The Perfect Father

That's what I called my Dad back on May 10, 2003. I was elected to serve as the Graduate Student speaker for the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications' commencement ceremony at Syracuse University.

I knew right from the start what absolutely had to be said. I figured it might be my one chance to tell such a distinguished and large audience about my hero.

My father.

Next Tuesday, he'll turn 62 years old. His body is aging, but his soul and mind remain spry.

I easily recall that speech. I practiced it over and over. I wanted to get it right. I rambled for a while, telling 'Cuse-related jokes. I told the crowd the television world didn't need another overweight white guy. I was right.

After introducing my family and speaking about each one, I ended with my old man. Dad was sitting to my mother's left, their arms intertwined.

He gently smiled at me.

I told him that he was my Ted Williams, my Martin Luther King Junior and my J.F.K. all rolled into one. I told the masses at the Carrier Dome that not many people ever had the chance to meet their hero, let alone be related to them...but I did.

"Dad, you were never afraid to admit when you made a mistake. That you weren't a perfect man. But that's what makes you the perfect father. And I love you."

As I tried to gather myself at that podium, one which Bill Clinton would use the next day, my classmates laughed with innocent glee among a sea of robes, seated in lined rows far away to my right. They had all bet I would cry. I didn't. But I don't know how.

Anyone that has known me for anything more than a handshake and a hello knows just what my family, and most significantly my Dad, means to me. He's the person I've wanted to be my entire life. I always wanted to be by his side.

I remember living in Medford, Massachusetts as a boy. One day the snowflakes fell pretty hard. I must have been four or five-years old. We had breakfast together and Dad was running a bit late (which he never does) for work. He said goodbye, but I begged him to stay. He kissed my forehead and gently smiled. I watched him walk down our wooden porch steps and head for his car. I watched as he waved, then drove slowly down the road. I prayed to God that Dad would come right back.

Ten minutes later, Dad pulled back into the driveway. The snow had made the roads too perilous. Dad came home. And honestly, as odd as it may sound, my firm belief in God probably began with a moment as simple as that. I prayed, God answered. My Dad's presence was all that I wanted. As he walked through the door, he saw me standing by the window, looking both shocked and elated.

He gently smiled.

Growing up, Dad was always a tangible but incredibly awesome figure. At six-feet tall, he has a barrel chest and big muscular arms. He walks with his own gait and grin. He's been called a 'Holy Hell's Angel.'

You know what you are getting with Ken Halliday. Over his life, he first peered through thick frames, then bifocals, now trifocals. But his muttonchops and thick red suspenders were ever-present throughout. As was his laugh, his wit and his generosity.

When we were out camping my fellow Scouts called him "OI," an homage to the way he got your attention when it was necessary. I still remember him in the woods, helping us build fires. We would work in teams of six or more to move these monstrous logs; then Dad would stride over and effortlessly lift them with one hand, or snap them with one stomp. No one messed with OI. He was a real live Paul Bunyan.

Ever since I can remember, I've had perfect strangers accost me after hearing my last name. They've grabbed my hand and said, "You're Ken's son! It's nice to finally meet you. Your Dad is a great man, and he talks about you and your sister all the time."

"What a guy your Dad. Hell of a guy."

"We sure love your Dad."

"There aren't a lot of guys like your Dad left anymore."

And from some of my fellow Scouts and friends, words that have always stuck with me. "I wish my Dad was more like yours."

He is an important figure in so many people's lives, and I got to eat dinner with him every night. And watch Steelers, Penguins, Bruins, Red Sox, Pirates and Celtics games with him. And go to Scout meetings and camping trips. And talk. Just talk. I learned so much from him...but he learned from me as well. He always let his kids know how important they were...he listened.

He always told us he loved us. All the time. Constantly. No amount of false machismo was going to hold him back from hugging his son or daughter. His willingness to display his love made him a real man.

Dad was a four-sport athlete in high school, and he was a near-perfect student. He played football and baseball at Northeastern University before signing up to fight in Vietnam. No one was going to draft my Dad; he made the rules.

He was awarded four Purple Hearts. He's a legitimate war hero. He saved lives when he wasn't protecting his own. But all war veterans are heroes. My Dad knows that. He's never attempted to meaninglessly glorify his time in the Army because he respects his fellow veterans. Dad knows his tale is no different from theirs; so he takes no satisfaction from telling his stories. And he's hardly shared them, good or bad, with his children. As a kid, I desperately wanted to inwardly build my father's legend by asking him about his time as a soldier. As I grew older, I learned the lesson he was trying to teach. A man is judged by his daily actions. War stories were fine, but his constant effort to better himself was more important.

We moved from Medford to Pittsburgh when I was six. Dad actually moved to Pennsylvania six months ahead of us to make sure the job was worth it. Those six months were hard on us all, especially my Mom. Two kids under the age of six, all alone in our big house on Touro Avenue near the Mystic River. A dilapidating neighborhood at the time. We were all happy to be reunited when we moved west, even if it meant leaving our beloved and extended family in Massachusetts.

The original goal was to live in Pittsburgh for about six months or so. Dad bought a house so that we'd feel at home. It's the same one my parents live in today, 24 years later. I'm glad we didn't leave, if simply for the reason that Dad was able to help so many people there.

Just before I finished Cub Scouts, Dad took over as Scoutmaster for Boy Scout Troop 198 in Moon Township. From the day he turned 18 in 1964, he has been an active Scoutmaster or Assistant Scoutmaster on the troop level. He stayed on at Troop 198 until last year; that's 43 straight years of voluntary service to the Boy Scouting program. He still works for the council as Camping Committee Chairman.

On the 5th of this month, our new troop leadership honored my Dad's service with a surprise party. During his time at 198, he oversaw 37 young men earn the rank of Eagle Scout. Since roughly 1 out of every 100 scouts earn that rank, that's a significant number. Eighteen of those young men were on hand to personally thank him just two Saturdays ago. I knew so many of them as boys, now men. All of them carry a piece of my Dad with them...and they came back to show their gratitude.

After the awards were handed out, Dad said thanks and spoke of my mother's influence. A true man recognizing the sacrifice of a wonderful woman. He spoke eloquently without pause, but the emotion was in his eyes.

I stood to thank the crowd. Despite all of the professional training and experience I've gathered, I couldn't get through two sentences. Seeing my Dad look back at his only son was too much. I quickly sat down and stared at the floor, trying to keep my tearful joy inside.

All the while, Dad gently smiled at me.

Last October, our son was born with cancer. Huge tumor. Life-threatening. Mom and Dad dropped everything to be with us in Farmville. The boy was born, and it became a waiting game. We had to sit and wait six days before his surgery. No one spent more time with my son than my father, not even me. Only two were allowed to stay with him in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at any time, so Dad would enter with me. Then I would leave and Dad would stay with my wife...he wanted to help us.

He sat in the rocking chair, gently smiling and kissing his grandson.

