...H-O-F-S-T-R-A gettin' some R-E-S-P-E-C-T from Newsday

I've interned at Newsday twice, so I as my dot-com friend Marky Mark La Monica would say in his Italian-from-Nassau twang, I knows some peoples.


My first life at Newsday had me in the high school-college sports section, where Joltin' Joe Fernandez tabbed me the Pride of Hofstra. But I don't know enough people at Newsday to get a columnist to the Arena, let alone to pen a positive column.

After Thursday's win, however, Mark Herrmann did just that.
Hofstra B-ball is the hottest ticket in town.

St. Johns? Bah! Hofstra's whooped up on them three straight years. Other than playing Hofstra, the only time the Johnies score less is at gentleman's clubs.

The Knicks? Mr. Thomas is using the Scott Layden book for general managing. Two words Isiah: Kevin Garnett!

The Nets? Psh, it's Jersey.

But I digress. The CAA tourney is a week from today and Hofstra has a more-than-average chance at winning the conference. An at-large bid could be in the works.

Then, Hofstra playoff tickets will be the hottest tickets in town.

...a true moment in fandom

You're a heartbeat. All 800-or-so of you stand, throw your hands together and scream like never before. You jump around, stomp your heels and utter phrases you wouldn't want 10-year-olds to repeat.

That's because what you're witnessing has never before happened. You are a part of history, a fragment in time which can't be taken back.

You are a fan, immersed in a sea of blue.

Your college basketball team is about to embark on uncharted territory, adding another chapter to its lore. The buzzer sounds and you storm the court as if bulls in Barcelona were at your heels. Your team has triumphed over a Top 25 contender.

Your arena, whose student section is doused with your sweat, has just witnessed its 19th consecutive home game. In case you weren't counting, that's good for second best in the country.

Are you at Duke? Kentucky, maybe? I said sea of blue, right?

Well, as my often-inebriated friend Josh so eloquently bellows, we were at "H-O-F-S-T-R-A! Hofstra!"

Tonight Hofstra trampled soon-to-be-out-of-the-Top-25 George Mason, the first such victory in the school's timid history. The win also extending a school record for home wins. The semantics just add to adrenaline rush.

Each time Antoine Agudio's three-pointer found the bottom of the net, the jubilation was inexplicable. Aurimus Kieza sprinkled in some treys, but he forever will be stapled in your mind for the alley-oop that nearly made you pass out from screaming.

Kiez, as we call him, galvanized the students when his buzzer-beater two weeks earlier slayed Old Dominion. That moment, a carbon copy of tonight, was arguably more exhilarating because of the build up.

The thought of losing was undeniable, but once his three-ball - a prayer in its own right after Loren Stokes nearly lost a handle - entered the cylinder, I never saw it go through the net. Before I knew it I was sprinting onto the court, part of a heartbeat of elated fans.

That moment, like tonight, will forever be ingrained in my cranium. You see, in the heart of each sports writer rests a fanatical, borderline-obsessive passion for a team. It rears its head every so often.

Our objectivity is an afterthought, and suddenly we're kids again. It's the quintessential reason I watch sports, for the unadulterated injection of glee they offer. Tonight, I'm high on sports.

...the Sports Sahara

Frostbite could claim my little toe. Another snow monsoon snow could paralyze the eastern seaboard. None of it would matter; I'm walking through the Sports Sahara.

Move over Moses, because I'll be wandering through the desert for 55 days looking to quench my thirst for sports (Gatorade can solve a lot of problems, but...). To elaborate, "the drought" spans from the millisecond the Super Bowl trophy is hoisted to the first pitch of the Major League Baseball season.

To be exact: Feb. 5 to April 2.

Am I underwater?

This, far and away, is the purgatory of the sporting realm. The Super Bowl is the crème de la crème, the pinnacle, the caviar of the sports events. It's the only game of the year which turns viewers into John Madden clones of analysis...about the halftime show and funniest commercials; let alone the game.

The second the clock hits 0:00 it's time to sit on your hands until training camp in August. You can scour the networks searching for some sort of pacifier, but it's all for naught.

What I find makes my eyes burn. The NFL Network -- which will usurp all sports networks in the next 10 years -- segways from Super Bowl overload to celebrity draft analysts. I don't want to hear the incessancy from the Mel Kiper's of the world, let alone the half-assed wannabes.

ESPN, aside from its draft coverage, televises every college basketball game on the planet. Division III women's games don't exactly tickle my pickle. And don't even attempt to sell me on the NBA; your cries will fall on deaf ears. If I wanted to watch crappy basketball I'd dribble in front of a mirror.

Hey, NHL! What's more of a PR nightmare: the Great One's wife in handcuffs or having OLN as your flagship network?

The Olympics have provided a small respite only because snowboarding is growing faster than the entire generation that watches it. Bode Miller's choke jobs and Sarah Hughes' shoe laces don't strike my fancy. The USA men's hockey looked liked it had just returned from the lockout. The NCAA tournament will also garner my interest, but only if my bracket hasn't utterly imploded by the Final Four.

These sports are nothing more than a mirage; illusions on the way to the oasis, a.k.a. Major League Baseball. The start of baseball carries a redeeming caterpillar-turned-butterfly quality; signifying winter's near death and the birth of tank-tops and short-shorts. More importantly, the pennant race begins the moment after either the Yankees or Red Sox take a one-game lead. No matter if one is 1-0 and the other 0-1. It's time for baseball.

Yet I, like many, will continue trekking through the no-man's land of sports -- waiting for the first pitch to reach the catcher's mit.