World Cupocalypse

It happened.

The apocalypse.

The end times.

The scorched Earth scenario.

No, not the release of Justin Bieber's new album.

No, not LeBron announcing he wants to be the Toni Kukoc to Wade and Bosh's Jordan and Pippen in Miami.

Worse.

Tori, my wife and long standing Editor-in-Chief of the JBorhood, whose soccer knowledge consists of the fact that "some hot Portuguese dude" (Cristiano Ronaldo) has a set of abdominal muscles off of which she'd like to enjoy a picnic dinner, won the 2010 JBorhood World Cup Extravaganza.

This means, of course, that Tori won a JBorhood pick-off contest before I did.

(The horror! The horror!)

To be fair, the expressed purpose of JBorhood contests is "to prove, once and for all, that pluck, verve, and luck, will triumph over knowledge, experience, an understanding of the basic rules of sports, extraordinary good looks, and an amazing set of dimples every time." Yet, I find very little comfort in my prophetic wisdom (or my extraordinary good looks and amazing set of dimples, for that matter). I'm upset and embarrassed.

I've become the LeBron James of JBorhood competitions.

I do the most research. I have the most inside knowledge. Heck, I based my March Madness predictions on advanced computer simulations this year. I routinely fare well in the opening rounds and have led the pack numerous times. But, I can't seem to get over the hump. I can't come through in the clutch. Every year, tournament after tournament, I watch someone else win while I sit at home, deserving, but unrewarded.

And now Tori won.

The same Tori that spent less time filling out her entire bracket than I did figuring out who would win the first round match-up between Italy and Cameroon (neither of whom advanced past the group stage, I might add).

The same Tori that picked Chile to knock off Brazil in the first round.

The same Tori that picked the United States to make it to the World Cup Finals.

(Of course, also the same Tori that picked the Netherlands, Germany, and Spain to make it to the semi-finals.)

Now, I'm faced with my own mortality. My legacy is at stake. With every tournament, the group of participants grows larger and larger, making it harder and harder to win. I'm dealing with the very real possibility that I may never win a JBorhood competition.

So, what do I do? It is time for me to make "The Decision". Should I leave the JBorhood behind and join a more successful blog, one with expert prognosticators and championship pedigree? Should I string you along, waffle back and forth and turn my thought process into an overblown media circus? Should I leak tidbits to the Honolulu Star-Advertiser and the Honolulu Weekly? Should I take my proverbial talents to the proverbial South Beach?

Of course not.

Only a coward and a sissy would do that.

Win or lose, I'm with the JBorhood for life, the Charles Barkley of the JBorhood instead of the LeBron James. I may be a narcissistic, self-obsessed megalomaniac, but I'm not an douche.

---

Now let's hand out some awards!

Triple Crown Award: WonderGeek3000 (Tori)

Tori had the best team name (WonderGeek3000), the best pick in the tournament (she was the only person that had Netherlands in the semi-finals), and scored the most points.

A clean sweep of the major awards. A Perfect 10.

This comes on the heels of Tori picking East Tennessee State to upset #1 seed Kentucky in the first round of the 2010 NCAA tournament and Morehead State to win the NCAA Tournament in 2009. It would be less of an upset if Stephen Baldwin won the Oscars for Best Picture, Best Actor, and Best Director in 2011 for reprising his role as Doyle Johnson in a sequel to Bio-Dome. (I don't know what's worse, the shame of losing to Tori or the fact that I'm Pauly Shore in that comparison.)

I liked it better when she picked Morehead.


Horseshoes, Hand Gernades, and American Off-Sides Penalties Award: fuBballer beth calls it! (Beth)

Beth was close to winning the JBorhood World Cup Extravaganza. Really close.

In fact, the entire tournament hinged on the game between Germany and Spain. If Germany won, Beth won. If Spain won, Tori won. It was that simple.

