NFL: If Jim Zorn can teach Jason Campbell to throw left-handed, then his hiring makes sense.
NHL: Sadly, if you ask me what's been going on in hockey lately, I'll say players are purse-snatching, Sidney Crosby's still injured and some guy almost got decapitated by another player's skate. That's about it.
NBA: Word is the Knicks are shopping Zach Randolph and Eddie Curry. They should send them to the Lakers for an autographed copy of "Fletch Lives," and send Gregg Popovich a wheel of Jarlsberg cheese, to enjoy with his whine.
NBA 2: Watched "Little Children" with Kate Winslet yesterday. Steve Nash should have won an Oscar for his role as the child molester.
Golf: "A tradition unlike any other...January commercials for April's Masters."
Sportswriting: I think it's official: Bill Simmons has completely crossed over. When he first arrived at ESPN early this decade, he provided a unique perspective -- the fan's perspective. It was something of a public trust. We could relate to him (or, I could anyway) because he rooted for teams that sucked. Now his teams are all successful and (this is the capper) he actually planned to spend the Super Bowl after-party hanging out with Brady and Gisele, whom he knows through mutual friends. Um, what? Who can relate to this? Sorry, Bill, but you've lost the public trust. ESPN needs to start over here. They need to replace Simmons with a writer whose teams mostly suck and who'll never get invited to hang out with celebrities. In short, they need to replace him with me. And then, as soon as Vanderbilt wins a bowl game (which should happen in the next 10-25 years), they should replace me with someone else. Say, a sportswriter from Cleveland or Seattle?
NASCAR: This is only the 50th running of the Daytona 500? Perhaps by the 75th I'll understand the attraction.
MLB: My question is not for Roger Clemens or Brian McNamee, but for Clemens's wife, Debbie. If it's true that McNamee injected her with HGH, it stands to reason that she knows that McNamee injected her husband as well, and that her husband will be lying to Congress. If he does that, he might be facing jail time, which will not only ruin the family's reputation, but make holiday plans a bit dicey for the foreseeable future. Given that, I'd love to know," What advice, Debbie, do you have for your husband in advance of tomorrow's hearing?" Really, if she knows he's lying, and she knows the consequences, then what's that say about her?
Apropos of nothing (?): God makes 'em and he matches 'em.
College hoops: I wrote about this a few weeks ago in my blog, and zero commenters were good enough to leave their thoughts, but does anyone really expect Memphis, a team that shoots under 60 percent from the foul line collectively, to go undefeated this season? That's like expecting a football team to go undefeated when it can't make field goals from more than 45 yards. Eventually, your weaknesses are going to be exposed.
After the game-fixing scandal involving former NBA referee Tim Donaghy, Major League Baseball is right to ask discomfiting questions about its umpires -- including whether they gamble, live beyond their means, smoke pot or belong to organizations like the ####. This isn't character assassination, and it's not screaming "fire!" in the absence of smoke. It's common sense taken to its obvious end.
Umpires are in positions of authority, with the capability of single-handedly affecting the lives of countless people, both in terms of gambling (winning or losing money) and general happiness, i.e., purposely blowing a call that goes against your team. Their objectivity cannot be questionable. While no one doubts that arbiters are occasionally influenced by grudges, personal dislikes and grammar-school pettiness, fans cannot be questioning (even to themselves) whether an umpire has been bought off or otherwise compromised.
Fearful of their own Donaghy-like development, MLB has reportedly released the hounds, sending investigators to question the neighbors, friends, acquaintances, mistresses and cabana boys of its umpires.
"The questions that we found out are being asked are about beating wives, marijuana use and extravagant parties," World Umpires Association president John Hirschbeck said to the Associated Press in a telephone interview Wednesday. "And then finally with this whole thing about the Ku Klux Klan.
"You get someone from security, shows his credentials and starts asking these kind of questions, and right away what's the neighbor going to think other than the umpire is in trouble, he's done something wrong and he's going to lose his job."
If I were an umpire and people were investigating my background, I'd probably #### twice and die. But that's why I'm not an umpire (or even currently employed). If umpires don't want investigators asking uncomfortable questions about their finances, friendships, families and pot-smoking habits, they should find another line of work, because the public needs to know that umpires have not been unduly influenced.
Can these investigations go too far? Can they be abused? Of course. But that's the risk we take with investing power in the hands of investigators -- and it's the same kind of power we invest in umpires. Hey, no one likes Internal Affairs, but they're a necessary evil, because they combat the threat o####reater evil: the undermining of the entire system.
Investigating umpires is not un-American. It's not a witch-hunt, it's not torture, and it doesn't run counter to the dictates of the Geneva Convention. It's common sense taken to a certain end: acknowledging the fallibility of human beings and trying to keep the most fallible -- the umpires who've been compromised by failures in judgment, ethics or associations -- as far away from the diamond as possible.
