Jay Mariotti: Jerry Angelo is losing it. I know this because he recently wrote me a note that emphasized, ``I'm not one of your biggest fans.'' Gee, I wasn't aware the general manager of the Bears is supposed to adore me, as if my job is to run around all day yapping, ``Devin Hester, you are ridiculous!''
Jay Mariotti: The tough guy from Hungry Hill finally cracked. He got up from his seat in the Olympic Gymnasium, walked downstairs and watched the frantic ending in a corner near the court. "Of course, I was nervous," said Jerry Colangelo, who rarely admits to such weaknesses. "I couldn't handle it with the people up there. I had to be alone for awhile."
Jay Mariotti: The first thing I should note, as I swallow one last bite of fried silkworm on a stick and one final nibble of duck intestines (yeah, right), is that MJ needs to call MP. Like, today. In every appearance Michael Phelps has made since turning the Olympics into his $100-million lottery ticket, he all but demands an audience with Michael Jordan. "I really, really want to meet Michael," Phelps says of his boyhood idol.
Jay Mariotti: Would Michael Jordan have let this happen? That's all I could ask as stress leaked from Mike Krzyzewski's brow and pressure oozed from the faces of the players. Yes, Team USA was maintaining a suitable lead over Argentina, but after the great Manu Ginobili rolled his bum left ankle late in the first quarter and never returned, the general expectation in the Olympic Basketball Gymnasium was a 40-point blowout.
Jay Mariotti: She fought tears as the ``Star-Spangled Banner'' played, placing a hand over her heart while swaying nervously. Here was a ponytailed young woman from the plains, as quintessentially American as the fashion labels and junk food and MTV vibes so evident in China, fulfilling a childhood dream as she stood for the national anthem at the Olympics. But when the familiar music stopped Thursday, she no longer was simply Rebecca Lynn Hammon of Rapid City, S.D.
Jay Mariotti: He's a showboat, a hot dog and a clown, the sprinting version of Chad Johnson and Terrell Owens, all those things that cause Bob Costas and the purists to cringe. And thank God for that, by the way. Because if it wasn't for the show-business flair of Usain Bolt, we merely would know him as that fast guy who became the first man ever to break world records in the 100 and 200 meters at the same Olympics.
Jay Mariotti: So why does the dignified Patrick G. Ryan, whose legacy already is secure as the insurance king of Chicago, want the 2016 Olympics? If he loves his city so dearly, why would he subject it to terrorism and transportation snarls, or a fatal stabbing at a tourist stop? Why commit to such a massive undertaking in a financial climate barely conducive to hosting the Taste of Chicago?
Jay Mariotti: He was ducking down low in the back of a motorized cart, the hood of his long-sleeve t-shirt yanked over his face. Evidently, on the first night of the rest of his billion-dollar life, Michael Phelps didn't want to be noticed. I was a little weirded out by this until the cart buzzed past and dropped him and his entourage at the Olympic Basketball Gymnasium, where I'm happy to report that something very cool happened inside. Perfection met perfection.
Jay Mariotti: The public-address announcer, though suitably caffeinated, has no chance. Before he even begins to belt out the name, a trembling anticipation grips 18,000 people inside the Olympic Basketball Gymnasium. "WHOOAAAAAA ... AHHHHHH!!" goes the quick, staccato cheer, distinctive to the Chinese and their rock-star-mad love for their favorite player.
Jay Mariotti: So there he is, an American paragon to adore and behold, a unifying force in a land where the gasoline prices are high and our belief in heroes is low. There he is, the audacious dreamer who dared to think big while smaller thinkers laughed at him, a dolphin daring to fulfill his promise in a futuristic pool far from home. There he is, Michael Phelps, not only the greatest of all Olympians but arguably the most dominant figure ever in sportingkind.
Jay Mariotti: So what did poor Alex Mumbru ever do to anger LeBron James, anyway? Did he make fun of "The LeBrons" commercials? Did he refer to him as "LeBronze," a shot at his third-place medals in his last two international competitions? Did he not like the idea of a Nike-sponsored LeBron museum in Shanghai, considering LeBron hasn't accrued any championship hardware to showcase in a museum?
