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I played football for 12 years. From third grade all the way through high school, my autumns were filled with football. Practice during the week, games on the weekends. When I wasn’t playing it, I watched it. Saturdays and Sundays in the fall still are my favorite days in the year. I can’t get enough of football.

I couldn’t help but be that way. My father worked at the Meadowlands in sports public relations before I was born, and he had an avid Giants fandom that naturally was handed down to my brother and me. I learned two traits revolving around sports in the fall season: a love for football and a hate for soccer.

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Since Alfonso Soriano’s strike out to end the Cubs playoff run in 2008, there haven’t been many happy day for Chicago fans. Since then, the Cubs have not been back to the playoffs and have continued a steady decline, losing 101 games last season. Still, there have been some silver linings along the way, including the growth of Starlin Castro and the debut of Anthony Rizzo. But today might be the best day the Cubs have in the past five seasons. Today, July 2, 2013, will always be remembered as the day the Carlos Marmol Era ended.

 This is how I feel. 

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soggy-soccer-field

It wasn’t quite a wet, windy Tuesday night in Stoke, but it was a hazy, overcast Sunday afternoon in New York that eventually, mercifully brought rain and tremendous heartbreak to Purple Reign’s second match. On the same day as another, slightly less important game of futbol, the commute to Riverside Park was far less stressful (mostly because I left my apartment with more than enough time), though I am still not convinced I have found the most efficient way of crossing from the Bronx to upper east side of Manhattan; this time, I traversed the entire island laterally, itself a full workout and showed up to the field drenched in sweat. Fortunately I had remembered to put on sunscreen prior to departing, not that it ended up mattering at all given the clouds. Walking up to the field, I ran into two teammates, and we discussed how perfect it would be if the skies opened, only slightly, allowing a few precious, cool drops of rain to fall.

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Wimbledon is somewhat like the Masters. It’s steeped in tradition (BERRIES AND CREAM) and a color palette of purple and green that is as identifiable as the Kelly green and gold of Augusta National. The event is also marked by its air of privilege and exclusivity that rivals America’s Butler Cabin. Not everyone can get into the All-England Club, you know.

However, the upturned nose of Wimbledon was broken during the lead up to the tournament when Maria Sharapova and Serena Williams added what should have been another chapter to Bomani Jones’ #SHADE series.

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The 2013 Stanley Cup Finals will be remembered for a variety of reasons: it was the first final in twenty years to feature at least three overtime games,  it was the first final since 1979 to feature two of the Original Six franchises and it included perhaps the most improbable Stanley Cup-winning comeback in NHL history, a 17-second burst of offense that began with the Blackhawks pulling their immovable force of a goalie, Corey Crawford, and ended with a rebounded shot from Dave Bolland.

Really, it was an alignment of all the things that make postseason hockey a seemingly different sport from regular season hockey, one which people are more willing to ingest as a result of the excitement and fervor with which each team plays its games. No one leaves anything on the ice during the playoffs, or at least that is what fans are led to believe, and when a team has already played a legendary first-round series, with a legendary game 7, it is hard to continue putting out the effort to defeat team after team in route to a championship.

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I will always remember when I saw Ken Griffey Jr. play in Yankee Stadium. To this day, I have never seen a better athlete in person than The Kid. Even at a young age I knew I was watching something special, just by the way he carried himself on the field. Watching him tracking down deep fly balls to make them look routine, whacking a double down the left field line without a hitch in his swing, and playing the game with a true love that made you want to get out there and join him is something that I will never forget. Someday I will say to my kids, “Ken Griffey Jr. was the best athlete I ever saw in person.”

But what will I tell them about LeBron James?

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Courtesy Warner Bros.

When I moved to New York City for college, there was a list of things that I knew I would need to do to take full advantage of my time here in between classes and, you know, working my way toward being a half-decent, functioning human being in the post-undergraduate world. Along the way, various items have been added, put on hold, scrapped altogether or forgotten. One of the tasks I knew I needed to complete once I decided on staying in the city for the summer after my junior year was to join and play in a recreational city soccer league. After extensive research with the help of some people on the world wide web, I decided upon ZogSports as my league partly for its relatively reasonable entrance fee and also for its association with charities in and around the city (ZogSports requires teams to play in the honor of a charity of their choosing). After unsuccessfully trying to get a few of my friends to join with me, I went for it alone. I paid the bill and began the waiting game, hoping the almighty Zog would not stall too long before alerting me of my teammates.

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People that hate LeBron James piss me off. You want to know why? Because very few of them, nay, NONE of them, have a good reason to hate LeBron James. Reading this, keep in mind I am a LeBron lover. I am partially biased because I do like the guy, but I’m also right. Nobody you know has a good reason to hate LeBron James.

If you ask a random LeBron hater why he hates the greatest basketball player on planet Earth, the same terrible reasons will probably come up. People will call him cocky and arrogant. They will bring up “The Decision” and the choice he made in “The Decision.”

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