Who, other than the umpires themselves (and perhaps the ACLU) has a problem with this? If umps don't like it, well, we can always get Enrico Palazzo.
* The New England Patriots are the only NFL team to lose Super Bowls in two different helmets. No matter what happens Sunday, that'll still be true, because the Giants have the same logo they had in 2001.
* I hope to hear a "Yankees suck" cheer at University of Phoenix Stadium, even though I'm rooting for the Giants.
* Jason Kidd should be traded to the Knicks. Then he'll be the first person in American history to realize how good they had it in New Jersey.
* Roger Clemens looks more desperate and pathetic with every passing day. Now he's trying to deflect criticism of his late-career surge by comparing it to the careers of Nolan Ryan, Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling. I'm sure they love being lumped together with a guy who calls his ex-trainer on the phone, feigns interest in the kid's ill son, then secretly tape records the conversation, all in the unrealized hopes of getting the guy to recant his story that Clemens took steroids. Roger, the court of public opinion already made its decision: You and Floyd Landis should go bowling together.
* The Red Sox are reportedly going to wait until after the season to exercise Manny Ramirez's 2009 option ($20 million), which makes perfect sense. Last year the Sox irked Curt Schilling by waiting to see what kind of season he'd have, and so did the Yankees with Mariano Rivera, letting them play out their walk years without future job security. Both Schilling and Rivera stomped their feet, said they'd play out their last years and then test the free-agent market. So what happened? They performed like motivated pitchers playing for their next contracts, and ultimately re-upped with their respective teams.
In Ramirez's case, the Red Sox hold $20 million options on him for 2009 AND 2010. Considering Ramirez will be 37 in May of 2009, the $40 million he stands to make with Boston in those two years is much better than any long-term deal he can reasonably expect to sign somewhere else. Consider, if Ramirez replicates his un-Manny-like numbers from last year -- 20 home runs, 80 RBIs, and less than 140 games played for the second straight season -- the Red Sox won't be eager to pay $20 million to a 37-year-old slugger who plays terrible defense.
Most players would use this kind of situation as motivation, but there's no telling how Ramirez will react. Perhaps he'll sulk. Perhaps he'll ask to be traded. Or perhaps he'll realize that playing with incentive -- actually, 20 million incentives -- will bring out the best in him, and help him revert to his Hall of Fame-caliber numbers.
* Word is Hal Steinbrenner (the sane one) and Yankees GM Brian Cashman have convinced Baby 'Brenner (the smoking one) not to overpay with prospects for Johan Santana. While that's probably the wise choice, you just get the sense that Baby 'Brenner is gonna go ballistic in the press (probably on Cashman) if Santana lands in Boston or Flushing.
* Pitchers and catchers report on February 14, so wives of rabid baseball fans should expect sex, chocolate, and due dates around Thanksgiving. Let's make it a fecund year for baseball fanatics, shall we.
Perusing the monthly spending habits of Miami Heat center Shaquille O'Neal, which are outlined in fascinating detail in his recent divorce papers, I was bowled over by one extravagant figure in particular: His $24,300 monthly gasoline bill. How on God's green earth can a man spend that much scratch on go-go juice?
Let's try to put this figure in perspective. I live in Connecticut, where gas runs more than $3 a gallon. For me to spend 24K on gas, I'd have to buy 8,000 gallons of gas. Considering my truck gets about 20 miles to the gallon, I'd then have to drive 160,000 miles a month to expend that amount of fuel. Really, how is that possible? Did Shaq buy one of NASA's old Space Shuttles? Does he fill it up with rocket fuel and spend weekends at the International Space Station? I mean, $24,000 a month on gas? I'd have been less surprised to learn he spends that much on condoms.
Here's the full story of O'Neal's finances, as reported by the Palm Beach Post: "O'Neal makes a huge amount of money, $1.8 million in monthly salary, publicity contracts and returns on investments, his routine expenses total $875,015 - a month. Among them: $156,116 in mortgages on three homes (including his $20 million mansion on Miami Beach's Star Island), plus $31,299 in homeowners insurance; $3,345 in phone bills; $1,610 in lawn and pool maintenance; $12,775 for food; $10,065 in electricity, $1,495 for cable TV; $5,000 in car payments (for three cars - he owns at least twice as many); $24,300 in gas; $6,730 in dry cleaning; $17,220 in clothing; $2,305 for pets and $110,505 for vacations. Child care sets Shaq back $26,500 a month. He and Shaunie have four children, and each has a child from a previous relationship. By the way, he pays $10,000 a month in temporary child support and another 10 grand in alimony. To his credit, the big-man-in-the-middle is doing his share in helping close the giant federal deficit. The 13-page document shows he pays $5.41 million a year in federal income tax and $217,000 in taxes in states where the Heat plays road games. Property taxes cost him $903,132."
