ST. PETERSBURG, Fl. New England Patriots head coach Bill Belichick today lent support to his Boston baseball counterpart, Terry Francona, by giving him a videotape of a closed-door practice of the Tampa Bay Rays, the Red Sox ALCS opponent.
"It looks like a 1-1-4-3 defense."
"They are definitely trying out some weird defensive sets," Belichick said as he played the tape at super slo-mo speed. "I would call that a 1-1-4-3 alignment," Belichick noted as he surveyed the placement of Rays' players around the baseball diamond. "I think that creates a lot of opportunities for crossing routes under the coverage out there beyond where that dirt ends."
"I watch game film because they don't make movies like 'Knute Rockne, All American' any more."
Belichick has been known throughout his career as an intense student of film with little interest in anything outside football. As an undergraduate at Wesleyan University a woman broke up with him after he invited her to a movie and subjected her to a decade's worth of game films between member schools of NESCAC, a football conference composed of elite Northeastern schools whose acronym stands for "New England Small Caucasian Athletic Conference".
NESCAC practice
Francona thanked Belichick for his illicit assistance in spiriting the tape out of Tropicana Field, but questioned its utility as he prepared the Sox for the best-of-seven playoff series. "He emphasized the importance of special teams," Francona recalled, "and I told him this year's team was pretty special to me."
ST. PETERSBURG, Florida. Mel Spinogle started working at Tropicana Field here when it was known as the ThunderDome and before that the Florida Suncoast Dome, but this week brought a new set of challenges to the 57-year-old facilities manager. "What are we going to do with all those potato chips?" he asks Junior Wilson, Jr., a skinny food service worker who is pushing a two-wheeler stacked with cardboard boxes of snacks.
ALCS Fever: Take two aspirin and head for the beach.
"You never know," Junior says. "I hear we might sell out a game."
The anticipated upsurge in consumer demand is fueled by the Tampa Bay Rays' first appearance in the American League Championship Series against the Boston Red Sox, scheduled to begin Friday night. "We've always gotten by with just one concession stand," says Spinogle. "The weather here's too nice to pay to watch a baseball game indoors."
"Would you go get me a champagne in the Rocco Baldelli souvenir cup?"
So Rays' management has made the last-minute decision to open up a second facility here that will serve a full array of ballpark staples such as hot dogs, popcorn, beer and soda. "We'll be watching it day to day," says Rays' Vice President-Operations Ken Ganderson. "If things get slow maybe we can book a wedding to keep the counter help busy."
Norm: "Is that so wrong?"
In Boston, by contrast, management has enjoyed a string of 469 consecutive sellouts and rabid Red Sox fans push ticket prices for playoff games into the four-figure range, a by-product of the "Norm Peterson" effect, so-named after the character in the long-running, Boston-based comedy series "Cheers". "People in Boston live vicariously through their sports teams to make up for their miserable, pathetic everyday lives," Norm said on one episode. "Is that so wrong?"
"Excuse me--I need to round third base."
Tampa Bay averaged 22,370 fans per game in 43,772 seat Tropicana Field in 2008, leading some to speculate that they might not sell out home games if they reached the World Series. "That's a bunch of baloney," said Rays' assistant marketing director Norville Lester. "If we have to, we'll book a boat show the same week."
MILWAUKEE. Bud Selig, commissioner of baseball and general manager of Selig GMC-Buick, a car and truck dealership here, today promised a crackdown on major league baseball players who jaywalk following a high-profile arrest of Boston Red Sox outfielder Manny Ramirez in Seattle and a news report linking Yankee pitcher Joba Chamberlain to a New Jersey organized crime family that crosses the streets of New York's Little Italy without looking both ways.
Selig: "Senator, it may look like I'm picking, but I'm only scratching."
"Our fans deserve to know that the players their kids look up to are crossing at the green, and not in between," Selig said in a conference call with sports reporters and traffic safety officers. "I was captain of my school crossing guard in 7th grade, and I take this personally."
"I told the Commissioner, you know, blow it out your shorts."
Ramirez was cited in Seattle for walking against a red light, a misdemeanor in a city that appears friendly on the surface, but which is governed by a nine-person city council composed largely of members of the Grunge-Espresso Axis, a neo-fascist group that worships Kurt Cobain.
