Quite An Act

You know the song "I Write The Songs" by Barry Manilow? He didn't write it.

No, that little ditty was penned by a gentleman from Peoria, Illinois named Benjamin Baldwin. You may know him by his stage name, Bruce Johnston, or you may know his work as a member of the band he joined in 1965 -- the Beach Boys.

Funny, huh?

I bring this up because I've discovered that one of my favorite Internet personalities, Paul "Fitzy" Fitzgerald of the irreverent Townie News, is, well, not the guy who writes the songs.

For those who have never read him or seen the YouTube clips, "Fitzy" is the ultimate Boston sports fan, a Bahstahn-accented pontificator who worships the Red Sox, the Patriots, and anyone else who plays in the Hub, but mostly the Red Sox. The commentaries are usually howlingly funny and never, ever safe for work -- his signature sign-off is "GFY," which will come to you in a minute.

The site has been a guilty pleasure of mine for a long time, and Fitzy's talents have been discovered by the likes of ESPN.com and some of the cable channels. And that's where the mystery started.

A few months ago, I was flipping past VH1 and caught one of those "I Love The..."-type shows, the ones where they interview several hundred marginally recognizable figures from the entertainment industry and edit their snarky comments into packages about pop culture from way back when. While I cannot remember the topic, I do remember seeing "Paul Fitzgerald" -- the graphic on the screen did not refer to him as "Fitzy" -- being interviewed. He was labelled as an "Actor." And his accent had mysteriously disappeared.

So I did some more homework and found his Internet Movie Database (IMDB) page. Lo and behold, he's an actor, alright, with a lengthy resume' that includes soap operas, prime-time dramas, some indie films, and stage work. But here's the part that kills me: he's not from Boston at all.

He's from New York. Born in NYC, raised in Virginia, went to college at Northwestern in Chicago. Nothing even close to Boston. Go watch a few YouTube clips and tell me this guy isn't the greatest actor of our generation.

Honestly, I really believed he was a Bostonian. That accent is pitch-perfect, and the attitude is totally New England. How did he get this gig, and why?

Try as I might, I cannot find a single article about Paul Fitzgerald, Actor, that mentions his work as Fitzy on Townie News. I know it's the same guy -- I've seen enough publicity photos in my life to recognize that it's the same guy. But nowhere -- NOWHERE -- can I find an admission that "Fitzy" is an acting gig.

And since we know that it is, who's paying him? Who's making the money off that Townie News site? How did they find him? I have to know these things.

FWIW, when I say I'm a native Floridian, I mean it. This ain't no act. But I'm fascinated by this Fitzgerald thing. Anybody have any clues?

Knight Fight

My main man Mike Bianchi treads lightly this week as he addresses UCF head coach George O'Leary's boycott of the Orlando Sentinel.

O'Leary's refusal to speak to the newspaper, which became apparent at the Sun Sports-sponsored FSWA Media Days in Tampa last week and was reinforced at the Conference USA media days that followed, had been casually referenced in the Sentinel before. Now, it's page one of the Sports section. Probably about time.

To review: O'Leary's boycott is a result of what he termed "inaccuracies" in the Sentinel's coverage of the death of UCF football player Ereck Plancher, who passed away following an offseason workout in March. O'Leary says he will not speak to the Sentinel's writers unless and until the paper prints "corrections" to those inaccuracies.

Problem is, O'Leary has yet to spell out what, precisely, the Sentinel got wrong.

Bianchi reports that O'Leary is scheduled to meet with UCF athletic director Keith Tribble to discuss the Sentinel situation, once Tribble returns from vacation in a few days. Until then, here's one guess as to the root of O'Leary's ire:

In its admittedly "aggressive" coverage of this story, the Orlando Sentinel relied heavily on the eyewitness accounts of four anonymous UCF football players who were present at the workout. These players wouldn't speak for the record because, according to the Sentinel, "they feared retribution from UCF coaches."

