hit the spit. Or at least bloggers did at the L.A. Times:

Wally Parks: The Angels will lose more fans off losing Hudler than if you have to get rid of Vlad or Figgy . . . (They’re) getting rid of your biggest Angels supporter and fan favorite, Rex Hudler.

Jeff: What a loss. He had a passion for teaching the game and pointing out details that other announcers missed. Many people assumed that because he was so pumped that he didn't understand the game. . . . My 8-year-old son knows more about baseball than most adults, thanks to Hud!

Dean: Rex Hudler is to Angel baseball what Tommy Lasorda is to the Dodgers, an unabashed homer and cheerleader, and a whole lot of people liked that and thought it made sense. . . . The Hud man is an icon.

And my favorite, from Angel Greg: Rory and "what's his name" are two of the most boring announcers in sports. Only the two Clipper announcers are more boring, and who listens to them? Hud pumped up us fans. Mota should go, but Arte won't let go of a Latino. After all, who would be his translator with all of the Angel players who won't learn to speak English?

Indeed, Mota spends more time translating Kendry Morales’ comments than on asking questions.

Hudler did it right — conducting an English interview with Erick Aybar. What a concept: a Dominican player speaking the language of the team paying him big bucks.

Hudler was practically the Angels’ logo. He was everywhere: radio, TV, charity events and every week co-hosting an hour of Jeff Biggs’ drive-time show on KLAA, the Angel station. That's Hudler on the right in the above photo.

Rex might’ve seemed like a loopy Wonder Dog. But he barked sharp insight — with zip. My favorite was his term for taking a pitch: "Spit on it."

The man offered a drier sense when it came to the condition of his son. He has Down syndrome? No, Up syndrome.

As for Physioc, I detected during the playoffs that something was awry. Here the Angels were in the meat of their Yankee series, and there was Phyz doing a Midnight Madness shtick for ESPNU all the way up in Seattle.

OK, the networks had the Angels covered in the pennant series. But Phyz missing his team at nut-cuttin' time in favor of some meaningless hoops seemed weird.

Now Hudler and Physioc are in the ether. The way of all the other vanished talent.

L.A.'s loss.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

MLB Network: Hazel Mae I? You Bet, Even When It Comes To Reliving The Angels' Deep-Six In '86

2009-11-21T09:19:00.000-08:00

Two reasons we're hooked on MLB Network:

1. Hazel Mae. She's more of a Filipino knockout than Manny Pacquiao.

When Hazel fills the MLB screen, she delivers color and nuts of wisdom.

Really, she's just one of the heavy-hitting anchors on MLB. And she better watch her back, with Harold Reynolds down the hall. You might recall he got canned from ESPN for playing grabass.

2. Oh, there's a second reason?

Yes, baseball in the hot stove season. We get offerings such as Saturday's, with Reynolds and Al Leiter breaking down top AL pitchers. There were Justin Verlander and King Felix fanning Angels. And Bret Saberhagen in 1985 ringing up Reggie.

Yes, falling Angels everywhere on this show.

Which reminds me of the ultimate Hal-0 this past spring on MLB.

You might've caught it: Game 5 of the 1986 pennant series, the most painful in Angel history. MLB Network replayed all 11 innings of the Angels' 7-6 loss to Boston. Simply a wild time warp.

Anaheim Stadium. Blue wall. No ads. Just an Angel logo. Natch, no rocks. Seats throughout, explaining the attendance that was 20,000 more than today's capacity. And the light grass. Ag technology had to be weaker back then.

The batters. ABC showed that the bottom third of the lineup was carrying the Angel load. The trio was Dick Schofield, Bob Boone and Gary Pettis, although Schofield hit second in Game 5. Missing was a graphic called Miss October. Reggie's DH stood for Didn't Hit. The one time he singled, he was picked off. TV's Al Michaels evidently wasn't tuned in. With Jackson leading off the bottom of the 10th, Michaels thought it was 1977. He said with excited anticipation: "Who wrote this script?" Answer: Boston.

The pitcher. Mike Witt was a winner. Or should've been. No walks in 8 and two-thirds. One strike away from a pennant. Somewhere in there, ABC noted, "No pitcher has ever thrown two complete games in a championship series." In the fifth, an MLB Network historical note posted his perfect-game numbers of 1984 at Texas: 94 pitches, 10 Ks.

The broadcast. Good timing. While this 1986 gem aired, so did a look at the 1986 New York Giants on NFL Network. And MLB Network followed with Mets-Boston, exactly the World Series match-up after the Angels fell.

The hero. Dave Henderson almost wasn't. After Tony Armas hurt his leg in center, Henderson replaced him and pulled a goat of play in the sixth. Leaping for a Bobby Grich drive, the center fielder had the ball in his mitt, then ice-cream-coned it over the fence. Having given the Angels a 3-2 lead, Grich set a record for celebration. Michaels: "It may be one of the more memorable plays of the '80s." Unfortunately, not quite.

The banners. "The Sox are at Witt's end." "Yes We Can" (did Obama steal that?).

The slammer. With Boston's Mike Greenwell up in the eighth, MLB Network added an amazing note: He had two inside-the-park grand slams in his career. Against the same pitcher, Greg Cadaret. Once when Cadret was with the A's, once with the Yankees.

The seer. "Remember that man, Gedman," said Michaels in the eighth. Indeed, the Sox catcher who had homered and doubled would draw the hit by pitch in the ninth to set up Henderson's shot.

The traitor. Seven years after winning the Angels' first MVP Award, Don Baylor stuck it to his old team. Now DHing for Boston, he nailed a one-out homer in the ninth to cut the Angels' lead to 5-4. And he scored the winner on Henderson's sac fly in the 11th.

The pitches. Moore was thisclose to closing the door with two out in the ninth. He had Henderson at 1-2, 2-2, two fouls. Then goodbye, 6-5 Sox.

More timing. Just as Henderson parked Donnie Moore's forkball on MLB Network, A-Rod was hitting his dramatic homer in the ninth against the Phillies in real time.

The out. Grich was inches from winning it with two out in the ninth. With the game tied at 6 and the bases full, Bobby pushed a 2-0 count against Steve Crawford. Two balls away from triumph. The next pitch looked outside, but the ump said strike. Bobby eventually lined out to the mound. Michaels would point out that Crawford was on the roster because Tom Seaver got hurt.

The coach. Pitching coach Marcel Lachemann went to the mound for Angel pitching changes, not manager Gene Mauch.

The look. The Angels played one guy born outside the country: Jamaica's Devon White. Now Latin Americans dominate the roster.

The shots. Pettis was a foot from handing the Angels the flag in the 10th. Jim Rice said no way, leaping and hauling in his drive at the wall. The next frame, Angel left fielder Brian Downing kept the deficit at one by grabbing Ed Romero's rocket at the fence. Michaels: "Wow! Are we really seeing this game?"

The call. Michaels: "Anaheim was one strike away from turning into fantasyland."

The wrap. If I remember right, Mae put the last exclamation mark on this "All-Time Games" edition. How could I forget?

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Pacquiao, And How

2009-11-15T08:50:00.000-08:00

Heard the one about PacMan?

Ring the opening bell, and he slams the door shut.

Saturday night he swung it into Miguel Cotto's face.

Now PacMan -- the Filipino Fist whose real name is Manny Pacquiao -- stands at boxing's top step. His technical knockout 55 seconds into the 12th round gave him a seventh world title in seven weight divisions.

No wonder he's called the face of boxing. Really, who else is there? A couple of Russians at heavyweight you wouldn't know if they walked in the room?

No, you might not be able to spell Pacquiao. You couldn't care less about the alphabet boxing outfits. But you know numbers, and seven for seven? With the seventh belt coming in the World Boxing Organization's welterweight colors that Cotto had owned?

Now that's seventh heaven. For Pacquiao, one of the greatest pound-for-pound, punch-for-punch, dance-for-dance boxers you ever saw. For Vegas, his second home, where he packed 16,000 into the MGM's Grand Garden party. For the Philippines, where he's the hero for the ages. What, you heard of Flash Elrode, the super-featherweight champ of the 1960s? Didn't think so.

The island country is so wild about Manny, countrymen shelled out $50 a pop to catch him on screen at theaters around Las Vegas. The fight's promoter, Bob Arum, reported that his TV halls in Sin City drew 15,000, and you can bet most of them were Filipinos.

As for the live event, Cotto's Puerto Rican rooters raised the roof to an even higher level. Could that be because they had bet against the overdog Pacquiao? Partly.

In the end, the PacMan masses drowned them out. The Filipino Five in front of me in the nosebleed section locked arms the whole bout and in the end were bellowing "We want Floyd!"

That would be Floyd Mayweather Jr., the 40-0 former Ring magazine Fighter of the Year. Pacquiao will take his 50-3-2 record to him next year. The stack of cash awaiting that clash is exactly the right bribe.

Arum: "If Mayweather wants to fight Manny Pacquiao, have him call me."

What to call Pacquiao-Mayweather? Stormy Weather?

Pacquiao-Cotto was billed as Firepower. That worked, especially when the thousands squeezing out of the arena into the MGM casino saw what a fire trap they were in.

On the canvas, the only firepower came from Pacquiao, who weighed 144 pounds. His uppercut in the fourth round decked the 145-pound Cotto. The rest of the fight had this choreography: PacMan charging, Cotto reversing.

Cotto tried to jab his way to safety. PacMan timed it and cleaned his clock.

No wonder the Filipino was smiling on the way to his stool after the sixth round.

"Cotto couldn't win this with a gun," said Anthony Pepe, a radio guy from Boston who stood with me the whole fight.

