Bernie, Bernie, Bernie

Let me preface this by saying that I loved Bernie Kosar as a football player. He was, hands-down, my all-time most favorite Cleveland Brown.

And it’s not even close.

Hell, there’s a picture of ol’ #19 on the left-hand side of this blog.

Now, with that being said, I just have to ask one question: Bernie, what the hell is wrong with you?

On at least three occasions over the last month, I’ve seen you quoted in articles as stating that Charlie Frye’s play last year ranged from good to great. You’ve even busted out the “he played great to play average” card.

The latest example of the obvious flaw in your thought process comes courtesy of the Warren Tribune-Chronicle.

Appearing at a football camp in the Warren area, Kosar had the following to say about his good friend Frye.

“People think because me and Charlie are friends that’s why I feel like he’s ready,” Kosar said. “But just because I like (Frye) doesn’t make him a good quarterback. There’s no correlation. I just thought he did a great job dealing with all the problems the Browns went through last year…. I think he played great to play average.”

What? Come again?

What exactly is your baseline, Bernie, for Frye having played average, let alone good-to-great? What’s the baseline? A lamp shade? A plant?

Kosar then went on to blame any and all of Frye’s struggles on the non-existent running game, poor pass-blocking, dropped passes, a new offensive system mid-season, the price of gasoline, his uncertainty over how to handle the Iraq quagmire and the guy in Section 130 screwing around with a laser pointer.

Of course, Kosar also failed to place any of the blame on his buddy’s shoulders. No blame at all was placed where it rightfully belongs.

Like Dionne Warwick said, I guess that’s what friends are for.

By any stretch of the imagination, Frye has not played well. You can look at the statistics and game films all the way through the Browns’ decision to trade back into the first round to draft a QB as proof that Kosar is off the mark in his evaluation.

We love ya Bernie, and I personally hope you are right and I have to eat crow when it comes to Frye.

Somehow, though, I don’t think that particular bird will be a part of my diet at any point in the near future.

Swept? As Tyra Would Say...

So... what?

No shame. No embarrassment. No indignity.

Turn a deaf ear to the national media.

(Although, if you happen to come across Skip Bayless, turn the other cheek and punch him in the opposite jaw. Twice, just on principle.)

With all apologies--not--to the Lakers of the early part of this decade, the Eastern Conference Champion Cleveland Cavaliers got swept by the best team of the post-Jordan era.

There's no crying in baseball, and there's no weeping over the sweeping broomed-up by the team that has won four of the the last nine O'Brien's.

While it lasted, it was a great, great run; one of the best runs in the "storied" history of C-town sports. And this is not a last hurrah. Rather, it's the first sip 'Bron and his James Gang has gotten.

Sure, the sidekicks and supporting cast will change--the day we don't see Eric Snow, Damon Jones and Donyell Marshall playing meaningful Finals' minutes will portend a true contender--but the one constant will remain.

LeBron James.

And that gives us a chance night-in, night-out. Year-in, year-out.

This was but the beginning. The Chosen One is thirsty, and one little trickle from the Finals faucet ain't gonna be enough.

Kudos to the Cavs for a great season and a helluva ride.

As an aside, I feel somewhat bad that my previous post re: LeBron brought about such indignation amongst some of you. I really, really do.

For that, I can only offer up two words of mea culpa:

F

U

Seriously, it's pretty sad when Rich Passan gets the drift of what I'm talking about, and nearly everybody else doesn't.

And, just for the record, some of the things e-mailers suggested I do to myself is physically impossible, especially for a 38-year-old with the limberness and flexibility of a steel beam.

This One's On You, 'Bron

I have not come here to praise The King, but rather to bury him.

Kinda. Sorta. In a velvet-gloved kinda way.

This isn’t about the last-second miss. This isn’t even about the second-to-last possession, although that sequence was symptomatic of a bigger problem.

It’s about the first three quarters of seemingly every single meaningful game. It’s about deferring to lesser teammates, lesser basketball players.

It’s one thing to want to get your teammates involved, get them in the flow, get them their shots.

It’s a completely different beast when said teammates can’t hit the broad side of The Q with their nose pressed against it and their collective backs against a wall.

Seemingly since birth, you’ve had the “The Man” label tacked on you, ‘Bron. Right or wrong, that’s what it is. And you’ve embraced it. Globally, locally, nationally.

But wrapping your arms around a hope and a grandiose nickname is not enough.

You can’t simply float and rely and dish through three quarters of an NBA Finals game—check that, three NBA Finals games--with that moniker blending quietly into your “Chosen One” tattoos.

