July 30, 2005
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July 25, 2005
Basketball's Unlikely Prince
I was poring over my most recent issue of Sports Illustrated late last week when I came across an interview with Dave Matthews and Carter Beauford of the Dave Matthews Band.
Now, in most cases, these SI interviews with celebrity types don't really do much for me. Generally the interviewer is just asking some silly questions about the particular celebrity's affinity for sports and it's just not really all that interesting. This interview was no exception -- until the very end. Matthews and Beauford were asked how their band would do if they played hoops against other bands, to which Matthews answered, "I'd be afraid to play Prince and the Revolution. Because they got game."
I immediately did a double-take and read the line again, knowing right away why it resonated with me: Charlie Murphy's True Hollywood Stories from "Chappelle's Show."
On the episode in question, Eddie Murphy's brother Charlie is recalling an occasion on which he hung out with Prince at the singer's house, when out of the blue, the purple-clad one announced, "This bores me. Is anyone up for a game of basketball?" After being soundly mocked by Charlie Murphy and his friends, Prince, looking decidedly effeminate, proceeds to school Murphy's entire posse in humiliating fashion.
This is a hilarious premise for obvious reasons. Namely, Prince is probably one of the last individuals in Hollywood you'd expect to be a lights-out baller. But I must admit, it has crossed my mind in the past that perhaps there's some shred of truth behind Charlie Murphy's True Hollywood Stories, as ridiculous as they may sound. And though it had never crossed my mind before that Prince might actually be or at one point in time have been a dynamic basketball player, Dave Matthews' comments -- though possibly nothing more than just a thinly-veiled reference to a "Chappelle's Show" skit he liked -- offer just enough corroboration of Charlie Murphy's story to beg the question I never thought I'd be asking but now must be answered at all costs:
Can Prince really play ball?
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July 20, 2005
Broadcasting Live: a Lost Classic Re-awakens
It was buried treasure; a relic from a distant era. A few weeks ago, I was going through a bunch of old boxes in my parents' basement when I came across my Super Nintendo.
The years had not treated this old friend kindly. Its once sleek early 1990's gray exterior had somehow seen its entire lower half turned a sickening shade of 1970's beige. More problematic yet was the fact that the AC adaptor needed to plug this relic in was nowhere to be found. The good news was that virtually my entire collection of games was in tact. Classics like "Street Fighter II," the original "Super Mario Kart" and "Madden 1995," as well as dubious sports titles such as "Super Play Action Footbal" and "Super Bases Loaded" piled high.
The piece de resistance, though, was NBA Live 96.
In my late high school years, this game got an alarming amount of run in my living room. Virtually every friend of mine capable of picking up a controller had his own user profile on the game, which saved everyone's stats (and remarkably still has them recorded after all these years). The game for some reason didn't keep track of career wins and losses, so field goal percentage became the stat most directly linked to self-esteem (my sense of worth, in case you're wondering, sits frozen in time after all these years, at a respectable .661). Between the best players on our circuit, each game was a flat-out duel, and I have no idea how any of my controllers survived considering the number of times they were spiked to the carpeted floor in a moment of fury.
The great thing about this game is it's an almost utopian vision of the NBA. Some of the key problems that plague NBA basketball these days -- particularly poor outside shooting and ugly, low-scoring games -- are not an issue in the world of NBA Live. Games are extremely fast-paced, with skilled players often reaching scores close to 100 playing with three minute quarters. Three pointers, preferably shot on the run after sprinting up court holding down the turbo button, rarely miss. The only thing that stops scoring on most possessions is a steal, a block or a completely wild and risky full-court bounce pass that goes rolling into the stands. Basketball the way it should be.
After trying just about every AC adaptor in my house to see if it would fit in the back of the Super NES to power the thing up (it is moments like these when I wonder if I really am a 12-foot-tall nerd trapped in a normal person's body), and not yet willing to stoop as low as ordering a new one off of eBay, I took a walk to the nearby Radio Shack as something of a last resort. I wasn't feeling optimistic about this venture at first. As I pulled the aged Super NES out of the plastic bag I was carrying it in to show the salesman the size of the hole for the adaptor, he looked at it as though it were some old soiled pair of boxer shorts I was asking him if he could wash. But apparently, I'm not the only person feeling nostalgic in the video game department these days, because as it turns out, Radio Shack makes an AC adaptor specifically for Super Nintendo.