On the heels of a player's death during an offseason workout, that line looks exceedingly bad. It gives the impression that O'Leary's staff somehow attempted to put a lid on the story, which in turn may imply complicity or guilt. That's the part, I'm betting, that has O'Leary so incensed -- the Sentinel's refusal to accept only the 'official' explanation led to a reliance upon anonymous player sources.

As one who has worked in media for almost 20 years now, I can assure you that 'anonymous sources' are far from perfect. For one thing, we have no way of knowing how accurate the players' recollections of the workout might be. For another, we don't know if they had axes to grind with the UCF staff before this tragedy and allowed those emotions to cloud their perception -- to say nothing of the fact that one of their teammates just died, a fact that might impair one's ability to accurately recall the details of a workout.

But perhaps most relevant for an old-school coach like O'Leary: speaking to a newspaper reporter off the record means that these players went outside the chain of command. They broke ranks. It points to a lack of control, and that's poison to a coach like George O'Leary.

Of course, we're only guessing, because O'Leary hasn't gone public with his Sentinel beefs. And in the big picture, as Scott Maxwell so eloquently points out, a young football player is still dead. That is the truly relevant story here, Scott argues, and I wholeheartedly agree. But in examining only the very small sports angle to this story, it's an interesting glimpse of George O'Leary and the UCF football program.

Programs like Florida, Florida State, and Miami have been through these kinds of PR crises before. Names like Bryan Pata and Devaughn Darling jump to mind; while players like Eraste Autin are perhaps lesser-known, their deaths are no less tragic, no less awful. But while no program ever "gets used" to tragedies like these, some programs are better equipped to deal with them, particularly when it comes to media coverage. If we've learned anything from this rift between O'Leary and the Sentinel, it's that UCF wasn't prepared for this level of scrutiny.

Whether we agree with it or not, this sort of aggressive coverage is the norm among big-time college football programs. South Florida earned the white-hot lights last season when the Bulls reached the 2nd position in the BCS standings; I'm sure that the Bulls' football program had some tough moments while adjusting to that limelight, albeit for reasons on the opposite end of the spectrum from what now confronts O'Leary's staff.

For programs like South Florida and UCF, who have made it their mission to be considered perennial top-25 contenders, the learning curve will be steep. Whether it's the heady rise to the top of the BCS rankings, or the tragic loss of a player during a workout, the coverage is going to be far more 'aggressive' now, no matter what. Perhaps that will be one of many lessons hopefully learned by UCF in the wake of Ereck Plancher's death.

The Oklahoma City...Umm...

A follow-up to the short piece I wrote on the Summer League in Orlando: the Seattle Slash Oklahoma City franchise is still looking for a nickname.

For those who missed it, the National Basketball Association has finally accepted the fact that the Sonics are moving from Seattle to Oklahoma City. However, in a truly heartening display of sucking up to a fan base that apparently didn't give enough of a crap to prevent the move in the first place, the league has decreed that the name "Sonics" and the green-and-gold color scheme shall belong to Seattle until that city gets another team -- which is to say, forever.

Thus, the team that now moves to Oklahoma City needs a name.

John Rohde, columnist for The Oklahoman, was doubtlessly faced with a tight deadline when he opined that the task of assigning a new name to the former Sonics was an impossible one. He pawned off this challenge by claiming -- weakly -- that every good nickname was somehow politically incorrect.

Hogwash. Be lazy on your own time, Mssr. Rohde. As one who worships great team nicknames, I am only too happy to submit my list of potential team monikers for the good people of Oklahoma City.

Most of the good ones -- and, I predict, the one that will eventually carry the day -- are vaguely Western and/or cowboy-related. In fact, Cowboys isn't a bad name for an NBA squad in Oklahoma City, but it won't make the cut thanks to the proximity of Oklahoma State and the Dallas By-God Cowboys themselves.

