He likes to set the scene like it’s a low budget Hype Williams music video.

As he strolls in slow-motion around the corner of the contorted hallway, he nearly collides with my former roommate Robert Morris – whom I began hating 30 seconds after we were introduced – as he was riding his skateboard with spiked hair that added six inches to his height and jeans that would’ve fit my 17-year-old sister.

He then passed Jon Zigler’s room, a place that none of us are actually sure he left during the first eight months of school.

Steve then looks into my room and sees a kid with glasses fidgeting with his unpacked totes. His first impression, he claims – Nerd. Major nerd.

Things didn’t get any better when he met his neighbor for the year, Josh Niedergall – a kid who boasts a Fabio-esque, blonde pony tail that could measure longer than Rapunzel’s.

In fact, the only person Steve gave any credit to at the time was my current roommate Josh Allego. Apparently he thought Josh was the only one that didn’t have a gargantuan “L” tattooed across his forehead.

But as it turns out, he wasn’t alone when it came to judging the floor mates. I thought Steve was Home Depot’s latest design for a tool, Allego was all brawn and no brain, and Morris was the most unbearable human to walk the earth.

Later, as we rested in our new beds staring up at the ceiling, the common question we all entertained is the same one you’ll most likely ask tonight. What did I get myself into?

Trust me; I relay this story of misguided preconceived notions not to scare, but to reassure.

Fast forward three years and that giant tool, Huether, definitely has a spot as a groomsman at my future wedding.

In fact, Zigler and I were just up in Rochester visiting Huether and his family.

Allego and I have been roommates for three years and I can always count on Morris if I ever need help or a good night out.

As for Niedergall, he’s one of the most down-to-earth people I know.

Feel better now?

It’s an ending that even the writers of the “Brady Bunch” would call too cheesy, but it serves a valuable lesson for you dazed, wide-eyed freshmen – don’t judge anybody.

Leave your gavel at home because there is no better way to ruin your first year of college than by ending friendships before they start. My group of friends overcame it, but your gang may not be as lucky.

This is likely the first time in your life you’ll be immersed in a new setting with individuals that come from different places, speak with different accents and have different views on everyone from Joe Flacco to Joe Biden.

Instead of harping on what makes everyone different, embrace it.  Leave your door open, converse and eat up every bit of the experience.

Heaven knows, with this cafeteria food, it’ll be the best thing you’ll eat all semester.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

I was too busy digging through my sofa cushions for spare gas money to notice. 

In this balking contest between the have-a-lots and have-a-lot-mores in our American society, I have found it impossible to care.

Throwing any of your pity behind the billionaire owners or millionaire players is outrageous. If I wanted to support a group vastly overpaid and underachieving people, I would’ve contributed to a political campaign last year.

Taking sides with the NFL front office means supporting a group of 31 white guys that say splitting $4.5 billion doesn’t leave them enough money to effectively run their tentacle of modern business’ biggest monopoly.

Baloney.

There are business owners across the country who wish they’d see $140 million in capital over the next decade. It might not be enough for Arthur Blank to buy a new 100-foot yacht at the end of the year, but it is enough to pay the heating bills in the Georgia Dome.

What grinds my gears more than rich honkies trying to figure out how to make an extra buck at the expense of someone else, is the fact that the players are being painted as the victims.

That’s hogwash with a side of baloney.

I feel as bad for these multi-millionaires as I do for the Red Sox when they don’t win the World Series or Canada when it loses at hockey.

Tom Brady and company have real work-place hazards, but that only makes them like every other employee in the world. Go figure.

My blue collar coworkers at Pittsburgh Paint and Glass last summer were exposed to life-threatening conditions day in and day out, but when their contract is up they’d be lucky to split $4.5 million.

But NFL players think that because their careers are – on average – three years long, fans should jostle for a spot at the picket line with them.