On this, the 4th of July, a day intimately associated with liberty, it is appropriate to reflect on the strides this nation has made to expand freedom in the world of sport. Think of Jackie Robinson, the first African-American to play major league baseball. Consider Kathrine Switzer, the first woman to run the Boston Marathon. Or how about Manny Ramirez, the first Dominican outfielder to take a leak behind a manually-operated scoreboard during a pitching change in an American League game. Truly, as a nation, we have much to be proud of.
Kathrine Switzer, failing the Boston Marathon gendertest.
But many are surprised to hear that, until very recently, there were still obstacles to full participation in the athletic endeavors that make this country great. One such barrier fell the other day, as the state of Missouri made it legal, for the first time, to "noodle", or fish with one's hands.
A guy named Phil, with a giant catfish caught by hand
As a teenage boy in a small Missouri town, I often worked with country people who spoke of noodling. Not having much interest in fishing, I never accompanied them on their clandestine trips to muddy creek banks, where they told me they would stick their arms into hollow logs, risking bites by snakes or snapping turtles, to catch catfish by hand. As a result, I have wrongly assumed all these years that the fish they caught would fit on a dinner plate.
It turns out these men were diving under water, holding their breath and sticking their arms into catfish "holes" where they would grab fresh-water behemoths, smaller than a jet ski but not by much, and wrestle them into submission. Where noodling is permitted, a fish must typically be as much as two feet long in order to be a legal catch. Catfish are bottom feeders who will remain stationary for long periods of time, eating anything that floats by, and as a result can grow to be enormous.
"He followed me home--can I keep him?"
You would think that the Missouri legislature, in its wisdom, would have long ago followed the example of the other eleven states where handfishing (also referred to as "hogging") is legal, and let man and fish fight it out fair and square. Missouri's scruples in the area of man-fish relations stemmed not from fear for fisherman's safety, but from a solicitous regard for the fishes' sex life. Handfishing, according to fish and game officials, depletes the number of sexually mature fish. Well, what do you want noodlers to do--knock before entering?
Moby Catfish
Since moving to the east coast thirty-five years ago, I've gone deep-sea fishing a number of times and had naively formed the opinion that it is more challenging than fresh-water fishing. Having conducted further research into hand-fishing, I now believe that the only way ocean fishing could measure up to the challenge of noodling is for the beer-sodden men who pay hundreds of dollars to fish off Florida or Cape Cod to crawl overboard, find a bluefish or a marlin and subdue their prey using nothing but wrestling holds learned on WWE Royal Rumble.
Exhausted noodlers
So here's to America's hand-fishers, true sportsmen who eschew fish-finders and other high tech doo-dads that unfairly tilt the pond in favor of humans. I salute you, but I have one request.
If you don't mind, I'd rather not shake your hand.
BOSTON. When the Red Sox returned to Boston last night from a road trip that saw outfielder Manny Ramirez join baseball's elite 500 home run club at Baltimore's Camden Yards, the slugger seemed distant, his mind elsewhere, as he was greeted by fans at Logan Airport. "I got a promise to keep," was all he would say to a reporter who thrust a microphone in his face, paraphrasing Robert Frost, whom Ramirez adopted as his idol after discovering the flinty New England poet had urged readers to take the road less traveled.
Ramirez and Frost: The poet had fewer strikeouts, but also a lower OBP.
Ramirez was deeply moved by a visit to Baltimore's St. Jude's Childrens Hospital, where he met ten year-old Timmy Kavanaugh who suffers from Osgood Schlatter's Disease, a knee ailment that primarily afflicts young boys. Kavanaugh was unimpressed by the slugging outfielder's five hundredth home run--"Any mook can take some steroids and do that!" Timmy yelled as Ramirez walked by his bed--and the two struck up a conversation.
Ouch!
As Ramirez prepared to go, he asked if there was anything he could do to ease the boy's suffering. Kavanaugh closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and in a voice that was barely a whisper, said "Could you--run out a ground ball for me?"
"There's a ground ball to short--Manny watches it go . . ."
"Sure, kid," Ramirez replied, his voice betraying emotion. "I can't do it," the boy continued, tears filling his eyes. "I want you to do it for me."
"What's Manny doing?"
So groundskeepers were surprised this morning when they found Ramirez harnessed to a Fenway Park lawnmower, pulling the bulky implement around the base path to strengthen his hamstrings in anticipation of an all-out sprint down the first base line the next time he hits an infield grounder.
