Double High-Fives for Anucha's Story

If I were to be stuck on an island the rest of my life, and was not allowed to pick family or friends or Tom Hanks, I’d want to be there under a coconut tree with a group of the finest sportswriters in the business.

Here’s some of the feedback on “Game On," my article on Anucha Browne Sanders (who took on Isiah Thomas, James Dolan, MSG and won.) I'm going to run the risk of coming across as boastful (and feel as though I can't carry these guys' notebooks) by running the following blog, yet I ask for some mercy. I'm just a kid who can't believe she's become friends with some of the all-star legends in the business—writers I read as a kid, and those who, along with my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, Mr. Papa, inspired me to write.

“Maureen, Congratulations on a terrific story. You had an inside track and you made the most of it.”
—IRA BERKOW, New York Times writer, author and die-hard hoops junkie

After Jack McCallum from SI gave me the scouting report (see below), Ira and I played HORSE last year. Actually it was 10 games of HORSE, and it would have gone on until someone physically collapsed if Ira had his way. Ira knows I will write about it one day, and has asked to preview of the story before it runs, so he can add his take. In the black and white photograph above is Ira with Walt Frazier. Ira’s hoops memoir is called “To the Hoop.” I enjoyed it, but not as much as our gladiator-like HORSE battle.

“A wonderful piece of advocacy journalism. It should win you some kind of award.”
--JACK MCCALLUM, Sports Illustrated, senior NBA writer

I met Jack during my senior year at Northwestern, when Rick Telander, another SI writer and Northwestern graduate, knew I had just published a story on a 17-year-old kid named Kevin Garnett.
I grew up reading SI and almost did a flip in my apartment when Jack left a message saying he heard I knew how to track down Garnett, and asked if I would give him an assist. I did the best I could, but Garnett wasn’t in town. In addition to feeding me and telling me the best Magic, Bird, Jordan stories ever over dinner, Jack (pictured here) got SI to throw me $300 for my effort, and he landed me a contributing writers credit at the end of the story. Jack just wrote a terrific, spot-on story called “The Real Dope," building a solid case that sports simply reflect our quick-fix, stay young forever Americans culture where most of us are stockpiling anti-aging products and considering a myriad of procedures, raising real questions as to why we're punishing athletes more than average citizens.

A comment from a lawyer who shall remain nameless: “I think you did a terrific job with the story. Very insightful. You presented the facts extremely well and bolstered your theory with impressive experts. I've read a lot of stories on the case, but yours is far and away the most comprehensive and persuasive. I'm glad we were able to help. Congrats.”

Frank Isola, NY Daily News writer, sent me either a sarcastic of good-natured email saying something along the lines of, but don't quote me: So you want me to write about your piece the day after the Post plugged it? Are you bragging? I'll plug your story if you plug my work.

I told Frank 1) I’m not bragging; I clicked you into the mass e-mail list just because I thought you'd like to read the story and 2) If you had returned my previous emails that I sent you months ago, I would have been thrilled to have had you plug the piece (in addition to Lupica, Vescey and Berman. It would have been awesome to have hit the grandslam and have all these writers plug the piece in the same day, and not a stretch, considering no one had any fresh Knicks-related material to write about that week.)

From what I’ve heard there's serious tension between scribes like us who are doing what we do and Knicks PR folks, who are merely trying to keep their jobs and get through another depressing season. I told Frank that we need to stick together and ride it out. We made our peace and I assured my colleague that once I start my puff pieces for Dime Magazine, I will see him at the Garden. There I will tell him, in person, how I plugged Frank Isola's BLOG here and even included a photo of what appears to be a good-looking Italian gentleman.

Click here to read "Game On" in Elle Magazine. (April '08)

And in closing, if the NY Post's Marc Berman is reading this, he's going to wonder where is his mug and plug? Write me, my friend. And let me know if you ever ran that correction that Anucha and I were NOT ever teammates, which was the whole point of my lede.

And another double-high five to Berman for setting me up for the score.

