A shark bit a Lakeview boy swimming with his family in Lake Pontchartrain Friday afternoon. The attack happened off of Southshore Harbor.
Shelly Trentacosta said her family had borrowed a friend’s sailboat and ventured out into the lake. With conditions calm and the water clear, it was a much better day for swimming than sailing, so the boaters decided to anchor up and take a dip.
Everyone was enjoying the cool lake water and having a good time, including Trentacosta’s 7-year-old son, Trent.
“The kids were bunched up together playing, and Trent just started screaming,” Trentacosta said. “We started swimming to him, and I didn’t know what was going on. I grabbed his leg, and there was a lot of blood.”
Oh, your kid went swimming and got eaten? Yeah, no shit. It’s Shark Week, bub. Nobody that finds their limbs useful should be anywhere water. Oceans, Swimming pools, slip’n slides, the Shedd Park Splash Pad… ¡Es Prohibido Nadar! Get out of the water dummy! It’s Lollapalooza for sharks every August, and without fail, there will be at least a dozen stories from dumb founded people that learned the hard way that it’s not a good idea to chum the water with Little Leaguers during Shark Week. Continue reading “#SharkWeek is officially underway…”→
Before you rush to your typewriter to punch out an angry letter (people still write those right?) please read this next sentence; by posting this video I am in no way saying Kobe Bryant is Michael Jordan’s equal. In fact I am one of those people who believe MJ will forever be the best player to ever take an NBA court (but that is a topic for another day).
I stumbled across this video yesterday and wanted to pass it on to the Can I Be Frank audience. Apparently it’s the last installment of a three part series and you can scroll through all the videos and more (from what has to be a die hard Kobe fan… don’t worry we all make mistakes!) right here.
My two cents; it’s not a coincidence Kobe has almost identical footwork to number 23. Enjoy!
Entering golf’s last major championship of the year, the PGA Championship, I was reminded of a story I am not so proud of. “I didn’t quit drinking because I was a bad drunk. I quit because I was a spectacular drunk. It got to be like a video game, where you get to the highest level and it’s not even a challenge any more.”
-David Feherty
This quote, and the others you will read here, come from the guy I consider to be a golf, but more so a comedic, genius.
If you do not know who David Feherty is, you should learn. Nevermind, I will just tell you. David Feherty is an Irish-born former professional golfer turned commentator/analyst/talk show host/comedian. He has been described as a combination of Johnny Carson and Oprah Winfrey for his quick wit paired with an ingratiating persona that makes his interviewees at ease at all times. And while he had a magnificent career standing over a golf ball, he was born to stand behind a microphone.
As a guy that grew up watching Sunday afternoon golf with my Dad, David Feherty became a part of our routine at a young age. His captivating Irish brogue coupled with his humor made this sport, synonymous with the words ‘boring’ and ‘too slow’, interesting and funny.
David Feherty was something I wanted to be in many ways.
“That ball is so far left, Lassie couldn’t find it if it was wrapped in bacon.”
In 2005 I had the unintentional pleasure of meeting David at a conference in West Palm Beach Florida. On behalf of my company I was exhibiting at a trade show event with a colleague of mine and David Feherty was the keynote speaker. As we registered for the conference, I opened the program and discovered this fortunate coincidence. “Oh man, David Feherty is speaking here,” I squeaked like a 12 year old heading back stage to meet Harry Styles.
My comrade-in-conference was not a golf fan and did not have a bloody clue who David Feherty was and why I was so excited. “Dude, guy is awesome. Wicked funny and talks about golf,” I retorted like that same 12 year old girl talking about her boyfriend Tommy who sits in the first row of 6th grade.
“Um, ok man. Never heard of him,” he gingerly responded. “Pffft,” was all ‘Susie Pigtails’ could muster.
“Watching Phil Mickelson play golf is like watching a drunk chasing a balloon near the edge of a cliff.”
Conference opens but my only focus was catching my man DF speak rather than targeting that next big client. As I stated above, he is truly a stand up comedian so I made sure I was available to attend his speech. When I snuck my way in to the (customer-only) luncheon event I wiggled my way to the back so I could casually catch all of his wit which would surely be wasted on these propeller-headed-tech-geeks attending this conference. And so it went…side splitting jokes….spit up your drink stories…and so on. It was an hour of awesomeness. Totally lived up to my expectations.
“I lost 150 lbs. if you include my wife.”
I darted my way out the door and back to my sad little exhibit booth. I was pumped. My buddy was there waiting….and waiting to make fun of me. “Well, I hope that was as good as you thought it would be?” he grimaced as he sat bored anticipating the next rush of nerds to come speak to us. “It was…you should have come with,” I proclaimed. “Yeah, whatever. (pause) You know, it just hit me,” he said with a light-bulb-over-the-head look about him. “This dude Feherty is a better, cooler, more successful version of you?” “Huh, what the hell are you talking about,” I growled.
“Yeah, he is. He is a better golfer than you. Funnier than you’ll ever be. He is even more Irish than you. It all makes sense to me now. You want to be this guy”
Hit a nerve like an errant 1 iron. “Shutup,” I weakly replied.
Maybe I did have a slight man-crush/bro-mance/Elton AND John type thing happening. So what?
“When CBS came to me and asked me to do on-course commentary, I said, ‘You know, I’m only 37, I still have hopes of [playing] a little better.’ So they told me what they were going to pay me, and I said, ‘You want to buy a set of clubs?’ “
Time ticks by. The day ends. We learn that David will be signing autographs and giving some putting lessons to guests of the conference. Color. Me. IN.