"Run, Manny, run!"
"There's no doubt Manny can do it physically," said manager Terry Francona. "He just needs to focus on the job in front of him when he doesn't hit a home run and like, you know, start running."
But his teammates aren't so sure. "If I made $18 million dollars a year," said backup catcher Kevin Cash, who is not related to the currency Ramirez is paid with, "I'd need a lot of time to figure out what to spend it on."
ST. PETERSBURG, Florida. As the New York Yankees slipped into last place following a 5-2 loss to the first-place Tampa Bay Rays last night, Yankees' senior vice president Hank Steinbrenner said he would petition baseball commissioner Bud Selig to break up the Rays, a team he says is ruining the game through its dominance.
Steinbrenner: "It's getting out of hand."
"Do we want to end up like one of those lopsided college football rivalries where Podunk State thinks it's a big deal to beat Nebraska twice a century?" Steinbrenner asked as he kicked a stray dog and refused to sign an autograph for Timmy Salmon, a ten year-old Tampa Bay fan who dreams of working in sports management some day. "I don't think so, and I don't think the American people think I think so either."
Kazmir: "The Yankees? I get up for them by watching tapes of high school girls softball games."
The Rays took three of four games from New York, causing Steinbrenner to call a team meeting at which he bit the head off a live squirrel to demonstrate the sort of toughness he expects from his squad, which has the highest payroll among major league baseball teams and Fortune 100 manufacturers. "This place looks like the waiting room of an orthopedic clinic," Steinbrenner said, referring to the injuries that have crippled the Bronx Bombers in the early goings. "If you can't get over your testicular anemia, maybe I'll send you back down to Wilkes-Barre," where New York's Triple-A affiliate is located.
Selig: "Dear Lord, please let the Brewers sweep the Red Sox in inter-league play."
As commissioner of baseball, Selig has broad powers to take action he deems in the best interests of the game, subject to limits imposed by the collective bargaining agreement with players. "He can require players to shoot up steroids out of view of fans, for example," says sportswriter Neil Kinnel of the Bergen County Register, who covers the Yankees. "Or he could make Bartolo Colon lay off the Twinkies."
NEW YORK. Concerned by the failure of their young pitchers to deliver this spring, New York Yankees' manager Joe Girardi and pitching coach Dave Eiland have agreed on a novel therapy--romantic liaisons with teenage country singers of the sort that fueled the Hall of Fame career of hard-throwing right-hander Roger Clemens.
Mindy McCready: Guaranteed to lower your ERA
"We checked with the Elias Sports Bureau," said Eiland, whose young ace Phil Hughes is 0-4 on the season with a 9.00 earned run average. "They have confirmed that an affair with a teenage country singer increases a pitcher's ground-ball outs and first-pitch strikes, so we're gonna go with that."
Clemens: "I know where you live, and I'm comin' after your Shania Twain CD's!"
Clemens, a seven-time Cy Young Award winner, allegedly began an illicit sexual relationship with country singer Mindy McCready when he was 28 and she was 15. McCready is a country singer whose biggest hit was "Guys Do It All the Time", which Clemens interpreted as an overture upon hearing it on the clubhouse stereo system after a game against the Texas Rangers in 1996.
McCready: "Okay, let's get your running in, then some long toss, then a glass of white zinfandel with Mindy."
Clemens had been declared to be in the "twilight of his career" by then-Red Sox general manager Dan Duquette at the end of the season, but he went on to win 162 games with the Toronto Blue Jays, the Yankees and the Houston Astros. "I may have confused 'twilight' with 'dawn' or maybe 'high noon'," Duquette later explained.
WORCESTER, Mass. Spring is in the air in New England, even if the ground is still too soggy in some places to play baseball. "Like Yogi Berra said, 'April is the cruelest month'," notes Little League dad Todd Schwab. "The spring chill really makes you hungry," he says as he and son Todd, Jr. slurp giant sodas while waiting in line for their turn to meet former Red Sox pitcher Rich Garces, a right-hander whose weight was officially listed as 250 pounds during his playing days, but who was believed to be much heavier. "That was with one foot off the scale," says his former pitching coach Joe Kerrigan.
El Guapo: "You keep eating like that, someday you'll be in the big leagues!"
