{"product_id":"tiger-meet-my-sister-isbn-9780142181904","title":"Tiger, Meet My Sister…","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this hilariously funny essay collection, ESPN columnist Rick Reilly com­piles the best of his sports columns—essays that include his expert opinion on athlete tattoos, NFL cheerleaders, and even running with the bulls in Pamplona. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRick Reilly has no compunction telling readers, in his quick-witted style, how he really feels about some of the most popular sports figures of our time. Wondering about quarterback Jay Cutler? \u003ci\u003e“Cutler is the kind of guy you just want to pick up and throw into a swimming pool, which is exactly what Peyton Manning and two linemen did one year at the Pro Bowl.” \u003c\/i\u003eOr how about Tiger Woods? \u003ci\u003e“Sometimes you wonder where Tiger Woods gets his public-relations advice. Gary Busey?”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But for every brazen takedown, Reilly has written a heartwarming story of the power of sports to heal the wounded and lift the downtrodden: the young Ravens fan with cancer who called the plays for a few—victorious—games in 2012, or the onetime top NFL recruit who was finally exonerated after serving five years for a crime he didn’t commit. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhether he makes you laugh, cry, or just gets under your skin, Rick Reilly is sure to offer a unique and hilarious perspective on your favorite golf players, football teams, MVPs, and more. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eRick Reilly has been called “one of the funni­est humans on the planet—an indescribable amalgam of Dave Barry, Jim Murray, and Lewis Grizzard, with the timing of Jay Leno and the wit of Johnny Carson” (\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e). \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWith a new introduction and updates from Reilly on his most talked-about col­umns, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eTiger, Meet My Sister...\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cb\u003emakes the perfect gift for sports fans of all kinds.\u003c\/b\u003e | \u003cb\u003ePraise for Rick Reilly, \u003ci\u003eTiger, Meet My Sister...\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eWho's Your Caddy?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Rick Reilly is one of the funniest humans on the planet, an indescribable amalgam of Dave Barry, Jim Murray, and Lewis Grizzard, with the timing of Jay Leno and the wit of Johnny Carson.”—\u003ci\u003ePublisher’s Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Don't get started reading this book.  It will take three burly men to pull you away from it.”—Bob Costas, NBC commentator for \u003ci\u003eMissing Links \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You don't need to know your bogeys from your birdies to find at least three laughs per page in this novel.”—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003efor \u003ci\u003eMissing Links\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Snappy prose, believable characters, and the funniest take on blue-collar hacking and gambling since Dan Jenkins's \u003ci\u003eThe Glory Game at Goat Hill\u003c\/i\u003e...it's social satire and pure irreverence that keep this story in the groove.”—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times \u003c\/i\u003efor \u003ci\u003eMissing Links\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reilly could write about lawn bowling and make it funny, informative, and entertaining. You never know what the next page is going to bring.” —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times \u003c\/i\u003efor \u003ci\u003eWho’s Your Caddy? \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You might not think the story of a man carrying Tommy Aaron’s golf bag for 18 holes could make you laugh out loud, but you’d be wrong\u003ci\u003e. Who’s Your Caddy?\u003c\/i\u003e is funny enough to coax a chuckle out of Vijay Singh. A great way to read about the game—and its people, too.” —\u003ci\u003eCharlotte Observer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You don’t have to know much about golf to get a kick out of this book. Reilly learns a little about golf, and a lot about people.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Buffalo News \u003c\/i\u003efor \u003ci\u003eWho’s Your Caddy? \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “[Reilly] knows and delivers a good story when he sees it . . . readers can’t help but be touched by the sheer ingenuity of many of these games and the sheer courage of many of the participants.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003efor \u003ci\u003eSports from Hell \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Reilly was the closest thing sportswriting ever had to a rock star.”—Chris Chase, USAToday.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Often, Reilly’s is so good, it almost is painful for sportswriters like me to read him.”—Ed Sherman, \u003ci\u003eThe Sherman Report \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reilly made you think, made you cry, made you LOL, made you get to know a subject, made you love sports and hate sports and love him and hate him. Above all, he made you read him, every column.”