Pepe was on target, especially since he bet Pacquiao by knockout. I made the same prediction, although didn't bet the fight. I was too satisfied with my $20 winner on Mizzou over Kansas State earlier in the day.

Anyway, we called this one right, which was more than what plenty of other media dudes can claim. Take Tim Smith. He's a biggie with New York's Daily News. And a fine fellow. But he told me Saturday morning Cotto would win.

What? As Pepe and I said as we met in the stands, we're not picking against PacMan's speed.

And did I mention nosebleed? No matter how far up we were, Cotto wasn't a pretty sight.

I'll tell you what was. The round girls. The blonde and brunette who traipsed around the ring holding the round number high were in better shape than the boxers. And wore outfits just as scanty.

So yes, Firepower was worth it. PacMan collected over $13 million, Cotto $7 million.

Vegas drew thousands of gamblers.

Nevada vacuumed millions in taxes. Arum told us press folk that Pacquiao pays 30% of his winnings to the state. If he fought in that old boxing mecca, New York City, he would have to shell out an additional 15%.

"That means," the old promoter said, "Manny Pacquiao will never fight in New York."

And it was worth it to fight fans. Nothing in sports matches a title fight. The atmosphere for Firepower was smokin'.

That's because Manny Pacquiao was packin' heat. Now he can cool off in his hometown, General Santos City, and see about renaming it as he ponders Mayweather.

President Santos City, anyone?

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Yank Ease

2009-11-07T16:35:00.000-08:00

Damn Yankees?

Yes, and this: Damn good Yankees.

Loathe ’em or hate ’em, New York’s American League club is a fine nine.

Pinstripes at home. NY on caps. Facade at Yankee Stadium. The Yankees look good, no question.

Now they have the title to go with the image: world champions.

They have a player with the coolest nickname in sports: Saiko (pronounced Psycho). That’s Japanese for the best — a perfect fit for the tag’s owner, Hideki Matsui.

After his monstrous World Series, he deserves his other nickname, Godzilla. Not to mention his trophy for World Series MVP.

Psycho. A Rod. Tex. The Captain. These Yankees are a bunch of Mo-names.

And they pounded out one Mo world title, making the Yankee haul 27.

Just think; their victims last week — the Phillies — have a lousy two. They won it all in 1980 and last year.

I really thought Philly would make it three by sticking it to the Yanks. Only Ryan Howard forgot his stick. And the rest of the Phillies — except Chase Utley and Cliff Lee — paled vs. the hale New Yorkers.

Twenty-seven world titles.

The L.A. Angels are happy to own one at this point. Especially after their murderers’ low in the pennant series against the Yankees.

The Bombers simply exposed the Halos as hollow.

So much for my prediction: Angels over Philly in six.

What happened to Disneyland’s team?

How could the Halos look like such zeros?

The short answers:

Yankee pitchers fired strikes. Halo hurlers lobbed balls.

New York’s batters hit the blessed ball. L.A.’s lineup imitated the MLB logo — all stance, no swing.

So what do Anaheim’s homeboys do now? Suit up new guys.

Say bye to this costly trio: Vlad, Figgy, Lackey.

Say hi to these thirsty three: Wood, Evans, Bell.

You’ll need an iPhone to ID next season’s Angels. And time to brood if you’re a Halo fan. The 2010 bunch will hardly win the American League West by 10 games, as this year’s version did.

Which sets up the Halos nicely for contention in 2011.

Here’s saying they’ll have to rise that year on the wings of another manager. Mike Scioscia has to wear his Dodger blue one day, so he might as well get that move over with.

By then, Joe Torre will have returned to New York. Maybe to manage the Mets. Perhaps to give the Yankees advice.

As if they need it.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Ready For Philly Phlight After Angel Dive

2009-10-28T16:24:00.000-07:00

For the Los Angeles Angels, it’s a murderers’ low.

The Yankees simply exposed the Halos as hollow.

The Angels as the wrong angles.

The city as Loss Angeles.

So much for my prediction: Angels over Philly in six.

For this World Series, I couldn’t be serious.

New York sure is after ousting L.A. in the pennant series.

So now the Yanks and Phils are about to swing away in baseball’s championship round.

As for old news:

What happened to the Angels?

How could the Halos look like such zeros?

The short answers:

Yankee pitchers fired strikes. Halo hurlers lobbed balls.

New York’s batters hit the damn ball. L.A.’s lineup imitated the MLB logo — all stance, no swing.

So what does Disneyland’s neighborhood team do now? Suit up new guys.

Say bye to this costly quartet: Vlad, Figgy, Abreu, Lackey.

Say hi to these famished four: Wood, Sandoval, Evans, Bell.

You’ll need an iPhone to ID next season’s Angels. And time to brood if you’re a Halo fan. The 2010 bunch will hardly win the American League West by 10 games, as this year’s version did.

Which sets up the Halos nicely for 2011 heaven. Meaning a leap into the World Series.

Here’s saying they’ll have to rise that year on the wings of another manager. Mike Scioscia has to wear his Dodger blue one day, so he might as well get that move over with.

But enough about the locals. On the World stage, the Phillie-Yankee show was last set to open in 1964 — until the Phils phlopped horribly in September, handing St. Louis the National League pennant.

Forty-five years later, Philly-New York is a go. Minus Johnny Callison and Mickey Mantle, those teams’ stars back then.

Now we’re about to watch Ryan Howard slug it out with A Rod.

My call minutes before the first pitch: Philly in phive.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Angels Winging It All; Favre Packs A Viewing Punch

2009-10-10T08:47:00.001-07:00

Baseball playoffs full of Dodger and Yankee stunners.

College football jammed with Bama and Texas charges.

The NFL packed with Brett Favre.

Is this fall heaven or what? With an apt team riding these clouds: the L.A. Angels.

Yea: The Angel bats, speed and arms broke Boston. Nothing like a sweep to answer the Henderson homer of 1986. And to draw a snappy rallying cry from R.J. in Riverside, as called in to Jeff Biggs' Angel radio show: Create Your Fate.

Boo: Joe Nathan's job title is closer. The only thing he closed Friday was Minnesota's series shot. As soon as he surrendered A Roid's rope, the Twins were done. As was my upset pick.

Yea: Chone Figgins has a funny first name. And he's one fun guy to watch at Angel Stadium. Glove, gun, bullet fast. The third baseman is pure entertainment. Especially on one night this summer. Between innings, the Angels ran their promo with a kid dashing to pick up the third base bag. But he couldn't lift it. So Figgins pulled it up for him, and the little buddy carried it across the finish line in time. Now that's a prize moment.

Boo: NBA teams playing games on consecutive nights. Baseball players chatting with guys on the other team during games. Both are drags, as spelled out by Jeff Biggs on his KLAA radio show.

Yea: Dave Campbell of ESPN radio. No better analyst in baseball.

Boo: Yankee fans. Can they come up with something more original? Their sense of entitlement will take a beating once the Angels whip them on the way to the championship.

Yea: Being an L.A. fan. The Angels and Dodgers could meet in the World Series. The champion Lakers could win 70 games.

Boo: Being a St. Louis fan. The Cardinals didn't exactly have a Holliday in the playoffs. The Rams look worse than their pre-George Allen days. And Mizzou. Playing in the downpour against Nebraska Thursday night, the Tigers looked downright poor. God help us when we go to Texas Oct. 24.

Yea: James Loney’s hustle in that miracle Dodger triumph in Game 2 over St. Louis.

Boo: Juan Rivera’s hustle. It slows in the field and on the base paths too often for the Angels. Mike Scioscia better get Rivera flowing fast in this title run.

Yea: Good to see Manny stiffening up his bat again. Must be back on those pregnant pills.

Boo: The L.A. Times sports section predicted the Cards would sweep the Dodgers in three. What? Bad enough to knife the local lads. Horrible when you're dead wrong.

Yea: Patrick Cain was dead on. He's an office colleague, sports nut to the max. And he predicted the Dodgers' ditching of the Cards when no one else saw it. Nothing new from Cain. He called the Arizona Diamondbacks' division title of 2007 and the Seattle Mariners' rise from the depths this year.

Boo: Someone at Angel Stadium please fix the typo atop of the visitor-side dugout. It reads: ANGELS BASEBALL '09. With the apostrophe turned the wrong way.

Yea: Jim Tracy. He dropped off the map after managing the Dodgers to the playoffs and directing Pittsburgh to nowhere land. The minute he popped up in Colorado at midseason, I sent a text to a pal in amazement. Now everyone's amazed at how the Rocks rolled under him.

Boo: So Obummer wins the Nobel Prize for piece of what? Considering his girly toss ahead of last summer's All-Star Game, the best line came from the guy behind me at work: He was more deserving of the Cy Young trophy.

Yea: Harold Reynolds. He's as smooth on MLB Network as he was as an MLB second baseman. At least as smooth as he was with the ladies at ESPN, which booted him for exactly that trait. Glad he's been back on the screen a couple of years now. He's the main reason to flip to channel 213.

And one more yea: Favre. You knew his stare-down of his old Green Bay gang would bust ESPN Monday night records. And when he chatted during that usually boring postgame press conference, you couldn't change the channel. That's one quarterback who has it. Period. Paragraph.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Angels Will Fly Anyway

2009-09-23T17:17:00.000-07:00

OK, you win. I lose.

The one time I pick Boston to rise, the Sox flop. To the retched Royals, who haven't won anything since clickers had cords.

And when I call an Angel sweep of the Yankees, New York suddenly finds its bullpen. And wins two of three in Anaheim.

So there went my brilliant scenario of Boston winning the American League East, letting L.A. skirt the Sox in the playoffs' first round.

Now the Angels are stuck with Fenway. And they have one monstrous problem winning there.