Garces, also known as "El Guapo" or "The Handsome One" during his major league career, is part of an outreach program on the part of Major League Baseball designed to keep fat kids from quitting the sport so that they will eventually realize their potential as pitchers. "We have a program for black kids," says Commissioner Bud Selig," referring to the RBI or 'Reviving Baseball in the Inner Cities' initiative, "but we've never done anything to link today's victims of childhood obesity with the overweight greats of the past."
Wells: "The lunch buffet was picked over, so I ate a batboy."
In San Diego, obese pitcher David Wells has signed on with the Padres for a victory lap to end his career, and he spends time before each game giving kids tips on proper diet. "You've got to learn to pace yourself," he tells Ronnie Dalrymple, a porky twelve year-old who weighs in at 180 pounds and is a set-up man for the Hungry Crab Marlins, an A-level Little League team sponsored by a local restaurant. "When you come to the park, get your protein and carbohydrates first with a couple of hot dogs or three and a soft drink, then get an ice cream bar or sundae." "Uh-huh," the boy says as he nods his head up and down like a bobble-head doll. "Then and only then do you switch to the low-mass, high calorie foods such as cotton candy."
Livan Hernandez: "Do you mind if I get something to eat at the seventh-inning stretch?"
The connection between weight and pitching prowess was often suspected, but never confirmed until a study by Kyle Rayl, a member of SABR, the Society for American Baseball Research. "If you plot the statistics of pitchers going back though the late 1800's," he notes, "you find that the higher the weight, the lower the ERA."
Antonio Alfonseca and his six-fingered hand.
Back east in suburban Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Antonio Alfonseca is instructing some local youngsters in the finer points of fielding his position. "Those slow-rolling grounders, you want to let your little second baseman or your big first baseman get them for you," he says before agreeing to allow the kids to examine his unique hands, each of which has an extra finger. "I don't know if it's been a help to me in baseball," he says, "but it allows me to shovel food in my mouth much faster."
TAMPA, Florida. The mood in the New York Yankees' clubhouse was solemn after a 5-3 loss to the Pittsburgh Pirates Thursday. "They're making cuts today," pitcher Kei Igawa told a reporter from Japan. "Many people are very nervous."
"Let's practice the glove-throwing play."
When a player was summoned to the manager's office, he knew the news wasn't likely to be good. And so when veteran Billy Crystal heard coach Tony Pena call out "Hey, Mr. Funny Man! Skip wants to see you", his teammates said nothing and avoided eye contact as Crystal made the long walk to manager Joe Girardi's office.
Billy Crystal
Crystal, a 60-year old comedian, movie star and Oscar host, had been hoping to extend his illustrious career by switching to designated hitter, a position where veterans whose fielding skills and timing have diminished can hope to hang on for a few more years until they lose their batting eye. "Henny Youngman did it," Crystal had said to reporters in front of his locker just the day before. "At the end his delivery had slowed down, but he could still knock out a joke in a clutch situation."
Girardi
"Billy, have a seat," Girardi said to the aging comic. "How's the family?" he asked, making small talk. "Fine," Crystal said, although his face bore an expression of concern that belied his word. "Well, Bill, let me cut to the chase," Girardi said after some more palaver. "We appreciate all you did for us in your single celebrity at bat, but the club has decided to move in a different direction."
Scouting report: "Like someone trying to swat a fly with a meat cleaver."
Crystal's face registered a look of dismay, then resignation. "So it's over?" he said.
"We could re-assign you to the Columbus Clippers, but if we give you an outright release, you might catch on with--I don't know--Tampa Bay or Kansas City."
Murphy: "He's got the bling, he's got the swing."
"Thanks," Crystal said, hurt but appreciative. "Just out of curiosity," the star of hit movies such as "When Harry Met Sally" asked, "who're you going with at veteran designated comedian?"
"We just picked up Eddie Murphy from Los Angeles."
"Eddie Murphy? A ex-Saturday Night Live hack who's making kiddie movies now?" Crystal had famously turned down an offer to join the regular cast of the late-night comedy program early in his career, and it paid off when he made the move to Hollywood sooner than expected.
"He's got the bling, he's got the swing," Girardi said as he picked up a pile of scouting reports. "We're looking for a more explosive sense of humor--one that will put runners in scoring position."
"What's wrong with my schtick?" Crystal said, lapsing into Borscht Belt yiddish for a comic's material.