Jay Mariotti: If the touch pad wasn't computerized, we'd be wondering about a red, white and blue conspiracy. Hell, let's wonder anyway. Is anyone absolutely certain that Michael Phelps, trailing throughout the 100-meter butterfly race and appearing to lose to Milorad Cavic at the very end, somehow outtouched the Serb by the nub of a cuticle to keep alive his historic quest at the Olympic Games? You can watch the replay repeatedly, as international swimming officials did after the controversial finish, and still come away baffled.
Jay Mariotti: He's his own worst enemy, in a sense, threatened by the very ambition that could bring him sports immortality. Michael Phelps dares to aim for eight gold medals at these Olympics. He's the one who posed for the magazines and signed up for the job. It would be brutally unfair to say he failed if he falls shy of eight, but some will do just that.
Jay Mariotti: We could have been judges in the stands, holding up cards after every spectacular, gym-trembling play. Dwyane Wade, knee evidently healthy, paralyzes a Greek statue named Dimitrios Diamantidis by fake-shaking one way, slip-sliding the other way and sandblasting toward the cylinder.
Jay Mariotti: Back home, Michael Phelps and the Olympics have become a prime-time, heavy-metal rock sensation. I think I saw Dick Ebersol doing a backflip down Wangfujing Avenue, with NBC's television ratings and online numbers far exceeding expectations. That would include the 18-54 male demographic, filled with men sometimes too immersed in their baseball-football rut -- grunt, snort, spit -- to muster up worldly sophistication.
Jay Mariotti: Please grasp what we're witnessing here. In a time when evolution and technology make it almost impossible to dominate any slice of life, Michael Phelps is obliterating his. And he's doing so with the most hellish schedule in Olympic history, requiring him to compete in the pool 17 times in eight days while trying to squeeze sleep and meals and texts and occasional games of spades into those 192 hours.
Jay Mariotti: It seems harmless enough, a winding granite wall along a mountain pass accessed by cable cars and lined with souvenir huts where old ladies scream, "T-shirt! One dollar!"
Jay Mariotti: The gold medal will be his forever, even if few remember. By twist of fate, coaching decisions and Michael Phelps' need to rest, Matt Grevers became the fifth Beatle -- anyone recall Pete Best? -- in The Relay Race Of Our Dreams. He filled in for Phelps and helped craft a blazing world record in the 400-meter freestyle relay semifinal, then dutifully sat in the stands when Phelps returned for the final.
Jay Mariotti: I'm not sure I've ever seen it rain so hard for so long, a storm that had taxis hydroplaning, the smog crying uncle and me pondering the t-word: tsunami. But then, I never thought I'd see a collection of 12 NBA mini-corporations come to China for the Olympics, playing the host nation before the largest TV audience to watch a basketball game.
Jay Mariotti: We'll always remember the primal scream of Michael Phelps, the wide-mouthed, crazed-caveman reaction of a legend relieved that his pursuit of eight gold medals was rescued. But you know and I know -- and he knows, too -- that Gold No. 2 belongs to teammate Jason Lezak. If and when Phelps becomes the greatest of Olympians, he must take Lezak with him to every party, function and late-night TV appearance.
Jay Mariotti: Like Woods, like Jordan, like any athlete who soars into an exclusive pantheon of sports eminence, Michael Phelps welcomes doubters. There are a few, surprisingly, as he tries to become the most decorated of all Olympians. Matt Biondi, who won five golds for the U.S. in 1988, says Phelps will fail in his eight-golds-in-eight-nights parade. So does Ian Thorpe, who halted the Phelps hype train in Athens.
Jay Mariotti: First, I saw an opening ceremony that trumped any action movie, climaxed by the airborne Li Ning scaling the stadium, like a bird leaving a nest, and lighting the Olympic flame. All of that turned to black very quickly Saturday, as feared in Beijing.
Jay Mariotti: Why must there be a nickname, a guarantee, a chip? I'd prefer it be a formal, vanilla identity -- how does the U.S. men's basketball team sound, my fellow Americans? -- if only because bland is what this unfulfilled enterprise deserves after all the international humiliation, clanked shots, lousy attitudes and instititional disarray. The Redeem Team, they're now called. How about saving that business until we see if they win a world competition for the first time since the 2000?
Jay Mariotti: For one night, if only one night, we could dream. In a magnificent stadium with a peek-a-boo roof, there sat the president of the United States and 90 international dignitaries, enjoying a fireworks-bathed party of dazzling performance art inside the locked ideological gates of a Communist land.