—Jay Marriotti, \u003ci\u003eSportsTalk Florida \u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cb\u003eRick Reilly \u003c\/b\u003ewas a front-page columnist for ESPN.com, and now regularly appears on Monday Night Countdown, SportsCenter, and Sunday NFL Countdown. He is the author of many books, including the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestsellers \u003ci\u003eHate Mail from Cheerleaders\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMissing Links\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Shanks for Nothing\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eWho’s Your Caddy\u003c\/i\u003e? | \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eForeword\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow that I’m dead, I’d like to discuss my funeral.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFirst off, I want chili cheeseburgers. And Guinness. And the Miami Dolphins cheerleaders.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI want the Cure playing, live. I hid some money under the rock out back. Should cover it. If there’s any left, get the Phoenix Gorilla, too.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’ll need a mix of crying and laughing, 25 percent\/70 percent, if we could. The other 5 percent is going to be those who will be there howling happily to see that I’ve boxed. That will be Bryant Gumbel, Steve Garvey, and Sammy Sosa, people like that. Let them holler lousy things out about me now and then. I don’t mind. I was hard on them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA lot of my final rankings will be hanging on big posters on the walls of whatever hall you rent. (The back room at an Olive Garden ought to do it.) They are as follows:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNICEST PEOPLE: \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Steph Curry\u003cbr\u003e   • Jim Nantz\u003cbr\u003e   • That bald guy with the mushroom-cloud ear hair who always comes up to me and tells me how much he loved my last column even though Mitch Albom usually wrote it\u003cp\u003eBIGGEST JERKS:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Barry Bonds\u003cbr\u003e   • Barry Bonds\u003cbr\u003e   • Robert (\u003ci\u003eArliss\u003c\/i\u003e) Wuhl\u003cbr\u003e   • Barry Bonds\u003cbr\u003e   • Jay Cutler\u003cp\u003eMOST FUN:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Charles Barkley\u003cbr\u003e   • George Clooney\u003cbr\u003e   • David Feherty\u003cp\u003eGREATEST WITNESSED THRILLS:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Nicklaus wins the 1986 Masters\u003cbr\u003e   • North Carolina State wins the 1983 NCAA March Madness\u003cbr\u003e   • My first \u003ci\u003eSI\u003c\/i\u003e Swimsuit shoot. Oh. My. God.\u003cp\u003eLARGEST REGRETS:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Believed Lance Armstrong\u003cbr\u003e   • Didn’t believe Jose Canseco\u003cbr\u003e   • Sold all my Apple at 125\u003cp\u003eDUMBEST QUESTIONS PEOPLE ASKED ME:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Where do they store the hockey ice at the arena when they switch over to basketball? (A: They cut it up in little squares and the players take it home and keep it in their freezers.)\u003cbr\u003e   • Why has Greg Norman never been selected to play in the Ryder Cup? (A: Because Norman has a deal with U-Haul.)\u003cbr\u003e   • When was the last repeat winner of the Kentucky Derby? (A: Sigh.)\u003cp\u003ePEOPLE I WAS SURE WOULD BE DEAD BEFORE ME:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Mike Tyson\u003cbr\u003e   • Dennis Rodman\u003cbr\u003e   • John Daly\u003cp\u003eBEST INSULT:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • “Thanks for sending me your book. I’ll waste no time reading it.” (From a reviewer.)\u003cp\u003ePRESIDENTS MET:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Ford (stepped on my foot)\u003cbr\u003e   • Carter (wouldn’t let go of my wife)\u003cbr\u003e   • Bush 41 (very fast, very bad golfer)\u003cbr\u003e   • Clinton (smart)\u003cbr\u003e   • Obama (fantasy football partner)\u003cp\u003eANNOYANCES:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • The readjust, re-Velcro, triple loogie done between pitches every freaking time\u003cbr\u003e   • The stupid rule that won’t let you pull it out of a divot\u003cbr\u003e   • Guns\u003cp\u003eTHINGS I’LL MISS:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • Wife and kids and buddies\u003cbr\u003e   • Third-and-8 and Peyton Manning deciding who he’s going to burn\u003cbr\u003e   • Piano bars\u003cp\u003eTHINGS I WON’T:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • “Can you take a look at my nephew’s book? It’s a true story!”\u003cbr\u003e   • Wide receivers who pump their chest and point to the name on their back after a six-yard gain.\u003cbr\u003e   • The 43 million waiters and waitresses in this country who set the plate down and say, “Enjoy.” Hey, lady, it’s a cheesesteak. Where do you think I’m putting it?