"Bill, it's fine--but times have changed," Girardi said. "Yours is a more situational, observational humor. Did you know the Yankees were last in the AL East last year in stolen bases to Jewish mother jokes?"
"I haven't told one of those since . . . "
" . . . and that we failed to bring home fifteen runners in scoring position during Labor Day telethons by washed-up comedians? Those numbers aren't good."
Jerry Lewis: "$81 million folks. That'll buy a utility infielder, or a left-handed pinch hitter with some pop in his bat!"
Crystal was silent, and hung his head.
"How 'bout the Red Sox," Crystal asked. "They have a history of hiring comedians, like Bill Lee . . ."
Bill "Spaceman" Lee
"I think they're all set," Girardi said. "They just signed Jay Leno."
"Leno!" Crystal screamed. "You've gotta be kidding me!"
"Nope. He's local--from Andover, Mass."
"But he's got that big chin!"
"That's a plus. When the chin music"--baseball slang for high, inside pitches--"start's flying, he'll be a valuable asset."
"I don't get it," Crystal said.
"The way that thing sticks out, he has the highest hit-by-pitch to at-bat ratio of any major league comic."
I am, at best, an indifferent follower of professional golf. I know who Tiger Woods is. There's Vijay Singh, who sounds like he should be from India, is actually from the Fiji Islands (there's more than one?), and doesn't want to play with girls. There's Greg Norman, who makes $15 a bottle wine, and so is way out of my price range.
For me, golf's handicap--to coin a phrase--is that it's a game for grown-ups, an oxymoron. During this year's Accenture Match Play Championship, my mother-in-law, who has a more than passing interest in the game, asked me what "Accenture" was. I had to break the news to her gently. "It's a consulting firm that was spun off from an accounting firm." "Oh," she said with a disappointed tone, as if I had told her that the thrilling action on TV was brought to her by the IRS.
Granted, a consulting firm that's spun off from an accounting firm is more exciting that just a plain old accounting firm. It's still a comedown from beer, razors and tires, the customary sponsors of other sports. It's not as if two guys watching Tiger Woods beat Stewart Cink are going to jump up after they turn off the TV and say "That was great--I could really go for a report on increasing shareholder value by focusing on our core competencies in a changing marketplace."
Z-z-z-z.
"Yeah, me too! Make mine vello bound, clear front cover, black back!"
But then there's John Daly. In an age when so many professional athletes have bent, broken or ignored the rules, using performance-enhancing controlled substances to gain that extra competitive edge, Daly has stuggled against and overcome self-imposed obstacles, playing at the highest level of the game using nothing but performance-impairing drugs such as beer, Diet Cokes and cigarettes. God bless him.
My thoughts turn to Daly today not because he won a tournament recently--as far as I know he has not--but because of a story in the news yesterday that Butch Harmon, Daly's swing coach, has terminated his relationship with the man known for his "Grip it and rip it" long-distance drives. Other golfers have swing coaches who have swing coaches, personal trainers, impersonal trainers, etc. Daly's swing coach quit on him. Then again, Daly seems like the kind of guy who, if he was sitting in a golf cart with you having a beer and saw his swing coach approaching, would say "Beat it--here's comes my damn swing coach."
The coach quit because of Daly's conduct at a recent golf tournament, where Daly spent a 2 1/2 hour rain delay in the Hooters "Owl's Nest" tent. A pro golf tournament where Hooters, the "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" restaurant chain whose waitresses wear revealing tank tops, sells beer is what Anglo-American law refers to as an "attractive nuisance". You can't put an alcohol-fueled dining experience that involves large mammary glands on the 17th hole o####olf course and not expect people to misbehave.
"Sign where?"
Daly's offense? It will surprise you. In an era when millionaire athletes routinely stiff autograph-seekers and refuse to hit home runs for sick kids in hospitals, Daly drank beer, mingled with fans and signed autographs, "including one on the back of a woman's pants" according to a wire service report. Is that so terribly wrong? Have we as a nation strayed so far from our first principles that a man can't--in good faith--autograph a woman's butt? I would hope not, but I'm beginning to have my doubts.
