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	Casey Jacobsen  John W. McDonough

I wake up in a Los Angeles hotel room, complete with a view of the water from my balcony. A soft morning breeze meets me as I walk outside toward Venice Beach. I can hear the familiar sounds of pickup hoops as I approach the famed Venice courts -- the staccato slap of basketballs on the pavement, the thumping bass of boom boxes, the steady chatter of trash talk. A game is just ending as I arrive, and I've got next. My team beats all comers, holding the court for two hours. The other players want to keep playing, but I've got other things to do so I walk away, just tired enough that it feels good, and take a quick dip in the Pacific to cool off.

There's a flight leaving for San Francisco just as I reach LAX, so I grab it and the next thing I know, I'm at Stanford's sold-out Maples Pavilion, watching the Cardinal men's basketball team take on Arizona in an afternoon game. The student section, known as the Sixth Man Club, offers me an alumni spot in their area, and I join them in jumping up and down to make the floor bounce when an Arizona player steps to the foul line. Stanford wins in overtime on a Casey Jacobsen jumper at the buzzer to clinch the Pac-10 title.

Then it's back to the airport, but on the way I happen to see a youth soccer game. I think it should be a law that anytime you see kids playing, you must stop and watch for at least 10 minutes, so I do. Then I jump back in the car, and as I'm driving, Marv Albert is on the radio, doing the play-by-play of a Knicks game, any Knicks game. I catch my flight, which takes me to Shea Stadium, where the Mets are playing the Braves. Other people would probably choose Wrigley Field or Fenway Park, but Shea is where I saw my first big-league game and it will always be my first choice. Al Leiter is dealing. He strikes out Chipper Jones four times with cut fastballs in a 4-0 Mets win that stretches their division lead to 10 games over fading Atlanta.

Speaking of Atlanta, I'm headed next to Georgia, where Tiger Woods is walking up to the 18th green at Augusta just as I arrive (my timing is unbelievable today). He's already got the Masters in his back pocket, but I don't care, I just want to see the crowd rise as a great golfer approaches the final green, always one of the most memorable moments in sports.

Somehow seeing Tiger makes me think of Michael Jordan, so I swing by the Chicago gym where he's sharpening his skills for a comeback. He's running and dunking and letting his tongue hang out and I'm thinking the rest of the league should be afraid, very afraid.

The day is almost over, but there's one last item on my schedule. I fly back home to the Bay Area and drive up to a Little League baseball diamond. There's no Jordan here, no Tiger, no TV cameras or sellout crowds, yet I know that there is nothing I've seen today that I will enjoy more than this. My son is on the mound, and he looks up and sees me just before he throws his first pitch.