Good to see he spends a little more on child care than gas.
A lot of people whine about the two-week layoff between the NFL championship games and the Super Bowl, which is great for the players, coaches and team officials (who can make ticket arrangements and hotel accommodations for their friends and loved ones), but which annoys the average fan. Unfortunately, this extra week is here to stay, so all we can do is grin and bear it and wait for the first player to get arrested in Arizona.
This two-week layoff is perhaps the most unbearable down time in sports -- but by no means the only one. Here are some other times that try men's souls, in no particular order.
* The Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday following the first weekend of the men's NCAA basketball tournament. Arguably, the first four days of the tournament are the most exciting stretch in sports, with games from noon to midnight, the occasional upset, and just about everyone in the nation discussing their brackets. Even chicks with zero sports knowledge love the first four days of March Madness...but then it's over. And then we have to wait through Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday (and even part of Thursday!) for the Sweet 16 games. Sure, those games are usually better match-ups than the earlier games, but you probably don't have to fake a head cold, lie to your boss and slink off to a sports bar to watch them either, and that's what makes the first round so magical.
* The day after the All-Star Game in baseball. Honestly, I despise the All-Star Break, but these millionaires need their beauty sleep, so I guess we have to live with it. I don't watch the Home Run Derby, which is a hackneyed premise, and I only watch the All-Star Game introductions and maybe the first three innings. The game's on Tuesday, so by Wednesday night I need baseball that actually matters. I mean, I've been watching my team play every night for three-plus months. Sure, there's the occasional travel day or rain cancellation -- but not for three days in a row!
* The Friday and Saturday after the Thursday night kickoff to the NFL season. This is like holding Christmas Eve on a Thursday, teasing your kid by giving him one present, then holding Christmas Day three days later, at which point your frustrated child simply wants to kill you and burn the remaining presents.
* When your team closes out its series and has to wait for another series to finish. This happens in the NBA and the NHL all the time, but the most publicized layoff in recent sports history involved the Colorado Rockies. Following a stretch when they won 21 of 22 games, including back-to-back sweeps of the Phillies and Diamondbacks in last year's National League playoffs, the Rockies had to wait while the Red Sox and Indians finished a hard-fought 7 games series (and then two more days -- 8 in total -- because MLB decided the World Series was starting on a preordained day, no matter when the two championship series ended). Colorado players spent the eight days making snow men at Coors Field, then got swept by the Red Sox in the World Series. Don't tell a Rockies fan that momentum is a myth. * The period between your fantasy draft and the start of the regular season. Usually you try to schedule your fantasy football and baseball drafts for as close to the start of the regular season as possible, but it doesn't always work that way. Consequently, you draft your team and then pray for several weeks, hoping the guys you drafted don't get hurt in meaningless exhibition games, thereby ruining your chances to look like a genius. This probably applies equally to fantasy basketball, fantasy hockey and fantasy NASCAR, but I've never participated in those leagues.
* In Major League Baseball, the two-plus weeks of interleague play every June. Good god alive, has the novelty worn off yet? This year, between June 13 and June 29, my team, the Boston Red Sox, play the Cincinnati Reds, the Philadelphia Phillies, the St. Louis Cardinals (hurray, Joe Buck and Tim McCarver on the Saturday Game of the Week!), the Arizona Diamondbacks and the Houston Astros. I know I shouldn't complain, since that's 15 easy wins. But still.
* The day AFTER opening day in baseball. Listen, I know why the teams schedule an off day between opening day and the second game of the year (it's in case opening day is rained out). But that doesn't eradicate the fact that I go from cloud nine to limbo in less than 24 hours. * The layoff before bowl games. Ohio State was off for more than 50 days before losing to LSU in the BCS Championship Game, but frankly, I don't care that much about this kind of stretch. After all, it's been more than 9000 days since my alma mater, Vanderbilt, even went to a bowl game.
I remember the exact moment I became a New York Knicks fan: The first-ever NBA Draft Lottery on June 18, 1985, when commissioner David Stern pulled the Pacers' envelope from George Jetson's dryer, meaning Indiana would pick second in the upcoming draft and the Knicks would pick first -- and undoubtedly select Georgetown center Patrick Ewing, my favorite player.
If you're 12 years old, a basketball junkie, and most of your family either graduated from Georgetown or attends the school in 1985, it's hard to overstate your excitement when the local NBA team lands Ewing. Sure, he and the Hoyas had stabbed me in the heart by losing to Villanova in the NCAA title game that spring, but he'd led the school to 3 title games in four years, including one championship. In the annals of college big men, how many outside Westwood, California, could unabashedly pit their resume against his? Not Shaquille O'Neal or Tim Duncan or Ralph Sampson or Akeem Olajuwon, because none of them won NCAA titles.