However, there are synonyms a-plenty: Wranglers, Desperados, and Gauchos come to mind. There are problems here, though -- the Arena Football League claims Desperados (and they're in Dallas), while the ECHL brings us hockey's Las Vegas Wranglers. Neither is an insurmountable challenge, but if the goal is to reflect Oklahoma's cowboy-ness and show a little originality, you're left with Gauchos, which I happen to like. (UC-Santa Barbara is far enough away from Oklahoma City that nobody should mind.)

I wonder if Outlaws will gain favor. "Oklahoma City Outlaws." Cool. There's some history with that name, albeit kinda lame history: the Oklahoma Outlaws were a USFL (!) expansion team in 1984.

Moving away from the wild wild west, there's been talk of something related to the oil bidness. Barons has been mentioned. Two problems with that: one, I immediately think of the Birmingham Barons, and two, Baron Davis. There's also the Drillers, which is currently in use by a minor-league baseball team in Tulsa with a very cool logo.

You know what's a great oil-related nickname? The Roughnecks. It's not the highest rung on the oil rig totem pole, I'm told, but it's flat-out cool and almost completely unique -- two pro soccer teams in Tulsa have used it, but neither is still around.

"Oklahoma City Roughnecks." We sportscaster types would undoubtably abbreviate them as the 'Necks. I think we're getting warmer.

What the world really, needs, however, is more teams named after animals. Oklahoma's state animal is the Buffalo, or Bison. The state game bird is the Wild Turkey (can you say hard liquor sponsorships? Ka-ching!). The state fish is the Sand Bass. The state reptile is the collared lizard, also known as the mountain boomer. Are we getting anywhere?

Wait, got it: the state bird. Ladies and gentlemen, your Oklahoma City Scissor-Tailed Flycatchers!

Oy.

Actually, going back to the state reptile for a moment...the 'mountain boomer.' Sounds a little like 'Boomer Sooner," which is the University of Oklahoma's fight song. 'Boomer' can also refer to a thunderstorm, of which there are gazillions in Oklahoma, which sits square in the middle of Tornado Alley. It may also make one think of an 'oil boom,' which has much to do with Oklahoma's history.

And here's the best part: 'Boomer' also elicits thoughts of a 'sonic boom,' providing an understated but tangible link back to the franchise's former identity as the Seattle Sonics.

I'll be darned. Maybe we've got it. The Oklahoma City Boomers?

Tell you what -- Boomers, Roughnecks, or Outlaws. I'm good with all three. Remember where you saw it first.

Summertime Fun

Circumstances conspired to keep me away from the Orlando Pro Summer League more than I had hoped, but here's what I saw, in limited duty.

-- Brook Lopez can play. In his current incarnation, he'll get pushed around a lot by bulkier, more muscular centers and forwards, but once he thickens up, he should be fine. More athletic than I thought, and really good hands. He made a very pretty running one-hander in the lane on Friday that one typically doesn't see from a 7-footer. A few of us in the crowd emitted a collective "whaaaa...?" when he tried a three-pointer, but I won't hold that against him. Also, he wears a perpetual scowl while on the floor, which is a real feat in Summer League play. I'll bet he'll be pretty good.

-- Lawrence Frank looks even younger in shorts and an untucked Polo shirt. As in, he appears to be 14 years old. Really. I cannot stress this enough.

-- Jim O'Brien, on the other hand, has not aged in the last ten years, and that includes the time that we worked together on the set of 'ESPNEWS.'

-- Same for new Bulls head coach Vinny Del Negro. Here's why his hiring was the single biggest surprise (in my book) this NBA off-season: going back, again, to the ESPN days, I was occasionally called upon to host a show called 'NBA Matchup,' which was shot at the NBA Entertainment studios in Secaucus, New Jersey. Vinny was one of the regulars on the show at that time -- this was about seven years ago -- and his travel schedule was unique.