Those days were not easy for any of us. Dad prayed with me. He put his hands on my shoulders as I stood over my son's crib, looking at the tubes and needles criss-crossing my boy's face, arms and legs. I needed my Dad to stand with me...and whenever I've needed him, he's been there. We took a lot of pictures that week. I wondered how many more opportunities we would have with my son, so I took some more. Hour after hour holding him, reading to him...hoping for good news.

And we got it. Our son survived the surgery and the cancer has not returned to date. But the boy is without a right kidney. He spent the first month of life staring at blinking lights, stuffed with breathing tubes and circled by kind, but strange faces. You would think that sort of experience would traumatize an infant. However, my son spends his days in joy.

Gently smiling at those who meet his beautiful, blue-eyed gaze.

He looks like his Grandad.

For nearly 30 years, I've been guided through life by such amazing and powerful people. My mother is truly fantastic, a strong and independent woman who continues to impress me. My sister and now her husband, along with their soon-to-be three sons, have always made me think fondly of family. And my friends. People that have seen me through rough patches and brilliant moments. And now my super wife Susan and our own little family...daughter and son in tow. My perfect circle.

And Dad has always been there, leading us all.

He once told me I had the gift of being able to surround myself with good people, no matter the circumstances. But that gift comes from those who provided me with a place to grow and develop.

For a boy, the first place to look in times of trouble or concern is in his father's eyes. Fathers represent strength and values. Fathers represent honor and work ethic. Fathers represent love.

I am still a boy looking to my father. I'll always be. Just as my son will hopefully always look to me.

Our son, Kenneth Edward Halliday IV. Named for the greatest man I have ever known. The greatest man I will ever know.

And these simple words are for him.

I love my hero, my friend, my father.

Happy Birthday Dad. May God continue to bless your presence in, and influence on, the lives of those around you. You will forever be appreciated. And may those who read this never underestimate the importance of fatherhood.

My father and daughter, gently smiling...

Return of the Blog... Part Two: Finally Forgiven -Buckner Returns

Imagine having to face a contingent, nay a hovering swarm, of people you inwardly and completely despised.

This is not an individual hatred of one person but rather a piercing vitriol for a collective mass. A group of ever-changing, ever-criticizing, ever-present people. A faceless bunch that has collectively dragged your name in the mud for 22 years.

And now suddenly, they wish to embrace you. To pardon you of a punishment you did not earn. A simple mistake that, while important, was not deserving of such treatment.

That's what Bill Buckner faced last night at Fenway Park.

After infamously playing the role of scapegoat for the national media since the Red Sox's crushing loss to the Mets in the 1986 World Series, he sat in front of a cadre of microphones and reporters and struggled to maintain his emotions.

Bill Buckner was back in Boston.

For the younger generations of baseball fans across the United States and the world, this moment meant relatively nothing. But for anyone remotely associated with Red Sox Nation, or avid fans of that era, yesterday's ceremony honoring Buckner was long, long overdue.

When Buckner emerged from the Green Monster and slowly strode to the mound, all of Boston quivered. As did those living vicariously around the globe. You have to know the background of the story to understand the significance of this moment. You have to go back to October of '86.

The Boston Red Sox, led by young righty Roger Clemens and an incredible lineup featuring Wade Boggs, Jim Rice, Don Baylor, Dwight Evans, and Buckner, were 95-game winners and took the American League Pennant. Buckner was second on the team in runs batted in (RBI) and fourth in hits. He was one of the guys that "got them there." And 'there' was the World Series against the other baseball team from New York.

After taking games one and two, the Sox seemed poised to roll to a title. But they dropped games three and four in Boston. However, game five went to Beantown and the Red Sox were on the verge of their first World Series championship since 1918. All they had to do was win one of two at Shea Stadium and 68 years of waiting would be over. But in game six, Buckner's life changed forever.

Up 3-2 in the 8th inning, Mets catcher Gary Carter hit a sacrifice fly to tie it up and eventually send the game into extra innings. Boston scored two in the top of the 10th to go up 5-3 and, after getting two straight outs to start the bottom half of the inning, Mets fans began filing out. It should have been over.

But Sox reliever Calvin Schiraldi imploded. Three straight singles made it 5-4. Schiraldi's day was done, relieved by Bob Stanley. On his seventh toss to the plate, a wild pitch brought the tying run home. And three pitches later, Mookie Wilson hit a dribbler to first base.

Buckner was there, as always. He was an incredible fielder. Despite injuries to both of his knees, Buckner played 1,191.7 innings over the course of 138 games at first base that season and fielded a total of 1,067 plays. Out of those, he had made just 14 errors. A fielding percentage of .989. He simply didn't make that many mistakes. He was solid. If you were going to pick one guy to field that ball, Bill Buckner was the guy.

Then it happened. It got past him. Mets win 6-5 in 10 innings.

Two days later, New York won game seven and the World Series. The Sox faithful were crushed. The 'Curse' continued. And every time Boston's unique propensity for coming up short was brought up at dinner tables across the country, one man was to blame. Bill Buckner. His name was usually followed by expletives. Or laughs.

It was easy to blame him...especially for the national media. You could sum up all of Boston's woes in one twenty-two second video/audio clip. His name became recognizable with error, with the loss of hope, with failure.

After the following season, the Red Sox released Buckner. The stigma attached to that one play was enough to dump him a full year after the fact. He spent a season each with the Angels and Royals before coming back to Boston in 1990.

You read that right, he came back. He wanted to retire in a Boston uniform despite his longer MLB tenures with both the Dodgers and Cubs. It was because the Red Sox fans never blamed him. They never stopped appreciating all that he had done over his career.

He was the misunderstood friend at a party that everyone else in attendance was ignoring. But you went up and greeted that friend because you knew everyone else's perception of him was wrong. He was an alright guy. Right place, wrong time.

Yet for over two decades Buckner's name remained the golden standard for futility. But, when Boston finally won the World Series in 2004 and then again in 2007, the need to blame anyone for previous 'sin' became unnecessary. Bill Buckner was washed clean of his wrongdoing. Acquitted by his fickle judges from afar. He had served his sentence. It was time to be released back into the good graces of baseball fans.

But Bill Buckner was rightfully too proud to come running into their hypocritical open arms. Two years ago, the Red Sox held a reunion for the 1986 team to celebrate their accomplishments. It was saying, "See, we won one now. It's okay! You can come back; we won't hurt you anymore!" to all of those men. But Bill Buckner wouldn't come back. He sat far, far away, bitterly watching his old teammates return to glory. He was in real estate in Boise, Idaho. Far away from prying eyes and stabbing memories. An All-Star, a borderline Hall-Of-Famer hiding in obscurity. Not hiding from any one person...not a coward. Just a tired man looking for catharsis.

But he knew he had to come back to get that. To add closure. And he finally did yesterday on a beautiful Boston afternoon.

After watching Buckner walk to the pitcher's mound to throw out the ceremonial first pitch, the man that now plays the very same position reflected on the moment for ESPN. "I've probably never almost been in tears for somebody else on a baseball field," said Kevin Youkilis. "I wanted to shake his hand because that's a true man."