Before Pat Ewing (and remember, he was "Pat" before arriving in NYC), I had no firm NBA allegiance. The early to mid-80s was an exciting time in pro basketball, but living in Fairfield County, Connecticut, my only NBA-viewing option was the Rory Sparrow-led New York Knicks. Sure, the Celtics, Sixers and Lakers played exciting ball on the nationally televised weekend games, but none of them corralled my loyalty. In retrospect, it now seems I realized (albeit subconsciously) that NBA basketball was 8 months of waste and one month of wonder.
When Ewing arrived in New York, however, I started watching Knicks games regularly. Unfortunately, the team didn't transform overnight. Sure, Ewing won the NBA Rookie of the Year award in 1985-86, but he missed more than 30 games due to injury and the team limped through another lackluster season, finishing 44 games behind Larry Bird and the champion Celtics in the Atlantic Division. If I'd been a cynical pre-teen, I might have wondered, "Why couldn't my entire family have gone to Indiana State?"
Over the next decade-plus, Patrick Ewing and the Knicks couldn't get past the Celtics, Pistons and Bulls in the East; and when they finally did, in 1994 (when Jordan was off flailing at change-ups), the Knicks fell to the Houston Rockets in the NBA Finals. In the ensuing years, Ewing turned into something of a farce, boldly predicting victories but never delivering. In 2000, he was abducted by aliens and never heard from again. In the meantime, I've tried to maintain my allegiance to the Knicks, if only to honor his memory. But the drunken uncles in charge at Madison Square Garden make it impossible right now.
Here, in short, is what needs to happen for me to become a New York Knicks fan again:
1. James Dolan needs to go to prison and lose ownership of the team. If the clever, conniving Martha Stewart can get caught for insider trading, then James Dolan is living on borrowed freedom. He must have done something illegal. The fine folks at TMZ need to find out what, embarrass the hell out of him (ya know, to prove it's actually possible), then let the law take over. I'm not averse to framing him.
2. Isiah Thomas needs to relinquish the compromising photos of James Dolan and that rare Chinese panda. If Dolan goes to prison, hopefully for something utterly humiliating, it stands to reason that Thomas's blackmail photos will lose their influence, opening the way for Thomas's dismissal and his public stoning.
3. The Knicks need to draft Georgetown center Roy Hibbert. I confess, I like symmetry. Am I saying he's the next Patrick Ewing? No, he's the first Roy Hibbert. At least I think he is. He might have ancestors named Roy.
4. The Knicks need to pay Stephon Marbury to go away. Listen, I'm sorry about the deaths in his family this season, but he was a selfish, pouting lout well before those happened. Besides, people die every day, and his inability to deal with the reality of that -- like everyone else in the world -- just underscores his self-absorption.
5. The Knicks need to re-hire Jeff Van Gundy. Come on, we've all seen "The Lion King," so we all know the song, so sing it with me: "In the Circle of Life/In the wheel of fortune/It's the leap of faith/It's the band of hope." (Don't kid yourself; you sing along when no one's around.)
6. The Knicks need to hire current Orlando Magic (?) assistant coach Patrick Ewing, in some capacity, any capacity, to infuse the organization with some semblance of excitement, not to mention throw a bone to the fans who were last excited by the Knicks when Ewing was their leader. If Michael Jordan can get a job as "Managing Member of Basketball Operations" for the Carolina Bobcats, and Isiah Thomas -- a freaking Detroit Piston! -- can become general manager of the New York Knicks, then Patrick Ewing can find a job at Madison Square Garden. My god, on-air dilettante Walt Frazier has been getting paid to ab-lib fake words for the last 20 years. I say we let Walt Clyde go prowl for cougars with Keith Hernandez, and let Ewing call games with Marv Albert. Is he qualified? Are you kidding me? He has a fine arts degree from Georgetown, of course he is.
So, if ALL six of these criteria are met, I will start rooting for the New York Knicks again. In June anyway. After all, NBA basketball is eight months of waste and one month of wonder.
*If Eli Manning leads the Giants to victory in Lambeau, in the kind of weather they're predicting, Peyton automatically becomes the soft one in the family.
* Have you ever actually seen someone thrown under a bus? In fact, has there ever been a recorded case in transportation history? Then where's this term come from? I don't understand how this particular phrase became sports speak for "pinning the blame on someone else." Why a bus? Why not a Mack truck, a Ford pick-up or the #### of Rosie O'Donnell?
* It sounds rather #### when a sportscaster like Sean Salisbury says, "I'm a Rich Rodriquez guy." You hear that kind of thing all the time. "I'm a Parcells guy." "I'm a Larry Brown guy." You're a wienie, is what ya are.
* I hope Billy Volek has to save the day for the Chargers.
* I hope the Super Bowl goes into overtime.
* The Jeopardy online contestant test is next Tuesday, January 29. I'm spending already, anticipating my cash windfall.