I am 100 percent, unequivocally certain that I could make a conservative NFL salary of one million bucks per year for three seasons last the rest of my life. Invest smart and don’t overspend – it’s the same concept I’ve used that has made last summers’ earnings stretch until now. 

No one forced any of the players to buy a platinum-covered toilet seat or a fleet of Mercedes. 

However, if all else fails, they still have an education at a large Division I school to lean on – too bad three years in any program won’t get anyone very far.

These players, including many who jumped ship on a free college education early to make bank in the NFL, want me – a hard-working student with years of loans to pay back – to take their side in the labor dispute.

Pay back my semester bills and you have a deal.

Until then, I’ll keep digging through my couch for extra dinero. I’m just hoping a couple of quarters isn’t the only change that comes.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

Zack McDermott, sports editor

If the PGA Tour wants any chance of me sending one of my Nielsen ratings its way, Woods’ name better be at the top of the leaderboard come Sunday.

But as badly as I want a renewed Woods dominating the field at the U.S. Open in June, the PGA wants it twice as bad.

Or at least it should.

Golf is suffering from nearly the identical problem that NASCAR is – it can’t find anyone who inspires love and hate to win a gosh darn thing.

Jimmie Johnson is slightly more divisive than the Teletubbies, while the past 10 different people who have won a major in golf have been so memorable that I can’t name one.

After Tiger-gate, however, Woods has as many people praying for his return to the top as he does delighting in his trip down the boulevard of broken dreams.

Woods has the ability to make people want to waste an afternoon watching golf instead of watching paint dry or mowing the lawn.

Not only do I want Tiger to break Jack Nicklaus’ record, I want him to demolish it. I want him to make people forget that Nicklaus ever golfed.

On Sunday, he showed everybody why.

Woods was hitting shots that dropped, bounced or rolled wherever he intended them to. Through the first nine holes at Augusta, he had the ball on a string. 

It only helps that Woods’ mystique is second to none. When he charged back from two shots down to pull even for the lead with the back nine in front of him, analysts and fans alike knew that it was his to lose.

However, Woods’ stone cold focus, ability to intimidate and adeptness at golfing under pressure aren’t the only reasons I’ve continued to support him.

I also root for Tiger for the same reason people cheered when Jackie Robinson singled or when Jesse Owens embarrassed Hitler in Germany’s 1936 Berlin Olympics – he’s a black man.

 He’s proving all over again that skin color doesn’t limit how far you can hit a baseball, how fast you can sprint or how well you can swing a golf club.

Woods has dominated a sport that has a whiter history than the Ku Klux Klan.

To think that the people at Augusta, who hadn’t let a black golfer through its gates as recently as the early 1970s, may have to honor Woods as the greatest golfer of all time is one of the best role reversals in sports history.

But this can only happen if Woods finds his stroke from the early 2000s. If not, I’ll have to start rooting for Vijay Singh.

And no one wants that.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

Zack McDermott, sports editor

Boy, even people from The City of Champions are quick to slash the sails on the ship of these Pirates.  

Show some respect, sheesh.

The Pirates are arguably the city’s greatest franchise.

But if you ask the kids walking around Waldron Campus Center today, they’d scoff at the Buccos and falsely tell you that the Steelers and Penguins are the Steel City’s primary love interests.

These poor Pittsburgh proponents have no idea that the Penguins have been largely irrelevant in the NHL for 34 of its 42 seasons as a franchise or ignore the fact the Steelers had a 25-year playoff drought of their own.  

Those who only remember the past 18 Pirate seasons are the same people who remember John F. Kennedy for the Bay of Pigs or Marilyn Monroe.

The “typical Pirates” I grew up learning about wouldn’t have given up the late-game rally to the Chicago Cubs.

Shortstop Honus Wagner would’ve used one of his 3,400 career hits to smack in the game-winning run, or right fielder Roberto Clemente would’ve made a nonchalant basketball catch to break up the rally.

