I have been around the block a time or two and have witnessed, experienced and administered my fair share of cheap shots; none like the one given to me just a couple of weeks ago by the co-founder of The Sports Union (10 Athletes I Would Rather Be In Business With).  This dedicated post exposes the lack of trust in the foundations of this fine sporting institution.

Mr. Patra, did you just called into question my dedication, my loyalty to this … dare I say, “movement”?  I’ll have you know that I have even been known to leave the warmth of the bed to finish a post or two in the tininess of my kitchen. “Dedication” is my middle name, and “The Sports Union” is the annoying hyphenated surname that won’t fit on the back of my jersey.

What goes around comes around Mr. Patra, and I can’t think of anything better than to find a more scandalous cheap shot, executed in the sporting world, that would even compare to your epic assassination attempt on my character.

Patra you are as week as the little leaguer who while running the bases yells at the other player, camped under a pop fly, oh wait, that was Alex Rodriguez.  It doesn’t get any lower than that my friend, and you have stooped below that Rodriguez guy.  Does anyone believe him now that he says he only yelled “Ha” at Howie Clarke, the third basement from Toronto?  Next Mr. Rodriguez, you are going to expect us to believe that you only took steroids for a couple of years, and that Madonna is only “OK” in the sack.

Let’s not forget some other classic cheap shots from the diamond.  Mr. Patra, I am your Don Zimmer and you are that nut who didn’t fall far from the mango tree, Pedro Martinez.  Who can forget the move you pulled on the poor, defenseless, 452-year-old Don Zimmer, when you grabbed him by his oversized melon head and threw him to the Fenway grass?  Thank God he had his med-alert necklace so he could alert the paramedics that he’d “fallen and couldn’t get up.”  It is no wonder he didn’t break a hip.  Furthermore, even though Zims took full responsibility for what transpired, I can’t wait for a 2-year-old baby to take a swipe at me so I can punch him in the mouth and claim that he was the first to “make a move.”   But then, punching a baby might be more your style, Patra.

You know what else is your style?  Ending someone’s career as you barrel over him during an all-star game.  Nice one, Pete Rose!

Nothing compares to your monstrous attack on the diamond, so let’s head to the hardwood. 

How bout Mr. Patra being one, Kermit Washington.  As an unsuspecting Rudy Tomjanovich (i.e. – me) came running over to help out during a scuffle (i.e. – write a post), Washington (i.e. – you) punches him in the face and ends his career.

But then again, I really don’t think that punching in the face is your style Mr. Patra.  I would say your style resembles that of a Reggie Evans reacher on Chris Kaman, or Dennis Rodman’s kicker to the camera man’s mans, or even Leonard Washington’s judo chop to the Blake Griffin’s bits.  “Yep, walk it off J.David.  Walk it off.”

Maybe the man from the University of Michigan, which will return to football glory, could have his cheapness overtaken by what transpires on a normal Sunday afternoon.  You would think that a lowly sports writer could not match the adeptness of one Rodney Harrison’s, but he does and even outshines that of Harrison whose resume of cheap shots extends to every play he has ever taken part of. 

But then again, Patra is best known for kicking someone while there down and the panache he does it with is unmatched.  Albert Haynseworth, as he stomped on the head of Andre Gurode, can try an emulate Mr. Patra’s abilities but no one can achieve his level of greatness; not even the Duke-god Christian Laettner’s stomp on the stomach of Kentucky player, Aminu Timberlake, can compare.

The closest competitor to Patra is his football idol and all-around racist, Bill Romanoski.  In his book entitled, “My Life on the Edge: Living Dreams and Slaying Dragons,” which no doubt was written in crayon, Romo admitted to breaking Dave Meggett’s finger like “a chicken bone” at the bottom of a pile.  Classy. 

I must extend the cheap shot pool to beyond the major sports and start delving into the secondary sports to find something comparable. 

In 2004, Todd Bertuzzi cold-cocked Steve Moore from behind during a NHL game, leaving Moore laying face down on the ice and Bertuzzi with a tarnished reputation and with a little “free-time” on his hands. 

That cheap shot still doesn’t compare with yours, Patra, nor does Mike Tyson’s ear nibble; Tanya Harding’s break your kneecaps episode; Woody Hayes’ sideline bitch slap; Cobra Kai’s “Sweep the leg, Johnny!”; or backup Northern Colorado punter, Mitch Cozad, who in order to move up on the depth chart stabbed the starting punter in the leg.  You still take the cake.

I have thought long and hard and there are no suitable comparisons to your heinous attack on me.  The only conclusion I have is that you have been in Los Angeles hanging out with Kobe for far too long.  We were a team and you went against the code of a good teammate, and now I must borrow words from the amazing Shaq-Fu and ask, “Hey Patra, tell me how my ass tastes.” – And yes, it makes no more sense when I say it as when Shaq said it.

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J.David has never won an award for his writing, but he is a former collegiate athlete for a small college where everyone makes the team.  Currently, he is a grad student at the University of Southern California studying the archaic form called, Print Journalism.  J.David is so demented; he once dedicated the Ugly Kid Joe’s song “I hate everything about you!” to a girl in college.

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