A true man faces both his friends and his foes the same way. Head on. It probably helped that his daughter Christen, ironically now a television reporter in Boise, was on hand covering the press conference. Buckner, dignified yet very human, fought through tears in admitting that he had to "forgive the media" in order to finally receive the credit he was due. A stark moment that hopefully causes today's 'shock them all' media to pause and consider the effects of their accusations and opinions.

As Buckner walked to the mound at Fenway, fans showered him with praise. Some of them were probably sending him death threats just a few years ago. But for many, he was a hero they were so often told they could not embrace. Now he was opening his arms to them.

Buckner rose above all of our human flaws and our collective inability to forgive him. Our fickle and meaningless errors. By doing so, he finally allowed us to bury his.

Bill Buckner is no longer 'E3.'

He's forever #6.

Return of The Blog... Part One: The 'I Told You So'

It's not often that I'm right. Just ask my wife.

That's why this moment, as ridiculously predictable and random that it is, will not go unnoticed. You may recall a previous "State of the Celtics Address" posted nearly three months ago. In it, I guaranteed the Celtics would reach the 61-win plateau and set a new NBA record for best single season team record turnaround.

I predicted they would do so before their April 9th rematch with the Washington Wizards. I predicted they would come absolutely nowhere near the incredible 72-10 season of the '95-'96 Bulls. I predicted they would rally through injury and occasional poor performance to continue their torrid level of domination. And, in order...they did, they didn't and they did.

I told you so.

This past Saturday's de-clawing/neutering of the abysmal Charlotte Bobcats earned Beantown a 61-15 overall record and a remarkable 37-game improvement from last season's win total. Here's what I had to say about the single season wins turnaround on January 15th...

"If Boston wins 61 games this season, they will break that record. They are on pace to do so. Hear me now and believe me later, that record will be theirs by the time they next face the Wizards in Game 78 on April 9th."

The Celtics cut it close, but they proved me right. They did it with a game to spare as they prepare to matchup with Milwaukee and gun for win #62 tonight. And they beat the Bobcats on Saturday without a single member of the Big Three. Paul Pierce missed the game to be with his family (his daughter was born just less than 24 hours earlier) and Doc Rivers chose to sit Ray Allen and Kevin Garnett to give them a breather. And they won by 23 points.

Most of the media looked at the achievement of this turnaround record as a positive milestone for the Celtics. While that approach is certainly understandable, the non-Boston media missed out on the larger point. They were able to set that record, not just because this year's team is so good, but mainly because last year's team was so bad.

The fact that the Celtics front office let it get that bad should not go unnoticed. And it was bad. Though they did make the playoffs for four straight years from 2002-2005, they slipped into the postseason mainly due to a weakened Eastern Conference in at least two of those seasons. No losing team should be allowed to play in the postseason...out of principle. Why should any fan have to pay to watch a losing team in a playoff tournament?

Meanwhile, Doc Rivers continues to get a good amount of credit for the turnaround while the players outperform their peers. I can not recall a single game this season in which I felt, for more than one possession at a time, that Doc Rivers outperformed one of his coaching peers. However, his players take care of that by simply raising their own level of performance...and winning.

But I will say this for Rivers, he's gotten this team to buy-in. Defensively and offensively, it's an all-out effort to win when it matters. That is very refreshing to see in today's haphazard NBA. Watching teams like the Suns, Warriors and Nuggets is irritating to me. They treat possessions like inconveniences. They are more fast-paced than McDonald's at quitting time...but even less effective. Shot quality isn't valued, it's about taking more shots than the other team. If you take more, you generally make more. Run the floor, sub in and out when you get tired, and pray the other team isn't better that given day. It's enough to make me almost want to watch golf. Almost.

But the Celtics haven't wavered from their desire to win games on defense. They remain first in the entire league in opponents' points allowed, first in average scoring margin, and first in opponents' field goal percentage and three-point field goal percentage. They also hit the glass, ranking third in the league in both defensive rebounds allowed and rebounding margin. They want to win. Watching them hustle when they're up double digits in a relatively meaningless game should make all hoops fans giddy. Especially Celtics faithful who suffered through the Antoine Walker show in recent years. Walker wouldn't sprint down the floor to play defense unless someone was dragging a deep-fried Twinkie across the court.

Some may argue this dedication to team basketball and downright toughness stems more from their two main offseason player acquisitions than it does from Rivers. That may be true, but Doc deserves some credit. They've worked day-in day-out for 76 games and it's paid off. They are on top of the East and clinched the conference title. Simply incredible.

And while I was right in most respects back in January, I was wrong in others. I discussed the team's player quality in three tiers back on 1/15/08:

"The second coming of the Big 3 in KG, Pierce and Allen...the 'I hope they positively contribute' group of Rondo, Perkins, Davis, House and Posey...and the 'If these guys are out there, I'm biting my nails and cursing under my breath' group of Tony Allen, Pollard, Scalabrine, Powe and Pruitt."

Here's where I made my major errors. Rondo has become one of the rising stars in the NBA. Unselfish, tough and hard-nosed, he scraps for rebounds and has become absolutely reliable. He's a stud but it took the Big Three to get his game on track. While Perkins has become more consistent, his 6'10'' frame still only brings down six boards a game. That needs work. While Rondo and Perkins have indeed raised their levels of play, two of the team's younger faces have had surprisingly strong seasons.

Glen 'Big Baby' Davis and Leon Powe, when called upon, have been impressive. Davis, the rookie out of LSU, established a fan following with a 20-point performance against hated Detroit ten days before my last Celtics-related post. Ever since, he's been a strong post presence in limited minutes. He spells a few breaths for the right guys and doesn't make as many critical rookie positioning/technique errors as he did near the start of the season.

As for Powe, whenever KG hasn't been in the lineup or wasn't quite playing up to 'Big Ticket' status, Powe has stepped up. He's led the team in rebounds in eight games this season and has twice gone over the 20-point plateau. He single-handedly decimated Charlotte on Saturday. When Garnett is out, Powe's game sends a message: "I may not be Kevin Garnett, but you will remember every possession that I defend you." He's making it personal.

Tony Allen, James Posey and Eddie House have been serviceable. They've done their jobs. All three are pitching in as each is scoring over six points per game. The addition of Sam Cassell has also been good. Maybe this pickup wasn't totally necessary because of Rondo's emergence, but it seems to have paid off. He lights a fire under Garnett...and if KG ever asks the front office for anything over the next two to three seasons, he should get it.

Six games. That's all that's left in the regular season. Then we find out what this team is really made of. It will be fun to watch. And since I'm doing so well with predictions...

Barring severe injury to two members of the Big Three, total team implosion or natural disaster, the Celtics will win the NBA Championship. I said the same in January.

No team can beat this group in a seven-game series. None. Not Orlando. Not Cleveland. And certainly none of the run-and-gun teams in the West. Detroit, New Orleans, San Antonio and Houston have a chance in hell.

That's it...a CHANCE in hell.

Last month, my cousin Seth and I sat in a Irish pub in Manhattan and watched as Boston came from 22 down to beat San Antonio in Texas. It was a watershed moment. They weren't at their best, yet they won. They could have quit, yet they didn't. The Spurs looked as if they were going to uphold recent Western Conference dominance, but the Celtics rallied and triumphed.