I returned home 17 dollars poorer, leading my cousin -- whom I had
enlisted to join this quest -- to comment that I most likely could have
bought an entire Super Nintendo for something close to that price. (I love Radio Shack.) I returned home and fired the machine up, and remarkably, it ran beautifully. Suddenly, the NBA of a decade ago came to life. Penny Hardaway was soaring above the rim in his Orlando #1 jersey, chronic knee problems the last thing on his or anyone's mind. Terry Dehere was hoisting treys for the woeful Clippers with trusty Loy Vaught filling the lane. Latrell Sprewell was one of the most ferocious players in the
league, but for the right reasons -- his name and P.J. Carlesimo's were
not yet linked for all eternity. Mitch Ritchmond and Chris Mullin
were unstoppable. Some guy named Jordan running the Bulls. The
Wizards -- their street cred not yet cashed in -- were called the Bullets,
with Rod Strickland, C-Webb and big Gheorghe Mhuresan handling business.
Video games have come an insanely long way since then. Based on number of pixels, graphics are at least hundreds, if not thousands of times better now than they were back then. But as I sat there reliving mine and the NBA's glory days of the mid-1990's -- Jordan, Hakeem, Barkley, Drexler resurrected and an old world brought to life -- I was pretty certain that video games couldn't possibly get any better than this.
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July 18, 2005
Sweating the Details
Seems like the sports world is somewhat asleep on this Monday in July. Or perhaps it's just an incredibly humid, rainy and oddly exhausting mid-summer day with a front page of sports stories -- Tiger Woods winning another major, Larry Brown leaving his post as a head coach -- that, if you'll forgive me, don't exactly scream refreshment. Whatever the case may be, and considering that I can barely put together a coherent sentence on a day like this, let alone keep my mind on one topic, this seems like a perfect time for some random thoughts from the world of baseball.
-Looks like the Yankees really caught "Leiter in a Bottle" last night. And yes, I'm fully aware that is a disgraceful play on words, but I'll take my chances with it against ESPN.com's headline ("Leiter Fluid"), especially since as far as I can tell, I'm the only person in history to ever say "Leiter in a Bottle." After all, I Google'd it and nothing came up. That means no one's ever said it, right?
Seriously though, I would like to discuss this Leiter pickup by the Yankees for a second. It seems that public consensus -- and by "public consensus" I mean one Yankee fan in my fantasy league who posted a message on the bulletin board saying how excited he was about Leiter -- has the Yankees scoring a major coup by landing Leiter. To anyone out there who agrees -- and I know there are plenty of you -- please just take a step back from your delusional state (I know it's tough in this heat) and realize that Al Leiter is done. If the guy wasn't getting outs in the relatively soft-hitting NL East (he posted a 6.64 ERA for the Marlins this year), how exactly is he going to stop the Orioles and Red Sox -- last night's game being a noteworthy exception -- on a regular basis? I don't have anything against Al, but you can't think the Yankees' scouts could have been too high on him if the team was seriously considering Shawn Chacon as an alternative.
-And speaking of Chacon, I recently stumbled upon a news item in the Denver Post discussing former Rockies teammates Chacon and Preston Wilson facing one another for the first time since Wilson's recent trade to the infinitely irritating Nationals. Apparently, Chacon and Wilson had a chat about facing one another for the first time, which Chacon recalls went something like this: "[Wilson] left a message saying, 'Don't hit me.' I am going to tell him that if he hits a home run, he better not pimp me."
In case you haven't guessed, I throw this out there to call your attention to the phrase "pimp me" at the end of the quote, in part because I haven't the foggiest clue what it's supposed to mean in this context, but moreso because I find it shocking that the writer seems to share no such curiosity. He just leaves it out there without so much as a word of explanation, as if, given the context, it's pretty clear how Preston Wilson would be "pimping" Chacon after hitting a home run. I guess my overriding question here is: What does it mean to pimp one's teammate? Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.
-I saw a quote from the Indians' team trainer today saying that, in all likelihood, Juan Gonzalez won't be playing again this year as he attempts to recover from a strained hamstring. Let me preface this by saying I have not so much as played a doctor in a school play and the only thing I know about hamstrings is that they're located on the back part of your leg and look really, really painful to injure. So clearly, I'm not an authority here. But I can't help but think something's a bit odd about this. Rarely, if ever, have I ever known of a hamstring injury to wipe out a guy's entire season from start to finish. Sure, they can be debilitating, but this seems extreme. And I can't help but wonder -- as I've done many times thinking about Barry Bonds' mysterious knee injury -- whether part of the reason Juan Gonzalez is taking a long time to come back is that he's detoxing from steroid use. Fueling my suspicion is that he was one of the main guys named as a steroid user by that most dubious and/or reliable of sources, Jose
Canseco, in his tell-all book, Juiced. Other than Gonzalez and Bonds, there aren't really other examples coming to mind of guys missing the season with mysteriously lingering injuries in Year One of steroid testing, so I'll be the first to admit I could be way off. But it does make me think. And on a day like today, that in and of itself is noteworthy.