* The country is not worse off because TV writers are out of work. Read a book, play Tetris, have sex: Use this down time to do something productive. Don't worry, TV writers will back soon enough, and the country can return to its passive consumption of regurgitated ####.
* Baby Boss is a great name for Hank Steinbrenner.
* Roger Clemens will not go gently into that good night.
* Andy Roddick is a dink. In fact, every A-Rod is a dink.
* Donald Fehr is an obstructionist. Take blood, store blood, get a reliable rest for HGH. Citing Lance Armstrong is fear-mongering. Besides, we all know that's how the French roll.
* Jim Rice got rooked.
* The Knicks could win 38 games in a row and I still wouldn't root for them.
* Goose Gossage is a megalomaniac. "I got out of situations that God couldn't?" Yeah OK, pal. Trim the 'stache already; the Village People are no longer cool.
One of the more annoying constants in television sports journalism is when commentators refer to former coaches and current talking heads as "coach." I know it's supposed to be a form of respect, but too often it sounds like ####-kissing. Listen to Mike Greenberg and Mike Golic continually addressing Mike Ditka in this manner. Or Jay Bilas giving this nod to Digger Phelps, who hasn't prowled a sideline since the early 90s. Ya don't hear Phelps turning to Bilas and saying, "Great point, Attorney Bilas," even though Bilas holds a law degree from Duke.
Granted, if I ran into my high school basketball coach, I would undoubtedly say, "Hey, Coach Owen, how are you?" But that's only because I never called him anything but Coach Owen. If I were all of a sudden compelled to say, "Hey, Tim, how's it hanging?" or "Hey, Tim, I still freaking hate you," then things would be strange. I mean, that's like all of a sudden referring to the parents of your childhood friends by their first names. In my experience, it's easier to stick with Mr. or Mrs., if only because it makes you feel young while making them feel old.
"Coach" is definitely appropriate in certain contexts; for example, when Keyshawn Johnson refers to Bill Parcells by that title. After all, Parcells used to actually be his coach. But Terry Bradshaw referring to Jimmy Johnson like this? They're contemporaries and co-workers, so the charade sounds hokey. Then again, everything Bradshaw says sounds hokey, so maybe that's a bad example.
The case that brought this all to mind, however, is the case of Brent Musburger and former UCLA coach Steve Lavin, who were calling today's upset of #1 North Carolina. Throughout the telecast, Musburger -- who seems to think every possession is HUGE -- referred to Lavin as "coach," even though Lavin is 25 years his junior and currently calling games because he was a not-so-great coach at UCLA and has been out of work for five years.
Mind you, Musburger wasn't needling the 43-year-old Lavin. He wasn't saying "coach" in a sarcastic tone (though he'd certainly have been in his rights, since uber-recruiter Lavin got canned for going 10-19 in 2003). No, Musburger was probably doing it because he thinks it lends an air of gravitas to anything Lavin says. It doesn't. Just because Lavin used to be a coach, that doesn't mean his elders have to treat him like some kind of basketball poobah. Just because he led a team once (like #### Vitale at the University of
Detroit back in the 1970s), that doesn't earn Lavin a lifetime Coach
Card. Unlike generals or presidents, coaches don't get to keep their titles for life. Lou Holtz? He's Mr. Holtz. Unless, of course, he lisped at you at Notre Dame, Arkansas or South Carolina. In that case, he's certainly Coach Holtz.
NFL: Mike Tomlin's inexplicable decision to go for two points when the Steelers had closed the gap to 5 (28-23) with 10 minutes left in last night's playoff game helped cost them the victory versus Jacksonville. It's a well-known tenet of two-point conversion methodology that you only go for it when you absolutely need it, which the Steelers didn't in that instance. Later, when they led by 1, they were forced to go for it, because the Two-Point Conversion Handbook, known in public circles as Common Sense, says being ahead by 2 is no better than being ahead by 1, so you try and make the lead 3. As we know, the Steelers failed to convert, maintained a 1-point lead until the final minute, then lost on a Josh Scobee field goal - which only would have tied it if Tomlin had been paying attention on Sundays for the last, oh, fifteen years. Coupled with the highly questionable decision to let Ben Roethlisberger try to run the ball when a third-down conversion could have iced the game, and Tomlin had a terrible playoff debut last night. But hey, Bill Cowher spent the better part of his tenure coming up small in big games, so Tomlin shouldn't be worried about his job.
When it comes down to it, Pittsburgh didn't have the pieces for a Super Bowl run. They had a poor running game, atrocious special teams and a suddenly porous defense, which is a bad formula in January, particularly when your QB puts the team in a monstrous hole with two dreadful-looking interceptions and your head coach goes for a two-point conversion not once, but Twice, in a situation that merited an extra point. The Steelers still have the main ingredients for a Super Bowl team, but next year they need to stay healthy (Polamalu, in particular), fix their atrocious special teams coverage and draft a big ole offensive lineman in April.
