 As the Georgetown University Hoyas prepare for Saturday's Final Four showdown with the Ohio St. Buckeyes, the media is focused on the matchup between Hibbert and Oden and on telling stories about the past. On the surface, the reason for this nostalgia is straightforward. The Hoyas have reached the Final Four for the first time in twenty years led by John Thompson III, the son of the iconic Hoyas coach, John Thompson Jr., who first put the school's name on the basketball map, and the team's emotional leader is Patrick Ewing Jr., the son of the Hoya and NBA great Patrick Ewing Sr., who's talent and spirit solidified the Hoyas early 80s dominance into three Final Four appearances in four years. But this Hoya team is as different from those Hoyas teams as that Washington D.C. was from today's.
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 A lot of people I've talked to have felt that Bob Bradley hasn't really been brave enough about the selections he's made for his teams as the US Men's Soccer Team goes through its season of friendly matches. His defenders have said that his conservatism comes from the fact that he's had to be overly result-conscious to protect his job. If anyone has any doubts about the man's courage-I have never doubted it by the way-those doubts should have been put to rest on the human level when he selected his son to the starting side for the US match against Guatemala in Frisco, Texas on Wednesday night.
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 It's been a while since I was in the ring, and so it's also been a while since I've written any Ring Notes. It was pretty difficult to keep up any kind of fitness routine on the road with The Walkmen , and I was nervous that I'd lost everything in my two weeks of travel. Wandering New Orleans I found my muse again, and, in one of life's seemingly unavoidable trade-offs, lost the bod. But Sunday I played in two soccer games. Monday I worked out on my own at the gym, even throwing in four sets of bench press, which I loathe. And Tuesday, for the first time in three weeks, I was back in the ring with Ray, hoping to pick up where we left off.
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My last three days in New Orleans told me I have to move there and that it's only a matter of time now until I do. But the reality is I live in Chicago, in Pilsen, and I am here right now on 18th St. at the Jumping Bean and it feels like a place I have never been before. The short explanation for my strange sense of displacement is the last two weeks of walk about have done the trick; I am no longer riding the line of a rut.
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 New Orleans is a glue trap for the soul rebel. I'm still here, right now at the Café Rose Nicaud on Frenchmen St., even though I planned to drive to the beach the day before yesterday, because I feel a sense of belonging here that I have not felt since I was last here. I'm starting to wonder if I don't belong in New Orleans, and that makes me want to stay and poke around some more and if I stay another two hours I will be at Coop's Place again eating Creole food which I'll wash down with a beer and then maybe I'll have another and walk around the Quarter with it and look at the For Rent signs, and then...
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