The rest of the NBA got the picture. No one is getting in this team's way. It's just not happening this season. No team can match their hustle or skill. If only the NBA season and it's mind-boggling playoff structure (seven-game series...every round...really?!?) wasn't so frustratingly long... Otherwise, Beantown could begin the parade preparations.

You know what? Why wait? All of you get a hold of Mayor Menino and tell him to publicly begin the celebration. There's no reason to put it off any longer.

Boston will again be a 'City of Champions' with the Celtics and Red Sox both on top of the sports world. If not for the single-most incredible catch in NFL history combined with Randy Moss lolly-gagging on the Patriots' last drive, it would be a three-sport title town.

But enough is enough, this is about the Celtics. The result has been predetermined. 2008 NBA Champions.

And on that note, cue the music.

Back In The Saddle Again

A quick post simply to stand as an apology to those who occasionally stumble into one of my blog posts. The semester has heated up, as well as a myriad of responsibilities to our campus media outlets. There have been precious few opportunities to enjoyably waste any time. I appreciate your patience.

Thanks to those that do partake in these written musings. I thoroughly enjoy your feedback and consideration.

Buyer Beware: ESPN's Hiring Bobby Knight a Poor Decision

ESPN isn't called the 'Worldwide Leader' for nothing. They remain the definitive place to turn for any and all sports news. That's mainly because they have created an incredibly diverse and marketable product and have worked equally as hard to protect their brand.

They dominate sports broadcasting...no one even comes close. Which makes their recent move to hire the infamous Bobby Knight as a college basketball analyst that much more bizarre. Knight, the former media-bashing grizzled old coach, is suddenly the network's new poster boy for NCAA coverage. But why?

This is not to say that Knight can't pull it off. He can. Knight gets it. He knows exactly what the network is looking for and delivers good information. Albeit in his own slumped over, "I could care less" style. He's been interviewed more than any other coach imaginable. George Bush hasn't seen as many microphones and recorders as Knight has. And 'The General' knows the ins and outs of the television game. In his debut, he began well. It's about the soundbyte...making sharp witticisms quickly and succinctly. In all honesty, Knight (minus his vampire-like demeanor and elementary school gym coach attire) will be one of the network's better hoops analysts over the next few weeks.

But questions remain...why Bobby Knight? Why did ESPN feel they had to go and chase down 'The General' himself for this role? Their hoops analyst staff is already bloated...their contributing staff immense. Bilas, Forde, Katz, Brown, Vitale, Fraschilla, Phelps, Gottlieb, Glockner, Lunardi, Davis...the list goes on and on. What does Knight do that these people can't?

That answer is simple. He is such a polarizing personality that people, Knight-lovers or Knight-haters, will watch. As if ESPN needed to boost their already gargantuan ratings. But, how does ESPN use his expertise? They set him up in 'fluff' pseudo-analysis scenarios like Knight's Insights. A chance for fans to ask him questions about random basketball-related stories from working with the media, to career-reflection, etc. It's clear that ESPN isn't interested in bringing Knight to the network to address any real issues. They don't want the ugly side of the good General throwing chairs or choking players, they want the marketable side of Knight.

ESPN is giving Knight the broadcasting equivalent of an open-lane layup every time he goes on-air. No probing questions about his abrupt departure from Texas Tech and the fact that he all but forced that administration to retain his own son as new head coach. None of that. It's all fluff for Bobby Knight.

Case in point, last night Davis and Phelps dished out a nice PR-stunt assist. Knight was set-up for a two-minute discussion about his wife Karen's basketball I.Q. and her positive affect on his life. Now that is riveting analysis of the conference tournaments! Come on already! Also, as Leonard Shapiro of the Washington Post noted, Knight has also refused to address any potentially negative news regarding his old coaching buddies. Ask about Kelvin Sampson's exploits...his son's struggles at TT...recruiting violations at Harvard...Knight won't answer. So why hire him?

ESPN's coverage of Knight's retirement was fair, as it should have been. But while some of the network's analysts chose to suck-up to Knight, others took a more harsh stance. In Pat Forde's article, he lays it out on the line. Knight quit on his team. Plain and simple. A team that was 12-8 and 3-3 in the Big 12 conference...very much in the hunt. They finished 16-15 and 7-9 and had their bells rung by Texas A&M and Kansas. When he stepped down, Knight claimed he was tired and that he couldn't do it anymore. But just three weeks later Knight was back at work?!? Some vacation. This has truly become a theater of the absurd.

Besides his most egregious offenses, Knight has a history with ESPN. A history of attempting to embarrass and discredit reporters. Reporters like Jeremy Schaap. When Knight mocked Schaap on national television, Jeremy's father Dick (a broadcasting icon) appeared on Sports Reporters a few days later and derided 'The General' for attacking his family. It was a bold move and journalists everywhere applauded. Finally someone stood up to Knight. The schoolyard bully of coaches when it comes to media interaction.

If you think this is making a mountain out of a mole-hill, watch this. From cursing on-air, to cursing in front of a family-filled crowd, to insulting reporters, to verbally berating Indiana University officials, to cursing at an NCAA press official charged with trying to 'work' with Knight. Class act all the way.

And through it all, ESPN has been there to document it. To let us fans at home know just what Bobby Knight thinks of the media...thinks of us. In 1979, he assaulted a police officer in Puerto Rico. In 2000, a freshman at IU alleged that Knight attacked him because he didn't call him 'Coach.' Aren't coaches supposed to be teachers? What would have happened had an IU professor/staff member done the same? They would have been fired. And Knight promptly was.

Ever since then, some people have seen fit to coddle him for one reason or another. Texas Tech gave him a chance. They wanted to liven things up and awaken a dead program. While with the Red Raiders, Knight got his 800th and 900th wins on the way to becoming the winningest coach in NCAA D-1 men's hoops history. But how did he truly regard their program? By cutting out five months after signing a contract extension that would have kept him in Lubbock until 2012. He was supposed to be committed to his assistants, players, recruits and their parents. But he's not a 'committer,' he's become a quitter.

Knight has stated that being employed as a member of the media was "one or two steps above prostitution." He also once said of journalists, "All of us learn to write in the second grade. Most of us go on to greater things." This coming from a coach. Not a scientist, governor or doctor, but a BASKETBALL COACH.

When Knight was hired, ESPN's Executive Vice President for Production said Knight brought "sophistication" to the table. Really? And with that, 'The General' joined 'The Dark Side.' He's one of "them."

A step above prostitution? Not for ESPN...they are official broadcast hustlers. They are the pimps pushing Knight out onto the street corners of college basketball's landscape. He's turning tricks for them, grabbing cash and smiling on-screen. But Knight will ultimately have the last laugh. He'll do the song and dance until the 'Big Dance' is over. Then he'll go back to hunting and fishing.

You see, he's into killing. Just watch Texas Tech over the next few years. He just effectively killed that program. Now he's about to bag the credibility of the 'Worldwide Leader' for giving him a platform. Knight is working from the inside-out, just like a good hoops coach would. He's suckered ESPN, the same network that he's insulted and cursed for decades.

