Two months ago, Gary Grinberg, better known as Gary the Numbers Guy, used numerology and astrology to explain to ThePostGame the success of Jeremy Lin, Tim Tebow and others, while also citing why certain athletes were prone to failure.

Most of the feedback was positive, according to Grinberg, but there were also critics that said it's ridiculous to explain sports performance based on birthdays and numbers. "Why does it go off the Gregorian calendar? Why is it that all people born on a certain day are athletes?" Grinberg said, rattling off some common complaints.

Grinberg gained some leverage on his critics Friday morning when the Magic announced Dwight Howard would miss the rest of the season because of back surgery.

In the story published Feb. 29 on ThePostGame, Grinberg predicted three NBA players would get injured in 2012: Andre Iguodala, Chris Paul and Howard.

"You look at the chemistry around a player with certain numbers and you know basically what direction they're going to go in," Grinberg said Friday afternoon. "I knew Dwight Howard was going to get hit. If I were the Orlando general manager, I would have traded this guy way before the deadline because I knew this guy was never going to be the same ever again. He's still a good player, but he's never going to be the dominant player he once was."

At the time of Grinberg's prediction, Howard had only missed seven games in seven and a half NBA seasons. But those statistics do not affect Grinberg's analysis. Only numerology statistics determine his predictions.

From a numerology standpoint, Grinberg had reason to believe the injury bug might bite Howard. The Numbers Guy has found that players with a total numerology number of seven tend to be injury prone.

(Note: Total numerology is found by adding up the digits in an individual's birthday and adding the sum's digits together. For example, Howard's birthday is Dec. 8, 1985. Therefore, 1+2+8+1+9+8+5=34. Howard's total numerology number is 7 because 3+4=7).

Back in February, Grinberg gave ThePostGame a list of injury-prone sevens, which included Brandon Roy, Grant Hill, Andrew Bogut and Baron Davis.

Now Howard can be added to that list.

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Mike Tyson's one-man stage show "Undisputed Truth" opened at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas over the weekend and runs through Wednesday. The ex-champ then hopes to play Broadway and London. Here are excerpts of how the press weighed in on his performance:

Las Vegas Sun:
It is impossible to resist the temptation to liken the experience to a fight, and there were very few power punches landed as Tyson squared off with his past.

Tyson did all he could, too, to knock us dizzy. He continually set the audience up for the knockout by swearing and attempting to shock with repeated use of the "N" word. Instead, he won the night with a frequently methodical decision. It was jab, jab, jab, for about 2 hours.

Tyson was alternately playful and somber in reciting his remarks from the text written by his wife, Kiki, and screenwriter Randy Johnson. That approach kept Tyson on task and allowed him to convey his thoughts in an organized, chronological manner. But disappointingly, there was not sufficient video or photo footage of Tyson's life and career to sustain the narrative. One telling example was when Tyson enthusiastically recalled the roiling series of knockouts he recorded early in his career. As he talked of "knocking those (expletives) OUT," he sang Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" while his five-piece backing band (which stayed onstage throughout the show) cranked out the song."

Las Vegas Review-Journal:

The bigger problem is tone. Tyson gets a good run of emotion going, only to have the spell broken by a song, or worse: Him joining in on it.

But that's part of the undisputed truth too: He wants to be funny now, almost as much as he wants us to like him. "I'm doing this show so you guys better understand me," he says at the beginning.

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HENRYVILLE, Ind. -- The piercing sound of sirens rang through the halls of Henryville Junior-Senior High School, as hauntingly dark clouds began to swirl outside of Perry Hunter's classroom window.

Hunter had lived through so many severe weather warnings unaffected. It was part of the deal, living and working in southern Indiana. And even on this day, as rumors spread of meteorologists lining the outskirts of Henryville, prepared to gawk at the fury of Mother Nature, Hunter remained calm.

Indifferent, even.

But Hunter's eyes couldn't help but drift to the scene outside his window. Things were getting worse. It had been a beautiful day just a few hours ago, but now, well, he couldn't remember the town ever being this dark before in the middle of the afternoon. The darkness made him uneasy.

A missed text message caught his attention. It was from the girls' basketball coach Josh Conrad. He and the J.V. coach were in his office, just outside the gym. If something were to happen, they could all be safe there, the message read.

It's a part of the school in which Hunter was especially comfortable, near the gym that had become his sanctuary as boys' basketball coach for the last seven years. But nothing about that moment was comfortable. He left his classroom behind and headed toward the gym office -- a place he had officially detached himself from just three days ago.

He strode quickly through empty halls — halls that would have been lined with panicking students, just textbooks covering their necks from harm, had the administration not let them out 15 minutes early on that Friday. But now, it was just him and a custodian he had met on the way that came through the door of Conrad's office, not 50 feet from the gym. Louder and louder, the wind began to roar angrily outside.