Although Wagner and Clemente can no longer hit balls out of the park for the Pirates, they’ve done a better job than president Frank Coonley at selling the Buccos’ brand.

The Flying Dutchman and The Great One remind people that baseball, specifically good baseball, did exist in Pittsburgh before the Pirates’ sub-.500 season streak started – a fact that few in my generation like to acknowledge.

Despite being the losers in the first modern World Series in 1903, the Pirates have a storied history of winning.

The Buccos have won five championships since 1876.  But that isn’t all  those victories combine to form the best – winning percentage of any team that has reached the Fall Classic five times.

Not to mention that some of the greatest names in baseball history – Wagner, Clemente, Barry Bonds, Ralph Kiner, Bill Mazeroski, Paul Waner and Willie Stargell – all donned the Golden P in their career.

That’s why, despite the hazing I receive year after year, I’m proud to be a Pirate fanatic. Recent success isn’t a barometer of how I measure my favorite teams.

I know that things literally cannot get any worse. It’ll turn around eventually, and I believe that this ownership is set to make it happen sooner rather than later.

I long for the day that I can sit in PNC Park on a cold October night and watch the Pirates win one of many more World Series.

And when that day comes, I’ll be thinking what everyone else has been saying for the past 18 years.

Typical Pirates.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

Zack McDermott, sports editor

No, this wasn’t Gannon’s latest fire drill – it was how I watched the University of Pittsburgh basketball team break my heart – again.

As Butler forward Matt Howard was busy earning his Academy Award, I was busy throwing back shots of Goldschlager as fast as I could.

Maybe, in the morning, the loss wouldn’t feel as bad as the hangover. Wrong. 

I couldn’t believe this group of chronic underachievers found a way to let another shot at a Final Four appearance slip away.

That is, until I realized that they haven’t once underachieved in all the years I’ve watched them.

The Panthers have reeled off 10 straight 20-win seasons while having only one – just one – former McDonald’s all-American play for them since the start of the millennium. 

The North Carolina Tar Heels only recorded seven straight 20-win seasons between 2003 and 2011 with 21 diaper dandies at their disposal.

Pittsburgh has been to five Sweet 16s since 2001 – that’s as many or more than Kentucky, Ohio State, Texas, Florida, Michigan State and UCLA. 

The blue and gold find themselves among the nation’s elite year after year despite being blessed with less natural talent than Conan O’Brien.

All this time that I thought Pitt was choking, they were actually just reaching the limit of their God-given ability.

And I’m ashamed to say that I was convinced the problem was Jamie Dixon and poor coaching.

The Sporting News national coach of the year tied the NCAA record for fastest to 200 wins with kids who never had the glamour of being a top prospect.  Dixon has won by brainwashing his players to rebound and play defense all the while never having a player who averaged more than 20 points per game. 

The 45-year-old coach can no more be blamed for the tournament failures than I can.

Dixon can’t stop Villanova’s Scottie Reynolds from driving the floor in the final seconds of the Elite Eight.

Critics use Pitt as the poster child for a Big East Conference that they say can never deliver in the tournament despite routinely solid performances.

I’m not sure what game they’ve been watching.

Big East teams have averaged only two high-school all-American players on their rosters since 2000 – second worst among the six power conferences and a far cry from the ACC’s average of five.

However the beasts from the east have overcome the challenge by winning two titles in the past decade – as many as the Pac-10, Big 12 and Big Ten combined.

Not bad for a conference that can’t win in the tournament or for a coach who can’t seal the deal.

Not bad for a team that uses pride instead of pedigree to get their W’s.

It’s just too bad I didn’t realize all this until after those shots of Goldschlager.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

Zack McDermott, sports editor

 After watching Gordon Hayward and company drop a tough NCAA opening round game against the LSU Tigers in the 2008-09 season, I vowed that one day – when the team matured – that I would take a chance on them in my bracket.

Enter last year.