\u003cp\u003eWHAT I LEARNED: \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • The faster a sprinter is, the slower he walks\u003cbr\u003e   • There is no point talking to a 5-iron\u003cbr\u003e   • The Kenyan with the most impossible name to pronounce will win the race\u003cbr\u003e   • All other Kenyans will finish 2-through-10\u003cbr\u003e   • Media company lawyers do not get paid to get your joke. They get paid to kill it\u003cbr\u003e   • Even if there are 1,000 people in front of you enjoying your after-dinner speech, you will focus on the lady who’s asleep\u003cbr\u003e   • The guy you need the most to finish your story will be last out of the shower\u003cbr\u003e   • Every hate e-mail starts with “I’ve enjoyed everything you’ve written, until _____”, and ends with “hope you die in a fiery ____ accident”\u003cbr\u003e   • Ninety-seven percent of athletes are lovely people and really boring columns\u003cbr\u003e   • If you’re not adding some tiny good to the world, then you’re wasting everybody’s time\u003cp\u003eUp on stage, there will be a bottle of Macallan scotch from every year I’ve been alive. Each person will come up to the stage and take a shot from the year they met me, then smash the glass. If you don’t drink, we probably never met.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor flowers, I’d like the purple kind. They’re pretty.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMC Vin Scully (he’ll outlive us all) will get up and open—cold—with Sentences That Have Never Been Uttered in the History of the English Language. I have a whole collection I’ve been saving and they’ll be perfect coming out of Vin’s velvet voice box. A few sentences nobody’s ever uttered:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • “Tiger, meet my sister.”\u003cbr\u003e   • “Shaq, you shoot the technical.”\u003cbr\u003e   • “Tebow says go screw yourself.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen Vin is going to open it up for speeches.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut be warned: Rip me, roast me, rave about me, but don’t be boring. I’m going to have Nate (No Neck) Syzmanski standing there. If you’re dull, he’ll disconnect the mike and “encourage” you off the stage.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf Charles Barkley shows, I’d like him to get up and tell about the time we were driving along and the steering wheel came off in his hands. Or the time we were walking along in Barcelona in 1992 and looked back to see 200 people following us.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’d like John Elway to tell about the time we were playing golf and  he tripped on a tee marker at the top of a steep par 3 and tumbled 30 feet cleat-over-baseball-cap. One of the best up and downs of his life.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd it’d be great if one of my buddies got up and read some of the dumb quotes I’ve had to stand there and write in my notepad. Do you know how hard it is to write about people who make their livings with their bodies, not their brains? For instance:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • “Oh, man, you’ll never get up this thing in the winter.”—Wayne Gretzky’s Canadian friend, surveying Gretzky’s steep L.A. driveway\u003cbr\u003e   • “We got our backs to the driver’s seat.”—Otis Armstrong, RB, Denver Broncos\u003cbr\u003e   • “I’ve won championships at every level, except high school and college.”—Shaquille O’Neal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eOh, and I want a bunch of Nerf footballs in the crowd. I want people to just stand up and go, “I’m open!” and then have somebody wing one at them. I want Elway to have his own basket of them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow, I’ve taken the liberty of writing my own obit. If you’ll just send it to the papers and the websites and whatnot:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eRICK REILLY, 56, sportswriter, died this week of one thing or the other. He probably had it coming.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eReilly published or posted over 2 million words in his 37-year career, most of them making fun of Barry Bonds and the size of his head.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAt least Reilly tried to tell the truth in his stories and columns. He might not have always done it, but he tried. He also tried to make it all add up to something. He tried to make you laugh or cry or treat somebody better. Or worse. Once in awhile, he pulled it off.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eReilly was a very odd sportswriter in that he didn’t really write about sports. He wrote more about people who played sports than the sports themselves. The high school stud quarterback who took the loneliest girl under his wing. The blind woman who travels by bus, train and sidewalk to every Yankees game. The sports-fan kid who was supposed to be 17 and looked 80.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eReilly covered every major sporting event except the Indy 500, and every minor one, including the world sauna championship, in which he placed 103rd. He saw over 100 countries, including some behind the Iron Curtain that no longer exist. He went to every state but North Dakota, although he’s not really welcome in Nebraska, possibly because of this joke he told in Omaha:\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eQ: What do you call a hot tub full of Nebraska cheerleaders?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eA: Gorillas in the mist.