Germany entered the match-up as the hottest team in the tournament, fresh off a 4-1 shellacking of England and a 4-0 pasting of Argentina. Spain, on the other hand, narrowly snuck by Portugal and Paraguay to make it to the semi-finals. Germany had won 3 World Cups. Spain had won 0. Germany looked like the best team in the tournament. Spain, well… didn't.

The game was scoreless throughout and looking like it might go into extra time, but in the 73rd minute, Spanish defender Carlos Puyol, the ugliest man in the World Cup, headed a corner kick in to the back of the German net, securing the win for Spain and Tori.

Beth's consolation prize? An 11th place finish due to the weighted scoring system that gave an absurd amount of points to people who picked Spain in the semi-finals.

Nice work, Beth. Sadly, close enough only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and American soccer players getting called for off-sides.


Ignorance is Bliss Award: Die Stunde ist ausgefalen (Nick)

Die Stunde ist ausgefalen sounds like a really cool, bad-ass foreign team name, the perfect intimidating worldly moniker for a World Cup pool.

Of course, when I put the name in Google it spit out the translation: "The class was canceled."

I liked it better when I didn't know.


Drunken Bridesmaid Award: ESPANA DOS MIL DIEZ (Mike Opp)

I don't know why or how Mike became a fan of Spain.

Maybe it's his unadulterated love of Sangria. Maybe it's his borderline creepy crush on Selma Hayek. Maybe it's the fact that watching Vicky Cristina Barcelona was, in his words, "the most sublime two hours of my life". (He didn't actually say this, but I'm pretty sure he would.)

Regardless, he threw his heart and soul behind the Spanish soccer team. When Holland's Nigel de Jong karate kicked Spain's Xabi Alonso in the World Cup final, Mike texted me "I hope Holland blows up." When Spain scored to take the lead, Mike texted me "Um…tsjei@ieuxj". (It's hard to text when you're jumping around your apartment, screaming like a seven year old girl.)

So, normally, Mike would been upset that he was only a Brazil victory over Holland away from winning the title, except it's tough to be mad when you're on a week long sangria bender.

Viva Espana, indeed.


My other pool is a Ferrari Award: AlmightyJ (Justin)

Yes, I finished fourteenth out of seventeen. Yes, I scored barely a third of Tori's winning score. Yes, I failed to win, again.

But..

I also entered a friend's World Cup pool (fellow participant Jake aka C'mon Luxembourg!) with different picks, including Spain winning it all and I did better. Much better.

In fact, I did better than anyone else in the pool.

That's right; I won.

I won a completely different and unrelated pool with no prize and no way to validate my claim of winning other than a link to a congratulatory tweet from the league organizer (http://twitter.com/jwolman/status/18317354336), but I still won.

Take that, Tori.

(Now let's move along before any of you ask whether my other bracket actually scored more points than Tori.)


My Other Pool is a more expensive Ferrari Award: Fly (Jason)

Rumor has it there was some other World Cup pool in which a few family members participated.

Rumor also has it that Jason won.

But then, you can't believe everything you read.


My Respect Award: Da Goatt (Jordan)

Jordan loves Spain (for reasons similar to Mike, I presume) and he loves his country. As a man of principal, Jordan picked both those teams to win all their games, with the United States bowing out to Spain in the semis and the Spaniards winning it all.

In another family pool (the one I will neither confirm, nor deny whether Jason won), which allowed participants to update their picks up until game time, Jordan again picked the United States and Spain to win all their games. Heading into the finals Jordan trailed only one person (whom I will neither confirm, nor deny was Jason), but a correct pick in the final match, coupled with an incorrect pick by said unsubstantiated tournament leader would give Jordan the title. Spain was the clear favorite. It was a virtual certainty that the person whom I will neither… ok, this is getting stupid. It was Jason. He won. I said it. Are you happy? It was a virtual certainty that Jason would pick Spain. Even then, knowing the Netherlands were his only chance to win, Jordan picked Spain.

If Jordan were LeBron James he would have stayed in Cleveland, told the general manager to fire all the players and played 1 v 5 for the 2010-2011 season.

He wouldn't win, but damn it, you'd respect him.