My prognostication of Butler crashing the Elite Eight – and possibly more – was met with incredulous looks.

Until they started winning. Then everyone and their brother said they knew the Bulldogs could do it – even though their brackets said otherwise.

So this year, in writing, are my [possibly] 100 percent correct, [maybe] dead on [luke-warm] stone cold predictions.

The Washington Huskies will make a run to the Elite Eight.

I’m all in on this Isaiah Thomas led team which is entering the field of 68 having won the Pac-10 tournament by defeating three teams – including No. 5 seed Arizona – in three days.  Their propensity to push the ball and routinely score 90 points will prove too much against first-round opponent Georgia.

A second-round matchup against No. 2 seed North Carolina will make for great TV. Both teams run the court well but the Huskies’ experience will win out in the end. A potential Sweet 16 matchup with the Syracuse Orange will be just what the doctor ordered. A 2-3 zone leaves 3-point shooters licking their chops – fortunately for Washington, it has six players that shoot 34 percent or better from behind the arc.

Take the Pittsburgh Panthers to the Final Four at your own risk.

This hurts to say. Being a supporter, I have my heart broken each March and this year will be no different.

It won’t matter that they finally have two scorers – guards Brad Wannamaker and Ashton Gibbs – to go along with their traditionally tough defense.

The NCAA tournament is called tighter than Big East contests and Pitt’s rough-and-tough play won’t fly with the zebras come St. Patrick’s Day.

Despite having an easier road to the Final Four than the 2010 Gannon women’s basketball team, foul trouble and offensive droughts will cause this Panther team to fall prey.

Kansas will choke – again. 

At this point, it’s nearly a fact of college basketball.

I don’t care how good they are or what seed the selection committee has bestowed on them, the Jayhawks will never – and I mean never – see the Elite Eight in any of my brackets again.

After first-round exits at the hands of vaunted programs such as Northern Iowa, Bucknell and Bradley in past years, supporting a Bill Self-coached team has become as risky as playing chicken on the autobahn.

It’s just a matter of picking who will upset a Kansas team that is not nearly as loaded with talent as last year’s squad. A defensively sound UNLV team or the battle-tested Louisville Cardinals could add to the Rock Chalk nation’s misery.

It’s easy to over think when picking the field of 68 – so don’t. Take my advice and maybe, just maybe, your bracket will look as nice as mine.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

The only thing I can actually remember is his snotty voice – a voice that my brain has replayed each day for the past few years.

Zack McDermott, sports editor

The summer day was a beautiful one as my high school buddies and I finished shoveling deep-fried food into our stomachs at the local Saxonburg Carnival. After losing in excess of $10 trying to win different 50-cent prizes, we found our way into a crowd gathering in one corner of the fairgrounds.

My droogs and I were standing in front of a dunking tank as a clown mercilessly harassed a young lad who was vehemently trying to send him to an icy fall.

We laughed – everyone did. After the kid was deterred, he picked on the passersby – we laughed more.

Catching wind of our chuckling, he turned to us – we didn’t laugh.

“Hey, you,” said the clown as he pointed his long index finger at me. “Me?” I stupidly asked in reply.

Then it happened. “Yeah you, Chubby.”

Boom.

Chubby? Chubby!? This guy cannot be serious, I thought. Some of my friends are bigger than me, but he decided to call me out.

I didn’t hear what he said next. He could’ve given me the world’s greatest compliment but it didn’t matter – the damage was done.

Focused and furious, I walked up to his giggling assistant and demanded a ball. My first throw hit the bull’s-eye and the clown fell to the water. He was silent, the crowd cheered and I raised my hands in triumph.

Too bad the feeling didn’t last.

My happiness faded faster than my self-esteem as I realized that Bozo pointed out what I feared all along – that I actually was chubby.

Did I know that I was a little overweight? Yes. Would I have ever considered myself chubby? No way, José.

