He don't care any more

So what felled Great Britain in the 2010 World Cup? It wasn't the blown call that denied them a first-half goal against the mighty Germans. It wasn't their goalkeeper's sloppily played fielding of that trickle of an American shot which resulted in a draw with the U.S. and ultimately kept them from winning their group.

Nope, what did the British in was the inexplicable disappearance of their all-everything striker, Wayne Rooney (see photo at right). The chap who not only led Manchester United, but led the European world with 30 goals in international competition this past year, came up empty in South Africa. Zero goals. Nada. Bupkis.

Members of the media and football fans alike could sense something wasn't right. As England fanatic Ian Simmington puts it, "I could feel it in the air tonight. Rooney misses again. Oh Lord." Tabloid reporters could not believe it was true. And despite repeated questions, Rooney himself had no reply at all.

The reason Wayne Rooney wasn't himself during the Cup, was because it wasn't him at all. Blame the British management and their last-minute decision to replace him with Phil Collins (see photo below).

As if no one would notice! Just look at the statistics. Last season Rooney scored 26 goals in 32 games for United. Collins, in contrast. didn't even enter a single Premier League match. FWA Footballer of the Year in 2009-10, the English striker has won three Premeir League titles, two League Cups and the 2008 UEFA Champions League trophy. Enough, one would think, to have been selected over the long-time Genesis drummer whose only substitution came in 1975 when lead singer Peter Gabriel removed himself from the progressive rock quintet.


Someone needs to take responsibility for this egregiously poor decision. If heads don't roll within England's football hierarchy, they can't expect success in Brazil four years from now. As Collins himself so aptly put it, "If you don't stand up, you don't stand a chance."

A Guaran-Sheed Thrill-Ride

The announcement arrived with surprisingly little attention considering the person involved, a guy known for anything but his quiet nature.

Mr. T called it quits yesterday. Rasheed Wallace, the man who revolutionized the technical foul (they should rename it in his honor, just so we can say things like, "I can't believe Van Gundy got sheeded up for that!"). The human rallying cry, who--along with the coach he dubbed "Pound For Pound"--elevated the Detroit Pistons from perennial playoff team to World Champion, decided before taking the court for Game 7 of the NBA Finals in Los Angeles that this game would be his last.

While referees everywhere may still be drinking to the news, the sport will miss him. We as fans will miss him too. We'll miss his heart, his dedication and his leaving-the-atmosphere level of talent--rarely does a seven-foot power forward come along who can stand at the arc and swish three-pointers with either hand. Mostly however, we'll miss his willingness to speak his mind. Never would he bring himself to mail in a presser. Rasheed would pour his thoughts out effortlessly, with a flow as continuous as a BP deep-oil line. Not because he cared about what others would think. But precisely because he didn't.

I remember when Joe Dumars announced the acquisition of Wallace from the Portland Trailblazers. Frankly, I thought the man from Shreveport was a crawdad short of a Cajun dinner. Mind you, we were but a mere few months into the Larry Brown Experiment (Joe D had fired coach Rick Carlisle after the previous season, which saw the Pistons reach the conference finals for the first time in over a dozen years). And now, to complement a mildly imbalanced (yet brilliant) head coach, Dumars brought in a surly (yet gifted) malcontent with anger management issues. In the process moving guards Chucky Adkins, Lindsey Hunter and Bobby Sura as well as a promising young center in Zeljko Rebraca.

It wasn't long before I was sipping the gumbo. Dumars' gamble ended up instilling a passion, a drive, a sense of perserverence the team just didn't have. At the time, the Pistons were nothing more than a collection of cast-offs from mediocre franchises. Before Wallace donned the red and blue, their most recognizable name was Corliss Williamson. Rasheed pushed this vagabond group of overachievers to do the unthinkable: win an NBA title without the presence of a superstar. A feat the league hadn't seen since the Seattle Supersonics of the late 1970s. Back when Magic was just Earvin, incoming Michigan State freshman. Yeah that long ago.

Wallace's Guaran-Sheed win at Indiana in Game 2 of the 2004 Eastern Conference Finals led the way to their six-game win over the Pacers (who were led by former coach Carlisle). The series wasn't pretty, nor could it have been. But it was filled with heart and substance. By winning ugly, the Pistons assured themselves of being picked by NO ONE to defeat the mighty Lakers and their three-time-NBA-Champion nucleus of Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant. I didn't even hear a prediction of seven games, and I was paying attention.

Most said it would go five, tops. It did, only because Kobe caught fire late and led LA to a Game 2 overtime win. Otherwise it was a Detroit Pistons sweep. And the man who led them to the promised land, the one wearing the WWE title belt, was the one I pegged as the disruptive force. As it turned out, he was every bit the prototypical Piston. One part Isiah and one part Laimbeer with a dash of Mahorn. The third-millenium personification of basketball's baddest brand.

Sheed became my son's favorite Piston, and the Pistons became his favorite Detroit sports team. He ran into Wallace--literally--at Detroit Metropolitan Airport. We were hustling to our gate and he was deep into his ipod. My boy didn't even recognize him at first, until he looked up. And up, and up.

Winning over the kid's respect isn't an easy thing to do, but if anyone could do it, it was Sheed. His ability to change the negative perceptions about his character (particularly mine) led countless Piston fans to do the unthinkable: cheer for him as a member of the Boston Celtic (see my pic) during this year's run to the Finals.

It would have been fitting to see Wallace ride off with another gold title belt around his waist. But I'm sure he's satisfied with the belt he already has. The one he proudly displayed while riding down Woodward Avenue during the 2004 NBA World Champions' victory parade.

Pitch Perfect

Had to wait two weeks till his next start at Comerica Park... but here's the wind-up of the man who threw the first perfect game in 109 years of Detroit Tiger history.

No bad call can erase that which is already done, Armondo. I hope you're proud of this tremendous accomplishment--it will never be forgotten.