Congrats to ESPN for hiring the man who has spat in their collective face time and time again. All for a meaningless ratings boost.

And congrats to Robert Montgomery Knight. The ultimate hustler.

Damn he's good.

A Community Mourns: Todd Miller's Death Inspires Thousands

Over the past few days, the small campus community here in Farmville has been turned upside down. And it ended this past weekend with a respected and loved student-athlete leaving this mortal Earth.

Todd Miller, a senior rugby player, passed away yesterday morning after spending the past seven days in a coma. Miller was injured in a match against VMI on Sunday, March 2nd. Having already scored three tries and adding five conversion kicks that day, Miller's squad was dominating...the game winding down. However, this towering young man wasn't the sort to shy away from contact. He wanted to play on for his team. But late in the match, Miller went for a tackle. After a significant collision, Miller exited the playing field and, to the shock of teammates and spectators, collapsed on the sidelines. He was eventually taken by MedEvac to MCV Hospital in Richmond but seized on the way, severely complicating his situation and chance for survival. Miller was then kept alive in the hopes that reducing swelling to his brain would allow for a miraculous recovery. But that was not to be.

Todd died at 10:20am Sunday, on a morning when people all over the world lifted their voices in prayer for him. His soul was guided to the afterlife by those who cared for him. A fitting tribute to an incredibly strong young man. A young man that has affected the lives and thoughts of thousands. Most of whom never met him...but never had to.

Last Tuesday night inside Longwood University's Willett Hall gymnasium, over a thousand people gathered in a vigil to pray for Miller's recovery. Among them were 'ruggers' from all across the state, players and coaches that had come to fear and respect this man's ability and leadership skill. Standing 6'3" and weighing just over 200 pounds, Miller was the quintessential rugby man...one that combined God-given size and speed with a tenacious desire to win. Miller had long served as a leader for the club team and was Vice President his junior year. That night in the LU gym, coaches, teammates and friends spoke in turn about Todd's positive affects on their lives. They all wanted Todd and his family to know exactly how they felt...how they loved. Todd's mother Ellie was able to watch the entire vigil via simulcast...from Farmville to the MCV intensive care unit. A wonderful way for the university to bring the campus into his family's life at a very hard time.

Five days later, Todd died. But his friends and those who wished to have known him still talk to him. Not only through prayer, but through the one great global communications device...the Internet. The night Todd was injured Chris Foster, a teammate, created a group called "Pray for TODD MILLER" on the social networking phenomenon Facebook. That group now has over 2,300 members...people that constantly visited the site to see the latest news on their friend. Last night at 4:51, Todd's mother posted the information that so many had feared to read. Ever since, dozens of people have left their own personal goodbyes to Todd.

And many of those people are so-called 'perfect strangers.' People that never met Todd Miller but were so touched by his story that they prayed and hoped as if they were family. And through those unselfish actions they became family, at least temporarily. And in acknowledging and embracing that love for her son, Ellie Miller has taught us all a great deal.

In the 'Recent News' column of the group page, Ellie's post has been updated several times. But the orginal words are intact:

"TO ALL THOSE PRAYING FOR TODD
Todd passed away this morning at 10:20 am. Thank you all so very much for your prayers, loving thoughts, shared memories and pictures.....they have helped me so much...you have no idea. I have felt your love surrounding me during this horrific week. I know Todd will live on in our hearts and memories forever.....and through the miracle of organ donations Todd may save the lives of as many as 7 people over the next 48 hours and impact the health of countless other people..Think of the miracle of that....his legacy and "his life" will live on."

What a wonderful woman Ellie must be. She was more than ready and willing to share her son's final moments with his friends and all concerned. A hard thing to do for certain. Something that only a person with superior inner strength and wisdom could handle. This amazing woman answered phone call after phone call and acquiesced to every information request his teammates and friends made. In doing so, Ellie's grace allowed for so many to intimately share in her relationship with her son. The young man's Facebook profile, Mrs. Miller's own profile, and the group page dedicated to him, are all adorned with pictures of Ellie and Todd together. It's clear their love truly defined that which only a mother and son could share.

Todd's final act of unselfishness is truly inspiring. It is reminiscent of the story of former UNC mascot, Jason Ray, a young man who was killed in a hit-and-run but whose organs saved or vastly improved the lives of several others. Ray's story was made famous with extended coverage on ESPN. Each story is equally impressive...both horrifically tragic but simultaneously uplifting.

Todd donated his very body to strangers in hopes of improving or saving their lives. A mortal way of being immortal. A 'Christ-like' gift one can only give in death.

Let us all learn valuable lessons from Todd's passing.

Love all of those around you, everyone you come in contact with. Todd clearly did, the love returned was intense and passionate.

Live your life to the fullest. Absorb it all. Every moment is one fewer God intended you to have. Todd literally attacked life. We should all be so bold.

When we face the bleakest times in our lives, turn to those that love you and that love will lift you to a higher place. While nothing will replace her son, Ellie Miller has already displayed ultimate courage. Those who have publicly voiced their love and appreciation for Todd have shown her so much. Ellie raised a wonderful man. Todd's legacy is so immense, it can't be measured.

Every day, take a moment...just a moment...to express your love to those who matter to you most. Never go to bed mad. Never leave something unsaid.

Love as God has commanded us.

Live as God has demanded us.

Todd & Ellie deserve our collective thanks. God bless them both. May we all be better people as a result of having heard their story. May we all love, and be loved, as much as they.

Our First Child: Isabelle Marie

As the spring semester has cranked up over the past few weeks, I've found it more and more difficult to enjoyably waste my own time, let alone yours, with a blog post. But I return this week to celebrate the upcoming birthday of our daughter. Isabelle Marie Halliday turns two-years old this Sunday, March 9th.



She is pictured above in the fall of 2006, right around 5-6 months old. She's mid-meal with a smile that seems to be permanently affixed to her face.



Here she is with Grandad Halliday on a surprise visit. This pic was taken shortly after she attempted to remove his corneas with his pocket pens.



And here is Ms. Isabelle once again just before Christmas 2007, talking to me as I snap a quick shot.

I'd like to tell you her story.

Ever since I was young, I've always wanted a family. I never really knew/expected that it would happen. But I wanted to be a Dad. I wanted that responsibility and accountability. Being a parent provides both the ultimate challenge and the ultimate reward.

When Susan and I were married in 2004 (click this to read our sappy story), we talked a lot about kids...but it was always "down the line." That is until the following year when we started asking each other, "What do you think?" I wanted to start ASAP. Men always do. After all, it's not on us to physically/emotionally/spiritually carry the actual burden. We have our own issues with pregnancy, but we're not toting around a living being. Susan didn't need convincing, but there were financial concerns. In the end, we went by the age-old mantra that you can never actually afford children...but that's not why you have them.

Within ten days of deciding we would "actively try," Susan was pregnant. The pregnancy was tough on her. Standing less than five feet tall and weighing under 90 pounds, her frame wasn't built for childbearing. She had to gain weight in order to avoid any complications and that was difficult for my wife. All the while, Susan worked full-time to support us. She eventually went part-time and worked right up until the week before Isabelle was born. There's no way I could have done that. But she did.