-My friend Jeff recently wrote of his distaste for baseball brawls on his new Tigers blog in the wake of yesterday's throwdown between KC and DET. I've gotta disagree. Baseball fights -- particularly ones that include behemoth Tigers' pitcher Kyle Farnsworth body-slamming other players -- are awesome. Jeff raises a good point that it's pretty much illegal to run after people with a bat or punch them in the face, and I suppose in all reality it's really quite insanely dangerous for gigantic and possibly juiced-up men to essentially have Roman-era style cage matches inside an arena in front of rabid, screaming fans, most of whom are likely doing their best to encourage the violence.
But I'm sorry -- I'm blinded by the awesome power of the Farnsworth body slam. When you get right down to it, is there any more intimidating man in sports? Is there any cooler signature move? Does anyone else even have a signature move? I don't even like pro wrestling, but this guy is just incredible. Sure, some players mix it up by throwing helmets, attempting a silly little flying kick or throwing a 72-year-old coach to the ground, and that's all good and well. But no one else just picks other guys up and slams them to the ground WWF-style. And in an era where American League pitchers are more or less protected from ever having to mix it up themselves because of the stupid DH rule (if they never have to bat, they never need fear retribution), Farnsworth's street fighting style is all the more impressive. Perhaps if other players had bona-fide signature fighting moves that the kids could recognize (how about a Steven Seagal arm breaker?), MLB could truly connect to the younger generation in a meaningful way.
Now if you'll pardon me, I must go finish watching the last half hour of "Out for Justice."
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July 15, 2005
Compliments to the Shef
I wasn't necessarily sure I was going to comment on this, in part because I've been busy the past few days with various endeavors, but even moreso because I felt like it was one of those opinions that is so difficult to disagree with that it was almost not worth sharing. But the more I think about it, my anger just won't go away -- quite simply, this is a rash that must be scratched. My beef is this:
Gary Sheffield is an asshole.
I say this not in conjunction with any of Sheffield's previous episodes of loutish behavior, and I also would like to add the caveat that I think Sheffield is an incredible player who, when he played for the Braves, was undoubtedly a joy to watch. I think so highly of Sheffield the player, in fact, that I still respect his abilities even though he completely sold out my hometown Bravos -- and simultaneously cashed in his soul -- to go to the Yankees before the 2004 season.
Now that the niceties are out of the way, I can say once and for all that I've had enough of Sheffield's nonsense. And I'm not one to unequivocally write players off -- especially ones I like to watch in action -- but I've had it. And what launched me careening off the edge of this mountain pass, you ask? Look no further than Sheffield's recent comments on the World Baseball Classic. For the uneducated, baseball is planning a World Cup-style event for 2006 featuring Major League players, and the Sheff has decided he'll have none of it. In donning the honorary "Fun Police" badge, Sheff reasons that "My season is when I get paid," which calls to mind the great genius Latrell Sprewell's comment when angling for extra millions last season that his kids need to eat.
I guess I don't really have a great, profound insight to provide here, other than, "Please just shut up you miserable bastard of a human." I mean, if you must be a complete and total sour puss and and hate on what promises to be a pretty exciting event for us fans, must you try to spoil the fun for everyone else? In theory I can understand the notion of someone not wanting to risk injury playing in a tournament that's not part of the regular season or playoffs. I don't necessarily agree with it, but I understand. What I can't understand is someone choosing to be so corrosive for no good reason. Sheffield is like the cool kid in class who decides an activity is lame just because he's not comfortable with it, and before you know it, even the nerdiest kids who you thought you had under control are boycotting.
Fortunately for baseball's sake, most Major League players aren't overgrown children. Actually, I retract that statement -- yes they are. But at least they are theoretically old and mature enough to think for themselves, and hopefully realize that Sheffield is, to use the parlance of youth, a complete and total doodie-pants.
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In case you weren't paying attention when I wrote about the NBA Draft, I'll say it again: Gerald Green is going to be nasty. For evidence, look no further than this grainy footage from a recent Celtics' summer league game. Since when, you may wonder, does one sick dunk constitute proof that a high school kid is going to make a great pro? Well, since now. This young fella can fly.
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July 11, 2005
The Boston Red Scarves
Remember that scene in "The Naked Gun" when all of the baseball players' wives, taking cues from their husbands who are playing on the field, one-by-one lean over the railing from their seats in the stands and issue forth a sequence of horrendously voluminous mouthfuls of tobacco juice? Well, if you'll allow me a grotesquely unfounded and largely unfair extrapolation, I would posit that this scene from the classic Zucker Brothers film rings quite true. Though often pristine in appearance, wives of baseball players are (in some cases at least) just as vile as their fictional on-screen, tobacco-spitting personas.