You’ve got to want to be “The Man”, ‘Bron.

Nope, check that.

You’ve got to WANT to be “The Man”.

And you know what?

For the first time tonight, I caught a glimpse of yella in ya. A little scared-around-the-edges look that I can’t quite remember seeing before.

Not exactly deer in the headlights, but definitely some type of wildlife on the side of the interstate thinking “damn, if I try crossing now, I’m road-kill for sure”.

Bottom line? Stop the deferring. Stop it with the “I’m unselfish and wanna get my teammates involved and I’m gonna take over in the fourth, but only after making my fellow basketballers comfortable” routine.

Especially in The Finals.

This is a fine, razor-thin line you’re tightroping on, ‘Bron.

One of your gifts is unselfishness. That, and sometimes unjustifiable trust in those around you.

But, in the end, it could be that very universally-praised trait that keeps you from multiple O’Brien’s.

Yes, this is your first of what could be multiple Finals appearances.

Yes, you are but 22 years of age and only in your fourth year in The Association.

Yes, it took Michael until his seventh and his 28^th year on this planet we call “Earth” to get to the point where you are now.

But, unfortunately, that doesn’t change the fact that you are the best basketball player every single time you step on the court.

It’s time to stop being Mother Teresa and morph yourself into Gordon Gekko.

Sometimes, greed is indeed good.

We're In The What?

Before I begin, I'd just like to pass along a message from John Mason, the wildly-popular and insanely-talented Pistons public address announcer:

"DEEEEEEEE-TROIT, GOING HOME!"

The fourth quarter was yet another concrete validation as to why the male of the species always have--and always will--love a good breast.

31 points? 19 in the fourth quarter of a Conference Finals close-out game? From a rook second-rounder?

On the heels of The Chosen One's epic Game Five?

LeBron has blown TCE outta the water.

It no longer exists. It's done. Stick a Joe Tait-sized fork in it.

And make sure the tines are long enough to reach the "dynastic" Motor City Bad Boys, version 2.0.

(Pardon me while I order some take-out chicken and bust into the rum for Jobu)

(Just in case)

Our boys are in The Finals.

Hot.

Damn.

With LeBron, I always knew it was not a matter of "if", but rather "when". Just never thought it would happen this soon, in this manner, with this cast.

And with a Longhorn playing the Robin to his Batman.

NBA Finals, the Cavs are in.

Much like very early Friday morning, all I can say is "wow".

Just, wow.

(Still Shaking Head)

It is now 5:28 p.m. EST on Friday, June 1, and I'm still in awe over the display put on by LeBron James last night.

I'm still attempting to wrap my head around what transpired last night 18 hours after the fact.

Legendary. Historic. Epic. Filthy. Nasty.

And that doesn't even begin to describe what we all witnessed.

My better half, who likes basketball roughly as much as I like O'Doul's, e-mailed me this afternoon asking if we could go forgo attending the races at the local short track Saturday so that we could watch the Cavs game.

Chalk up yet another convert.

Game, set, match, LeBron.

Again.

This is shaping up to be a great, great sports weekend. The Cavs one win away from their first NBA Finals appearance, the Tribe in first place and with a chance to stretch their lead over the Motor City's "other" team, and Dale Jr. starting on the outside pole at Dover on Sunday.

And Bill Simmons, you little Bahstan twat, I hope you tore an ACL AND a groin jumping back on the bandwagon.

National media douche.

As an aside, save the e-mails whining and crying that this is a Browns blog and I'm sullying it by mentioning something other than the Brown & Orange. I don't care, so don't waste your time bitching via e-mail.

Browns Issue Andruzzi Press Release

Late yesterday evening, Joe Linta, agent for former Browns guard Joe Andruzzi, revealed that his client had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma and would immediately begin chemotherapy.

Today, the Browns released the following statement regarding Andruzzi:

"The Cleveland Browns are aware of Joe’s situation and will continue to support him and his family in their time of need. While in Cleveland, Joe’s leadership and strength were enormous both on the field and in the locker room. If anyone can fight through this, it is Joe."

Andruzzi was signed by the Browns in 2005 and started 27 games before being released earlier this month.

Holy. Shit.

Greatest.

Performance.

Ever.

And I defy anyone to argue otherwise, what LeBron did yesterday.

C'mon, eaters of the ant, tell me I'm wrong. Throw out some stats, blame the Pistons, blame the unseasonably warm weather in these parts, toss in some Hollinger BS.

Although, you do that, I think I'll still come back to...

Wow.

Just, wow.

Transcendent.

Epic.

Yup, I'm a witness.