Congratulations, Jordan. You have my respect (award).


Failed Irony Award: C'mon Luxembourg! (Jake)

When Jake created his quippy nickname, he most likely intended it to be ironic. A feigned show of support for a small country that failed to make the World Cup would make his eventual triumph seem that much more glorious in contrast.

Of course, then the games started and Jake watched as his four semi-finalist picks -- England, Brazil, Argentina, and Portugal -- won a combined two games in the knockout rounds of the tournament.

But, Jake's efforts were not completely in vain. If he hadn't chosen his tragically non-ironic nickname, I wouldn't have learned that the official name of Luxembourg is the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg.

Now we're all winners.


Lunch Is On Me Award: CaptainHwnPete (Peter)

I will neither confirm, nor deny whether Peter actually made the picks that gave him a third place finish. I will, however, suggest that he take my Mom out to lunch.


Fuel for Marital Discord Award: HMDS0CCER (Dad)

I will neither confirm, nor deny whether my Dad actually made the picks that made him finish in last place, with only 11.5 games correct and a grand total of 29 points. I will, however, suggest that my Mom give him a nice long back massage and an apology.


No, really, I made Peter's picks Award: 120Bambi (Mom)

Sure you did, Mom. Sure you did.

;)


God Bless Weighted Scoring Award: Forza Azzuri, (Hayes)

Hayes only picked 13.5 games right. (Fourth from the bottom in total correct picks)

Hayes picked France, Denmark, Italy, and the United States to make it to the quarter-finals.

Hayes picked England, Brazil, and Argentina to make it to the semi-finals.

Of course, Hayes also picked Spain to win it all, meaning he finished fifth overall due to the weighted scoring system, which gives as many points for picking the eventual winner as it does for picking every single team that advanced out of the group stage.

If the scoring system ever comes up for a vote, I think I know what Hayes would choose.


President of the Anti-Weighted Scoring Fan Club Award: BOOTLEG (Chris)

Chris picked 17.5 games right. (Second only to Tori.)

Chris picked the Netherlands, Spain, Germany and Argentina to make it to the quarter-finals.

Chris picked Germany and Spain to make it to the semi-finals.

Of course, Chris also picked England to make it to the semis and Portugal to win it all, meaning he finished an uninspiring seventh in the final rankings (behind Hayes, I might add) due to the weighted scoring system, which gives as many points for picking the eventual winner as it does for picking every single team that advanced out of the group stage.

If the scoring system ever comes up for a vote, I think I know what Chris would choose.


Truth in Advertising Award: Mercurlz (Shane)

When I asked Shane to enter the tournament, he said "Dude, I don't know anything about soccer." I told him not to worry and assured him that a lack of soccer knowledge would not preclude him from enjoying a modicum of success in the pool.

Shane finished in a tie for fifteenth (out of 17).

Sorry, Shane. You were right. I was wrong.


For Lack of a Better Award: tiffers (Tiff)

Tiff picked 16 games correctly, astutely tabbed Germany and Spain in the semi-finals, and finished a respectable eighth place.

I got nothing.


Maltesian Historical Society Award: qormi (R. Ericson)

Up until now, I have personally known every person who participated in a JBorhood pickoff extravaganza. But, in what can only be characterized as a sure indication that the popularity of the JBorhood is growing at a staggering, exponential rate, a mysterious "R. Ericson" joined the World Cup Extravaganza.

I don't know any Ericsons, let alone any R. Ericsons, and certainly not one who refers to themself as "qormi". For that matter, what the deuce is qormi, or is it a qormi? Wikipedia suggests that "Qormi (also known as Citta Pino) is a city Malta with a population of 16,576, which makes it the third largest locality in Malta." Also, and perhaps more to the point, Wikipedia tells me that the city has a soccer team, Qormi F.C. that participates in the Malta Football Association and is arch rivals with the Zebbug Rangers. Even better, Qormi F.C. employs players named "Chucks Nwoko" (or as I've taken to calling him just this second, the Nigerian Chuck Norris) and "Chima Dozie" (which I believe is a prominent strain of Northern California cannabis).