At the time, he lived in Arizona, and played golf every day. I mean, every day. 'Matchup' was shot on Saturdays at 8 or 9 in the morning, and Vinny would fly into Newark the day before, usually after playing 18 that morning. He would plan his return flight to Phoenix -- I am not making this up -- for about noon on Saturday, a very tight turnaround in the world of taped television. He did so in order to guarantee that he could get in 18 more holes on Saturday afternoon, owing to the time change and all. That he would drop this schedule in favor of coaching the Chicago Bulls -- his first NBA head coaching gig, evidenced by the fact that he actually *coached* the Bulls' Summer League team as opposed to handing it off to the 14th assistant -- demonstrates a commitment to this new phase of his career that I find both admirable and stunning, given my understanding of his golf addiction.

Nice, nice guy. I did not get the chance to say hello this week, as he was, well, coaching. Hard. His handicap will suffer.

-- One of the coolest things about watching Summer League play, aside from the close-knit, private atmosphere and the relaxation factor, is determining which players on each Summer League roster are getting serious burn, and which are window dressing.

The draft picks always get minutes. Lopez, Derrick Rose, Michael Beasley, Russell Westbrook, Courtney Lee -- they're gonna play. Everyone knows it. First-rounders are the reason why Summer League exists.

But then you get these otherwise unknowns who end up playing huge minutes before disappearing, presumably forever. You have to think that somebody in each front office is bound and determined to unearth a gem, and has instructed the Summer League coach -- in most cases, like I said, the assistant coach who has designs on moving up the ladder someday, like Patrick Ewing for Orlando -- to work these scrubs into the lineup as much as possible, just to see if they can play or not. Or, more likely, the competitive nature of the coaching staff takes over, and they start playing their most devoted Summer Leaguers in order to get a meaningless (to us) win.

So among those seeing huge minutes this week: Earl Calloway, Josh Davis, Will Conroy, and Nick Lewis.

Ever heard of them? Nope. Will you ever hear of them? Doubt it. But they are exhausted tonight, trust me. Summer League is awesome. The only thing missing was Paul Shirley.

-- Among the celebs in the crowd during just the two days I was in attendance at the RDV Sportsplex: Larry Bird, Pat Riley, Rod Thorn, Kiki Vandeweghe, Otis Smith, Stan Van Gundy, O'Brien, Frank, Del Negro, plus a whole bunch of NBA referees who were there to evaluate the NBDL/NCAA/CFL/God Knows Where They Found Them refs who officiate these train wrecks. Like I said, awesome. It's All-Star Weekend Lite. If you're a basketball junkie, this is a great week.

-- Chris Douglas-Roberts didn't do squat. I know it's Summer League, but he looked disinterested even for this crowd, which is saying something.

-- The World Wide Interweb has picked up on my friends Dante Marchitelli and George Galante, who took their OrlandoMagic.com podcast act into live play-by-play of the Summer League games for a third consecutive year (and on that note, I was one of their original 'guests' on the live Internet broadcast a couple of years ago, way before ESPN Radio and the blogosphere discovered them). Yes, they are funny. Yes, basketball would be a HELL of a lot more entertaining if every game was produced this way. So here's the gauntlet:

This needs to be on television.

I'm throwing it at the feet of my employers at Sun Sports and FSN Florida. People are starved for live basketball this time of year, as the gazillion hits at OrlandoMagic.com proved. It's a relaxed, fun environment, and one of the few properties in sports that hasn't yet been locked up in a long-term TV rights deal. We need to get the Summer League on TV, one way or another.

My plan, which I floated past a few people this week to resounding yawns: set up a literal round table at one corner of the practice court at RDV. Stick me out there with Dante and George, with 'guest appearances' from anyone and everyone -- the Magic announce team of David Steele and Matt Guokas, the Heat announce team of Eric Reid and Tony Fiorentino (who I ran into on Monday), Magic GM Otis Smith, Paul Kennedy, Bird, Riley, anyone who will sit down. Have a big-picture, state-of-the-NBA chat going on with the game in the background. Lots of guests, lots of promos getting people pumped for our NBA coverage still to come this fall, lots of background on players and off-topic chat. Read e-mails. Bring the viewing audience into this unique event, which is not open to the public otherwise. It's play-by-play with a twist. It's fun. It needs to be on television.