George Graham Vest
Daly, like me, is from central Missouri, a part of the country whose most famous residents are dogs: Old Drum and Jim the Wonder Dog. The man who said (more or less) "A dog is man's best friend", George Graham Vest, is from the region as well. The nation's only magazine devoted exclusively to tree hound hunting, "Full Cry", was published there. With so much canine achievement to admire, some local humans tend to slack off when it comes to their own personal ambitions.
Old Drum: Famous for getting shot.
Not Daly. This is a man who, besides being a top-notch athlete--I mean golfer--recorded an autobiographical album of songs, "My Life", featuring Willie Nelson. With a sideman like that, you can be pretty sure there was some recreational drug use involved in the production of the final master tapes.
Daly doesn't fly to golf tournaments. He travels in an RV--that's a "recreational vehicle"--one of those tacky, humble, humongous houseboats on wheels you see on the interstate in flyover country. I worked on an RV assembly line one summer, and am required by federal blogging regulations to disclose that there is an inordinate amount of glue and staples used in their construction. Do not try to vault the Grand Canyon in an RV.
Crusaders: "We're also looking for a copy of 'Lickin' Stick' by George Torrance and the Naturals."
One of the thrice-married Daly's songs is "All of My Exes Wear Rolexes", a song that is not available on iTunes, and which I've tried to find for years. In the Middle Ages, the quest for an item of such cultural significance would have turned into a Crusade, with thousands of lives lost.
Daly showed up at a tournament in 2007 with cuts on his face, saying his wife had attacked him with a steak knife, although she said he had scratched himself after an argument with her. Not pretty, but then again more interesting than the sort of unpleasantness you go through when your wife says "I can't believe you wore that tie!" just as you're about to walk into a Christmas party. The man lives large.
Babe Ruth at the piano: "Does this thing float?"
Daly may be the last of the Ruthian giants of sport, a throwback to a bygone era. Babe Ruth loved beer, hot dogs, cigars and women, and indulged in them to excess. When he played for the Red Sox, Ruth lived on a farm in Sudbury, Mass. where, according to legend, there is a piano at the bottom of a pond. The story is told that Ruth rolled the piano out onto its frozen surface one night to accommodate a large crowd for a sing-along, then--as often happens after this sort of affair--forgot to bring it back indoors, and it sank when the ice thawed.
WASHINGTON. As she watched her husband's defiant testimony before Congress yesterday, Debbie Clemens could only shake her head in sadness over how far she has fallen. "I stand by Roger 110%," she said with tears forming in her eyes. "I only wish that--like him--I could have just said no."
Debbie Clemens
While her husband continues to deny that he used performance-enhancing drugs during a career in which he won seven Cy Young Awards, more than Cy Young himself, Debbie Clemens has admitted that she used human growth hormone before a Sports Illustrated photo shoot, enabling her to appear more buxom than Yankees' second baseman Chuck Knoblauch. "It was wrong, and I apologize," she said, "especially to all those little girls out there who are just strapping on their first training bras."
In happier times.
In her prime, Debbie Clemens was considered one of the greatest housewives in baseball history, chauffering her four children to school and youth sports events while maintaining a rigorous workout schedule, spending up to 35 minutes on exercise machines unless other people were waiting. She holds the modern-day record for consecutive children named after strikeouts--Koby, Kory, Kacy and Kody. In the pre-modern era, Lucy Yemm, wife of Bill "Five Finger" Yemm of the Cleveland Spiders, gave birth to Kevin, Karen, Kelly, Kyle and Kenneth.
"C'mon--you're hogging the Stairmaster!"
Clemens' confession was met less with surprise than relief by her circle of friends on Boston's North Shore, where the Clemens lived when Roger played for the Red Sox. "We'd go out for Mexican food," said Alice Sheehan, a neighbor. "The next day everybody'd be puffy but Debbie--you don't recover from a pitcher of margaritas like that unless you're on something."
"We lost your kid, so we're going to give you a FREE PIZZA!"
Clemens was sentenced to a year's probation and 200 hours of community service, which she will satisfy by working at the gift counter at a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant in a Houston suburb.
WASHINGTON. Former major league second baseman Chuck Knoblauch emerged from a meeting with congressional lawyers investigating drugs in baseball this afternoon denying he had named names of any player other than himself. "Today, under the pains and penalties of perjury, I admitted to Congress that I took human growth hormone," Knoblauch said with emotion in his voice, "but only to avoid having a disease named after me."
Knoblauch: "Oops--sorry about that!"