Not that they won't do it. The Halos are headed for their second world title since 2002. They just face more turbulence.

Beating the Yankees in the first round would've been a breeze. Just like the last two times the Angels and Bombers met.

Beating the Sox is a code red proposition. The Angels could've done it 1986, but pulled Mike Witt. They could've done it in 2004, but served one up to Ortease. They could've done it in 2007, but pitched to Mannroid. They could've done it last year, but squeezed right out of it.

That's not a trend. That's history. These Angels have new orders: beat Boston, win the pennant, capture the World Series.

Too upbeat for guys like that grouser calling Angel radio after the loss to the Yanks Wednesday, saying Jeff Biggs' optimism made him throw up?

Tough. Just as Biggs pulled the plug on that downer, I'm flicking they of little faith. That too biblical for you? So what; they're the Angels.

The right tone: While at Angel Stadium recently, 'twas marvelous hearing the organ. Never noticed it before, and even griped that the park could use that old baseball feel of Dodger Stadium.

This time, the player tickled the keys to Gershwin's 'S Wonderful. All Angel Stadium has to do is play a second verse of Take Me Out to the Ball Game, and I'd say 's paradise.

What? Too bad broadcasters and baseball writers get sucked in to using command to describe how hurlers spot pitches.

The word is control. That was part of the lexicon for eons. Don't know when it morphed into command, but that word needs a beaning.

Speaking of terms: Heard a cool one today. During the Angel radio broadcast, Rex Hudler said of taking a pitch, "Spit on it."

Last call: Shaking off that debacle mentioned above, I'm going with this doozy for Sunday:

The Redskins hand Detroit its first victory since Bobby Layne.

Serves Washington right for cutting fellow Mizzou Tiger Chase Daniel.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com

The Jets' Pilot; The Angels Will Yank It Out

2009-09-21T16:28:00.000-07:00

Now we know.

Remember when Pete Carroll bitched about the flight of Mark Sanchez to the NFL?

The Southern Cal coach knew:

1. Sanchez is an ace of a quarterback. The Jets also spotted that rocket arm and drafted him faster than an F-16 flyover. They look brilliant after On The Mark manhandled New England Sunday.

2. The Trojans had the equivalent of a corpse behind Sanchez. At least that's what Aaron Corp looked like in that burial in Seattle Saturday.

And do I care about USC's demise? No. It's only that we get radio blitzed in L.A. over all things Trojan. And I haven't been so stoked about my Jets since the '60s. As a Mizzou guy, I say to USC: Bite On.

Halo heat: The stretch, the pitch will start any minute at Angel Stadium.

Which leaves time to declare: The Angels will batter their punching bags, the Yankees.

Which leads to this: New York will soon enough turn into a little apple, or wild card. That will come to fruition when Boston follows the Angels’ sweep with its own broom job of the Yanks.

Which means good news for Angel fans. They won’t have to bother with the Sox in the playoffs’ first round. In other words, Los Angeles’ American League contingent has a chance to reach the second round.

The Angels own the Yankees. Especially in the playoffs. Now they’ll duplicate 2002 and 2005 and expose New York as the bullpen-less, Mr. June Rodriguez team that it is.

That Round 1 triumph will have the Angels flexing their confidence for a bashing of Boston in the pennant series.

And a six-game finishing of Philly in the World Series.

Want another tip? Rivera. He’s the Juan, all right. The Angels’ big bat in left field is a postseason MVP waiting to happen.

Focus, blue. What can the umpires possibly be seeing? A pitch goes right down the middle. And the guy behind the catcher calls balls.

The other day I'm watching the Angels' Jered Weaver firing pitches perfectly. Ball three, ball four.

Where else should he have thrown? One millimeter higher?

I'm hardly nitpicking. This is an epidemic. Umps simply let batters get away with watching pitches in the meat of the strike zone. Ball two, ball three.

Batters foul off everything else, making for snoozeroo baseball.

Message to the men in blue: Tighten the strike zone. Make batters do what Doubleday drew up -- swing.

Speaking of delays: These replays to decide football calls are killing the sport.

Where's the flow? Gone the way of the head slap.

Sideline catch. End zone dive. Fumble. Stop the game for five minutes so the refs can watch 15 angles.

Good thing for the clicker. And for MLB Network, which fills the gaps with old World Series games.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

When Air Force Football Soared In Europe

2009-09-12T17:08:00.000-07:00

Ah, the great '80s.

Darryl Strawberry.

Steffi Graf.

The Berlin Wall.

Wait a minute. What was great about the bloody wall?

Nothing philosophically. It kept millions of Germans prisoners. And stood for the evil empire that Ronald Reagan tore down.

Yet when the Berlin barrier crashed with two months left in the '80s, one group saw the downside. That would be the American military.

For our GIs in Europe, the party simply stopped in the twilight of the '80s. Suddenly vibrant American communities from England to Turkey had no reason to stay in business.

Soon enough, our troop count shrank from 375,000 under Reagan to 100,000 under Clinton. With that disappearing act, bases, barracks, commissaries and schools vanished.

One big league followed them into the ether. When the wall came down, it took Air Force football's heyday with it.

What a stud league it was. Teams competed all over England, Germany, Holland and Spain. Fans packed base stadiums. And I had one fun ride covering the action for Stars & Stripes, the GI newspaper.

The other day, a bunch of former players huddled in Las Vegas to relive those glory days. The group invited me to speak at the reunion, and I was honored. I was also ready with points:

With so many Air Force guys in the room, I felt as safe as Brink's.

Reporting for Stars & Stripes was the dream job of the '80s. First, my boss was Bob Wicker, an MVP of a sports editor. Second, my beat was Air Force football.

That was my ticket to traipse around Europe covering America's finest. Up to England's bases at Upper Heyford, Mildenhall, Lakenheath. Over to Germany's fields at Bitburg, Ramstein, Rhein-Main.

OK, it could get ugly. The Chicksands base in England hanged me in effigy. My sin: picking the other team to win.

They all added up to our boys in blue playing a great American sport. In Europe.

Simply a ball on the west side of the wall.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Angels Will Take It; Jeter Is MVP; Who's That Man Posing As A Chick?

2009-09-04T17:01:00.000-07:00

If you have one anymore, bet the mortgage. This lock will keep you in your house forever:

Angels over Philly in six.

Yes, L.A.'s other team will win it all for the second time since 2002. And in the process beat baseball's defending champion Phillies.

I've been picking the Halos all season. While friends scoffed. The team had so many weak links to strengthen without using steroids.

First, the Angels lacked power. Then they started jacking them out while trotting out the first all-.300 lineup since the Depression.

Second, the Angels couldn't hold a lead. Then they discovered a juicy righty in Kevin Jepsen to set up slam-the-door lefty Brian Fuentes.

Third, the Angels hurt for starting moundsmen. Then John Lackey and Ervin Santana revived to supplement Jered Weaver and Joe Saunders.

Fourth, the Angels searched all over for a fifth starter. Then along came Scott Kazmir from Tampa Bay. Along with his Boston-strangling resume, which the Halos need to finally beat the Sox in the playoffs.

Shazam! Quicker than you can spell Scioscia, the Angels have managed to emerge as MLB's best.

With Erick Aybar sprinting, Juan Rivera slugging and Torii Hunter snatching every shot near the wall, Anaheim is on course to reach the stratosphere of Disneyland's Space Mountain.

MVP: Give it to Derek Jeter.

He's on target for a .330 season. Playing a solid shortstop for the Yankees. Sparking them to MLB's best record right now.

Jeter is simply the face of baseball. And what an ambassadorial mug that is. He's the coolest dude this side of Kobe Bryant, without Kobe's obvious arrogance.

And what a career. Four World Series titles. On the verge of 3,000 hits.

Jeter should've won the Most Valuable Player trophy in 2006. The man murdered the ball at a .343 clip to lead New York to the American League East title. He was the cog in the league's main machine.

Yet he finished second in MVP voting to a faceless Minnesota first baseman, Justin Morneau.

Now Jeter faces another Minnesota barrier. This time it's Joe Mauer, which is German for wall. The Twin catcher is a brick of a backstop outslugging Jeter in all batting areas.

Can Jeter hurdle that dam and claim his first MVP Award? He has a month to close the numbers. And to rally the voters. He already has me.

Road rut: Talk about hitting a red light. The Angels pack their home park every night to the tune of 40,300. That's the fifth best average in baseball.

Away from home, it's not so sweet. The Halos draw just 26,400, the worst road mark. In all of MLB.

What? More fans around the country want to see the Royals? The Pirates? The Nationals?

Evidently.

An old Angel radio guy who now lives in the East was a guest recently with Jeff Biggs on KLAA. I called in to ask what gives with this Halo road rejection, but gave up while on hold for what seemed extra innings.

The way I see it, the Angels lack pizzazz with the rest of the country.

I mean, who glitters on this team? Maybe Torii Hunter. At least he speaks engagingly. And in English, something sluggers Vlad Guerrero and Kendry Morales shun in public.

Otherwise, the Angels are a team to the nines. No I guys. Not many national fans either.

Stan the man: Kudos to Stan Isaacs for his recent column on how to give sports a kick.

He proposed on this site that soccer drop the goalie.

That's exactly what I've been saying for years. Even when I lived in Germany. You can imagine what that idea did to local faces. Turned them into sneers.

Here's one for baseball: Limit foul balls to five per batter. The fifth would be an out, just as a two-strike bunt foul is a strikeout.

Fouls are doing their darnedest to make baseball boring. Ever since Bill James spelled out how fouling off balls tires the pitcher while drawing better offerings, batters hit 'em backward eternally.

So now every guy faces 10 pitches. Zzzzzzzz.

