Norman Chad

As a young boy – yes, I once was a young boy; there are photographs – I adopted the Pittsburgh Steelers and Pittsburgh Pirates as my favorite teams. This was a curious decision, considering I had no ties to Pittsburgh and had never been to Pittsburgh. Yet Roberto Clemente and Franco Harris were two of my adolescent sporting idols.

With his Dallas Mavericks closing in on an NBA title, this could be Mark Cuban’s finest hour. Which is not a good thing, unless you don’t mind rewarding everything wrong with American sports vis-à-vis American culture since, oh, 1960 or so.

As part of my acclaimed “No More Stadiums, With or Without Tax Subsidies” Tour, let me explain the current situation in my current home of Los Angeles: The Stadium Fairy apparently is going to drop a $1 billion building on downtown L.A.

These are 23 (more) facts, tried and true, about the widening world of sports television:  1. I just passed the 50,000-hour mark lifetime for watching TV. I thoroughly enjoyed the first 2,000 hours.

Every time I pledge to never write another instant-replay column, I break my promise. What happens is this – I wait until 237,000 people have shouted deep into the night that we absolutely positively have to have replay to officiate games properly, and, then, after shaving and showering, I sit down to record my thoughts, which can be summed up thusly: NO INSTANT REPLAY.

As the baseball postseason starts its long, chilly journey into Bud Selig’s November, I’m going to ask America a favor – not a big one – in regard to the American League playoffs: Root for the Tampa Bay Rays.

Two years ago, with the baseball season one-quarter over, I wrote that the Yankees’ Mariano Rivera might go all of 2008 without giving up a run. He gave up a run the day after my column appeared.

NFL Coach of the Year? That’s easy – it’s the Indianapolis Colts’ Jim Caldwell for chasing perfection in his first season. But the Reverse Coach of the Year, that’s tougher to determine. To be a Reverse Coach of the Year, you have to not coach up to your abilities or underachieve with your team or foul something up worse than the Secret Service letting imposters into a White House state dinner. Or, frankly, even if you irritate me, you can be a candidate. So let’s run down the top five to this year’s NFL Reverse Coach of the Year:

So I just got back to Los Angeles, which is where I live – well, you don’t really “live” in L.A. so much as you float through a surreal strip-mall-and-freeway-exit life – and there is talk, once again, of the NFL coming back to town within a year or two or 200. Shortly after I arrived in Los Angeles many, many tan lines ago, the Rams and the Raiders left. I immediately thought: What do they know that I don’t? Now, with seemingly half the league rumored to be relocating to L.A., I again think: What do they know that I don’t?

It plays second fiddle to Las Vegas and ugly duckling to Lake Tahoe, but it’s my kind of town. The biggest little city in the world is Reno, Nev., and if you’ve never been there, you’ve never been anywhere. And now – and I’ll get back to this momentarily – Reno is home to my favorite franchise in all of sports.

Couch Slouch was outed last week by reporter Ferris Toms on Fox Sports Net's "F:60" newsmagazine, which revealed his real age to be 49, not 47. Here is The Slouch's full explanation: It was 30 years ago and I was looking to break into the newspaper business. I was just a small-town kid from Washington, D.C. – it was a small town then – with a dream.

In October, I wrote that the New England Patriots would not go 16-0, that they might suffer a three-game losing streak late in the season and "that this coronation- in-progress is preposterous for a team that will be watching Super Bowl 42 from the sidelines." Now, I don't mind being wrong – I've had a lot of practice at it – but it's somewhat bothersome to be spectacularly wrong.

They said it, I taped it – Couch Slouch's partial list of TV talk in 2007 that confounded and confused us: Fox's Darryl Johnston: "Marques Colston [has] very strong hands at the point of the catch." Johnston had a choice here – he could've said Colston has "good hands" or he could've said Colston has "very strong hands at the point of the catch." He chose the latter.