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHe got decent at the piano for a while. Knew enough magic to annoy you. George Clooney made one of his movies. He had a TV series that lasted one episode. Had his own interview show that lasted 15. Helped raise over $50 million to fight malaria via Nothing But Nets, which he came up with because he was desperate for a column one week.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eHe saw the northern lights. He ran with the bulls. He saw the best people could be and the worst. He loved writing about big people acting small and small people acting big. He liked writing about the star of the team, but he preferred writing about the nobody at the end of the bench. He wrote short, medium and long, which was probably what he did best, but it’s probably also why he’s dead at 56. He always said every one of them takes a year off your life.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe son of an alcoholic, he made his own way. He could’ve done better. He could’ve done worse. His main deal was trying to write sentences nobody had ever read before, entertain people, and not have to get a real job. Also, to his undying credit, he never was on one of those everybody-yells sportswriter shows.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOh, and he once took $5 off Arnold Palmer on the golf course.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen the speeches are done or the scotch is gone, whichever comes first, we’ll drive up to the graveyard in monster trucks. It’s going to be great. I’ve arranged for junker cars to be parked along the way—marked with a giant orange X—and every truck gets to go over at least one of them. You’re welcome.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the grave site, there’ll be an L.A. taco truck—best eating known to man—and it’s \u003ci\u003ecarta blanca\u003c\/i\u003e. Leaving the grave site and getting a quesadilla is not only OK, it’s encouraged.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAfter my caddie says a few nice words, such as, “He had a loop in his backswing you could drive a Mack truck through, but at least he tipped OK,” everybody can bring one item to throw down into the grave, depending on whether you liked me or hated me. A few items I’d like to see thrown in:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   • My 7-Eleven smock. I worked there for a while before I got the writing gig. I have also been a grocery bagger, rental-shop clerk, lawn mower, book packer, parking hut attendant, flower deliverer, bank teller, gas jockey, and car washer. Got fired from most of them. I kept the smock to remind myself that writing is all I can do.\u003cbr\u003e   • My 100-plus photo collection of people choking me, including Michael Phelps underwater. Made for funny pictures, except for the time Eli Manning didn’t realize it was supposed to be a joke.\u003cbr\u003e   • My laptop. I don’t want anybody reading some of the columns I started and ditched. “Why Ryan Leaf Is About to Turn This League on Its Ear.” “At 30, Phil Mickelson Is Done.” “25 Reasons I’ll Never Tweet.” Things like that. Plus, my wife has the kind of body that keeps whiplash specialists in business and I don’t want anybody clicking on the “My Pictures” tab.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003eSpeaking of my wife, it’d be nice if she lost it at some point and dove on top of the casket as it’s being lowered. But by then I figure she’ll be too busy fending off advances from my single buddies. Or not fending them off. I can’t blame either of them.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThen I’d like to leave this note for my kids: “Sorry I spent your inheritance. Love you. Hope you have as much fun as I did.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLastly, I want the tombstone to say:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHere lies Rick Reilly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e1958–2014\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTried to write well\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnyway, that’s it. Don’t feel sorry for me. It wasn’t long, but it was a blast. And look at it this way, I FINALLY\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003emade deadline.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(P.S. I bet my buddy Two Down O’Connor, The World’s Most Avid Golf Gambler, $100 that I’d break par before I died and I never did. So he’s going to come up and pretend to sob over my coffin, but he’s really going to be taking the C-note out of the inside left breast pocket of my black blazer. The bill is in there, just make sure I’m wearing it.)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFlaws\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e(Big People Acting Small)\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s All About the Lies\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJanuary 27, 2013\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAmong my e-mails Wednesday morning, out of the blue, was one from Lance Armstrong.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eRiles, I’m sorry.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll I can say for now but also the most heartfelt thing too. Two very important words.