Did I mention the 2 million hits at the Magic's website?

I've got the Josh Davis anecdotes ready. Just cue me.

A Match For The Ages

Here's something I bet you did not know: Rafael Nadal, like Phil Mickelson, is a natural righthander who plays lefty.

Legend has it that Nadal's uncle, Toni, decided early on that Rafa's two-handed backhand would benefit from a strong right arm, so he switched him.

Voila: a player who has won four French Open titles and, as of about an hour ago, his first Wimbledon.

(In case anyone is curious, Phat Phil played lefty because it allowed him to face his dad when they practiced on the driving range. As the father of an honest-to-God lefthander myself, I appreciate this very much. My son and I totally dig the fact that we can face each other on the range. Of course, my lefty comes by it honestly, so he's got that over Mickelson and Nadal. Plus, my kid is going to cure cancer and/or end the world's energy crisis. So there's that. I'm digressing.)

My point is, I sincerely hope that somebody -- anybody -- in this reading audience watched the Wimbledon men's final on Sunday, because it was not only the best tennis match I have ever seen, it was one of the best sports TV broadcasts I can remember. And in the year of Tiger vs. Rocco, that's saying something.

Look, I know that tennis is dead in this country. That's a damn shame, too, because I can clearly remember growing up with Sampras and Agassi and Becker and Courier and Chang and Seles and Sabatini (insert growling noise here) and Graf and about nine different Fernandezes; before that, there was Borg and McEnroe and Connors and Navratilova and Chrissy and Tracy Austin and I'm sure I'll remember ten more names later tonight.

Tennis used to matter. It used to be a pretty big deal, especially in my house, where my mom was an erstwhile weekend player and we gathered to watch Grand Slam finals all the time. Now, my wife is a serious player, so I watch, a little bit. My son likes to play, and he's lefthanded, and that's cool. But that's about it. Andre Agassi, one could argue, was the last successful professional tennis player who crossed over into American pop culture -- and his peak was 10 years ago.

Put it this way -- no matter how successful or how hot you may consider Maria Sharapova, Andy Roddick, Roger Federer, or any other current top pro to be, would ANY of them be invited to host 'Saturday Night Live?'

Never. And that's my point. In their day, you could make a case for McEnroe, Sampras, Agassi, Evert, and maybe Navratilova as potential hosts for 'SNL.' Tennis used to matter, and I kinda miss those days.

Which brings me to Sunday. I know that most of you didn't watch it, but dammit, I wish that you did. Because tennis is a pretty cool game -- it's easy to learn, easy to understand, rewards athleticism but also allows for craftiness, costs very little to take up, provides an excellent workout, and is generally democratic, which is more than we can say for the current salary structure of the NBA or Major League Baseball.

I've always said this about golf and tennis, two sports often unfairly connected to an elite, 'country club' lifestyle -- on the professional level, they are fair. Fair, in that you only get paid if you win. It's a purely performance-based living. Miss the cut at a PGA Tour event? Sorry, no money. Lose in the first round at Wimbledon? Sucks to be you. But show up for the NBA Draft, and you get guaranteed money. And that's pathetic.

But taking us back to Sunday, it was as good as sports television gets. Hell, it was as good as sports gets. Even if you care nothing about tennis, you would have loved the drama of Sunday's final. Those four-plus hours pretty much represent the reason why I got into this business in the first place.

You'll read post-match analysis ad infinitum, but here's what I will take away from Sunday: John McEnroe, a man hardly known for being soft, had to cut short his post-match interview with Roger Federer because he was starting to cry.

Johnny Mac, that is. Not Federer.

Does it get any better than that?