What do we know about NFL coaches? They were all born between 1940 and 1975, and they are all men. In the Information Age, the public demands more – thus, Couch Slouch has created the almost unabridged Encyclopedia of NFL Coaches. Note: Due to space limitations, we will not cover Mike Holmgren, Mike McCarthy, Mike Nolan, Mike Shanahan or Mike Tomlin, not to mention recent honchos Mike Mularkey, Mike Sherman or Mike Tice. No Mikes! Plus, we're skipping Brad Childress, Bobby Petrino and Ken Whisenhunt due to indistinguishable features.

Editor's note: Every two years, we are required to publish a Couch Slouch rant about fantasy football. We don't like it any more than you do, but it is our contractual obligation. The Spokesman-Review regrets the inconvenience.

Three weeks ago, Couch Slouch announced the search for a new beer. It is my sincere hope that the brew selected – along with my current wife Toni, aka She Could Be The One III – will become a lifetime companion. What follows are the results of my beer-quest odyssey: I asked my readers to help me select a beer-for-life and more than 400 of you responded.

From the boys of summer to the summer of Bonds, baseball is in the throes of discontent. Barring an act of nature – say, for instance, a locust plague similar to the 1889 Red Sea swarm descends upon AT&T Park – Barry Bonds will surpass Hank Aaron's career record of 755 homers. Couch Slouch contacted several luminaries and asked them to weigh in on the Giant slugger's grim, glum march toward unwanted history: Hank Aaron: Records were made to be broken. But when I hung up my cleats in '76, I realized that to get past 755, someone would have to average nearly 40 homers a year for 20 seasons. Ain't gonna happen – that is, unless some fool raids a pharmaceutical warehouse and makes the Michelin Man look like Manute Bol.

These are 23 (more) facts, tried and true, about the widening world of sports television: 1. Here's my problem with Ultimate Fighting – if nobody dies, how ultimate is it?

We make it, they take it; I'm tired of that system. Of course, I speak of Uncle Sam and Ticketmaster. Well, Couch Slouch is now channeling Howard Beale – I'm taxed as hell and I'm not going to give it anymore. No more federal tariffs, no more convenience charges. The games will go on without me. As for the IRS, from here on in I'm taxing myself – I'll take the money out and put it aside, and when I see a pothole in the road or a U.S. senator who looks a bit thin, I'll pay up.

Per my therapist's suggestion – I've been seeing a shrink since I was 11 months old, after my mother told me "to start fixing your own breakfast" – I am trying to be kinder and gentler. To that end, I've been watching TV with a smile in my heart and have compiled my first-ever list of Slouch Sweeties: Marv Albert, TNT: On any given day, he can call any given play in any given sport – with the possible exception of curling – as well as any given human. Plus, he's ageless.

The sumptuous spectacle we call Super Bowl 41 is being played in south Florida, where America's biggest stage shines on the NFL's biggest stars. Or, as Lenny Bruce once remarked, "Miami Beach is where neon goes to die." Lights, cameras, action … replay! It all will tumble into our living rooms, and, as usual, as a public service I am here to provide my annual Super Bowl Sunday Viewing Guide (For Super Bowl Parties of Six or More):

Super Bowl Sunday had a little of everything: Terrible Towels, MVPs on parade, The Whopperettes, an instant-replay reversal, Cheesy Bites, "We have a Code Black," repeated and annoying Radio Shack ads, "Satisfaction," a gadget-play touchdown, ABC's NFL swan song, The Bus' Last Ride, Fabio and, of course, a game for all ages. Anyway, I took notes:

Since 1967, no matter which foreign land America is bombing, our nation pauses collectively on a solemn football Sunday in the dead of winter to celebrate commercialism, crown a champion and see who's going to Disney World. As usual, I'll be at home alone, a recluse with a remote, virtually tethered to my sofa by court order. But as a public service, I am here to provide my annual Super Bowl Sunday Viewing Guide (For Super Bowl Parties of Six or More):

I stand before the sporting public – proud as a peacock, sober as a scarecrow – to declare my devotion to Notre Dame football. Whereas I once hated Notre Dame, I now hail Notre Dame.