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eL\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd my first thought was . . . “Two words? That’s it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTwo words? For fourteen years of defending a man? And in the end, being made to look like a chump?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWrote it, said it, tweeted it: “He’s clean.” Put it in columns, said it on radio, said it on TV. Staked my reputation on it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Never failed a drug test,” I’d always point out. “Most tested athlete in the world. Tested maybe 500 times. Never flunked one.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhy? Because Armstrong always \u003ci\u003etold \u003c\/i\u003eme he was clean.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn the record. Off the record. Every kind of record. In Colorado. In Texas. In France. On team buses. In cars. On cell phones.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’d sit there with him, in some Tour de France hotel room while he was getting his daily post-race massage. And we’d talk through the hole in the table about how he stared down this guy or that guy, how he’d fooled Jan Ullrich on the torturous Alpe d’Huez into thinking he was gassed and then suddenly sprinted away to win. How he ordered chase packs from the center of the peloton and reeled in all the pretenders.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd then I’d bring up whatever latest charge was levied against him. “There’s this former teammate who says he heard you tell doctors you doped.” “There’s this former assistant back in Austin who says you cheated.” “There’s this assistant they say they caught disposing of your drug paraphernalia.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd every time—every single time—he’d push himself up on his elbows and his face would be red and he’d stare at me like I’d just shot his dog and give me some very well-delivered explanation involving a few dozen F-words, a painting of the accuser as a wronged employee seeking revenge, and how lawsuits were forthcoming.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd when my own reporting would produce no proof, I’d be convinced. I’d go out there and continue polishing a legend that turned out to be plated in fool’s gold.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEven after he retired, the hits just kept coming. A London\u003ci\u003e Times\u003c\/i\u003e report. A Daniel Coyle book. A U.S. federal investigation. All liars and thieves, he’d snarl.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI remember one time we talked on the phone for half an hour, all off the record, at his insistence, and I asked him three times, “Just tell me. Straight up. Did you do any of this stuff?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“No! I didn’t do s—!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd the whole time, he was lying. Right in my earpiece. Knowing that I’d hang up and go back out there and spread the fertilizer around some more.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd now, just like that, it’s all flipped. Thursday and Friday night we’ll see him look right into the face of Oprah Winfrey and tell her just the opposite. He’ll tell her, she says, that he doped to win.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI get it. He’s ruined. He’s lost every single sponsor. Nearly every close teammate has turned on him. All seven Tour de France titles have been stripped. He could owe millions. He might be in a hot kettle with the feds. Even the future he planned for himself—triathlons and mountain biking—have been snatched away. He’s banned from those for life.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo I get it. The road to redemption goes through Oprah, where he’ll finally say those two very important words, “I’m sorry,” and hope the USADA will cut the ban from lifetime to the minimum eight years.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut here’s the thing. When he says he’s sorry now, how do we know he’s not still lying? How do we know it’s not just another great performance by the all-time leader in them?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd I guess I should let it go, but I keep thinking how hard he used me. Made me look like a sap. Made me carry his dirty water and I didn’t even know it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLook, I’ve been fooled before. I believed Mark McGwire was hitting those home runs all on his own natural gifts. I believed Joe Paterno couldn’t possibly cover up something so grisly as child molestation. I bought Manti Te’o’s girlfriend story. But those people never looked me square in the pupils and spit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s partially my fault. I let myself admire him. Let myself admire what he’d done with his life, admire the way he’d not only beaten his own cancer but was trying to help others beat it. When my sister was diagnosed, she read his book and got inspired. And I felt some pride in that. I let it get personal. And now I know he was living a lie and I was helping him live it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI didn’t realize that behind those blues was a bully, a coercer, a man who threatened people who once worked for and with him. The Andreus. Emma O’Reilly. Tyler Hamilton. Armstrong was strong-arming people in the morning, and filing lawsuits and op-ed pieces in the afternoon. We’d talk and his voice would get furious. And I’d believe him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd all along, the whole time, he was acting, just like he had with Ullrich that day. So now the chase pack has reeled in Lance Armstrong, and he is busted and he’s apologizing to those he conned.