MLB: I'm a populist when it comes to Hall of Fame voting. Frankly, I say the more the merrier, which is why I think Cooperstown should extend invitations to Jim Rice, Rock Raines, Goose Gossage, Bert Blyleven, Alan Trammell, Jack Morris and Dave Parker.
NBA: Hey, ya watch that Celtics/Pistons game last night?!?!? Yeah, me neither. Who cares about NBA games in January? They mean nothing, absolutely nothing. Really, what's at stake? Bragging rights? The Pistons and the Celtics will both be playing in the Eastern Conference Finals in June, so what's the big deal? Perhaps I'm just bitter and delusional because a freaking Detroit Piston drove my Knicks into the naked butt of Fat ####, where they remain lodged.
College hoops: Vandy beat UMass and remains undefeated heading into SEC play. I thought the Dores were going to take a step back this year after the departure of Derrick Byars, but this Ogilvy guy from Australia has been every bit the complement to Shan Foster. Any time you can start two players who can post 19-22 points a game in college hoops, you're going to be a tough out come March. Last year's Vandy season ended bitterly and dramatically, when Jeff Green walked made that bank shot in the Meadowlands, so here's hoping the Dores take the next step this season, i.e., don't get beaten on a questionable call that could have gone either way.
Books: I just read "Last Night at the Lobster" by Stewart O'Nan, who's probably best known in sports circles as the guy who, with horror master Stephen King, co-authored "Faithful," that Red Sox book about the 2004 season, which was remarkably boring, even to a diehard Sox fan like me. "Lobster" isn't much better. It's about the last night at a Red Lobster in Connecticut. The best thing I can say for it? It's short (141 pages).
CFB: I haven't cared less about a national championship game since, well, last year's national championship game. Here's hoping Ohio State gets humiliated again. Then maybe they'll schedule some real teams during the regular season and stop getting the hopes of their fans up. The only college football is SEC football. Oh, and USC. Oh, and the Song Girls, they're important. Oh, and Knute Rockne. But that's it!
Pop culture: Let's talk about the The Coors Light commercials with the NFL coaches, shall we? Seriously, have you ever seen less (read: terrible writing) done with great material? You're telling me these writers have the rights and access to ALL the NFL's press conferences from the last few decades, which they're then free to mock and satire, and this is what we get? Those writers are stealing money, because that ad campaign is potentially hilarious and brilliant (if written by someone hilarious and brilliant. Say, me?) but it currently sucks, and those schmoes asking their "witty" questions are lame. Coors Light needs to wise up. Then again, it shouldn't surprise me, since Coors Light tastes like bath water and gives you the same buzz.
NFL: Given that the NFL is a league of copycats, we can rest assured that homeless-looking cheaters will soon become the new norm in NFL head coaches. After all, the Associated Press just voted Bill Belichick coach of the year, thereby condoning infidelity, cheating and bad sartorial choices.
NFL: ESPN.com has a headline that reads, “Titans down second offensive threat for playoffs,” and it took me several minutes to even think of one Titans offensive threat. Apparently in Tennessee you qualify as a threat simply if your name is Bo (Scaife).
Oh, and the first offensive weapon? Roydell Williams...
ESPN: Who's the genius who devised that Buy or Sell component on "Around the Horn"? It's nonsensical, contradictory, and it gives me a freakin' headache.
MLB: Billy Beane, who admits his “#### doesn’t work in the post-season," apparently wants to be consistent throughout the season, because no matter how you slice it, trading Dan Haren and Nick Swisher is conceding defeat. It’s commendable, I guess, that Beane can rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic every few years, but the fact is, the A’s still always sink well before they reach New York.
MLB: You know you’ve ticked off your editor when your assignment is, “Write the story about Shawon Dunston's Hall of Fame candidacy,” which is what happened to Carrie Muskat at MLB.com.