For evidence, look no further than a set of spouses on the World Series champion Boston Red Sox. You see, it seems that recent comments made by Johnny Damon suggesting that Curt Schilling was not fit to be the team's closer may be linked to an incident during the 2004 playoffs in which Damon's wife, Michelle, wouldn't wear the scarf handed out to the team wives by Schilling's bride, Shonda. The scarves were meant to be a symbolic show of support by the wives for their husbands, but apparently Michelle was having none of it. And according to the story in the Boston Herald, the conflict between the two women escalated to a near brawl at one point.
Now I'll be frank here: from a personal standpoint, I don't condone the practice of scarf-wearing or forced scarf-wearing in any circumstances. Try to wrap an eight inch-thick piece of woven cloth around my neck multiple times over and I'm going to assume you're trying to strangle me. Furthermore, the things just look silly. If you must wear one, then so be it, but I'll choose a turned-up jacket collar or, if necessary, a badly frostbitten neck and face if the alternative is a scarf. But as absurd as I may find scarf-wearing and scarf-related brawls, and though I clearly set out with every intention of finding flaw with the reprehensible behavior of players' wives, I can't help but think that the clear perpetrator here is Johnny Damon. If it is true that he made comments about Schilling not being fit to be the team's closer as a means of sticking up for his wife, he should be ashamed of himself. Not to say there's anything wrong with someone sticking up for his wife, but the manner in which he did it is downright embarrassing. If, for whatever reason, you feel compelled to enter the fracas over these neck-protectors, then come right out and say why you're taking a swing at your teammate. Don't cheap shot him in the gut about his pitching when it's really about some beef between your wives. That's almost as bad as -- if not clearly worse than -- getting into an extremely tense and highly-publicized feud over a scarf. Which is I suppose exactly what Damon did by getting himself involved in the first place.
I really don't care much for the phrase, but in this case it fits:
For God's sake Johnny, be a man.
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July 8, 2005
Nice Toss
It's something I've discussed on this site in the past, and now seems like as good a time as any to revisit it. You see, last night I voyaged over to the local cineplex to catch a screening of "War of the Worlds," where I made a shocking (but then again, not really shocking at all) discovery:
Tom Cruise throws like a nancy-boy.
Though I have plenty of things to say about the movie on the whole -- which I actually quite enjoyed despite some horrendous and uncharacteristically sloppy directorial errors by Senior Spielberg -- I'm going to focus on the scene in which Tom's character of Ray Ferrier and his son, Robbie (played by Justin Chatwin) go out to the back yard to have a catch.
First off, it must be said that this game of catch was entirely at Tom/Ray's insistence. Robbie wanted no part of it, but only went along to humor his dad. I mention this because it implies, at least on some level, that Cruise's character must have some kind of history with/and or love of the game of baseball. However, seeing his goofy little half-cocked girlie (sorry, but it's true) sidearm flip of a throw, nothing could possibly convince me that this man had ever thrown a baseball prior to being forced to do so on the set of this particular film.
You may think I'm being a bit nitipicky, but I'm of the opinion that athletic scenes in movies are a key way to establish a character's credibility. After all, we're supposed to believe that this guy is able to pull off a number of complicated, coordinated maneuvers in his efforts to thwart the alien invaders attacking earth, and I'm sorry, but the realist in me whom I can't quite stifle no matter how hard I try screams out quite loudly when said hero can't even toss a baseball without looking like a total sissy.
Perhaps the greatest part of this scene is that, as Ray and Robbie's game of catch goes on, it escalates into something of an argument, and the tension between them makes each successive throw more powerful and more vicious, as if each one is trying to throw the ball through the other's head. And you can only imagine how silly it looks to see Tom Cruise not just throwing like a chambermaid, but doing it absolutely as hard as he can.
In the scene's finest moment -- or its worst, depending on how you look at things -- Ray Ferrier unleashes what is supposed to be quite decisively his most furious throw thus far, crying out in his most threatening voice, "That's only half of what I've got!", creating an unfortunate but quite hilarious dischord between his efforts to intimidate with his throwing power and the readily apparent fact that he throws like someone who's afraid something might break if he whips his arm across his body in anything resembling a proper fashion.