McEnroe said it best during the epic 5th set: "If this doesn't draw people into our great sport, nothing will." Indeed.

Great sport is where you find it. And great sport was found in the gloaming on Centre Court at Wimbledon on Sunday.

What To Expect

Fresh off yet another home sweep of the defending World Series champion Boston Red Sox, the Tampa Bay Rays have the best record in baseball and a 3.5 game lead in the American League East.

In the words of Ron Burgundy: drink it in.

Anyone who has watched the Rays this season -- and in addition to my professional responsibilities with Sun/FSN, I am also officially on the bandwagon -- cannot be surprised by what happened in St. Petersburg on Wednesday night.

Rallying from a three-run deficit by scoring six times in the 7th inning? Evan Longoria with yet another clutch extra-base hit? BJ Upton ripping out the opposition's heart by making a tough catch look easy in center field? A deep, unheralded bullpen that bends, but doesn't break? Pshaw. They've been doing it all year. At some point, the national media will be compelled to change the focus of its Rays coverage from "curious aberration" to "actual, real-life contending team."

You've noticed, too. TV ratings on both FSN Florida and on the Rays' over-the-air broadcasts have set franchise records this week. On the season, viewership is up 36 percent on FSN Florida this year over last; home attendance is up roughly 6 percent over last year's full-season average, but that number should grow as a long-suffering and oft-disappointed Tampa Bay fan base slowly accepts the truth:

This team is no fluke.

I've covered this already, but it bears repeating: yes, the Rays have talent. Loads of talent, in fact, with the most heavily-stocked minor league system in baseball chomping at the bit behind them. But the difference this season is between the ears.

The Rays expect to win. I refer you, again, to the postgame interview I did with Longoria back in May, wherein I asked him if he could believe that his team was (then) ten games over .500: "You know what? Yeah, we can."

Come back to last night, and Joe Maddon's comments after his club swept the mighty Red Sox in St. Petersburg for the second time this season, to lift themselves to a preposterous 20 games over .500: "I can't tell you that I expected it -- I'd be lying -- but right now ... we do expect to win on a nightly basis."

"Expect" is different from "believe." I may believe that I can shoot 2-under, and I may believe that I can run a half-marathon at a 6:45 pace, but that doesn't mean I can actually DO it. I can, however, expect to shoot in the high 70's once every three or four rounds, and I can expect to finish the half-marathon in something less than two hours.

Why? Because I've done it before, and I've done it often. I know my own limitations, and I know how much I've practiced, trained, or played. Expectations indicate experience. And that's what's different about the Rays this season.

Their memories are blissfully short enough to ignore all those last-place finishes from years gone by, but sharp enough to remember that they've been playing well all season. They've now swept Boston twice. They've swept the Cubs and the Angels. They're 33-13 at home. They have a winning record in every month of this season (first time in franchise history). Their expectations are based on reality, not fantasy.

But the real litmus test, of course, is in my house, where I watched Mrs. Red Sox Nation grind her teeth for each of the last three nights. As soon as the Rays blew up for 6 runs on Wednesday night and took the lead over Boston, I heard this from the living room: "Dammit, they can't beat these guys on the road!"

'They' being her Sox. 'These guys' being the Rays. By the way, she fell asleep before Wednesday night's game was over. Three minutes ago, right after I wrote the above paragraph, she walked into the office, asked me who won the game, and walked out, muttering the exact same thing: "They cannot beat them in St. Pete."

This is going to be one very entertaining summer at my place.

The next step, as several Tampa Bay-area writers pointed out this morning, will be to fend off those members of the baseball establishment who stand, arms crossed, smirking, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Will the Rays collapse? Can they continue this pace? And if they do stumble, and miss the playoffs, will this season be considered a disappointment?

Seriously? For a team that finished in last place in 9 of its first 10 seasons? Are we really asking this question now?

"Expect" vs. "believe." The Rays now have expectations. What a delightful dilemma.