What's In a Name?

There are, I would imagine, more than 1,000 possible names a 6-year-old girl's soccer team could choose. Pixies, Wildcats, Princesses ... the number of ideas is endless, really.

And so, dear reader, it was with much excitement that I attended my daughter's first game on the road to her earning a full athletic scholarship to the University of Oregon. At the dinner table the night before her first game (at which time the team would pick their name), we bandied about some options: the Lucky Ducks (my wife and I went to Oregon, if you weren't aware), the Wildcats (we're thinking of moving to Tucson), the Green Machine (her team has lime green unis), and others.

Personally, I was rooting for the Lucky Ducks, and we even came up with an inspired idea for how the team could run around quacking after they scored a goal.

Regardless, though, I was sure it would turn out well. I mean, come on, how bad could the team name be?

How bad? How about ... the Thunder?

That's right, me, the lead writer for a site devoted to loving the Sonics and hating the Thunder, so much so that I came up with a way to reference the team without even using that dreaded word ... I have to spend every Sunday for the next five months watching my beloved daughter shout, "Go Thunder Go!" whenever she's taking a break on the sidelines.

Personally, I'm thinking the only righteous solution to this situation is to buy her team, complain about the conditions at her field, and then move the team to Kansas City.

It's really the only option.

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Whitsitt Still Dealin'

Here's an interesting exercise for a late-summer weekend. Bring together two separate gentlemen, each a fan, respectively, of the sports of states of Washington and Oregon. Now, in as short a time as possible, see if you can find something or someone upon which both can come to an agreement.

Don't be surprised if the someone is Bob Whitsitt.

Honestly, I can't think of someone hated equally on both sides of the Columbia River. The architect of the Jail Blazers, Whitsitt would be lucky to survive ten minutes in Pioneer Square before a crazed Blazermaniac in a vintage Jerome Kersey jersey tried to put an elbow in his ear.

Likewise, should Whitsitt try to strike up a conversation with a regular at FX McRory's, his odds of escaping sans injury from an angry Seahawk fan would be rather slim.

So it was with a sly smile that one reads Whitsitt's biography at Whisitt Enterprises, LLC (motto: "We've Accumulated Talent Without Regard to Your Franchise's Future for 15 Years!"). To wit:

In nine years as president and general manager of the Portland Trailblazers, he built teams that averaged 50 wins per season and he played a key role in the successful completion of the Rose Garden Arena. President of the Seattle Seahawks from 1997 through the beginning of 2005, he negotiated the acquisition of the team for Paul Allen and led a successful statewide referendum that secured $300 million in public funding for the Seahawk’s new football stadium and exhibition center.

Did Whitsitt find his copywriter in Dick Cheney's rolodex? I haven't seen such glossing over of facts since Colin Powell visited the UN! I've now run out of liberal outrage! Wait ... compost!

Seriously, you have to admire the chutzpah of Whitsitt. The guy angers the fanbases at two franchises to a level he was lucky to walk away with both legs intact, and now he's selling his skills to other teams. If I'm a Blazer fan, I'd schedule a meeting with Whitsitt just so I could punch him in the nose and throw my Ruben Patterson drinking cup at him.