Keep the fouls to five, and you zip up the game.

Man, is this easy: You hear about the guy posing as a gal in track?

He cast himself as Caster Semenya. I guess that's a chick name.

And captured the 800 meters at the world championships last month in Berlin.

He won gold for one simple reason. He ran against girls.

Look at him up there. Caster is about as much of a woman as Ron Artest, for whom the South African is a dead ringer.

Semenya is South African. If you believe anything he says.

And he might get away with this flimflam. You should hear the track officials squirming about pee, DNA, who know what tests.

Here's the test they should give him quicker than he can run:

Pull his pants down.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Pound Vick; Pitino's Play; Angels, Matthews Roll

2009-08-15T11:17:00.000-07:00

Good timing.

Mike Vick leaps from the doghouse to the Eagle nest.

The Democrats' blue dogs growl at obummer's sick plan.

Which begs the question: Is Vick a blue dog?

If so, he'd want to electrocute himself. Such is what he thinks of canines.

You might recall Vick was the quarterback sacked for treating the animals like dog meat. About the only perversion he didn't pull was eat them.

Otherwise, the hanging and drowning kept him busy. Until the cops caught him. And he waddled into prison.

Two years later Vick rolled out from behind bars. And Philly signed him.

While many expected dog lovers to howl over Vick's comeback, two reactions are reality:

1. When the Eagles say they consulted with the Humane Society, that means they paid for silence. You can bet the NFL contributed millions to keep the HS, PETA and whoever else from barking too loudly.

2. Sports fans don't care about mangled dogs. Listen to talk radio, and all you hear is Vick should play. Period.

I'm not one of those callers. My take: Vick is sick. His moral fiber is wretched. Yes, he served his time. No, I won't watch Eagle games. Can't stomach it.

Lousville Lover. And how about Rick Pitino? He's lucky the Vick story drowned him out.

Otherwise the hoops coach and his roll on a restaurant table with a floozy would've taken center court.

Now it's so what. Pitino the disciple of discipline screws around on his wife. And pays the woman for an abortion. A Cardinal sin in the old days. Now he's a Kentucky king of midlife sex.

I say this: At least he's not dunking dogs.

On a brighter note: The L.A. Angels keep winning with the best of them. And they're doing it despite injuries in all corners of the clubhouse.

How do the Angels do what the Mets can't? Two words: Gary Matthews.

His bad-ass bat has held the fort while Torii Hunter recovers.

From the sound of fans, you'd think the Son of Sarge had deserted. One guy bitched on the radio right after Matthews mashed a three-run homer in L.A.'s 10-5 triumph over Tampa Bay.

The caller: "How can fans cheer him? Did they forget his error from the inning before?"

Amazing. Matthews produces. And delivers adult analysis in post-game interviews. And still draws fan jeers.

His response: win.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Corner on the Angels; calling on Dave Smith

2009-08-03T16:25:00.000-07:00

An acquaintance in the East commented on the Angels recently with this: “They’re the worst of the contending teams.”

My response: “Really? Worse than the Twins, Tigers, Chisox, Yankees, Rays, Cards, Cubs, Astros, Brewers?”

No answer has landed. Not while the Angels win every bloody day.

If the answer ever comes back yes, I say: Good.

Let the masses miss the Halo heat. The fewer the fans who catch on, the better. By the time they do, Anaheim will own a second championship.

Take 2002. That summer while the Angels played in Boston, I wrote a pal in D.C. about Troy Glaus’ greatness. My friend’s take: Who him?

After Glaus finished with 111 RBIs and the Angels their title, I didn’t bother asking my friend again. Didn’t matter.

Kinda like the stock market. When hardly anyone has heard of a company, that’s the one that rockets. If you check out STEC and FUQI, it’ll probably be the first time. Yet they’re scorching. By the time Main Street invests in them, Wall Street will have seriously cashed in.

So let most of baseball’s gazers wallow in all things Boston and Philly. I’m keeping my eye on the best ball.

Come in, Dave Smith. Two years ago he resurfaced on L.A. radio as the drive-time voice of KLAA. He gave the Angels’ station the edge it needed.

Now he’s gone. Smith turned into dead air this summer, and that’s a drag for these parts. He’s the self-professed Sports God for a reason. He’s been here all his life and shares a sharp passion for our teams that no other broadcaster matches.

I asked a few people connected to the Angels what happened. Was Dave fired? Where is he? No one is clear. Not even Smith, who has nothing on TheSportsGod.com about his whereabouts.

Come back, Dave. You were wrong about Mitch Kupcake. And wrong about running pitchers’ arms ragged. But you had a point about Sissy Vujacic. And it was tough to change the channel.

I have the perfect spot for Smith. 570 KLAC in the afternoon. Replace the screamers who turn their points into turbulence. Many Angel fans would stick with Jeff Biggs at KLAA. Aside from that, Smith would crush ESPN’s Mason and Ireland.

Speaking of dead air. What’s with Los Angeles pulling the plug on its top radio talent?

Dave Smith was only the latest talent to vanish into the ether.

In the past year we lost Larry Elder. He went the way of the dial when KABC traded him in for syndicated Mark Levin.

Now Levin is brilliant. He hits the mark with his darts, such as: Hillary Rotten Clinton, Little Dick Durbin and the New York Slimes.

But he tosses them from a basement in Virginia. He’s not Los Angeles.

Elder is. To the core, as he underscores with his Sage from South Central moniker.

And he was one radio voice who nailed it on economics: Downshift on government, and the American machine will rocket.

The good news is Elder might run for the Senate next year. If he decks Barbara Boxer, the radio rotation will be worth it.

I can hear Levin already: “Down goes Boxer! Down goes Boxer!”

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California and runs BuckyFox.com.

Seles Hurt Her Spot In History

2009-07-16T16:55:00.000-07:00

Monica Seles entered the Tennis Hall of Fame recently.

With her go the nine Grand Slam titles, the No. 1 ranking, the innovative grunting.

Even more, one theme holds serve with so many tennis fans: If Seles had not been knifed 16 years ago, she would’ve been the greatest women’s player in history.

The stabbing simply follows her. Seles certainly didn’t dodge it at her Hall induction in Newport, R.I.: “I would like to thank all my tennis fans who were there from my No. 1 days, through my stabbing, and my comeback.”

It’s really Seles’ signature as Mary Carillo and other tennis voices laud her in “should’ve been the greatest” terms.

After all, Seles had won eight Slam trophies by the spring of 1993. She had passed Steffi Graf as the world’s dominant player.

The pro-Seles campaign makes it clear: At just 19, Seles was on course to smash Grand Slam records. Only the attack of April 30, 1993, when German sicko Guenter Parche stabbed her in the upper back during a tournament in Hamburg, kept her from reaching the all-time pinnacle.

No one has publicly disputed that, so let me be the lone dissenter: Monica Seles blew it.

She must take responsibility for throwing away the meat of her tennis prime after she had physically recovered from the stabbing.

Seles lost her shot at all-time No. 1 because she left the pro circuit for two years and three months after the mugging. She thus skipped two U.S. Opens, two Australian Opens, two French Opens and two Wimbledons in which she really was healthy enough to compete.

She said during her 1993-95 break that the half-inch wound had healed — that the mental trauma was keeping her from playing.

Mental trauma? Let’s tell it like it is: She wasn’t tough enough to bounce right back.

Here’s tough:

Paul Pierce was stabbed in his neck, back and chest and hit over the head with a bottle in a nightclub brawl in September 2000. A month later he was in training camp for the Boston Celtics.

Picabo Street blew out her left knee while training for the ski season in December 1996. She was skiing again seven months later, and seven months after that won the Olympic super G gold medal.

Niki Lauda nearly burned to death in a Grand Prix car crash in 1976 and was back on the track in seven weeks. He won the world championship the next year.

Now that’s physical and mental trauma. Those athletes faced fear and conquered it immediately. They had the steel Seles lacked.

If Graf had been knifed, here’s betting she would’ve played within two months. Ditto Serena Williams. They’re stone-cold champions — damned if a little knife job would knock them out 27 months.

All Graf did during Seles’ hiatus was keep winning — on the way to a near-record 22 Grand Slam titles. Many tennis followers take offense at that, since it was a Graf fan who stuck it to Seles. Furthermore, say those fans, Seles was dominating Graf before the Hamburg ambush.

That’s another point no one disputes. Until now.

Seles did stop Graf’s 66-match winning streak in the 1990 Berlin final. And beat her in the French Open finals of 1990 and ’92.

Yet Graf had a 10-5 edge lifetime against Seles. And on the biggest stage of all — the Wimbledon final — Graf waxed Seles 6-2, 6-1 in 1992.

Graf, who had her own problems with her wayward father, had what it took to overcome them. She won big time on every surface. She’s the greatest champion of them all.

Seles will forever ponder why she let that knife-inflicted pause drag out into two-plus years.

It’s a decision that shows she didn’t have that champion’s mettle, no matter what the TV puff pieces say.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California and runs BuckyFox.com.

Angel Angles

2009-07-11T11:45:00.000-07:00

Made two predictions at a recent L.A.-Texas game at Angel Stadium.

One was spot on. The other spot off.

With Juan Rivera up and the count 2-2, I did a Russ Hodges imitation: "Tell it bye-bye, baby!"

Rivera jacked the next pitch straight into the rocks.

Then in the fifth, with John Lackey leading 3-0, two out, no one on, I told my neighbor, Scott Paullin: "Knock on wood, but Lackey's cruisin'."

That's when the cruise crashed. Six runs crossed before you could say Ranger rout, and Mike Scioscia had the hook out. Luckless Lackey again. Or maybe he's pitchless these days.