Congratulations to the New England Patriots, who became the first team in NFL history to complete a 16-game schedule undefeated. Along the way the Pats tied or set numerous NFL records: most points scored (589), most team touchdowns (75), most touchdown passes (50 by Yankee fan Tom Brady), and most touchdown receptions (23 by Straight Cash Homey). If the Patriots run the table in the playoffs, finishing the season 19-0, they will deservedly go down in history as the NFL’s greatest team. But if they stumble in the playoffs and don’t win the Super Bowl, they’ll displace the 1906 Chicago Cubs and the 2001 Seattle Mariners (currently tied) as the biggest “Yeah, but” team in sports history. Ask your great-great grandfather what he remembers about the 1906 Cubs. He’ll likely reply, “Tinkers-Evers-Chance. Great infield, great team. In fact, most regular season wins in league history.” That’s when you drop, “Yeah, but they didn’t win the World Series.” (They lost to the cross-town ChiSox, 4 games to 2.) Ask that latte-swilling, Mother Love Bone-loving, Seattle resident what she remembers about the 2001 Mariners. She’ll likely reply, “Ichiro, Rookie of the Year and MVP, first since Fred Lynn. Bret Boone’s huge head and 137 RBIs. Great team. In fact, most regular season wins in league history.” That’s when you drop, “Yeah, but they lost to the Yankees 4 games to 1 in the American League Championship Series.” In the histories of the four major sports, the Cubs and Mariners are the only two teams with the best regular-season records NOT to win titles. In basketball, the 1995-96 Chicago Bulls won 72 regular-season games and the NBA title. In hockey, the 1976-77 Montreal Canadiens compiled 132 points in the regular season and skated to the Stanley Cup. And the 1972 Miami Dolphins – before this season, the lone undefeated football team in modern NFL history – won the Super Bowl after winning all 14 regular-season games. If the Patriots lose in the playoffs, where will their 16-0 regular season rank on the all-time list of “Yeah, but” records? I’d say it goes right to #1. Haters of the Pats already arm themselves with the SpyGate qualifier, but that’s more sour grapes than genuine ammunition. But if New England doesn't win the Super Bowl in Arizona in early February, the Pats and their fans will go from chest-thumping peacocks to head-down mumblers. In recent sports history, the last team to suffer that kind of fate was the 1990-1991 UNLV team, which steamrolled everyone during the regular-season – and this after trouncing Duke in the title game the year before. But then the Running Rebs lost to the Blue Devils in the 1991 Final Four. Similar to the 2007 Pats, that UNLV team was widely despised. Given all that the Patriots have accomplished this season, it’s somewhat unfair that they now straddle the crossroads of two distinct fates – immortality or ignominy. If they win out, they’ll be the greatest team in NFL history. If they don’t, they’ll go down as the great “Yeah, but” team in sports history. Fans in Chicago and Seattle are no doubt rooting for the latter. And as a diehard Steelers fan, so am I.
Earlier in the year, when Kobe Steak had his shot blocked by Manu Ginobli, and immediately followed through and whacked Ginobili in the face, the NBA suspended him for one game, and rightly so, because my naked eye told me he meant to whack him. But now a similar situation has arisen, but this time my naked eye tells me that Kobe didn't mean to whack Marko Jaric of the Timberwolves. I place myself in Bryant's situation and he looks like he's trying to box out in mid air, and keep Jaric away from the ball, which, to anyone who's played basketball, is actually a normal reaction. Nevertheless, he's been suspended for tonight's game versus the Bucks. The victim of his own track record? Probably.
Reports indicate that Floyd Landis may be cleared of doping because the same technicians who found irregularities with his A sample also handled the B side, and that's a no-no in drug-testing circles – because authorities don't want to leave the impression that technicians will go out of their way to reinforce their previous findings. So, now that's that cleared up, we can get back to the real issue at hand, which is that pedaling a bicycle is not a sport, and this whole charade didn't demand so much freaking attention.
Congratulations, Floyd. You and O.J. are both vindicated, but that doesn't mean diddily squat to anyone with half a brain.
(Note: I published this two years ago, but I'm reprinting it here in honor of the two-year anniversary of Hunter S. Thompson's death, which was yesterday, Feb. 20.)