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI guess I should forgive him. I guess I should give him credit for putting himself through worldwide shame. I guess I should thank him for finally admitting his whole magnificent castle was built on sand and syringes and suckers like me. But I’m not quite ready. Give me fourteen years, maybe.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou’re sorry, Lance? No, I’m the one who’s sorry.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePostscript:\u003c\/b\u003e I figured that was the last e-mail I’d ever get from Armstrong, and good riddance. But about a month later, somebody was ripping me on Twitter for one thing or another and added, “Why should we believe you? You told us Lance was telling the truth.” Out of the blue came a reply from Armstrong: “Don’t blame Rick. I lied to him for 14 years.” Hey, it’s a start.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBe Like Mike? No, Thanks\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSeptember 16, 2009\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMichael Jordan’s Hall of Fame talk was the \u003ci\u003eExxon Valdez\u003c\/i\u003e of speeches. It was, by turns, rude, vindictive and flammable. And that was just when he was trying to be funny. It was tactless, egotistical and unbecoming. When it was done, nobody wanted to be like Mike.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd yet we couldn’t stop watching. Because this was an inside look into the mind-set of an icon who’d never let anybody inside before. From what I saw, I’d never want to go back. Here is a man who’s won just about everything there is to win—six NBA titles, five MVPs and two Olympic golds. And yet he sounded like a guy who’s been screwed out of every trophy ever minted. He’s the world’s first sore winner.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn the entire twenty-three-minute cringe-athon, there were only six thank-yous, seven if you count his sarcastic rip at the very Hall that was inducting him. “Thank you, Hall of Fame, for raising ticket prices, I guess,” he sneered. By comparison, David Robinson’s classy and heartfelt seven-minute speech had seventeen. Joe Montana’s even shorter speech in Canton had twenty-three. Who wrote your speech, Mike? Kanye West?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot that Jordan’s speech wasn’t from the heart. It was. It’s just that Jordan’s heart on this night could give you frostbite. Nobody was spared, including his high school coach, his high school teammate, his college coach, two of his pro coaches, his college roommate, his pro owner, his pro general manager, the man who was presenting him that evening, even his kids!\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I wouldn’t want to be you guys if I had to,” he said as they squirmed in their seats.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe even mocked his own brothers, calling them maybe 5-foot-5 and 5-6. Actually, they’re about 5-8 and 5-9. Michael was the one blessed with the height gene, not the tact one.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJordan had decided that this was the perfect night to list all the ways everybody sitting in front of him had pissed him off over the past thirty years: Dean Smith, Doug Collins, Jerry Reinsdorf, Pat Riley, Isiah Thomas, Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, George Gervin and Jeff Van Gundy. It was the only one-man roast in Hall of Fame history. Only, very little of it was funny.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was like that Japanese World War II soldier they found hiding in a cave in Guam twenty-seven years after the Japanese surrendered. The only difference is, Jordan won! What good is victory if you never realize the battle is over?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis is how Jordan really is, I just never thought he’d let the world see it. His old Bulls assistant coach, Johnny Bach, told me early on, “This guy is a killer. He’s a cold-blooded assassin. It’s not enough for him to beat you. He wants you dead.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI covered his entire career and saw examples of it throughout. Saw him break Rodney McCray in after-practice, $100 shooting games, humiliate him until McCray lost his stroke. Watched him race his car up the shoulder of Chicago interstates just because he didn’t have the patience to wait in traffic. Heard how he’d kept his friends confined to his hotel room at the Barcelona Olympics so he could play cards—and keep playing until he won. For Jordan, it was never enough to win. He had to have scalps.