Knoblauch played ten years for two major league teams, the Minnesota Twins and the New York Yankees, and one season with the Kansas City Royals, a minor league team with a fake ID. In 1999 he developed throwing problems, and was diagnosed with Steve Blass Syndrome, a disease named after the Pittisburgh Pirates' hurler who pitched two complete-game wins against the Baltimore Orioles in the 1971 World Series but subsequently left baseball after contracting "pitcher's yips".
Steve Blass
Because Knoblauch was not a pitcher, he feared that a new disease for second basemen who couldn't throw to first would be named after him, and started taking human growth hormone. Knoblauch's condition improved, but he left the game after injuring several fans sitting in seats along the first base line with his newly-revived arm.
Lou Gehrig: "Get your own disease!"
The New York Yankees have a policy of creating diseases named after players who succumb to them, such as Lou Gehrig, in the hope of collecting royalties from others who subsequently contract the ailment. The Yankees have the highest payroll in baseball, and try to hedge their "luxury tax" exposure by buying life insurance policies on fans who ask their players for autographs.
Sent down to the minors, or the Royals, which is worse.
Knoblauch urged Congress to legalize steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs for use by second basemen, saying he had noticed a veritable epidemic of "Knoblauch's Syndrome" as he traveled around the country. "It's so sad," he said as he wiped a tear from his eye. "I go to Little League games and I see second basemen who can't throw to first, just like me!"
LONDON. Amy Winehouse, the neo-soul singer whose drug habit plays a prominent role in both her life and her work, today urged seven-time Cy Young Award winner Roger Clemens to enter rehab, saying it was his only hope to turn his life around.
Winehouse: "Exercise is like really important."
"People think I don't care about sports, and I don't," Winehouse said by telephone from her home in London, where she was caught on film yesterday snorting cocaine, smoking crack, and sticking Mike 'n' Ike candies up her nose. "I know what it's like to have your innocent recreational drug use exposed to the white hot glare of tabloid journalism."
Mike 'n' Ike: If you can't resist, snort 'em, don't shoot 'em.
Clemens was named 82 times in the Mitchell Report, the document that memorializes the investigation conducted by former U.S. Senator George Mitchell into steroid use in major league baseball. Former New York Yankees trainer Brian McNamee claims he injected Clemens with Winstrol, an allegation that Rusty Hardin, the pitcher's attorney, denies. "Roger never used Winstrol," Hardin said. "He smoked Parliament Lights at the end of his career, and Camel Filters in the box when he was just starting out."
"Who's the skank?"
Winehouse's biggest hit is "Rehab", in which she recounts her resistance to drug rehabilitation. Clemens's biggest hit remains a 1986 game against the Seattle Mariners in which he struck out 20 batters in a nine-inning game while pitching for the Boston Red Sox. Mitchell's greatest hit is the saying "I like blankies too much," which he has used to defuse tension at the Iran-Contra Committee hearings, the Northern Ireland peace talks, and Bud Selig's Friday night polka soirees.
COLUMBUS, Ohio. Twelve year-old Robbie Bennett has been a star for every baseball team he's ever been on, from T-ball to "Dad Pitch" to Little League. A pitcher, Robbie's walls are plastered with posters of Roger Clemens in the uniforms of the four major league clubs the seven-time Cy Young Award winner has played for. "He was my hero," Robbie sniffles. "Now I think he's a stupid Froot Loop," he says as he throws himself on his bed and sobs into his pillow.
Roger Clemens
The reason for Robbie's tears is the revelation by former U.S. Senator George Mitchell that Clemens received shots of anabolic steroids in the buttocks to maintain his overpowering physique and become perhaps the greatest starting pitcher in baseball history.
"I thought I could stay fat like Clemens just by eating Twinkies and French fries," Robbie says when he is asked why he's crying. "Now I find out I have to get shots in the butt."
Eric Gagne
For young Timmy Merlino, the announcement that his idol Eric Gagne had signed with the Milwaukee Brewers was the best news he'd heard in a long time. "He was the first autograph I ever got," Timmy says as he looks down at a plastic-wrapped baseball card of Gagne while with the Dodgers that bears the fireballing right-hander's signature.
But that trophy is tarnished now that it has been revealed Gagne took human growth hormone. "It appears," said Mitchell at yesterday's press conference, "that Eric Gagne's record-breaking string of