Here it comes: The Angels will make a huge deal this month. That comes with the same guarantee I made while saying Phil Jackson would stay. I was right. Charles Barkley wrong.

Yes, our OC boys bashed the Yankees to our glee Friday night. But that flop against the Rangers, just when we had Team Ryan on an Express down the division, showed the Angels need power and pitching.

Watch Los Angeles let one of its catchers, Mike Napoli or Jeff Mathis, go. And Lackey.

Turn it down: HalosHeaven.com's Rev is calling Steve Physioc the worst announcer in baseball.

Why? Because the broadcaster has the gall to call attention to the biggest offensive night of the season. Or would've been if Andruw Jones had parked No. 4.

What, was Fizz supposed to scintillate us with a breakdown of the No. 1 Angel Stadium experience? Because if you wanted homer musings from the booth, that was the only thing left in that Ranger series.

Or could Physioc reach for a homer of substance, one that ties history? Good for him that he announced the news.

Which adds to his credentials as the worst announcer in baseball? Against what list? Worse than John Sterling, whom Yankee fans and the Post's Phil Mushnick are trying to ditch? Worse than voices for the Marlins, Royals, Twins? I doubt if the Rev has a clue. About the only listeners who do are those of American Forces Network, which airs games from every market for our troops around the globe.

I used to be one of those AFN listeners. And knew that despite L.A.'s love affair with Vin Scully, he was not the best. Certainly not better than the Giants' Hank Greenwald, the Orioles' Chuck Thompson and the White Sox combo of Harry Caray and Jimmy Piersall.

No, Physioc isn't the worst. Not even among Angel play-by-play guys. His voice far surpasses the tone of Rory Markas and Terry Smith. And the Fizz has more fun playing off Rex Hudler (with me and my Angel book above).

As far as our Orange County ears can figure, Physioc might be one of the best.

Quit this fire-Fizz campaign. It's childish.

We'd be better off bitching about something of substance: Angel players who don't speak English. At least not with a mic in front of them.

This Kendry Morales ignoring our language for Spanish the way Vlad does is outrageous. This is an American team with American fans paying them American millions.

Learn to speak to us without a Jose Mota dictionary, for crying out loud.

Follow hockey's lead. Guy Lafleur and Mario Lemieux were two French Canadians who entered the NHL knowing hardly any English. The Habs and Penguins made sure they learned it. Simple marketing. They knew their fan base spoke English, so get with the program, guys.

The Angels should do the same. So should every team in baseball, which has crashing attendance as it is.

Fans want players they can relate to. It sure would help if they could understand them.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com.

Lakers Net Another Championship

2009-06-15T17:43:00.000-07:00

Two to the front of the class.

Roger Federer nails the French Open.

Kobe Bryant hammers out the NBA title.

Fed sheds the lie that he couldn't win a clay slam.

Kobe unShaqles himself.

Fed rebounds from his marathon loss at the 2008 Wimbledon final.

Kobe rebounds, passes, shoots beyond that crash in the 2008 NBA Finals.

The edge? Give it to Kobe. The tiebreaker: Mrs. Bryant. One radio guy went ment ripping her for hogging the postgame stage Sunday.

Whaaaat? She was worth every point in the ratings. Put it this way: If Bo Derek was a 10, Vanessa Bryant is a 24. She defines knockout.

Then there's Mrs. Fed, the meaning of mutti.

Set the DVR. For Christmas. Lakers-Cavs. With Shaq set to join LeBron in Cleveland, ABC is frothing over this clash.

Kobe-Shaq. Kobe-LeBron. Turn on that Hollywood spotlight.

The genius. Tommy Tutt, my Vegas buddy. All he did was text before Game 5 with this pick: "Lakers by 13. Bet the farm, the IRA, the wife."

I should have. L.A. won 99-86.

True fans. No one can dunk on Rose and Francis Gapuz. They don't just bleed purple and gold. They breathe it. And read it. And clip it.

This Love Laker couple has more Kobe & Co. mags and scrapbooks than a newsstand.

Had the privilege of watching Game 2 of the Finals with Francis. The Navy veteran knew exactly how to steer a victory to port.

With Team Gapuz on their side, the Lakers can't lose.

The dud. Some call him Charles Barkley. I go with Sir Chunk for his big, fat losing predictions. Such as Nets over Lakers in 2002. And Magic over Lakers in these Finals.

After the laughter died, Sir Chunk said Phil Jackson will quit this summer. That's my cue to guarantee Phil will stay on the Playa del Rey beach.

Now that he has 10 titles. Jackson is the greatest coach. Period.

His triumph Sunday was so convincing, even naysaying Roger Lodge on his radio show the next morning bowed to the Tower of Jax.

The teen. My niece Grace figured it all out, and she's just 13. Spotted the sweaty panic of Orlando coach Stan Van Gundy. And the cool coasting of the Laker boss. And said right there that Phil's force would clinch it.

Riley was right. Remember when Pat Riley bounced Gundy, took over in Miami and led the Heat to the 2006 NBA title? Looked like a knife job, which it was.

But it was a sharp move. Under Riley, the Heat overcame an 0-2 hole in the NBA Finals to beat Dallas. Under Gundy, the Heat would've wilted.

The name. Moniker of the year: D Swish.

Credit L.A. Times letter writer Jason Mathis for coming up with a twist on D Fish, the bucket-sinking Laker otherwise known as Derek Fisher.

Bucky Fox is an author in Southern California and editor of BuckyFox.com.

Fish, Lakers Hooking A Title; Penguins Wing It

2009-06-12T16:13:00.000-07:00

Derek Fisher, good to see you’re still in Club Clutch.

That .4 miracle in ’04 punched your ticket. Thursday night you upgraded with those crunch treys, lifting the Lakers to a 99-91 triumph in Game 4 of the NBA Finals.

Other members of the Club:

Bobby Thomson for his homer in 1951 that let The Giants Win The Pennant!

Bill Mazeroski for his World Series-ending blast in 1960.

Joe Carter for his jack that finished the 1993 Series.

Ben Roethlisberger for his big fling in last winter’s Super Bowl.

Santonio Holmes for his KO grab of that Ben zinger.

Jim O’Brien for booting the Boys in the 1971 Super Bowl.

Adam Vinatieri for kicking the Rams in the 2002 Bowl.

Doug Flutie for passing BC into college football mythology in 1984.

Robert Horry for his King killer in 2002.

Next? Thanks to Fish in the Lake, L.A. won't have to bother clinching at home.

The boys in purple and gold will collect their 15th NBA banner by winning Sunday in Orlando.

Which sets up a rematch against the Lakers' nemesis, Boston.

The Celtics clocked L.A. last year. The Lakers will own this year's title.

Kevin Garnett will no doubt get Boston back to the Finals. The Kobe-Pao punch will swing L.A. to a return trip.

So bring it on. Lakers-Celtics, 2010.

You better believe Madison Ave is generating purple/green ads as we write.

Speaking of rematches: Detroit can have its Hockeytown. The Penguins won Game 7 there 2-1 Friday to turn Pittsburgh into Titletown.

Pittsburgh thus clinched its second championship of 2009. You might remember the Steelers of NFL fame.

Maybe L.A. can duplicate such a double with a Laker/Dodger sweep.

And does Pittsburgh have a lock on history or what? You heard the previous time a team in any sport won a final series Game 7 on the road was the Pirates in 1979. That was also a year the Steelers won it all. So a Steel City two-fer again.

Look out for 2010. You can see a Pen-Wing rubber Stanley Cup Finals just the Lakers and Celtics are revving up.

And this: The Denholm & Long Show on ESPN radio has a text contest on afternoon drive time. After the Magic's disappearing act at the foul line in Game 4, the Friday q was: Keeping with the boring movie "Kobe Doin' Work," what would you call Orlando's no-show?

The two best:

"Dwight Men Can't Jump."

"Brick Fest at Tiffany's."

Bucky Fox is an author in Southern California and editor of BuckyFox.com.

Lakers Better Not Be Drowning

2009-06-10T16:15:00.000-07:00

Hand us the gaspipe. Laker fans are ready to suck on it after that suicidal loss Tuesday in the NBA Finals.

Was that Kobe in the stretch? Missing? Fumbling? Choking?

Was that Ariza blowing a dunk just when L.A. could’ve grabbed control?

Was that Bynum doing nothing? Never mind that question. The answer is obvious. His M.O. is stand around and foul.

It was all enough for a 108-104 Loss Angeles.

So for us Laker crazies shooting for a sweep, Orlandon’t.

Maybe that's not so worrisome. L.A. still leads the series 2-1.

Then again, it's enough to make us recall another Florida team that came back from 0-2 to win it all just three years ago.

Two points are especially troubling for purple-and-gold nuts 2,500 miles from the middle three games:

Stan Van Gundy. So he's sow. And has a royal Dutch name. Simply, this guy can coach like a banshee.

That lob he drew up in Game 2 was some scary genius.

Now he’s throwing Kobe for a loop. After our stud was nothing but hoop.

Bryant in the last three quarters of Game 3 looked like Sasha from the field. And Shaq at the line. And Walton dribbling. Shoot, miss, turnover.

That’s so out of character for Kobe, you have to laud the guy forcing him to dive: Gundy. Obviously the head Magician's plan is stop Bryant at all cost. If that means five guys on him, fine.

The way this coach is rolling, Magic fans have to be kissing the court that Billy Donovan pulled his about-face two years ago.

Hedo Turkoglu. Shoots with the aim of a SEAL assassin. Drives like a Hummer in field. All while standing, what, 10 feet tall?

This Magician can score at will. If I were Gundy, I’d let the Turk shoot on every play. One hundred points later, you’re sure to have a victory.