As I lay in bed that night, I made a promise to myself that I would never give anyone a chance to make that joke again.

It was the start of my long-term workout plan as well as the self-image problems that still plague me to this day.

There were times I wanted to bag my whole plan – this is too hard or this is too much work, I’d whine. But every time I complained, I heard Krusty say “chubby” yet again.

Suddenly, I’d be clowning around no more – one more mile? No problem. Ten more push-ups? Let me give you 20.

As the months passed, I finally began to feel better physically and emotionally.

Since then I’ve lost between 20-25 pounds of fat, gotten in the best shape of life and have eliminated the word “chubby” from my vernacular.

To that clown, I was just another person to vex in his 8-hour shift, yet to me, he was the reason I changed my lifestyle.  Sometimes, I wish that he knew that.

But then again, I’m glad he doesn’t – he did call me chubby, after all.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

Zack McDermott, sports editor

I mean, at least Bates’ hotel showers drained.

We thought we were moving into the lap of luxury when Gannon told us that it was tearing down University Apartments and that we’d have first dibs on a place in Harborview.

For the extra half-a-thousand dollars, I figured that I’d have all my housing worries expunged.

Heck, if I was lucky I might get room service or a bed literally made out of cumulus clouds.  

Can you say, “Suite Life of Zack, Josh and Justin?”

Too bad the best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry.

None of us has completely settled into our Harborview home nearly six months into our junior year, and it isn’t because I have yet to put up all my Lady Gaga posters.

Maybe it’s because we’re bitter about University’s destruction. The grandfather of Gannon housing, although old, gave off an indescribable homey vibe.

Or maybe because Harborview has given us more problems than a black lab puppy with a small bladder.

It wasn’t even the original $100 and couple hours’ work we spent to clean our Englishman-yellow-teeth colored bathroom that made me sour.

I even let it slide that our carpet needed replacing about three decades ago when our kitchen appliances were purchased.

In fact, it wasn’t until two bathroom tiles fell off our wall – mid-shower, nearly crushing my metatarsals – that things literally started to fall apart.

During maintenance’s only visit to our apartment they told us to stop using the shower in the bedroom as they didn’t want water soaking into the wall. 

We abided by the request and used the hallway shower until we realized a week later that no one was coming back.

In reality, we only stopped using the shower because we didn’t like playing in the recently developed makeshift kiddy pool when it didn’t drain.

The shower drainage bug must be going around as both bathroom sinks have become a couple of Hoover Dams.

Little did I know that not only do our sinks horde liquid, but they’re also skilled in water torture.  It doesn’t matter how tight I turn the faucet, all I hear is drip, drip, drip.

But I guess I could do something to take my mind off the matter – or liquid. I could go on the Internet, but I’m not sure whether my wireless connection or Paris Hilton has worked more this past school year.

I could leave the apartment altogether or take time out to do laundry. That’s feasible – if it didn’t cost $1.25 to wash my clothes and I didn’t have to shave between elevator rides.

Well, when I think about it, I guess things could be a lot worse.

We could have bedbugs, too.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

Zack McDermott, sports editor

And he wasn’t the one hoisting Lombardi’s trophy high into the Arlington air.

Super Bowl XLV kindly proved what I’ve been saying all along – Ben Roethlisberger is not that good.

He’ll break a couple tackles from semi-truck sized men and do just enough for the Steel Curtain 2.0 to cover his tail.

But to put him into the conversation of greatest quarterbacks ever makes as much sense as Erie’s one-way streets.

He’s not even the Steelers’ all-time best quarterback. Being second on a list with Tommy Maddox is less impressive than a new Ke$ha album.

When Ben and his Super Bowl rings are mentioned, people fawn. I yawn.

Sunday finally raised the veil on this big, fat phony. He had no Lombardi trophy to cover up his mistakes this time around.

Despite playing like an average quarterback,  he was given one last chance to win the game and go undefeated on the worlds’ biggest stage.