I don't know what any of that means, nor am I any closer to solving the mystery of R. Ericson, but I learned more about Malta in the last 15 minutes than I knew in my entire life and if that's not award worthy, I don't know what is.


Nothing Beats Making Fun of the English Award: holensdale20 (Shaun)

Shaun correctly picked fifteen games, including picking Spain to make the finals for a total of 60 points and a respectable ninth place finish.

Nothing to write home about, but nothing to lampoon either.

However, Shaun doesn't need a fancy JBorhood award. Shaun received a far greater gift during the tournament: Shaun got to enjoy the United States's opening round 1-1 "win" over the British in a bar full of Englishmen.

No one does self-loathing like the English. Berating themselves is a national pastime. They embrace it with a religious fervor. They simultaneously latch on to an attitude of smug national superiority and assured fatalism better than anyone in the world. Each heart wrenching defeat makes them more confident in their manifest destiny and equally sure that the next eventual loss will occur in a more tragic manner than before, a self-fulling prophecy that always fulfills.

When England gave up an opening match goal to the United States on a goalie error that would embarrass a twelve year-old, no one was more upset or less surprised than the English.

And Shaun got to see it all.

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Thanks again for a great tournament. After handing out all the awards, I almost feel better about losing to someone who won the tournament based almost solely on her love of tapas. Almost.

See you in four years.

What LeBron James and my college application process have in common

I applied early decision to Stanford my senior year in high school. No other school matched it's unique blend of academics, athletics, warm weather, and proximity to Hawaii. It was my holy grail of higher education.

I had initially dismissed applying because my GPA was solid, but not immaculate. I secured a recommendation from a trustee, scored well on the SAT and SAT 2s, and -- the trump card -- I had a positive meeting with the Cardinal Crew Coach, who was impressed with my US Junior National Team kayaking background, and agreed to talk to the Admissions department on my behalf. By the time the letter arrived from Stanford a month later, I was convinced it would announce my acceptance.

It did not.

I calmly expressed my frustrations by punching a hole in my bedroom wall and went into a two month depressive funk, convinced my life was officially ruined.

It was not.

I iced my knuckles, swallowed my pride, and put the stunning rebuke behind me. I sent out applications to a number of schools, got accepted to a few, and eventually selected Pomona College.

Pomona was the polar opposite of Stanford. Stanford had over 18,000 students. Pomona had 1,500. Stanford played in the Pac-10. Pomona played in the SCIAC (I still don't know what that stands for and, frankly, don't think anyone does). Stanford was located in the heart of Silicon Valley. Pomona was located in the heart of the Inland Empire. In fact, Pomona was completely different than the type of school I envisioned when I started the college search.

It was also the perfect school for me.

I needed a school where I could make mistakes and still wind up on my feet. A school that helped me figure out who I was and what I wanted to do. I would have been lost in the shuffle at Stanford. Drowning in the deep end of the pool. Pomona's small size and tight knit student body provided the ideal setting for me to develop emotionally and intellectually. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't change a thing, rejection and all. Suck it, Stanford. (As you can see, I'm still very mature about the ordeal.)

Now, twelve years later, my favorite basketball team, the Chicago Bulls, is on the precipice of a similar life altering decision. They spent the last three years dismantling a failed playoff contender, cutting ties with productive players in preparation for the summer of 2010 and the unprecedented free agent class. Now, it's senior year. Time for the Bulls to submit their applications, and, much like me back in High School, the Bulls have a clear favorite.

The Bulls are applying early decision to LeBron James University, the Stanford of the NBA. No other player can match his unique blend of athleticism, size, speed, strength, scoring, shooting, passing, rebounding, and defense. He is the holy grail of professional basketball.

Two months ago, I never considered LeBron a possibility for Chicago. All sources confirmed that he wanted to stay in Cleveland, his hometown. But that was before the playoffs. Before his unceremonious second round exit, the meeting with the Stanford Crew Coach of LeBron's decision making process, if you will.