Without getting in to it I waited in a short (45 minute) line. Got his autograph (alright fine, and a picture). It was, again, cool.
Shook his hand, gave him my spiel about watching him on Sundays with my Dad yada, yada, yada. He gave me the politest ‘good for you now move along you creep’ smile and head nod. I don’t care. I was content.
Here is where it gets interesting.
Fast forward about 4 hours. We’ll call it 11:00PM. All of our working duties were long over and we decided to grab a (one more) night cap and call it a day. Enter the lobby bar of this plush resort and order a cocktail. As I awaited my drink, I happen to look down the bar and notice (a now famously sober) David Feherty sipping something ‘brown’ with one of his mates.
“Excuse me,” I golf whisper to the barkeep. “Would you mind sending Mr. Feherty down a drink from us and I’ll have whatever he is having.”
Bartender gives me the eye roll but moseys his way down the long bar to offer my offer. He quickly returns back.
“Mr. Feherty says thank you, but he is all set.” “Oh.” I sadly mumble
“And by the way, he is drinking a double Black Bush (an expensive Irish whiskey)…neat”.
“Yeah, right, that sounds good. I’ll have the same”
My buddy gives me the hairy eyebrow and questions this decision. “Come on dude, you are gonna start drinking straight whiskey now? We have a long day and…”
I cut him off.
“Dude, will you shut the f&$% up. I’m fine. I’m Irish too. I love this stuff,” said the liar.
Big. Mistake.
After a couple of giant vats of warm whiskey from the homeland I was acting like the spawn of Doc Holliday and Frank Sinatra.
The last thing I recall I was yelling at the bartender something along the lines of “You can never beat up your father no matter what age you are!” (Pretty sure I challenged him to an arm wrestling match as well)
The last thing that actually happened, according to my buddy, Sober McHatesme, was I literally fell off my barstool. Flat.on.my.face.
Apparently I was making a trek toward Feherty to confront him for not accepting my drink. Yeah, that will impress him.
More apparent, my man Feherty had departed the joint an hour earlier.
Yeah.
So…that’s my story.
Shutup.
The Indiana Pacers can’t seem to catch a break. They went from NBA dream team to having one of the most toxic environments in professional sports. When Lance Stevenson left for greener pastures most thought things had hit rock bottom for Larry Legend and his squad. Indiana fans will now likely refer to those as the glory years after Paul George broke his leg while training with team USA. (If you are a glutton for punishment search “Paul George injury”. Just make sure you aren’t eating!)
However, this is not a sob story for the Indiana Pacers. In fact I could care less if the team ever contends for an NBA championship. Instead this tackles the question; should NBA athletes be playing in international competition? The short and sweet answer, No!
The easiest explanation is the same reason why the NFL is once again looking to expand their schedule, and beer at the stadium costs you $8 a cup. Plain and simple everything in professional sports comes down to the bottom line.
Dallas Mavericks Owner Mark Cuban came out last week championing the call for change when it comes to the IOC. Cuban had the stones to say what many owners are likely thinking; why should I risk the health of my players without cashing in on the rewards? New stadiums, corporate sponsorships, and lucrative TV deals have turned the NBA and other leagues alike into money printing machines. Throw in jersey sales, and the price of admission and you’ll realize Mark Cuban has a point. Basketball has become an international sport, and if you’re being truly honest with yourself what means more, a 15th Olympic gold medal or your team raising that championship banner?
It’s tough to find someone who will argue NBA owners need another source of income. So let’s move our focus to the games themselves. The 2012 London Olympics saw the, “Dream Team Round Two” and seemed more like a formality than a competition. Team USA went a perfect 8-0, set a single game record for points, and finished with a 32 point average margin of victory.
Want more evidence America is still hands down the basketball capital of the world? This year 92 players from 39 different countries will leave their family and friends to play in the NBA. The league still showcases the world’s top talent and uses other countries as a feeder system for undeveloped players. It’s time to tip our cap to the red, white, and blue and focus turning these international games back into a competition. People will still watch even without the NBA stars. I mean bird watching could attract a following as long as you pit countries against each other and name a clear cut winner.
The final hurdle lies now with the players. These are guys who live to play basketball, and convincing them to watch from the couch is not going to be easy. However, the NBA is a monarchy. You may have 30 owners and 439 players (Not that I’m counting), but every one of them still answers to a single man. I’m not going to try and hammer out the logistics, but if Adam Silver wanted to keep NBA guys out of these games he could do so. Plus if team USA ever saw an early exit we could always bring back the “Dream Team” part three.
That’s me on my most recent visit to the Boston Children’s museum sporting my “I could possibly be a Sexual Predator” badge, which is required for any dude that shows up without a kid. (What? Why should you need kids to enjoy the children’s museum?)
After work on Friday, I rolled over to Fort Point Channel to meet up with the fam and was greeted by a wall of suspicion at the front door. After turning over my driver’s license, social security card, urine sample, and no less than 5 character references, I was allowed to proceed…as long as I complied with their request to wear that snazzy badge. And why the badge you ask, since they already have enough personal data to empty my checking account? Because a group of Lawyers felt the best way to absolve the Children’s Museum in the event that a kid gets snatched is to have regular guys like myself walk around the place wearing badges, getting eyeball lasers from mom’s worrying that I’m going to drop a digit on their kid. Brilliant stuff. And I get it, we’re living in a different world, and these are things you have to deal with. Well, fine. Then would it be too much to ask for a smile, and a “thank you for not raping a kid today” when retrieving my ten forms of identification?
Can I Be Frank & Crew? 