Celebrating March Madness

Last night, while watching March Madness, Meghan Holohan, a former collegiate basketball player, wanted to replay some of the highlights from her glory days as a shooting guard at Rider University. A friend had mailed her a Rider vs. Siena game tape, and Meg asked me to find the play in the second half when she passed the ball to her roommate, Lats, on the wing. Meg says this is her favorite action shot of her entire career, and I've posted it here so her teammates can vividly recall their days as Broncs. There are two highlights--one nice move by my sister's best friend, Trika, then two boards by Holohan, followed by Lats filling the left lane. I'm going to produce an entertaining segment on Meg's hoops career in the next few months. Sign up for the mohostudio.com mailing list if you'd like to get a sneak preview before it hits the theaters.

Anucha's Story Runs in Elle Magazine

Finally! It took me years to get a big story like this locked in and over the finish. I owe a big thanks to Anucha, an intensely private mother, wife and professional, and to Laurie Abraham, my brilliant editor--she's on my Dream Team of editors.

Check out "Game On" in Elle's April issue. (I'll blog about the overwhelmingly positive response in a few weeks.)

Here's an interesting photoshopped image of Anucha and Isiah from the piece, which was plugged by the NY Post. Anucha was one of the best players I've ever played on the court; and my favorite T-shirt as a kid was one that had Bird, Magic and Isiah on it.

Spitzer's Sympathy Voters

Above is a photo of a fallen American who recently has given us every reason to A) despise rich white men B) believe all politicians are dirty and C) never ever--even while under the influence--consider running for office. Although not as shocking and as funny as the cover of New York Magazine, this snapshot will forever hold a special place in Holohan family history. Here, working the crowd at our state capitol, is Elliot Spitzer, protected by a uniformed blood relative. This family member shall remain nameless, per the family policy, in effect due to our mixed lineup of conservative law enforcement officials, liberal journalists, Hillary fans and Bush backers. We will abide by our holiday truce this upcoming Easter Sunday. (Truth be told, the chances of the aforementioned parties reading this blog are about as good as Spitzer returning to politics. Still, I know someone will report me. Just ask Eliot what happens when you try to slip one past NYS Troopers.)

In mid-January 2008, my sister saw this photo on the cover of the free Metro, and cried out amid a crowd of subway riders, “I know that noggin!” Proud of this family member’s perfect posture and focus, we posted the photo on our refrigerator. Eliot appears to be at ease, owning the dignified room during the State of the State address. Patterson is there on the left, or so it appears, adding a shade of color to the white crowd. Everything is just so beautiful, tranquil, polished, for we are looking at Eliot Spitzer from a distance, from an odd angle that keeps his more telling feature hidden from the distant, average voter like me.

A long time ago, having already voted for Spitzer due to his party and another family member’s professional affiliation with him (again, off-limits for the blog), I remember taking note of his famous face and a voice inside of me running a line that said, "The eyes, chico, they never lie." Due to my party and my family's affiliation, I cast my vote in his favor, which I guess, kind of makes me flawed and well, Republican-like. (That was a dig in honor of my Great Uncle Dave, a loyal republican who always likes to get the rest of us worked up.) Then I read an article on him and saw a photo of Eliot with his beautiful and sophisticated wife, Silda, and thought, okay, maybe I was wrong.

When the news boiled over in our living room, the sisters got the photographed family member on speaker and said, “Clearly you weren’t watching the man closely enough.” A friend remained in the room during the family discussion, saying very little during the sisters debate, except for his one keen observation of a guest on Chris Matthews. The guest, who’s name escapes me, was a former Wall Street executive, a rumored player, who, when asked about Spitzer’s lifestyle and the repercussions—something he hadn’t expected—bumbled his words and sat so stiffly that I thought he was going to stroke out and slide out of his chair, leaving him on the floor, where Matthews, the tenacious journalist he is, to hammer him with more questions until 911 arrived. Numerous government officials, looking to say the right thing and protect their cans, called for forgiveness of the man’s transgressions, while many off-the-record nonpublic figures tried to give Spitzer validation by saying a helpless percentage of the entire gender just can’t stop themselves. After getting swept up in one discussion where I yelled out something about wanting "my crotch to be junk-free," I toned it down a bit, reigned myself in and took some time to come up with a list of Spitzer sympathizers. Here we go, in no particular ranking, for there's maybe three citizens who fall in each category:

Child Psychologists: An increase in high-end clients—Spitzer has three daughters—unfortunately two of them bare a striking resemblance to their father—are going to keep shrinks for kids in business for a long time.

