Hey, don't be mad at us. It was just our little April Fools' joke. But you proved to be witty and clever with your letters. Here are our favorites:
Neel: Pete Brown is old-school, rock-solid, built like they used to be, back when numbers were for bean counters and a man's word meant something and you knew no matter what your buddy Pete had your back. I'm talking old school. With funk.
Simmons: 12:47: Page 2 picks Pete Brown to cover the Final Four. Another savvy move from Bristol. Hey, let's bring the town drunk aboard! Not good times. Bad times.
Whitlock: Page 2 could do worse than Pete Brown, just like Ball State could have done worse than me. Jerks.
Shanoff: Hot: Pete Brown; Not hot: Sammy Davis Junior.
I enjoy hating things. I hate work. Hate home. Hate rodeos, ointments and recycling. I hate fudgecicles ... because it sounds like "testicles" and I don't how to spell it. I hate Triscuits; I hate Spandex. Hate , A-Rod and R-Dub (just kidding ... I don't hate ). Hated high school. Hated college. I do enjoy an occasional pudding pop. Nice outer layering, otherwise, it's a fudgecicle. Did I spell that differently than before? I hate proofreading. I probably hate you. But I do like one thing: hating Duke. Please let me like hating Duke in person. I promise you won't hate your decision.
As I wax poetic about the drunken shannanigans that could transpire winning the trip of a lifetime, I find myself drifting back to my days as a college student to fully cover such a momentous event. I don't mean falling down stupid drunk, but fun-sarcastic-witty drunk using my interests in basketball, pornography and cultural anthropology to pen a few acerbic columns sure to delight the readers of the illustrious Page 2
The Final Four is every Canadian kid's dream. It's been bred into our way of life. As children, we get up at 5 .m., so we can shovel snow off the court. It didn't matter that it was so cold we couldn't dribble the ball. We could still picture hitting that buzzer-beating jump shot to win the National Championship. That image stuck with us. Like our tongues to a metal pole. So, in order for me to get to San Antonio, I would brave the tepid heat, and leave my frozen heaven. Just to report on my childhood fantasy. Plus I got friends I could crash with in San Antonio, so you could save some cash that way.
I'm willing to skip a bachelor party this weekend. Normally I would throw on a Doug Christie jersey after a statement like that, but not when the "party" entails laser tag and a trip to Dave & Buster's. When Okafor sends yet another monstrous block into the stands, I'll be strapping on a lighted vest. When Dicky V hyperventilates for the tenth time, I'll be cashing in Skeeball tickets for a plastic mustache comb. It's like going to Mardi Gras during prohibition. Tease me no longer -- send me to the only male utopia this weekend has to offer.
I'm a Syracuse junior studying abroad in London with a major presentation coming up on Monday. Still, I'd pay $1105 -- the current fare on Orbitz.com -- to get to the Alamo. I saw the Orangemen prevail in New Orleans last year. Unfortunately, the weekend was marred with a botched ticket-scalping incident that landed me in jail for 10 hours. (All charges were dropped Monday morning). I'd like to atone for the mistakes I made. I'll be on the receiving end this time, paying whatever necessary and making a Final Four's scalper dreams come true. That'll make me 1 for 2.
Talk about irony ... I just finished duct-taping my MOM's hands and feet together, dropped a Walton multi-colored fro-wig on her, and put her up on eBay, with a BUYITNOW of $2000 and/or tix to San Antone ... Facts are facts ... No upside left, her meatloaf stinks, and she never had a drop step like my man Okafor. Sure she's great ... and the prison time will sting, but we're talkin' Final Four, BABY ... Come strong or don't come at ALL! (NOTE: This passage guarantees me a #1 seed in HELL ... or East Rutherford)
The chances of getting a gig like writing for the NCAA Tourney is probably as good as getting one my submissions accepted for "here's looking at you." I can't say I would go to extreme lengths to get in to the Tourney. I also doubt I would get in on looks either. However, since every team I picked to be in the Final Four this year in every pool was eliminated like a fat man named Quigley, I got nothing else to do or root for. I figure being a bipartisan fan of the game would allow me to write my article without favoritism, check my reflection off of Dicky V's dome and not curse out collegiate athletes because my $50 pool is riding on it.
