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Updated: July 24, 2006, 1:23 AM ET

Journal 28: Thanks, but no, I am not Matt Leinart

When you live in L.A. and you look like a Heisman-winning quarterback, there are all sorts of benefits, as Paul Shirley is finding out.

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By Paul Shirley
Special to ESPN.com
Archive

It seems that I look a lot like Matt Leinart. I don't think this similarity is the worst thing ever; he's not a bad-looking dude. However, it does become a bit obnoxious at times.

Which one is Paul?

Then again, it's not always terrible to get recognized, whether it is for being myself or for looking like a Heisman Trophy-winning quarterback.

I think he won the Heisman. Wait, I should look that up. This is a sports Web site, after all.

Well, I'll be damned. I really should pay attention.

As was inevitable, I have found myself in a few bizarre situations lately. I am living in L.A., after all.

When I was in Phoenix last season, I was turned on to a band, called The Format, by the Suns' team masseuse. Usually I would write, "...which is a story for another day." Since I can tell that this is going to be a convoluted mess anyway, I will tell that story now.

I could hardly make a case for needing regular massages in Phoenix -- unless those massages could somehow alleviate the sores on my ass caused by the chafing betwixt my game shorts and the bench I anchored most of the time. But I somehow managed to wrench my back toward the end of the season and the Suns' trainer, Aaron Nelson, recommended a massage. I certainly wasn't going to object to that prescription, and so I scheduled a time with a girl who we'll call Nicole, mostly because I can't remember her name. And because I don't know any Nicoles, no one will think I'm making some sort of transferal of affection.

wireimage.comMatt Leinart is much shorter.

Nicole told me that she was always looking to do more massages because she was only paid according to the number she gave. She also noted that she could come to my apartment to practice her craft. I saw this as a win-win situation: A hand-delivered massage by a girl happy to make the money.

Nicole came to my apartment for the first time about a week after our initial encounter. My back problem had been relieved -- mostly because of Aaron -- but I was willing to live the high life for an hour. It was all I thought it could be. I didn't have to drive anywhere, I had my own music at the ready, and Nicole gave a hell of a massage. I have had a few masseuses in my day; she is definitely at the top of my all-time list.

I was naked for the duration of my massage. I've lost most of my inhibitions over the years; enough encounters with locker-room visitors (not to mention sex with European girls) will do that to a person. So I thought a towel was plenty of coverage. I did not, though, think about the repercussions of a moderately attractive girl massaging the inside of my thigh while I lay on my back. Things got a little awkward. I made Nicole ... leave the room while I found some shorts. (I am a professional athlete, but I am not so sleazy that I would allow anything untoward to occur between my masseuse and me. Just give me another 10 years, and then we'll see ...) After everyone settled and we resumed the business at hand, Nicole and I discussed music. She recommended the aforementioned band -- The Format. I later bought their only CD and loved it. Their live show, though, left something to be desired.

Two weeks ago, a friend of mine -- let's call him Mark, because that's his name -- investigated coming to L.A. to see The Format live. He had become a fan along with me -- he lives in Phoenix -- and was willing to make the trip for the show. Unfortunately, it was sold out, which was enough to put me off the scent. Mark was not impressed. He e-mailed the band's manager. In their communication, it came to everyone's attention that The Format's lead singer knows who I am because of the Phoenix connection. Consequently, I was added to the guest list. Mark did not make the trip and was rewarded for his work with ... absolutely nothing.

I met Nate, the band's lead singer, before the show. It was a disgusting mess of compliments. I won't relate them here. It was quite cool to meet the band, though. Confession: I missed most of the show. Oops. My party's dinner reservation was not heeded well and we did not leave our mediocre Italian food until it was nearly too late. I was quite disappointed in myself.

That was a rather lengthy digression. Yikes.

On a recent weekend, I was invited to Las Vegas for Tiger Jam, Tiger Woods' charity event/concert. I had just been to LV and was reluctant to return, but I thought it would be folly to refuse the free food and lodging at the Bellagio that was being availed to my friend Peter and me by a vastly wealthy friend of Peter's.

The Matt Leinart resemblance issue has come up approximately 200 times in L.A. We are both tall -- me more than him -- and white, and have curly-ish hair, so I suppose it makes sense. I don't think I look much like a football player, but when people are desperate for a glimpse of stardom, I guess they short-circuit logic occasionally.

The night of the Tiger Jam concert took the phenomenon to a new level. At one point during the preconcert mingling, I overheard a group of no fewer than 15 people arguing about whether I was Leinart. Later, as Peter and I took our seats for the Sting concert, a little boy came up and told me that his mother had sent him to ask if my name was Matt.

AP Photo/Gurinder OsanThis fellow is misnamed. Looks more like a Gordon Sumner.

(Yes, I am admitting that I went to a Sting concert. It was free. Side note: The name "Sting" is kind of a badass handle. Shouldn't it have been reserved for someone who played music with a bit more of an edge? "Fields of Gold" by a dude named Sting? Hmm.)

Later, while we observed Teri Hatcher, who was two rows in front of us, really enjoying the show, a man tapped me on the shoulder, held out his hand and said, "Congratulations, man." By this time, I was tired of the whole explanation experience, so I simply said "thanks," shook his hand and turned back to watch some old people sing the wrong words to a slightly-less-old song.

The fun continued the rest of the night. Peter and I later attempted to shepherd two fantastic girls -- whose names I will not relate, because I have exhausted my quota into the Tiger Jam afterparty. The doorman was not impressed with our protestations; we had passes, the girls did not, end of story.

But then we were rescued. By MC Hammer. He looked at me and then said to the doorman, "Hey man, anybody with him is OK." I have certainly never met MC Hammer (or is it just Hammer now?), and he definitely does not know who I am. But he might know who Matt Leinart is. So perhaps I shouldn't complain.

Two girls who played soccer at the University of Idaho probably got free drinks because I am tall, white and curly-haired. If that isn't enough reason to play along, then nothing is.