Gynecologists: More business for them, which irks me more than anything—the rumors that he liked to go bareback, that he knowingly put his wife in harm’s way. A week before the Spitzer news hit, there was a study on CNN that found 1 in 4 teenage girls have a STD. While this is a separate blog in itself—and a manipulation of numbers—it would be nice to read a study on how many teenagers use condoms. (It's always been my impression that intercourse as well as girls, but maybe we are doing most of the work?) While we're at it, let's poll women who sleep with politicians and find out how many of them are taking actions to fight sweep STDs out of the Down Under like they take on crime-ridden neighborhoods. (Has a politician ever had the balls to stand in front of a crowd of high-risk, sexually active kids and show them how to put a condom on a dummy penis? And why not?) I checked out Kirsten’s awkward photos in the Post and gave it up to a sister on one point that’s being ignored completely: home girl had the guts to say dude, wrap it up or game over.

Sex Psychologists: In attempt to defend men, I'd like to say that I am aware that Spitzer is a sick man, not because he had extra-marital sex or used a prostitute. To be that stupid, that selfish, that obsessed to the point of sheer moronic, hypocritical behavior is mind-boggling. Freud’s granddaughter is practicing, isn’t she? Forget the pastors and priests. We all know that the vast majority of them have their issues. Somebody put in a phone call to a relative of Freud and get this one on the books so we can figure out how the hell to contain the Spitzers of the world.

Johns & Kristens: Johns will give him empathy; Kristens will be stepping up and saying, “Yeah, I do it” (and if I was in charge, I’d be mandating the condom lapel during press conferences.) With the proliferation of porn on the web—the last I researched, there was over 230 million porn sites out there—soon the law officials will be writing tickets, meeting quotas and changing the jurisdiction of highways to keep small towns afloat financially. Soon prostitution will be the equivalent of a moving violation and you’ll have to take a four-hour on-line course to get your ticket written down, and no marks on your marriage.

Unattractive Johns: These frustrated dudes who hate their good-looking rich friends are marching around in their apartments, proudly declaring their right to bare ass.

Guys Who Hate Ivy-Educated White Men: I don’t know how many of you have the uncle in the family, a mechanic, who barely made it through high school, but talks like he could do anything (and no doubt, the man is a skilled craftsman.) Guys like this uncle love it when doctors and lawyers try to come into their shop with their Mercedes and talk them down or act like they know what they’re about. Mechanics like this are going to show Spitzer mercy and add a chuckle inside, for making them look so damn brilliant.

People With No Friends: NBA players, celebrities, Hollywood stars, they all have a circle of “boys” who take care of the guy with the fat wallet. Why? Because he OPENS IT and shares the love so he can get what he wants.

A gorgeous, yet so snotty woman at my gym who’s there all day barely breaking a sweat is one of many, according to a guy who likes to speculate on everything. I’ve been wondering for a long time what exactly she does, and someone who knows her tells me that she’s a mistress for married A-list actor. She told my friend this—and I was like, how do you know? “She doesn’t care—she loves it.” Apparently, she gets paid to be with A-List Narcisis when he’s in town. Part of that payment and contract must mean she’s kept clean, quiet, slim, and sexy. If Elliot needed the stress breaker, he should have pulled the Kennedy, the King, the Bubba, and found people to set up the arrangements, arguably making it safer for everyone involved—his wife, the woman, his children, himself—and let’s face it, that’s all he gave a rat’s ass about in this mess. Why didn’t Spitzer do this? Two guesses from a retired female jock who will no longer be allowed to write children’s books: First, a rich guy like him who’s inherited millions from mom and dad might have realized how difficult, if not impossible, it is to buy a true friend. Second, everyone who knew the Eliot Spitzer pre-public burial, spoke of him as a complete control freak, a paranoid, twisted madman, a cocky rich suit. Eliot Spitzer walked around with his pants down to his ankles, and stuck it all out there, and was so self-engrossed and addicted to orgasm and power that he believed no one was crazy enough or powerful enough to grab him by the balls.

Looking forward what the family has to say at Easter dinner.