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNow here he was, in Springfield without a filter or a PR guy to cut him off, while his staff must’ve been covering their eyes. And suddenly, it hit you: Michael Jordan is the guy who gets up at the rehearsal dinner, grabs the mike and ruins the night.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe thing Jordan doesn’t understand is, it doesn’t have to be this way. Terry Bradshaw won four Super Bowls and gave one of the greatest speeches in the history of the Hall of Fame. “Folks!” he hollered. “You don’t get elected into the Hall of Fame by yourself! Thank you number 88, Lynn Swann! Thank you, Franco Harris! Thank you, Rocky Bleier! What I wouldn’t give right now to put my hands under [center] Mike Webster’s butt just one more time! Thank you, Mike!” He thanked linemen, tight ends, everybody but the ushers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHad Jordan been in his shoes, he’d have said, “Hey, Steve Kerr! Remember when I kicked your ass in that fight?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJordan owes a roomful of apologies. But it’ll never happen. I know firsthand.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBefore his second comeback—with the Washington Wizards—I was the first out with the story by a month. Jordan and his agent, David Falk, denied it, said I was crazy, practically said I was smoking something. Then, after a month of lies, Jordan admitted it was all true. I saw him in the locker room before his first game back and said, “You wanna say something to me, maybe?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd he said, “You know you don’t get no apologies in this business.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo I wouldn’t hold your breath.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey called it an “acceptance” speech, but the last thing Jordan seems to be able to do is accept it’s over. In fact, Jordan hinted that he might make yet another comeback at 50.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI just hope Comeback No. 3 doesn’t come with a speech.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause then I’m really screwed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePostscript:\u003c\/b\u003e Wright Thompson told this story about Jordan in ESPN The Magazine\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003enot long ago: It seems Jordan brings his own chef to ad shoots because she always makes his favorite cinnamon rolls. But when Jordan has to leave his trailer to go shoot, he spits on each one, to make sure the security guards don’t take one while he’s filming.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJay Cutler Is No Teddy Bear\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJanuary 13, 2011\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFor a man from Santa Claus, Indiana, Jay Cutler is one of the least jolly people you’ve ever met.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIf he’s not The Most Hated Man in the NFL, he’s in the running. His expression is usually that of a man wearing sandpaper underwear. He looks everywhere but into your eyes. It’s a tie as to which he enjoys more—smirking or shrugging.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s hard to say what interests Cutler, but it’s definitely not you.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOnce, in his rookie year in Denver, forty-five minutes before a game, surefire Hall of Fame safety John Lynch was trying to explain something to Cutler about NFL pass coverage. Except Cutler wasn’t looking at Lynch. He was texting.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Man, I’m trying to talk to you!” Lynch protested.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDidn’t help. Cutler was all thumbs, head down. Finally, Lynch slapped the phone out of Cutler’s hands, smashing it to the floor.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe listened after that.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOne time, Broncos coach Mike Shanahan thought it would be helpful for Cutler and Broncos legend John Elway to have lunch. Let Cutler drink in some of Elway’s experience.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe three of them sat down at a Denver steak joint. Elway, polite as ever, tried to impart some wisdom. Except Cutler wasn’t looking at Elway. He wasn’t looking at Shanahan, either. He was looking at the TV. The whole time. With his baseball cap on backward. All the way through dessert. Elway did not leave impressed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo when Josh McDaniels, before he had even set his Samsonite down, started railroading Cutler out of town, almost nobody stood up for him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCutler was boxed up and shipped to Chicago, where, this Sunday, he will play his first playoff game of any kind since high school, this one at home against the Seattle Seahawks.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s a\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Plume","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338554585317,"sku":"NP9780142181904","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780142181904.jpg?v=1769572668","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/tiger-meet-my-sister-isbn-9780142181904","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}