Susan wanted to know "what we were having." I remember finding out it was a girl. Susan thought I would be disappointed. All women say that..."Guys want to have sons." Maybe so, but having a sister myself, I wanted a healthy child. Period.

And we got one. But not without trouble.

In November of 2005, while nearly five months pregnant, Susan was involved in a single-car wreck on the way home from work. Her tire blew out. She lost control, went off-road and rammed into a barbed wire fence. Her car was totaled. Mostly cosmetic damage, but there was enough of it. Susan stepped out of the car and walked away from the scene. Not a scratch.

The weekend before, I was supposed to get her tires changed. I didn't. I forgot. The tire blew because it's tread was bare. She was lucky to be alive and still with child. I nearly cost them their lives. Simple decisions have such grand impact.

Though she was shaken, Susan was undaunted and went right back to work. Within a few days, we bought a new car. We bought a Toyota Matrix because it's frame had a higher safety rating than the Pontiac Vibe. That was a good decision.

Two days later, Susan wrecked again. On her way home from work, in the dark of the night on Route 33 between Elkins and Buckhannon, West Virginia, Susan crested a hill and was face-to-face with a large black plastic garbage bag in her lane. We later discovered it was over-stuffed with cement mix, rocks and spare lumber. Susan watched that bag get obliterated by a semi as she feared for her daughter's life, waiting in a ditch.

Afraid of the impact at 70 miles per hour, Susan whipped the wheel to the right when she saw the bag. The Matrix lost its traction, skidded onto its side and spun like a top before promptly hitting a wall of granite just off of the right side of the road. Hitting the four-story cliff-side caused the car to somehow pop up onto its wheels. Once again, Susan got up out of the car and walked away. Without a scratch.

God is good.

But the car was not. Completely totaled. Susan hunted through the broken glass to find her cell phone and called me. I rushed to the hospital. She had been in great spirits with the nurses and doctors on call, masking her anxiety. She was bruised and sore, but able to walk with some help. But what about our baby?

The moment she saw me waiting by her hospital bed, Susan finally showed her emotion. All I could do was hold her and wonder. Surely, we would not lose this baby. We didn't want to talk about our worst fear. We needed an ultrasound. I prayed silently, so as not to disturb my bride. She prayed silently, so as not to disturb her husband.

We had already decided on our little girl's name. She may not have been out in the world, but she was ours. Kicking when I spoke to her late at night or early in the morning. The warmth of my hand would draw her across the womb. She would punch and shove while Susan ate. She was our baby. We couldn't wait to meet her.

Isabelle Marie Halliday.

Somehow, despite Susan being flipped like a flapjack, Isabelle was fine. No harm done. Two car wrecks in the course of a week and she was no worse for wear.

God is good.

Isabelle finally entered our lives in person on March 9th, 2006 in Elkins at the Davis Memorial Hospital. She was late to the party, but has since mastered the art of a grand entrance.

Isabelle was born with coal black eyes and hair. Everyone said she looked like me. She looks nothing like that now and hopefully for her sake it stays that way. She was alert from the start. She hated her first bath...she still doesn't care for them on occasion. But she was wonderful. Our doctor visited the next morning and commented about how alert and attentive she was. He said, "I believe she is very smart." Of course she is. She got that from her mother.

The name is an homage to family. Isabelle is my mother-in-law's middle name, Marie is my mother's. Our little girl represents all of these ladies. She carries their best qualities.

My daughter is gorgeous. Her smile cracks the most hardened soul. Her laugh is contagious; it dances across the room and brings joy to your heart. She is exceptionally petite, but she runs the show. She is the most engaging two-year old I've ever seen. She loves people, and people love her. She'll speak in toddler-gibberish to strangers for ten minutes, telling them about her day, then cordially bid adieu. At times, she'll blow them a kiss.

When I come home from work, she runs to the door and eagerly waits for me to bend down and hold her tight.

When I'm in the room with her, I want to kiss her all the time. She often gets mad at me when I do. She's very independent and when I interrupt her for the tenth kiss in the last five minutes, she gets annoyed. But she always returns the kiss and laughs.

She giggles, looks me in the eye and says, "Love you Daddy."

Isabelle is a dedicated big sister. She takes it very seriously. She searches the house for her brother's pacifier and always hugs him to start and end the day. She asks to hold him, caresses his head and kisses him gently. She talks to him. He always listens. He can't wait for the moments when she talks. He loves her voice.

She waltzes into the room and says, "Hi guys!" She directs us at the dinner table. We sing, dance and play games as we eat. She's the life of the party...when she wants to be.

I have been blessed with a lot of wonderful things in my life. My wife, my family, my friends, my work. But the love I hold for my children knows no bounds. I can't express it. I physically beam when we are together as a family. When she smiles, I want to cry. I am that overjoyed to witness her happiness and to know that I'm a small part of it.

In our house, we call her 'Goofball' for all of her little idiosyncrasies. She's a riot. But she's ours. I know one day she'll make me very proud. My little girl.

She may not always be a daddy's girl, but I'm forever a 'daughter daddy.' I've found that you care for your children on many different levels. But this little lady is something special; she transcends any earthly knowledge of love.

She's our first child, and we are lucky to spend our days and nights near her.

Happy Birthday Isabelle Marie.

To Susan

This post is to my valentine. Not just on this day, but on every day. To the one person whose company I've chosen for the rest of my life and afterlife. My wife.

September 7, 2001 was like any other Friday for me at the time. I went to work interning at the Beaver Valley Power Station in Shippingport, PA. Drudgery to be certain. The best part of working at BVPS was the people, most notably my father. Being on 'his turf' and being able to slip away for lunch at Josephine's across the bridge in Midland. A quick fish sandwich and back to work. But we always put shop talk aside to enjoy each other's company.

But on September 7, I had somewhere to go that night. PNC Park in its inaugural season...one of the most beautiful ballfields in the country. The Pirates were hosting the Reds under the lights. And my friend Bill Brenneisen, then employed at Pitt, had tickets to a UPMC luxury box. Bill and I had been friends since I was a kid. I met him through Boy Scouts, and Bill was one of the older guys that I looked up to. Literally. He asked me to join him at the game and of course I went. Those tickets changed my life.

We got to the game very early. After all, luxury boxes are stuffed with free food and free beer. We were the first ones to arrive and promptly began to partake. When the first pitch was thrown at 7:05, we were already enjoying the night.

I sat there at one of the small round tables drinking with Bill, laughing and glancing at the game every once in a while. Somewhere around the second inning, one of Bill's coworkers entered the box. Chris Yoest, known to friends as 'Yogi.' Yogi didn't want to go to the game that much; but he figured that it was free, and could be fun. So he dragged his roommate with him. Her name was Susan.