Then rumors started swirling. Sources close to LeBron said he would consider leaving. Now, it's a different story every day. On Monday, the New York Times quoted an Eastern Conference General Manager saying that LeBron James to the Bulls was a done deal. On Tuesday, Stephen A. Smith reported that LeBron would join Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh in Miami. Today, the Cleveland Plain Dealer announced that the Cavaliers still have the edge to sign LeBron. (Plain Dealer? Really? If your primary newspaper is the Plain Dealer I think it's safe to say you're not a major metropolitan area. Thanks for playing, Cleveland.)

The only thing anyone can confirm is that no one has any idea where LeBron is going, possibly including LeBron himself.

But here's what I do know: The Chicago Bulls offer LeBron the best chance to win, both now and in the future. They have the necessary cap space to sign him and another premiere free agent to maximum deals (NBA regulations set the maximum dollar amount and contract length to which a player can sign). They have a budding superstar in Derek Rose, a top-5 rebounder and defensive center in Joakim Noah, an underrated swingman in Luol Deng, and a great hustle player and rebounder in Taj Gibson. No other NBA franchise can offer LeBron James the same combination of cap space and talent. If LeBron wants to win, the choice is clear.

Unfortunately, that leaves me in the same unsettling position I found myself in twelve years ago: I have utterly unrealistic expectations about a complete uncertainty. In 1999, Stanford's admission rate was approximately 12%. I'm only kidding myself if I think LeBron's chances of signing in Chicago are any higher. Yet, I am both confident and excited that LeBron James will join the Chicago Bulls. Anything less will be a complete letdown.

Two months ago, I would have been ecstatic with Chris Bosh or Joe Johnson. Even Carlos Boozer in a Bulls uniform would have given me a momentary erection (look, it's been a long time since we had a low post scorer and, no, that is not a euphemism). Now, it's LeBron or bust.

But what does bust mean? And is it really the worse option in the long run?

Without question, LeBron James gives the Bulls the best chance to win a championship. But he's not really our basketball player. He belongs to Cleveland. He grew up in Cleveland. He was drafted by Cleveland. He's played his entire career in Cleveland. If he became a Bull, we'd be leasing him from the state of Ohio. It might be a lease with an eventual option to buy, but it's not a guarantee. He may never truly belong to Chicago.

Michael Jordan played his entire career for the Chicago Bulls. (The years with Wizards never happened. You got that? NEVER HAPPENED.) As Bulls fans, we watched him grow and develop into the greatest of all time. We watched him learn. We watched him work. We watched him struggle. We watched him lose to the Pistons in the playoffs again and again and again. Finally, we watched him dismantle the Pistons and the Lakers to assume what we always knew was his rightful place atop the NBA.

Would that first title and the subsequent decade long run of dominance mean as much to me if Michael Jordan was drafted by the Trail Blazers instead of Sam Bowie and spent the first six years of his career in Portland before signing a free agent contract to play with the Bulls in the summer of 1990?

I honestly don't know.

Put a different way, if LeBron decides to join the Bulls and leads the team to it's first post-Jordan Championship, will it be as satisfying as the first six?

Again, I honestly don't know.

Maybe, in the long run, it would be better, from a fan's perspective, to sign a lower tier free agent like David Lee and let Derrick Rose continue to develop into a superstar and team leader. They wouldn't win a championship right away, and they might never win one, but if they did, it'd be because Derrick Rose developed into a transcendent superstar and we'd get to experience the joy of watching that championship grow and develop. The destination made that much sweeter because of the journey.

Right now, I don't believe that. I want LeBron and I want him badly. I want the opportunity to watch the best player in the world, once again, play for the Chicago Bulls.

But twelve years ago, I thought I wanted to go to Stanford.

So, in one week, when LeBron announces he is staying in Cleveland, I'll think of twelve years ago and hope the Bulls find their Pomona. I'll also try not to punch a hole in my wall. Because that really hurts.