Whatever was happening outside those walls, it was coming straight for them. Hunter closed the door behind him as they reached the office. His ears popped. And for the first time, Hunter was scared of what might lie ahead, of what decisions he might have made, of what he might leave behind. He surveyed the three other concerned faces around the room, all thinking the same thing.

His ears popped again. Suddenly, an explosion burst through the walls of the gym like a freight train, not far from the office. The tornado had made contact. Hunter and the other three in the office dropped to the floor.
In just an instant, everything had changed.


Hunter had always envisioned himself as a basketball coach. It was the game he had loved ever since playing on Henryville's team as a teenager in the small 4,000-person Indiana town.

Almost a decade ago, Hunter (pictured at left with his kids and Hoosiers coach Tom Crean) had been at an open gym in Henryville, the gym in which he had fallen for the sport, when he was asked to coach the town's freshman team. Everything had fallen into place, and soon after coming back to his hometown, Hunter became the Hornets' head coach -- a job that holds an air of prestige incomprehensible to those disconnected from small town life in Indiana.

But it mattered.

For Henryville -- a town without so much as a stoplight -- the gym is a basis of pride and unity. Thousands of people crowd inside the gym on any given night for a game. It is, by all accounts, the center of town.

That mutual and undying love of basketball has complicated Hunter's life on more than a few occasions. As years passed and the Hornets experienced ups and downs inherent to a high school basketball team, Hunter found himself fighting what he described as "unnecessary battles," day in and day out.

Angry parents furiously typing away on message boards. Passive aggression through social media. Hunter tried his best to avoid it, but Henryville was too small, and he was too curious.

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The view of one of Andrew Belleson's favorite places on earth hasn't changed much since the first time he laid eyes on it as a boy.

And yet, when viewed from a new perspective -- the one he will have again this week as another baseball season dawns -- everything is somehow completely different.

The landmarks are all there just as they had been years before when the young boy walked, for the first time, into what is now the grown man's office.

The grass is just as green. The aging hand-operated scoreboard, the flags flapping from poles in the wind and the barren brick outfield are all just as Belleson remembers them to be.

The Chicago skyline, off in the distance, is just as majestic and the big lake that seems to know no bounds when seen looking out of the confines of Wrigley Field is just as magnificent as always.

But as Belleson again settles in and takes in the panoramic image from his office window located only a few feet to the window he peered up to as a boy, he can't help but become feel like he has a personal connection to one of baseball's greatest crown jewels.

After all, it's not often a man's voice becomes part of one of his favorite places on earth.


Andrew Belleson returns to work this week, perched above the setting where he first fell in love with baseball.

He came to Wrigley Field as a boy, each time making sure he and his parents had a clear view of Harry Caray's window from which the Cubs' iconic broadcaster leaned out of his window to conduct the singing of "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" during the seventh inning stretch.

All these years later, Wrigley Field still hasn't lost its luster. Even though the frequency with which Belleson -- now the venue's public address announcer -- returns has changed dramatically.

"You basically get the chills when you walk in," Belleson says. "To be able to go in there and to be able to call it your office is probably the coolest thing."

At 25, Belleson struggles to characterize what he does for a living 81 days a year work. It's the ultimate summer job, working as the voice of the ballpark where you discovered a game, in a city that has always been home and for a team you have always loved.

It's then when a job no longer seems like work for Belleson, a lifelong Chicago-area resident. And it's at times like this when Belleson -- who landed his first baseball job at 15 -- still pinches himself to know that when the Cubs open the season against the Washington Nationals, it will be his voice that will be the soundtrack for the rite of spring passage.


Andrew Belleson had spent the better part of a day last spring in his suburban apartment reading, re-reading and re-re-reading the script of his 1 minute, 56-second audition that soon had to be captured on video and submitted before an impending deadline.

Belleson figures by the time it was all said and done, he had done it 25 times, made 25 minor tweaks and adjustments, hoping to make the next a bit more perfect than it had been the time before.

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The Big Ownership?

That certainly could be Shaquille O'Neal's nickname in the near future. On Tuesday, Magic Johnson and a group of investors entered into a $2.15 billion deal to purchase the Los Angeles Dodgers. O'Neal applauded the move and believed it would be good for the organization.

"I thought it was an impressive purchase," he said. "Magic is very influential in the L.A. business community."

The question is whether Shaq would ever want to follow the path of former players like Johnson and Michael Jordan into ownership.

"I don't have any interest in following anybody, but I have a lot of interest in setting my own footsteps," said O'Neal, who was putting on a basketball experience for Chase Marriott Rewards cardmembers in Orlando on Friday. "I do a lot of things, seen and unseen. I made a conscious effort a long time ago not to tell the world what I'm invested in, but I'm a master of business also."

The four-time NBA champion plans to use that business acumen in his hometown.

"Let's just say I'm working on bringing things and teams to the Newark arena," he said.

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