I mean, no one can stop him. The Lakers sure couldn’t in Game 3. And he scored just 18. Wait till he really heats up.

Between the Turk and Orlando’s other dead-aim sequoia, Rashard Lewis, the Lakers are facing two tall tasks.

Don’t know what the answer is. Only that an even better coach than Gundy should have one by tipoff Thursday. He’s Phil Jackson.

And this: Manny Ramirez said in his steroid defense, "I didn't kill nobody, I didn't rape nobody."

Both double negatives. So he killed and raped?

Bucky Fox is an author in Southern California and editor of BuckyFox.com.

Lakers Have The Magic

2009-06-08T17:15:00.000-07:00

Talk about nut-cuttin' time. The Lakers hardened. The Magic cracked.

Los Angeles leads 2-0 in the NBA Finals.

Orlando looks lost after its 101-96 loss Sunday.

And L.A. fans who survived that cruncher can relax. Until Game 3 Tuesday in Florida.

The NBA Finals, where heart attack happens. I about had one during Game 2. Went nuts during Lamar Odom's cavalry charge in the fourth quarter. During Courtney Lee's missed chance. During Kobe's dish to Gasol. Pao? No, Pow!

And while focusing on these two guys:

1. Andrew Bynum. Man, could he lock this series. Every Laker fans is thinking what radio analyst Dean Merrill said Monday:

"If Andrew Bynum can stay on the floor, we have ourselves a sweep."

But no. Any Magician gets near him, and Bynum takes offense. Throws an arm, something. And before you say "Don't!" he's on the bench with two fouls.

That forces Phil Jackson to devise a multiplayer D against Dwight Howard.

If Bynum could stay in the middle, L.A. would blanket Orlando's long-range bombers. And coast. Yes, his benching means Odom flies in with his super game, but he could be spotting other guys.

One more point on Jabbar's 7-foot project. Notice how everyone's reaction to a Bynum flub is "he's still young"? I'm tired of that. He's been a pro three seasons. He's 21. His moment is now. Seize it.

2. J.J. Redick. Who? The old Dukie? The same.

Just when Laker fans got nervous that Jameer Nelson was righting the Magic ship, coach Stan Van Gundy yanked him for (1) Rafer Alston, drifting this deep in the playoffs, then (2) Redick.

That sigh you heard was from 15 million L.A. fans. Whom was Redick going to stop? Did Gundy expect this guard who had done nothing in Game 1 to light it up? I'm still waiting for answers, and it's almost Tuesday.

No question Gundy is a sharp guy. Won with Miami before Pat Riley knifed him. Won with Orlando after Billy Donovan bailed.

But like Redick, Gundy looks out of his league. Running the other team is Phil Jackson, he of nine NBA title rings. As Merrill said on the air Monday, "Phil always takes a team as far as it should go."

It should go all the way now. And it will. Jackson's record 10th ring is on the way.

And this: Jeff Biggs on KLAA's "The Drive" radio show suggested Monday that Vlad Guerrero should slide to sixth in the Angels' batting order. Good for the team, said Biggs, and "Vlad would understand."

Would he? I haven't heard Guerrero speak English the six years he's been in Anaheim.

Bucky Fox is an author in Southern California and editor of BuckyFox.com.

Lakers Show The Magic In Disney Duel; Radio Rides To Hero's Aid

2009-06-05T16:27:00.000-07:00

Two factors leapt from the NBA Finals' Game 1, a 100-75 Laker landslide.

That is, aside from Kobe soaring like a Disney ride in Los Angeles and Orlando.

1. Andrew Bynum stood his ground. With him hustling to his spot in the paint — just as the radio's No. 1 hoop analyst, Dean Merrill (a regular guest of Jeff Biggs on KLAA's "The Drive"), told us to watch for — the Laker center handled Orlando’s Dwight Howard.

And how. Bynum muscled like the he-man we saw before his injuries the past two winters, and Howard slunk away with one lousy basket. So much for the phony who stole Shaq’s Superman gig.

2. Jameer Nelson wasn’t worth the gamble. Magic coach Stan Van Gundy rolled Nelson onto the court, and fortune wasn't with them.

This is the Nelson who hurt his shoulder in a weird game accident that didn’t look damaging at all. That was back in February. He missed the next four months.

By Thursday, Gundy tried to make it look like he was making a game-time decision. What a crock. Obviously the coach saw on tape weeks ago that Orlando had no chance with Rafer Alston at the point against the Lakers. Better to go with Nelson and hope he improves enough by Sunday’s Game 2.

Nelson did kill the Lakers in the regular season. But now you can see the Lakers licking their chops against him. Why? His defense is as ugly as that black mouthpiece he keeps spitting out.

By the time this series ends, Nelson won't seem like victorious Horatio at Trafalgar. He'll have met his Waterloo.

He sees after all. Enough with the darts at Roger Lodge (on right in above photo with sidekick Dave Smith).

Last week I targeted the sports radio host for having the foresight of his old TV show, “Blind Date.” In other words, not much.

Lodge’s sin? Tossing Phil Jackson to the dustbin of NBA history for losing a playoff game. Meanwhile, the Jackson Five are making 1-2-3-4 work of Orlando in the Finals.

Now I have a new perspective. Lodge might miss on his rips of the greatest coach in basketball history. But he knows history. While noting Ichiro’s hitting streak this week, he didn’t miss a beat recalling Gene Garber’s stoppage of Pete Rose’s 44-gamer in 1978.

And Lodge is dead-on with his latest campaign: helping an injured soldier.

Army Sgt. Daniel Thornhill was in Afghanistan when a bomb blew off his legs. Now he’s at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, recovering from burn wounds.

Lodge knows a hero when he hears about one. And he's tuned in to Thornhill. The radio man made a big deal on a recent edition of “The Sports Lodge” on the Angels’ KLAA station about the sergeant’s condition.

And Lodge’s message was clear: Help our hero out, even if it’s with just a birthday card.

Send it to:

Sgt. Daniel Thornhill
Fort Sam Houston Fisher House
3623 George C. Beach Rd.
Fort Sam Houston, Texas 78234

Listen and learn: Another plus about Lodge. He and Smith don't interrupt each other. When Smith goes off on his leave-the-pitcher-in-forever tirade, Lodge lets him loose.

How refreshing after hearing KLAC's afternoon drive gang. Five guys scream at each other. And we're expected to get the point?

I sure don't.

Bucky Fox is an author in Southern California and editor of BuckyFox.com.

On A Roll On The Radio

2009-05-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

I’m floating on airwaves these days.

* Made the right Laker call on the radio.

* Heard the sharpest hoop voice on the dial in Dean Merrill.

* Met the No. 1 radio personality, Tammy Bruce (the nonbaldy above).

My call. I had enough of the Laker bashing. Especially the piling on Phil Jackson.

L.A.’s favorite team loses one playoff game, and this city loses it. The screaming comes in loud and clear on sports talk radio.

Take KLAA, the Angels’ station. When not dissecting every Halo pitch, the voices hang on every Laker shot and miss. I love it, but last week reached my limit. The morning show, “The Sports Lodge,” kept hammering Jackson, with Roger Lodge and sidekick Dave Smith yelling fire in a crowded radio booth.

So after the Lakers’ Game 4 loss at Denver, I entered the fray. Called in, heard Lodge say “Bucky from Buena Park” and took off.

After lauding the show for reaching our military heroes via Armed Forces Radio, I said: “I’m tired of your myopia when it comes to Phil Jackson. He’s the greatest coach in history. And he’s going to turn Lamar Odom into our J.R. Smith.”

That would be Odom, L.A.’s towering talent, and Smith, the cocky gun on the Nuggets. Or Thuggets, full of other tattooed snots.

The Thugs’ low came amid Smith’s 24-point blitz in Game 4. Flapped his elbows in Jackson’s face. The coach with nine NBA titles looked down to avoid giving J.R. — Just Rank— the eagle eye.

So there was Lodge’s Hollywood and Whine belittling Jackson. Saying Phil won all his titles only because of great players.

I responded: “He has great players now and will win it all.” For a record 10th NBA championship.

Lodge kept trying to make like a sports expert. Only he sounded like he was still hosting “Blind Date.”

The next two games, Odom produced in-your-face games, and L.A. is back in the NBA Finals. What was that about Jackson losing his touch, Lodge?

Dean Merrill. Remember that name. He’s the best on-air hoop analyst you’ve never heard of. That’s because he’s been a ref of high school and college games in the L.A. area, not a slickster on ESPN. Yet he dribbles circles around the network guys, notably Magic Johnson, who has two serious flaws: 1. He’s part owner of the Lakers, making his ESPN work unethical; 2. he’s terrible, with syntax to match.

Merrill scores big time. Strong voice. Stronger paragraph construction. Strongest points.

He comes on Jeff Biggs’ afternoon KLAA show and breaks down the playoffs like the point guard Magic used to be.

Why all the fouls against the Lakers? Don’t blame the refs, says Merrill. Denver was playing Crash Basketball, with all five players hitting the boards, vacuuming rebounds and drawing hacks.

Why Denver’s guard strength? Coach George Karl was playing muscular Chauncey Billups 43 minutes, keeping Jax from countering with skinny Jordan Farmar.

Merrill paints inside basketball like no one. Only Jon Barry on ESPN comes close.

The Dean of Hoops is so compelling, the message is obvious. He should have his own show.

Tammy Bruce. She has her own show, but you don’t hear it. Why? She’s buried on Saturday afternoons on KABC in Los Angeles.

The only folks listening are crazies like me. And I’m crazy about Tammy. She’s the best. Period.

She takes tough political stands. And sells them with her brilliant overture.