This was ten years ago, a time when my interests bent towards the illegal and irresponsible. I’d graduated from college in the spring of 1995 and spent the intervening months in a state of wanderlust. Nashville, Connecticut, Cape Cod, Connecticut, Baltimore, D.C., Nashville and then, finally, Aspen. By that time I was traveling with my college roommate, Jason. We settled on Aspen because we had skied there on spring break. When you’re 22 years old, that passes for an informed decision. For three weeks we lived in a tent on the outskirts of the tony Colorado ski town. Days we spent being unemployed; nights we spent being 22. We looked for jobs, but looked harder for fun. I wanted to be a writer, but I had no concept of what that entailed. I thought it was enough to imitate the actions of my literary heroes, so I set out on the road like Kerouac. And then, when I learned that Hunter S. Thompson lived in a fortified compound on the outskirts of Aspen, I decided to pay the good doctor a visit. At the time, I revered Thompson’s brand of participatory journalism – which was often more fiction than fact. Perhaps the author of “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” had some advice on how to build a writing career. Knowing Thompson’s love of guns (not to mention his disdain for saucer-eyed fans), I was a bit wary. After all, dropping in unexpectedly on the gonzo journalist seemed like a sure way to get yourself dead. But I was 22 and given to illegal and irresponsible acts, so I decided to throw caution to the wind. Besides, when Thompson was 22 he had written an audacious letter to William Faulkner. It brimmed with self-confidence and read, in part: “As far as I can see, the role, the duty, the obligation, and indeed the only choice of the writer in today’s ‘outer’ world is to starve to death as honorably and as defiantly as possible…And, incidentally, if you feel, as a result of this letter, a ripping desire to send me a weekly cheque (sic), please feel free to do so.” That cracked me up. Surely the writer of this letter would not take offense to similar audacity. Um, right? Well, there was only one way to find out. As Dr. Thompson was wont to say: “Buy the ticket, take the ride.” The following is an account of what happened that stifling hot day in August 1995, when an aspiring writer (me) encountered the incomparable Hunter S. Thompson. Me: Excuse me, is that Hunter S. Thompson’s house? Mailman: Yes, it is. Why, you a fan? Me: I guess you could say that. Mailman: Well do me a favor and take his mail for me, will ya? Yesterday he ran me off the property. Me: OK, but what the hell is this? “Cosmopolitan”? Mailman: I dunno. He says he likes to know how the other half lives. Anyway, good luck. Oh, and a word of advice? If you need to run for cover, head towards that red Caddy in the driveway. The thing’s a tank. Lo and behold, there it was – the white-top convertible made famous by “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” It was covered in moldy leaves and looked like it hadn’t been driven since the Nixon administration. Approaching the front steps, I could hear “White Rabbit” blaring inside the house. An empty case of Wild Turkey lay on the porch, and a red streak (what looked like dried blood) ran the length of the front door. As I prepared to knock, I said to myself, “This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy.” Suddenly the music was turned off. Through the door I heard, “Hey, Red! Get off my porch in 10 seconds. Otherwise, I’ll aim low and squeeze, and then your T-shirt will be the same color as your hair!” I tried to act like I hadn’t heard the warning. Me: Uh, Mr. Thompson? My name’s Martin. I went to Vanderbilt, like your brother. I want– The door swung open and there was the man himself. The cigarette holder. The pate. A cocked eyebrow, ready to fire. He was wearing a ratty bathrobe, khaki shorts, white tennis shoes, green-tinted sunglasses, and a T-shirt that read, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” From the neck up, he looked like my father – a thought which amused me. Hunter S. Thompson: Is that my mail? Me: Uh, yeah, it is. The mailman sa– HST: Tampering with the mail is a federal crime. Give me that. And he snatched the “Cosmopolitan” from my hands. For some reason he felt compelled to explain. HST: It’s research. Book I’m writing. “Fear and Loathing: The Death of the American Dating Scene.” I chanced a laugh, which he seemed to appreciate. HST: Make it short, will you. The Broncos preseason game starts in 10 minutes. Elway, that swine, will probably play a quarter. All the same, I bet on them heavily. Me: I was wondering, um… I stammered. I was meeting one of my idols, and absolutely blowing it. HST: Listen, I ain’t sharing a drink with ya, and I ain’t gonna get stoned with ya. If you’re looking for money, I gave at the office. I regrouped quickly. Me: No, the office? No, I don’t want money. Advice, I want, um, advice. HST: Oh dear. What kind of rube are you? He started to close the door. Me: Please, wait. Just, ya know, how do you do it? He held the door. HST: By it, I take it you mean writing. Well, just lash together a few rough facts, a little bit of old Negro wisdom, and presto, you’re done. My disappointment must have registered on my face. HST: Listen, kid, I hate to advocate weird chemicals, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone…but they’ve always worked for me. And with that, he closed the door. In his book “The Great Shark Hunt,” Hunter S. Thompson, who died Sunday, described gonzo journalism as “a style of ‘reporting’ based on William Faulkner’s idea that the best fiction is far more true than any kind of journalism.” He elaborated to the Associated Press in 2003. “Fiction is based on reality unless you’re a fairytale artist,” he said. “You have to get your knowledge of life from somewhere. You have to know the material you’re writing about before you alter it.” As a columnist, I certainly agree with that. I’m saddened (but not surprised) by the death of a writer who was at once irresponsible and inspiring; supremely confident and yet haunted by personal demons. I must admit that over the last few years I fell out of love with his writing style and his madcap pronouncements. In short, I grew weary of his fear and loathing – an edge which seemed dulled by too much drugs and alcohol. But as a 22-year-old aspiring writer, fresh from college and wandering the country in search of myself, I took comfort in the iconoclasm of Hunter S. Thompson. I read his books, his journalism, and his private correspondence. I watched the movies about him, and I read the biographies. Over the years, friends and relatives even painted me pictures of his book covers, which hang in my house. No, I don’t regret the influence that Hunter S. Thompson had on my life and my career. You take the good with the bad. I just wish I’d knocked on his door ten years ago.
Cameron Martin. Finalist in Fox Sports Next Great Sportswriter contest. I cover the Red Sox for Comcast SportsNet New England and Major League Baseball for
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