Bill introduced me to Susan and Yogi and we politely exchanged greetings. Sitting at the small table together, Chris and Bill discussed work, leaving Susan and I to ourselves. We engaged in chit-chat. Nothing spectacular. I'd love to tell you we discussed politics, poetry and the great mysteries of life. But we talked about funny lines in the movie 'Office Space' for the most part. I asked her what her favorite movie was. She said, "Shawshank Redemption.'" "Funny, that's my favorite movie," I replied.

We continued to talk and drink. She was fun. This small and skinny little gal. Just under five feet tall, she had this effervescent personality. And a killer laugh. We hung out most of the night, just chatting. We stepped out onto the box's balcony seating to watch the game. The Bucs scored two in the sixth to take the lead. The promotions gang responded by firing t-shirts into the crowd. One of them arched towards our box, and Susan promptly stood up and caught it. That caught my eye.

The Buccos won 3-1. Here's the proof.

As the game wound down, Sue and Yogi decided to split. We said goodbye and that was that. She went one way, I went another.

What, you were expecting some sort of magical interlude? Didn't happen. I'd spent that entire summer trying to reenter the dating scene after living in China for several months. I wasn't successful. In fact, it was a legitimate disaster. I figured a lady wasn't in the cards for a while. I was out to relax with friends and enjoy life.

But as Susan and Yogi left the park, her mind was on our talks. And, as she walked across the Roberto Clemente Bridge back into downtown, Susan says to this day that she heard a voice. A voice that clearly told her, "Don't let him go." She asked Yogi to intervene and get my contact information from Bill the next week. Maybe you are starting to see the kind of woman I married.

Let's shorten the story a bit for your collective benefit. We started dating a few weeks later. During this first few months, I knew that she was extraordinary. I told her I loved her before we even hit our two-month anniversary. She said the same. I wrote her two poems...the only two I've ever written for her by the way. She framed one of them, it sits by our bed today.

During that winter Susan asked me if I was happy with where I was headed in life. I told her I wasn't. I didn't like the work at BVPS but it paid well. Maybe I could parlay the internship into a well-paying job. She asked me if I would really like that job, and I knew that I wouldn't. Susan asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I told her I always thought about doing sports broadcasting. She told me to try it out by going to grad school.

I did. I did because she made me recognize my own dreams. Just before I graduated with a Masters degree from Syracuse University in 2003, I proposed to her in an airport terminal in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She was flying there to see her parents. I stayed up all night, flew out ahead of her to get their approval, then asked her as she stepped out of the gate.

We got married in June of 2004. She left a good job in Pittsburgh to follow me to Buckhannon, West Virginia. She drove 50 miles round trip to work every day. Susan sacrificed her life to share it with me.

And I wasn't there to share it. I was working 80-hour weeks. We ate Christmas dinners at Chinese buffet restaurants. We couldn't afford a house. It wasn't always fun. But she remained my biggest fan, and I hers.

Our daughter Isabelle was born March 9th, 2006 at the hospital Susan worked at in Elkins, West Virginia. Seeing her hold our first child for the first time...amazing. And when I went back to work three days later, and worked thirteen straight days during one of our many busy seasons, she never complained. At least not much.

Nearly a year later, she called my cell phone while I was at a basketball game to tell me she was pregnant again. A month later, we were told our baby might have Down Syndrome. Susan was a rock. Unwavering, undeterred. Prepared for whatever we would face. I was a mess.

Soon afterwards we found out that our boy (she wanted to know) was in fact just fine. By then, we were preparing for a new life in Farmville, Virginia. Once again Susan was willing to go wherever I chose. This new life meant more time for us. She and the children deserved that. And I needed it too. I needed her.

In late September last year, around the six-year anniversary of our first date, we discovered our son was carrying a massive tumor. Kenneth Edward would be born with cancer. No one would tell us the exact prognosis, whether he would make it or not. No one seemed to know. On October 3, he was born. Doctors told us that his ability to survive the surgery would depend on his will to live. Would he battle? Doctors told us the moment a child is born is crucial. Crying = desire to survive. Silence = ...news we didn't want to hear.

When Kenny entered this world, there was no sound at first. Until my wife said loud and clear for all to hear. "Kenny, you fight. You fight it. Start fighting right now."

Right then, he started to cry.

Maybe now, you see the kind of woman I married.

Six days later, the tumor came out. Kenny came home with us nearly three agonizing weeks later on November 1st. All the while, Susan spent time with Isabelle and longed to be with her son. Now we are all together. And I am living the life I always wished I could have.

I live that life because of my wife. Susan is the person who convinced me to go to Syracuse University for grad school. She is the one who accepted a marriage proposal from a guy in debt, with no certain future. A guy who was returning home to live with his parents.

Susan is the one who followed me across the country when the proper opportunities arose. She took a chance on me. She deals with me when no one else on this planet would wish to. She puts up with my flaws. She cheers my accomplishments. She is my anchor.

I write about her today because I want her to know how much I think of her. How much I respect her. How much I cherish her. I want those reading to understand why my family means so much. I want Susan to be certain of the role she plays in my life.

Susan. You are my best friend. You are the love my soul desired for so long. You are the reason I rush home from work. You are the wonderful mother to our children, and the epicenter of my universe.

I love you.

A Dying Breed: Boy Scouts Need Your Help

My father was quick to remind me earlier this week that today marks the 98th anniversary of the Boy Scouts of America program. The Scouting program itself began with Lord Robert Baden-Powell in 1907 when 'LBP' opened a camp for boys on Brownsea Island. The following year, Baden-Powell created The Boy Scout Association. Then, in 1909 a scouting legend...'the scout in the fog' helped inspire W.D. Boyce to bring the principles of the scouting program back home to the United States.



A native of a suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, W.D. Boyce jump-started the program on this side of the pond by establishing the Boy Scouts of America in 1910. Now nearly a century later, nearly three million young men participate in the program nationwide. But a quick check of the BSA's statistical breakdown shows a rising (or falling) problem. They are losing members. The numbers are down in Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts and in Venture Scouting. However, there is an increase in the amount of high school students participating which shows that older boys are valuing the program. However, there are less people to lead them because there is also a noticeable drop (1.4%) in total Scout leaders.

It's not a new trend. Here's the youth Scout totals over the last four years that the BSA has publicly reported to date:

2003: 3,200,218
2004: 3,145,331
2005: 2,938,698
2006: 2,868,963

Slight, but noticeable drops with each passing year. While the BSA has known about this issue for years, the country has yet to rally around their cause. It's because the government and our civic leaders are afraid to publicly support the program.

All of the negative press the Scouts have received, from membership controversies to an over-exaggerated history of sexual molestation cases, the Scouting program has been pounded with verbal salvos from the media and misinformed parents and/or community leaders. The message of the program has been lost.

College fraternities and 'old-boy' social groups like the Masons claim to value strong principles and to improve the lives of their members. But only the Boy Scouts consistently meet the challenge.

By simply reading the Scout Oath and the Scout Law one can see all of the qualities we would want our own sons to cherish. The qualities and principles that many of us adults forget to honor.



The Oath:
"On my honor, I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law. To help other people at all times; To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight."

When was the last time you met those criteria everyday.

The Law:
"A Scout is Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean and Reverent."