 Ben could’ve showed everyone that he had the ability to shake off three poorly played quarters and prove he was great.

Instead of putting a seal on his third Super Bowl, Ben threw three straight incompletions to end the game.

Roethlisberger is 2-1 in championships and has thrown just three touchdowns to his five interceptions.

Tom Brady, Peyton Manning, Drew Brees, Kurt Warner and Aaron Rodgers have combined to throw six interceptions – in 11 Super Bowl appearances.

He even receives way too much credit for his Super Bowl wins.

Against Seattle, Antwaan Randle El saved Ben’s atrocious 9-of-21, two-interception performance by throwing the nicest pass of the game to a wide-open Hines Ward.

Add Willie Parker’s record-breaking run and no one remembers Roethlisberger’s self-destruction.

Fast forward to Super Bowl XLIII and Ben, who was out-dueled by counterpart Kurt Warner, was the beneficiary of 100-yard interception return before the half by James Harrison to give the Steelers the momentum.

The legendary catch made by Santonio Holmes to beat the Cardinals was just that – a legendary catch.

It was Holmes’ hands, not Ben’s arm, which saved the day.

Throughout his career, Roethlisberger has been blessed with a defense that Brady and Manning would kill for, the size that Brees dreams of, the pedigree that Warner never had and the opportunities that Rodgers was never given.

Yet, when it has mattered in the Super Bowl, he has done less with more and that makes him – two rings or not – overrated.

Just like sticking feathers in your hat doesn’t make you a bird, putting rings on your fingers doesn’t make you a great quarterback.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu

Zack McDermott, sports editor

The choke-job by the men’s team and the women’s never-really-that-close defeat didn’t disappoint as much as the lack of student support.

More Mercyhurst students made the 31-block car ride than Gannon students made the one-block stroll.

If you give Gannoners a choice between Saturday afternoon repeats of Popeye the Sailor or cheering on the Knights against their rivals, don’t be surprised when Cartoon Network’s ratings skyrocket.

I’m convinced that a national watching-paint-dry competition could get more student support than a Gannon basketball game – or any athletic event for that matter.

Trust me; I’m the least “rah-rah” person you’ll ever meet.  I possess the critical sports-writing gene: the inability to cheer.

When the Penguins won the Stanley Cup, I clapped – twice.

When the women’s basketball team went to the Final Four last year, I had the audacity to smile.

But even I’m shocked at the way students avoid the Hammermill Center like a politician shuns tough interviews.

There’s no reason for it.

First of all, Gannon games are free entertainment with a student ID.  It’ll give you an opportunity to use your real ID for once.

Who gives a hoot if the Knights will never dominate the conversation on ESPN or make an appearance in the Top 10, it doesn’t make them any less of teams.

In a city where Double-A baseball and D-League basketball are main topics of discussions, college sports – yes, even Division II teams – are given the big-time coverage usually reserved for their professional counterparts.

I’m not saying go all Everett Wensel on me. In fact, I strongly advise against it.

I am, however, suggesting that you make an effort to get to one – if not a few – Gannon games this semester.

A great time to start would be the Pink Zone game Saturday.  All money raised will go to the Erie Unit of the American Cancer Society’s Making Strides Against Breast Cancer Fund.

Not only will you be helping “save the boobies,” as some organizations say, you’ll be giving the Knights a true home-court advantage for the first time this entire season.

Your support might help Caitlyn Lowe hit that early-game back-breaking 3-pointer or give Travis Brannen enough adrenaline to get that extra inch when he jumps to block a shot.

In the end, these student-athletes give their time and effort so that they can wear your school’s name across their chest. The least – literally, the least – you can do is to show up and give them one round of applause.

Just like Popeye in those reruns you watched Saturday, that’s all I can stands, and I can’t stands no more.

ZACK MCDERMOTT

mcdermot002@gannon.edu