Last year she nailed it. Debated a London lefty who wailed about Bush the butcher. Tammy could’ve sunk in this anti-W muck. Instead she threw it in the Brit’s face, saluting the president’s liberation of 53 million people.

Tammy has guts and a cool delivery. Then she visited my paper’s office last week, and wow. Is she hot. And lesbian, so there went that idea.

Still, I want to turn her on. On the radio, that is. And if she makes the right move and leaves tone-deaf KABC, which should have her on drive time, I’ll click on her Internet show.

By then, she’ll have plenty to cheer. Starting with the Lakers’ championship.

Bucky Fox is an author in Southern California and the editor of BuckyFox.com.

Nothing New About This New York Mess

2009-05-23T07:37:00.000-07:00

The 1962 New York Mets supposedly died with their 40-120 record. Their Marvelous Marv mishmash is just a joke of a memory.

Isn’t it?

Then again, it’s still live and in action.

The Mets who came to Los Angeles last week looked so laughable, you’d have thought Casey Stengel was still managing them.

Trivia: Why did the ’62 Mets lose just 120 games? They had one tie and a rainout they didn’t bother to make up.

Jerry Manuel is the skipper these days. Suffering through the flubs that Casey used for punch lines, Manuel doesn’t have the Ol’ Professor’s wit. Just his headaches. As when Ryan Church failed to touch third base, helping New York lose Game 1 of the three-game sweep.

Manuel’s standup went like this: “I can’t explain how or why or anything, but he actually missed the base.”

Hilarious.

My only consolation is I had left Dodger Stadium in the eighth inning of that first game. So I missed Church’s sin. Plus a you-got-it-I-got-it fly ball that dropped in the Mets’ outfield. Plus a wide throw home that clinched their 3-2 loss.

Trivia: Who was the only future Hall of Famer on the ’62 Mets? Richie Ashburn.

The ’62 re-enactment continued in Game 2 in a 5-3 Met loss. When Dan Murphy pulled a Marvelous Marv in left field, L.A. air god Vin Scully said, “I can’t believe the New York Mets.”

I do. Even believe in them. Which is why I fought traffic to catch that series opener. I’ve been a blue-and-orange fan since Seaver and Koosman trumped ’62 with their Amazin’ title of 1969.

Trivia: Who played on all four teams that were originally in New York? Darryl Strawberry, Jose Vizcaino and Ricky Ledee.

I’ll hang with my team through these dark nights. How dark? Injuries to infielder Jose Reyes and his backup, Alex Cora. Leaving Ramon Martinez to go oh for 12 in the series.

Martinez was so limp, Scully said: “Ramon Martinez is about ready to put an ad in the paper to get a base hit.”

Ramon wasn’t alone. The Met bats had no news fit to print. By Game 3, all this team did was leave runners dead on base. And lose 2-1. And look ready to collapse from first to last place by season’s end.

This was supposed to be a showdown between two contenders. The problem was the Mets were more suited for the Laugh Factory on the Sunset Strip.

Still, watching the Mets at Dodger Stadium was a ball. Sat up in the stratosphere with season-ticket holders, and one of them was a living almanac. He offered tidbits such as:

What was the longest-running intact outfield? Pittsburgh’s Bob Skinner, Bill Virdon and Roberto Clemente from 1956 to ’63.

Then came this gem from another in the group:

What team has the longest current winning streak in World Series games? The Cincinnati Reds.

Such byplay at a major league game is unbeatable. Dodger Stadium makes it all the more enjoyable with the organ. While so many other ballparks blare rock music, Chavez Ravine sticks with Nancy Bea and her show tunes, such as Camelot’s “What Do the Simple Folk Do?”

We watch baseball.

For a Mets fan, that Think Blue aura was the only winner of the week.

Bucky Fox is the author of "The Mets Fan's Little Book of Wisdom" and CEO of BuckyFox.com.

Former Angel star second baseman Bobby Grich with fan and author Bucky Fox

2009-05-10T15:58:00.001-07:00

From Pacquiao to Teixeira, I Want Answers Now

2009-05-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

Questions after a weekend of boxing bashes, Derby dashes and general sports clashes:

How can I land Teddy Atlas' job? Dude picked Ricky Hatton to beat Manny Pacquiao. No wonder Atlas sports a mashed nose. The bone must've jammed back in his brain.

The only thing the Hitman hit was the canvas in Round 2. That was after Pac-Man planted his feet for the longest period in boxing history and hooked Hatton silly.

The ref's immediate stoppage made it a TKO. By technical, that must mean technically Hatton was a boxer.

In reality, this was a knockout a 3-year-old girl could've seen coming. I asked little Bianca at a boxing party when Pac-Man would win, and she put up three fingers. Close enough.

When it came to Pac-Man, what was with the Atlas shrug? The old Mike Tyson trainer must've been too busy pondering his next ESPN dollars to have any sense. Ax the guy and hire me.

How do I get Michael Buffer's job? I mean, how tough is introducing boxers? Promise, I can handle "Let's get ready to stummmmmbllllllle."

What's with HBO averting its gaze from the round girls? You know, the high-heeled, hotly garbed babes trotting in the ring with posters in case you forget what round it is. Instead of feeding us the babage, HBO zeroes in on sweaty faces of boxers and corner men.

One word for this pay-per-view trade-off: ripoff.

How can I replace the Kentucky Derby's voice? There was Tom Durkin on NBC noting every horse down the stretch. Except the one passing them all. When he finally said Mine That Bird, he had long clinched the roses.

One of the truly blown calls. I'm ready to stand in.

Does Barry Melrose have it good or what? Couldn't cut it as Tampa Bay's coach in the shortest tryout in NHL annals. So he's back breaking down hockey for ESPN.

Remember that ESPN broadcasts no hockey games. So Melrose spends, oh, two minutes a night chatting after catching action on the tube. And makes tons. I'm in the wrong business.

Amid the Manny and A-Rod hysteria, what to do about steroids? Legalize them.

Even if the Lakers make the NBA Finals, how do they handle LeBron James? Nail him on a steroid charge.

Why did the Lakers’ bench go from NBA tops to flops by playoff time? They traded Vladimir Radmanovic. With him starting, L.A. sizzled with a second unit starring Trevor Ariza. Now that Ariza fills Rad’s starting spot, no one’s left to spark the reserves. That’s why those 15-point leads vanish faster than you can say Luke Walton.

When will Orlando Hudson see straight? The Dodgers' second baseman recently bitched that baseball doesn't field enough black Americans. Something's coloring his juvenile outlook if hasn't caught on that blacks are filling MLB rosters. Only the talent comes mostly from Latin America.

Maybe Hudson is too pretentious to notice such teams as the San Francisco Giants, whose left side of the infield is as black as their caps. Only the third baseman, Pablo Sandoval, hails from Venezuela, and their shortstop, Edgar Renteria, is a Colombian.

Then there's the obvious shift down the road from Hudson's Dodger Stadium. The Angels won the 2002 World Series with two black regulars, L.A.'s own Garret Anderson and Puerto Rican Bengie Molina. Now they have two white regulars, Floridians Mike Napoli and Jeff Mathis.

When will teams' radio networks get with it? They feed the waves with pabulum whenever callers question talent and strategy.

That's why it was a breath of fresh air when Adam Dodge spoke up as a guest partner with Jeff Biggs on the Angels' KLAA. When a caller rooted for a Reggie Willits return to the Angels' outfield, I was expecting the knee-jerk response: "You're right, buddy. The guy's scrappy. Bring him back."

Dodge was different. He dismissed the idea. Said enemy pitchers had figured Willits out.

Dodge, a writer for Angelswin.com, sounded honest and compelling. That's a double play that radio should embrace. Advice for Biggs: Don't dodge him.

When will teams quit shelling out for losers? Take Mark Teixeira. Puts up huge numbers in Texas. So fantasy baseball types call him the second coming of Lou Gehrig. The Braves buy into it. They get worse. The Angels get sucked in. They go nowhere in the playoffs. The Yankees are sold on him. They're foundering.

The only pundit who blew the whistle was Phil Rogers. He's my old pal who covers baseball for the Chicago Tribune. Right after the Angels landed Teix last summer, Rogers shared his Texas drawl on KLAA and tattled on that down trend. Cut through the Bill James ratings -- Runs Created, Approximate Value -- and you can see Teixeira simply helps his teams lose.

Remind you of other Yankees? Maybe Bobby Bonds and A-Rod?

Bucky Fox is an editor in Southern California who runs BuckyFox.com and is the author of three baseball books, including "The Highflying Angels: Their 50 Greatest Hits, Pitches and Plays"

Rats gone wild; HBO falls flat; Dodgers have a Little problem; Scioscia to move up

2007-08-20T16:54:00.000-07:00

Now that my bet — that Mike Vick will shed his leash in time for the 2008 NFL season — looks shaky, let’s leave football alone.

Batter up.

Rats: Three weeks into this scummy revelation, and the Los Angeles Angels still have a stomach turner worse than their phantom power hitting. This nausea involves vermin.

Yes, rats are running around Angel Stadium faster than Chone Figgins. Particularly amid the snack bars. A yummy thought for fans in line for hot dogs.

How to deal with it? Turn it into a rallying cry. Kill the creatures and wag Rally Rats. Time to toss those kiddie Rally Monkeys and root on the home team with home cookin’.

You can see the stadium’s megascreen already: Angels losing in the eighth. Up pops the Rally Rat. No more pet show. This rodent is sure to take a bite out of the enemy’s lead.

Brooklyn bore: Finally saw “The Ghosts of Flatbush.” You know, the documentary fans are talking about. All two of them, since it’s on HBO.

