‘When You’re a Freak, Freaky Things Happen to You’

The headline to this post is one of the greatest lines ever uttered to me during an interview. You probably don’t even have to guess from whom it came.

Shaq-Fu

Shaq: "When you're a freak, freaky things happen."

I could go on a Shaqilicious rampage here, but I had my time and so did Shaquille O’Neal. Since he announced his retirement from pro ball, appropriately enough on Twitter, there already has been much written about his place in NBA history and his abundant nicknames. I just wanted to drop a few personal memories and acknowledge that it required Shaq’s retirement to prod me out of my mini-retirement from the blogosphere.

Way back when I was still a newspaper writer, I wrote a large piece about Shaq as an emerging crossover star (see Welcome to ShaqWorld). He hadn’t even won his first NBA title, though he’d dropped his first recorded verse and filmed an ill-fated movie. This was during a time when a writer could earn big-time access to superstars, and I hung around him for a few days in El-Lay.
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Vivian Frieson: Lightning in a Bottle

When you catch a little lightning in a bottle, especially for the first time, can you immediately recognize your own good fortune? Lacking any context, you can’t really know. But every once in a while, you dare to believe. The kid makes your jaw drop. And the next moment she makes you pull out your hair, enough to prolong the skepticism.

Vivian once wanted to play at Tennessee.

There was a time in Tempe, Ariz., when I thought the heavens had parted. A time when I believed Vivian Frieson was capable of doing anything on a basketball court. We were playing a club team with Kayla Pedersen, the current Stanford star. It was a close one. We were employing fullcourt pressure, as usual, but late in the game too many of our defenders sold out to the ball. One of their players streaked alone toward the basket. The ballhandler stopped in front of our double team short of midcourt and reared back to fire the ball to her unguarded teammate.
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Landing in the Smithsonian

When I started down my career path as a sportswriter, never did I imagine that I’d one day be part of an exhibit at the Smithsonian — as a photographer.

Nikki Lewis, mother and coach Fayth Goodrich Lewis and MVP Angel Goodrich celebrate.

I’ve taken better photos, but a big part of journalism (and history) is being at the right place, doing the right thing at the right time. And this is how the above image of Fayth Goodrich and her daughters, Nikki Lewis and Angel Goodrich, came to be in the exhibit, “Indivisible,” at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian (the exhibit will tour the country; see Web site for details).

Back in the summer of 2008, I’d decided that Mindi Rice and I would cover the Native American Basketball Invitational (NABI) in Phoenix as part of our mission at ESPN HoopGurlz to show high-school girls’ basketball players throughout the nation, of every culture. It was a rich, unforgettable experience, made ever more special by the Smithsonian surprise.
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The Hidden Ball Trick

Sports photographers have it drummed into their heads to get the ball (or puck or curling stone) into their pictures, and with good reason. The ball is the centerpiece of any action and serves to provide context and perspective to any sports action shot. It’s considered so important, in fact, that among the 79 photos found to be digitally doctored by prize-winning photographer Allen Detrich, one of the best-known was a women’s basketball shot into which an otherwise missing ball was Photoshopped.

Anticipation

Marysville-Pilchuk coach Julie Martin and her players.

Detrich and others needn’t go that far, in my opinion. There are plenty of subjects and moments away from the ball that are essential to telling the story of a basketball game, for example. That’s why I love shooting state tournaments. The stakes are high, and so is the emotion and intensity. So much so, in fact, that I try not to “resort” to the tried-and-true, hidden-ball tricks of sports photography, such as the celebration (unless it’s for a championship) or the often-colorful (but ever-present and stationary) fans (that said, I’ve included another cliche, the cheerleader, below).

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Newspaper Essentials for the iPad

Though I will be perfectly happy to run current and enhanced applications on a new Apple tablet device with a higher-resolution, 10-inch color screen that will read multiple finger swipes and be tethered to the Internet, like many of my ilk, I will be most interested in its impact on journalism – more specifically, the newspaper industry. Coupled with the iTunes retailing environment, the iPad, should enable newspapers to easily and more reliable charge for content. But it will be up to the print-publishing industry (lets include magazines) to generate the kind of compelling content for which digital-generation consumers will pay.

One imagined version of the Apple tablet

I’ve tried out many of the newspaper and magazine readers for the iPhone and have to say The New York Times comes closest to getting it right. It is fast, and intuitive to navigate (via headlines and categories), updates as news breaks and includes images. Stupidly, almost no other newspaper does the latter. I travel considerably and consume newspapers religiously. I cannot tell you how many “photo projects” I’ve seen in recent months that lost their impact because the photos were published out of register (color plates are not lined up, producing a “ghosting” effect). The Internet is where photos go and can be viewed at their heavenly best.

I hope it goes almost without saying that newspapers on an iPad must constantly be updated. Gone are the days when one, two or three editions of a paper and published and the day is done. Because of the Web, news cycles now are 24/7. This would be a starting point for me to even consider installing a newspaper app – for free – on my new device. Otherwise, I’m happy with the NYT (I’m a print subscriber which probably means I will be grandfathered into any new, digital offerings) and excellent news apps from the Associated Press, CNN and National Public Radio (NPR).
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Gone, but Hardly Muted

It’s just occurred to me that I listened to Bob Blackburn during the 25 most formative years of my life. I first listened to him for 15 years on the radio, delivering an almost nightly Sonic serenade, mostly in the dark, on my scratchy transistor radio. I then was a captured audience during my first 10 years as a sportwriter, during which Bob was a travel and dinner companion, and tennis partner on the long and long-winded NBA road.

Bob Blackburn, 1924-2010

Man, the guy could talk. It’s difficult to fathom The Voice silenced. Not even death, which came to Bob Blackburn today, Jan. 7, 2010, could muzzle him. I mean, as I contemplate and grieve his passing, Bob’s voice, clear as a bell, comes flooding back, describing Bob “The Golden” Rule’s 47 rookie points so vividly I almost think I actually was there. Or like I was in Washington, D.C., when Gus Williams threw the ball way up in the air and Les Habegger did the “Habegger Hop” after the Sonics won the 1979 NBA championship. Bob was the reason I ran out to my porch that day to listen to what seemed like the entire city of Seattle honking its horns in celebration.
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Print’s Comeback, Dressed in a Swim Suit

I recently reached the 10th anniversary of my leaving print journalism for the Web and, in reflecting upon some of the personal developments during that decade, I noted with some remorse my separation from one of my childhood loves — my subscription to Sports Illustrated. As a sports junkie and participant, plus a budding sportswriter, SI was my Bible. However, with the proliferation of instant score gratification and sports analysis on the Web, SI’s weekly format and in-depth, albeit well-crafted, prose no longer fit into my what’s-happening-this-millisecond lifestyle.

But, like the ugly high-school duckling who shows up to the reunion as the swan you wish you’d asked to the prom, SI is poised for a dramatic return — more beautiful, hip and engaging than ever.

C’mon, admit it, if you’re like me, you want this badly. Real badly.
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