Jay Mariotti: It didn't take long for the red hammer to drop, for the American way of life to be stonewalled, silenced and choked like a pigeon in the smog. How is China's "renaissance" in the world ever to be taken seriously when Joey Cheek, the U.S. speedskater turned human-rights activist, is barred from the Olympics by Chinese authorities because he wants to speak out and bring peace to Sudan?
Jay Mariotti: Kill the mustache. That's all I ask of Michael Phelps, who has a wonderful chance to become the most hallowed athlete on earth if only he spares us the visual of a mousy, malnourished Fu Manchu. If it doesn't quite resemble the sea algae that threatened the boating events, it's definitely closer to porn-star-droopy than Al Hrabosky.
Jay Mariotti: So how does a country boy from Kiln, Miss., where the ``n'' is silent and the Confederate flag hangs in the local bars, wind up in New York City with the secondary NFL franchise? That's easy. One absurdity begets another. If the Packers were so maniacally insistent on mistreating and ultimately dumping Brett Favre, it stands to reason that his next team would be one drunkenly serenaded as the ``J-E-T-S! Jets! Jets! Jets!''
Jay Mariotti: You almost wanted to hand him an Italian beef and a White Sox cap, just so he'd be more in his element on Dong Fang Road. There was the mayor of Chicago, still pressing flesh, still flashing teeth, still schmoozing the big shooters, still working hard for the 2016 Olympics even when tense and violent surroundings suggest he abandon the bid and flee the madness.
Jay Mariotti: It's a brilliantly seductive city, with gleaming towers clashing artfully with the old, low-slung China of Mao. That's what I keep observing, the culture clash, the Beijing that is trying to crawl out of its old skin shoved aside by the Beijing with 17.6 million people that sprawls and shines.
Jay Mariotti: I've been warned to avoid jail under any circumstance. "You'll be in there at least four days, even for a minor offense," says an Olympics official who insists on anonymity, probably fearing four days himself. I've been told to stay out of the hospital. "They make you pay in advance at the desk," says the same official. "Cash only, no credit cards or insurance."
Would it shock you to know that the Brett Favre story made the papers in Beijing? Maybe a billion people in China don't care, but anyone relates to the ego-driven silliness of not allowing an expert in his field do his job. Just when we thought the Packers finally had taken their smart pills and were letting Favre have his job back, they retreated to dumbville.
Jay Mariotti: You remember the arrogant mantra, the burning words that destroyed the Jordan dynasty: ``Organizations win championships.'' Such was the drivel voiced by the Bulls as the greatest basketball player ever, his Hall of Fame sidekick and an all-time coach left in unison, disgusted by the inner workings of management. Since then, the Bulls have won exactly one postseason series in 10 years.
Last time I covered a Summer Olympics in Asia, I thought for a minute that I was risking my life. Several of us, American journalists all, boarded a bus to the Demilitarized Zone -- you've heard the eerie phrase DMZ -- between South and North Korea. To this day, it's the world's most heavily armed border.
My biggest pet peeve in the sportswriting business? Too many people are desperate to be read and drive off the road, tumbling recklessly into ditches. Lacking a large audience, they often strain for attention with opinions straight out of a frat-house kegger, hoping someone will notice.
When I return from China in three weeks, I expect Ozzie Guillen to be wearing an officially licensed MLB straitjacket. Not only are the White Sox starting their inevitable fall in the division standings, the Blizzard of Oz is coming out stained in the wash even when he's right for a change.
Jay Mariotti: When an ordeal stretches beyond the absurd, when the mere mention of a name causes more American cringing than a Mini-Me sex tape, the impossible becomes possible. The minute Brett Favre suggested he'd like to play for the Vikings or Bears, Halas Hall should have been on the case faster than flies on you-know-what. The minute the Packers acknowledged such a trade as a ``last resort'' resolution, Jerry Angelo should have been plotting.
Jay Mariotti: Please understand this: The White Sox are not getting the first-ballot Hall of Famer, the Ken Griffey Jr. once endorsed for president by Nike.
Luol Deng wants to save a troubled world. That is a beautiful sentiment, yet for $71 million in guaranteed scratch, I'd prefer a player who can conquer the basketball world.