Twelve points to live by that are seared into the memory of Scouts and Scouters across the world.

Scouts are taught to truly operate throughout their daily lives while applying the Law and Oath to every person, situation and obstacle they encounter. And it works.

I was born into a 'Scout family.' My father served as a Scoutmaster from the time he was 18 until last year. From 1964-2007. Think about that. And from 1984 until this very moment, he's watched me grow from Tiger Cub to father of two.

I know my father reads these blog entries. He's probably the only one. But here's something he may not now. When I was hovering between the ages of 11-13, I wanted to quit the Scouts.

I wanted to quit the program because I was tired of working on something non-school related. I went to my Mom about it. She told me to have an honest discussion with my Dad. I remember telling him once or twice that I needed to 'take a week off' from our meetings. I don't recall ever telling him what I really wanted to do.

But you know what...I'm sure he knew exactly what I really wanted. But he never relented. And he never took a week off.

Ever.

And that taught me what I needed to know about the BSA and life in general. Life doesn't take a week off. And neither do the people who need you.

The Boy Scouting program needed my father. And he answered the bell every time.

I got the Eagle Scout award at the age of 16. My Dad (a lifetime Life Scout who uses the fact he never achieved Eagle as a way of inspiring his scouts) stood in the back of the room and wore one the biggest smiles I've ever seen.

Years later, I still remember that smile. I remember the joy of that accomplishment.

I remember making my father proud. I lived my whole life for moments like that.

Today I wear an Eagle Scout pin on my tie in celebration of the program that made me the man I am today. Along with the influence of friends and family, the Boy Scouts shaped my soul.

I owe the program for that. I owe my son the same opportunity my Dad gave me.

And you owe it to the men in your life.

The Boy Scouts may be one of the only programs left in our country that can truly help build the foundation for boys to become good men.

Do your part to keep it alive.

I will.

Scout's honor.

Walking a Fine Line: Pujols Ban on St. Louis TV Station Sets Dangerous Precedent

This past Monday, on a day our nation paused to remember a man who preached acceptance and forgiveness, the St. Louis Cardinals completed their winter warmups with a news conference. But before the first question was lobbed, Cards first baseman Albert Pujols went after the media.

The monstrous slugger asked the team's media relations director to ban one television station from covering his question-answer session. The reporter and videographer from KTVI in St. Louis then sheepishly stood in the corner of the room, camera off and tails firmly between their legs. Call it a visit to the 'media dunce corner.'

Pujols had his reasons. Just before the massive and sport-changing Mitchell Report was released on the afternoon of December 13th, there were rumors cooking on MLB 'Hot Stove' websites and message boards all over the country. And one of those items caught fire...an online report that claimed one of the soon-to-be-outed steroids users was the Cardinals Dominican superstar. The temptation to run the story was simply too much for KTVI. Their sports department and station management aired the story that morning. All of St. Louis was reeling over the idea that their hero was a cheater.

But, according to what we think we know from the Mitchell Report, he didn't. That is the definition of a media flub, and unintentional bad press for Pujols. That night, KTVI ran an extended live report and refuted the early morning mistake. But Pujols, who is essentially a walking deity in St. Louis for all of the charity work he has done for the Gateway city, was livid. He immediately released a statement through his foundation, calling the report 'reckless.' Pujols added, "I have never had a problem with the media when they do their job correctly, whether it is positive or negative - just as long as they report truthfully."

It's important to note that Pujols, for all we know, is one of the good guys. Though he comes across as harsh depending on his 'media mood,' he has done wonders for Down Syndrome research in Missouri. His daughter Isabella has the genetic disorder and his family's work (and their Christian message) is quite inspiring. Pujols has used his fame and fortune for unselfish means and should be commended for that.

But he doesn't understand media. For as much as he's dealt with reporters, he's not familiar with the competitive and cut-throat nature of broadcasting. That report ran for a reason, because KTVI was trying to do their job. They took a chance, which happens often in today's 'saw it here first' media world, and they flat out blew it.

This is not to say that KTVI acted appropriately. They did not. They got the story from WNBC in New York City. The false report included several 'bombshell' names that weren't in the Mitchell Report. Pujols, Damon, Garciaparra, Pudge Rodriguez, Kerry Wood, and Mark Prior among others. The problem? None of them were listed in the Mitchell Report released just hours later.

Running the mysterious online report, complete with anonymous sources, was a risk NOT worth taking. What's worse is that though they retracted their report, KTVI station management did not properly apologize for their mistake. In fact, they were arrogant in defending themselves. Then news director Kingsley Smith violated any sense of journalism ethics by airing the story, then used his affiliated network status to protect his decision.

Smith said being a FOX affiliate "allows us a little more latitude" to essentially air rumors. Smith said doing so provides a "certain sense of edginess and aggressiveness." Who says? Does FOX condone this sort of reporting? Doubt it. Yes Fox is 'edgy'...that's been their M.O. since the days 'Married With Children' first hit the air. But that doesn't mean you run rumors as truth in special news coverage.

Here's the kicker, Smith actually got a better job out of this. From media market #21 in St. Louis, to #4 in Philadelphia. Another FOX affiliate...so maybe Smith was right. That is a scary thought.

Here's Smith's rise to becoming the news director in Philly:
1. Work hard, for years at stations all across the country. (Click for a linkedin resume)
2. Land a top-notch job at a great market.
3. Approve of airing a weak and bogus report with no substantial sources. (Don't bother fact-checking...we're in a hurry!)
4. Dedicate as much air time to this report as possible.
5. When you discover the report is completely false and potentially damaging, refuse to properly apologize.
6. Defend your actions by saying your station's network affiliation allows you to bend/break/bust any ethical standards.
7. Parlay it into a much better job.
8. Laugh on the way to the bank, while also praying the Philly media doesn't pay too much attention.

Journalists and media professors across the country should be outraged by this. But there hasn't been much backlash.

KTVI (and Kingsley Smith) deserve to share the blame with WNBC for going with this report. The responsible media organizations should roll some heads.

But Pujols' latest move is also wrong.

Athletes should not have the ability to limit a specific media outlet's access. If he's limited to one, he should be limited to all. The KTVI sports staff can not be expected to compete with others in the market if they can't interview the team's superstar. Cardinals media relation director Brian Bartow needs to grow a backbone and work this out immediately; and not just for KTVI's sake or for positive public relations for the club. Athletes and coaches do this sort of thing constantly...denying one reporter or another depending on an 'unfair' article or for writing anything negative.

We need to look at the big picture here. The sports media is there to serve the public...to allow fans to be informed and entertained with the latest news and info regarding their favorite teams and players. By banning KTVI from his news conferences, Pujols is denying their viewers that opportunity. That carries with it some troubling consequences for KTVI.

Pujols believes he was damaged by the report...that he will somehow be linked to steroids. The only way that will happen is if he continues to act as a whining child.

Pujols publicly insists God is first and foremost in his life. In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus says, "If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you refuse to forgive others, your Father will not forgive your sins."

Pujols needs to practice what he preaches. Forgive and forget. The rest of us will do the same.