The show focuses on the Dodgers’ flight from Brooklyn to Los Angeles in 1958. Oh, the tragedy. Right. A team in a rotting borough should have dodged the ticket to utopia: palm trees, beaches and multimillion attendance figures.

Brooklynites, wake up: OF COURSE the Dodgers made the right move westward. Los Angeles loves them — to the tune of 47,000 fans per game this year. And New York fans love their replacement — the Mets, drawing 46,000 a game.

The only people obsessed as much as HBO are old New York sportswriters. Message to them: It’s been half a century. Get over it.

This Dodger desertion creation is simply a fabrication.

Are St. Louis fans still ment over their Browns' move to Baltimore in 1954? Are Kansas Citians still bummed that their A's escaped to Oakland in ’68? No.

Somehow HBO missed those stories.

Little Trouble: The way the Dodgers are sinking, not to mention stinking, maybe L.A. should ship them back to Brooklyn after all.

When I caught their act in June, they messed up my Mets and looked like World Series champions waiting to happen. I predicted a reversal of 1916, with the Dodgers this time beating Boston.

Speaking of reversal, the Dodgers are headed for the depths of the National League West. The big reason is their hitting. Or missing. To cure that slump, the team brilliantly traded young power hitter Wilson Betemit to the Yankees. What did L.A. receive? A reliever it didn’t need.

I still see the Dodgers awakening in time to make the playoffs. If they don’t, goodbye Grady Little.

Scioscia To Soar: When Little leaves, the Dodgers will bring back the man they should have hired in 1999: Mike Scioscia. He’ll be available when his Angels don’t reach the World Series — Rally Rat or no.

Scioscia has been terrific since he landed in Anaheim in 2000. With him providing the fiber, the Angels are producing the finest era in team history.

Still, Scioscia stands for Dodgers. He caught for them from 1980 to 1992, helping them to two world titles. He coached their minor league catchers two seasons, then in 1998 and ’99 was their bench coach at Dodger Stadium — near where he lives today.

And like the Dodgers, the Angels don’t have the lumber to make it far enough. As popular as Scioscia is in Anaheim, fans will let him feel their frustration of failing to win the world title, which he did in 2002.

So get ready for Iron Mike moving his office up the highway and making the Dodgers win at once in 2008.

See more at BuckyFox.com

Nixon's Grand Stage

2007-08-18T13:33:00.000-07:00

For Richard Nixon fans, just-past Aug. 8 stands tall in our hero’s history.

On that night in 1968, he accepted the Republican presidential nomination in Miami Beach with grandeur.

“We do not seek domination over any other country,” he said above the din. “We believe deeply in our ideas, but we believe they should travel on their own power and not on the power of our arms. We shall never be belligerent. But we shall be as firm in defending our system as they are in expanding theirs.”

On that date in 1974, he resigned the presidency with crystal-clear foresight.

“In the Middle East, 100 million people in the Arab countries, many of whom have considered us their enemy for nearly 20 years, now look on us as their friends,” he said from the White House. “We must continue to build on that friendship so that peace can settle at last over the Middle East and so that the cradle of civilization will not become its grave.”

The six years between those speeches gave us Nixon’s big-win presidency — so consistent with giants in the White House.

America keeps rising because we have always played for high stakes. Thomas Jefferson put serious chips on the Louisiana Purchase. Abe Lincoln bet hundreds of thousands of lives on preserving the Union. FDR gambled on D-Day. They all hit the jackpot.

Then there was the greatest card player to reach America’s highest office: Nixon. The man who cleaned up playing poker in the Pacific during World War II played for huge pots as president and collected.

Let’s count President Nixon’s winnings for America:

China. This was Nixon’s ace. He saw the world’s biggest population in darkness and drew open the curtain. Since his 1972 drama, the Chinese have been performing an economic boom on the world stage. Amid all that buying and selling of our goods, watch for another act that comforts America: China rejecting communism.

Vietnam. Nixon had a winning hand in January 1973. He ended America’s longest war. South Vietnam looked like it would stay free the way South Korea did. Only when Congress pressured the president to resign the next year and surrendered in Southeast Asia did that hand fold.

Air and water. Nixon started flushing the grime from America’s skies and rivers by opening the Environmental Protection Agency in 1970.

Voting age. Nixon shuffled the law to let 18-year-olds vote. His signature on the bill in 1970 lowered the age limit from 21 in federal elections. The next year the 26th Amendment to the Constitution made the age change for all elections.

Israel. Nixon proved to be a stud at what he called nut-cuttin’ time. He saw the Jews losing steam amid the Yom Kippur War in 1973, so he stepped on the gas. He shipped every aircraft in sight to Israel’s defense. It turned out to be a bigger airlift than the Berlin version of 1948-49 — and saved our ally in the desert.

Desegregation. Nixon faced a weak hand when the Supreme Court ruled in 1969 that schools had to bus children to achieve racial balance. He displayed bluff and brilliance, somehow steering the buses past livid parents and through a Southern Strategy that turned those states his way in the 1972 landslide.

Killing the draft. After China, this is Nixon’s lasting chip. He pledged in his 1968 campaign to end the draft, and he came through on July 1, 1973. Thus started the all-volunteer Army. With soldiers who want to fight for America and earn the good money that comes with service, the Nixon-born military has grown into the most muscular in history.

The moon. Nixon oversaw all six manned lunar landings from 1969 to ’72.

Think big. Act big. That was Nixon.

Take those moon landings. Each one came while America was in the heat of the Vietnam War. Did Nixon wring his hands as liberals did over dealing a lousy 4% of Social Security taxes into private accounts? No. The president stared at the cards he was dealt and raised the stakes.

“We must now ensure that the one-quarter of the world's people who live in the People's Republic of China will be and remain not our enemies but our friends,” Nixon said on his last night in the Oval Office.

Then he was out the door, with his ideals forever staying put.

Bucky Fox is an author and editor in Southern California: BuckyFox@yahoo.com.

The Sport of It

2007-08-16T16:08:00.000-07:00

Let others wallow in game fixing, dog killing, biker doping and bastard babies.

I prefer relaxing this summer to sportsmanship. It exists. Promise. Baseball’s Tony Gwynn and Cal Ripken had it on display recently, tennis’ James Blake and Paul Goldstein the week before.

Let’s go to the tape:

Cooperstown. This all-American town in upstate New York houses the Baseball Hall of Fame. Now the museum is home to Gwynn and Ripken, two of the purest players in history.

Both played two decades for the same teams. Both battered the ball, Gold-Gloved it, shone as All-Stars, reached the World Series.

On Sunday, both inhaled fresh fan happiness. A stadium’s worth hit Cooperstown to celebrate the Gwynn-Ripken joy of sports and Hall induction.

Gwynn had an amazing career while playing the outfield from 1982 to 2001. He won eight batting titles. He hit .338 lifetime. He amassed 3,141 hits.

Those are the cold numbers. In warm San Diego, Tony Gwynn’s smile seemed to be part of his uniform while Mr. Padre helped the team to two pennants.

I discovered this native Southern Californian’s sunny demeanor while interviewing him at the 1984 World Series. He was coming off a .351 regular season and .368 blitz in the playoffs. The way he talked, he loved the game.

No wonder that 15 years later he won the Roberto Clemente Man of the Year Award for combining sportsmanship and community service with excellence on the field. Also in 1999, he drew the Lou Gehrig Memorial Award for showing the character and leadership of that old Yankee first baseman on and off the field.

Speaking of Gehrig, Ripken broke his streak and stretched it to 2,632 straight games. The Iron Man did it all with the Baltimore Orioles, with whom he played from 1981 to 2001. Early came his championship moment, when he caught the last out of the World Series in 1983, the last time Baltimore won it.

Now the great shortstop tosses his attitude to kids. “We want them to learn how to play the game and learn sportsmanship,” Ripken told Philanthropy magazine.

The Babe Ruth League is so into that attitude, it named its loop for younger children the Cal Ripken Division. Now that’s a catch.

Ripken practiced that sportsmanship while swatting 3,184 hits and 431 homers. Take this from “Get in the Game,” his recent book:

“I can’t stand the hidden-ball trick. That runner on base trusts you to a point. But when you get him out like that, you embarrass him in front of everybody else. Then he’ll never trust you again about anything. And just like misleading a base runner during a key moment in a game, you can only do it once.”

No wonder that like Gwynn, Ripken won the Clemente and Gehrig awards for sportsmanship.

Los Angeles. At the pro tennis tourney at UCLA’s stadium, Blake and Goldstein played like pals.

That’s because they are, real e-mail buds. That didn’t mean they text-messaged in the match. They pounded the balls. They hustled for every shot. They challenged close calls.

And the packed fans went nuts — just like they were watching ornery, ref-ripping McEnroe and Connors.

Only Blake and Goldstein don’t wear gloom. They wear delight. When Blake was through winning the third set, he lauded the guy he calls a top friend. Goldstein answered by waiting throughout Blake’s on-court interview and walking off together.

In the pressroom, Goldstein bounced infant daughter Sadie on his lap. He laughed about his cool style of bouncing tennis balls between his legs before serves. He praised Blake for his gutsy comeback from a near paralyzing tennis accident three years ago.

Exit Stanford’s Goldstein. Enter Harvard’s Blake. He applauded his chum’s bounce-back on this night and giant effort with his slight body.

Did Blake ever lose confidence during the match? The top 10 player laughed: “Come on. I’m a pro athlete.”
No, he knows he’s good. So does Kevin Garnett. The NBA star watched and gave him an oral high five for the effort.

Said Blake: “That means so much to me.”

It also means sportsmanship.

You can visit Bucky Fox's website at www.BuckyFox.com