New Hyde Park, N.Y.
6'8" MWM ISO public medium through which to bash all things Duke. Non-smoking, frustrated, should-have-played-college-ball, attorney-hating attorney seeking one last shot at satisfying pathetic need to fill void in otherwise below-average personal and professional life through sports. Promise not to let facts interfere with otherwise good column, or change opinions, biases or angles already espoused. Hoping for good times with run-on sentences, cheesy one-liners and hyphens -- just like Brian Murphy. No committed relationships please.
Ft. Lauderdale, Fla.
Type my name into Google and see how many hits come up -- on your Web site! In the days when you put reader comments into your Top Ten lists, I was quoted more than any other reader. My friends here at work even call me "Page 2." And when you had the poll for reader suggestions for Top Ten lists, you voted my suggestion number one. I've been published on Page 2 more than some of your paid writers! So give me the job. I've proven I've got what it takes.
If this is an April Fool's joke I am going to come to Bristol and kick someone's ass. Things I would do to get to the championship game: I would run my fingers through Steve Lavin's hair. I would smell Gene Keady's breath. I would wear Bobby Huggins' windbreaker after a triple overtime game. I would give Roy Williams a Kleenex after he was once again eliminated from the Tournament. I would wipe that smug look off of coach K's face. I would tell Bob Knight he is behaving better than I expected. I would tell Mike Anderson to chill. And would challenge Rick Majerus to a bellyflop contest. Go G Tech.
The devil went down to O-town
Cause he heard this boy could write.
"Boy," he said, "Let's throw down,
See if you can fight.
"If you win, you'll see the games,
Courtside -- here's your chance."
The boy stood tall,
Then simply said, "Let's dance."
They drew pens, feverish wrote 'til the boy victorious rose.
"Send me to Texas, SOB-I'm the best that's ever been."
The devil slyly smiled wide,
Said, "Pride's a deadly sin."
The boy now sleeps amidst the fire,
Against a floor of stone.
He'd do it again, given the chance,
For a shot at San Antone.
I do realize how hard of a job it is to read the essays of all 12 of us diehard Page 2 fans, but I couldn't explain Gene Keady's comb-over in less than 100 words. Anyway, what is the deal with this college essay subject? You know the ones, the "what do you have to offer to 'blank' University." What do you say to those, "A fake ID"? What the hell am I supposed to say to this question, lick guacamole off of Vitale's head? (And yes, I realize that I wasted my entire essay on bitching about it)
I'll go bare-knuckles with Tyson. I'll out-eat Barkley. I'll out-drive Tiger. I'll go two on one with LeBron and Carmelo. Hell, I'll up and move to Texas, buy a truck with a gun rack, join the NRA, slaughter my own beef, and root for the Tuna and Me-shawn. My NCAA commentary will be so compelling and wit-filled, even Dickie V will pipe down momentarily.
One thing I won't do, however, is be played like a fool on April 1. By the way, where do I pick up my first-class ticket to San Antone?!
You probably have fifty Fear Factor failures (notice the alliteration) with more muscles than Ferrigno in Pumping Iron about to drink a gallon of whale milk. Whale milk? It's just like a cow's only more bitter and with the consistency of pancake mix. Not me; I am willing to do the following, which for a Page 2 reader is 1000 times harder: For one year I would give up beer, chicken wings, Golden Tee, Maxim, strip clubs and the Sopranos. In addition I will watch all Britney and Jessica videos without mute.
If this contest were real, I would pen eloquence and insight with wit and brevity. I would count my words to exactly 100, spel chk and gramar checks so my thoughts are unmuddled.
I would quote "Hoosiers" and "Hoop Dreams."
However, sadly, today is April 1st -- and Google announced Gmail. The "billion-dollar corporation announcing a too good to be true offer" ship sailed this morning and unfortunately ESPN (wholly owned subsidiary of Mickey and Pluto) was not on board.
Unless of course you're serious. Son of a ... You should pick me because I'm the only Astrophysicist applying.
Sixteen Wrestlemanias ago, I wanted to be Larry Legend. Unfortunately, I could never grow a Bird-caliber crustache and I ball like Carlton Banks, so I need Page 2's help (and a ride to Logan) to get to San Antonio.
I'll be the unsung hero/designated driver/translator for your Turkish correspondents -- the Soda Pop of the Page 2 Outsiders. I'll perform all glorified intern duties to perfection, but I won't cruise River Walk with a DNA stain on my Greg Kite throwback.
And you think Ozzy's trip to SA was a pissah?!!
I would stand on my head, in a puddle of mud, dressed in the Bratwurst Sausage costume, covered in Cheez Whiz and hopefully get to try a interview Mike Tyson about facial tattoos and fornications. I love Page 2.
So easy! As a 29-year-old with thinning hair, standing 5-foot-9 (according to my license) and weighing in at a svelte 205, it's obvious I play for the band. "Gary Jones, 2nd trombone. Anybody seen my music?" I'll grab the old-school horn, hop in line as they leave the bus. Odds are I can take a band kid, get his uniform, get in there and play (I might even get a note right). So what if I'm a born-and-bred Mass-hole? I can talk Cowboy. You know, "stirrups," "multi-gallon hat," "giddy-yo-ass-on up.". I'm the OSU band chameleon.
OK, my full name is Harris Richard Wiener. I swear. That's a hell of a start. I'm from New York, and life's miserable right now -- I have dreams of Kerry Collins, hung over, accepting a pass from Penny Hardaway and flipping to Mo Vaughn for the double play. In 2008. I promise to discover what happens when NCAA teams get drunk the night before the championship game, why we can't just spell it "Sheshefsky," and what happens when Simmons finds Josh Childress hiding an Ace of Spades in his afro. Only two problems ... someone's gonna have to explain to a Jewish Long Island mother why I'm missing Passover, and I just realized the deadline was 12 hours ago. Damn. But I still think I deserve the job. C'mon. You know you want to contact me.
Harris Richard Wiener
In an e-mail to my good friend Jimmy I penned, "I am ruin. I am decay," in response to Kentucky's untimely exit from the Tourney. That sums up my feelings for the remainder of this year's action. However, for the opportunity to see Duke handled, nay crushed, by an impressive team from merry Connecticut I would resort to the unthinkable. I would laud the BCS, publicly endorse Bud Selig as a visionary of sport, go bar-hopping with Billy Packer, wrestle Iron Mike for his Xanex, and even turn down a date with Jennie Finch. Surely no man could give more.
Augusta, Ga (formerly Bowling Green, Kent.
If I hadn't already sold my kidney to get into a Poison concert a few years ago (take that Ticketmaster!), that would be my first inclination. As it is, I am willing to spend the rest of my waking hours between now and Saturday at buffet-style restaurants. This will ensure that I will display both the appearance of a (non-TV) reporter to get into the championship and the cunning of the most seasoned veterans when a fresh spread is laid out in the press box.
Newport Beach, Calif.
My flesh burning upon contact, I would don a Paul O'Neill jersey and speak in tongues of the "majesty" of the Yankees. Pausing only intermittently to vomit, I would declare allegiance to the evil empire in the face of any rebuttal offered by the hardworking, decent people of Red Sox Nation. I would sell my soul, my absolute convictions, for one moment's worth of Johnny Damon/caveman/Jim Morrison jokes with Simmons and Caple. I might even ... GASP! ... renounce my love of the Hartford Whalers. I will now light myself on fire.