Its tragically comedic value aside, Director Stroup says this scene should have never made the final cut. There were surely many other ways to establish that Ray and his son Robbie aren't particularly fond of one another without completely discrediting the lead character's ability to perform the most basic of athletic feats. But for whatever reason, Steven Spielberg did what so many directors have done before -- most recently in my memory it was the horrendous sight of Topher Grace and Dennis Quaid playing hoops in the flick "In Good Company" -- he, the great genius Spielberg, put an actor into athletic circumstances he simply couldn't handle.
Tom Cruise was supposed to be the man who saved the world from evil, but in one catastrophic flick of the wrist, he became a disgrace to anyone who's ever donned a glove and thrown a ball on a patch of grass on this green Earth. Tread cautiously in the land of sport, seniors Spielberg and Cruise. We fans are far smarter -- and less forgiving -- than you give us credit for.
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July 4, 2005
National Pride
Like the vile rumblings of impending indigestion, this rant has been brewing inside of me for months now, and I suppose I can think of no more appropriate day than this -- the Fourth of July -- to unleash the foul stench of my opinion upon the world.
The subject of my ire is this: everywhere I turn, it seems everyone is all fired up about the Washington Nationals. They are, by most accounts, the feel-good story of the 2005 baseball season. In case you're not apprised of why this particular story is supposed to feel so good, I'll explain. You see, for years, a team called the Expos was exiled in the baseball purgatory known as Montreal, doomed to play in front of 7,524 fans a night who, all things considered, would rather be watching hockey. But now, that team has been rescued, and better yet, baseball has returned to D.C., much to the delight of hordes of people who have been waiting for the opportunity to view the national pastime in the nation's capital. Pretty nice, right? Wait, it gets better. Though as the Expos they finished in last place in 2004 and weren't expected to do any better in '05, somehow those pesky Nats have exceeded all expectations despite a roster filled mostly with castaways, journeymen and -- up to this year -- underachievers. Entering play on this most patriotic of holidays, the Nationals were in first place with a five-game lead. You gotta love it, right?
Well I, for one, do not. I can't stand these stupid Nationals. And it's not just because they happen to play in the same division as my beloved Atlanta Braves. Wait, yes it is. I can't lie to you, loyal readers. At least in part, this rant is about one salty Braves fan who is really, really sick of seeing this ridiculously pesky team continue to win against all odds (after losing 5-2 to the Mets today, the Nationals have actually been outscored by their opponents this season). The bottom line is, this is just not cool. I don't know how many more days I can stand of seeing that the Nationals won another 2-1 or 5-3 game. Rationally of course, I understand that it can't keep up. As Sidney Deane (played by Wesley Snipes) says so wisely in White Men Can't Jump, "The sun even shines on a dog's ass some days." The simple fact is, any intelligent baseball fan can look at the team's roster, see that their best player is a gascan named Jose Guillen, and know that the Nationals cannot, and will not, win the NL East. This is not to say that the Braves are a lock to take it themselves (though it says here that they will).
The odd thing is, even though I feel pretty certain that the Nationals don't really pose a threat, I can't embrace them as a scrappy underdog even in an abstract sense. Putting aside my prejudices about the Braves, I really cannot get myself to like this team. And for a while, I'll admit I felt kind of bad about that. What kind of person am I if I can't embrace the qualities that this team represents? Who am I to wish ill will upon this altogether likable underdog?
But the more I think about it, it is this most reprehensible behavior that represents my crowning achievement as a Braves fan. Forget loyally watching the games on TV, reading news stories online in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, or defending the Braves' legacy in an argument with anyone who dares disagree. Above all that, my loyalty to the Atlanta baseball club has made me absolutely revile a team whose success I have no business not embracing. This is charging out of the bullpen to try to attack the other team's pitcher even though you know deep down he wasn't really throwing at your teammate. This is standing on your feet and cheering when some poor kid falls on his face at a track meet because it means your kid is going to win. This is throwing a wicked pancake block on your 8-year-old cousin to spring your uncle for a touchdown in the annual Thanksgiving day football game.
All I'm saying is, don't tell me who to root for.
When you get right down to it, is there any sentiment more patriotic than that?
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June 29, 2005
So We Meet Again
Have you ever had a friend who always disappoints you, lies to you at every opportunity, makes you defend him even though you and everyone else know the guy's a complete asshole -- yet for some reason you just love spending time with this person? Me neither. But if I did have a friend like that, I imagine my relationship with this person would be similar to that I have with the NBA Draft.
You see, year after year, I get all excited for my team (the Hawks) to select the player I think will be the best on the board when they're selecting, and inevitably, they take someone else, who is unquestionably worse (hence the disappointment). Then, they lie to me, and tell me why they think they made such a brilliant pick. Making things even worse, after the initial disappointment wears off, I decide to buy into their nonsense, convince myself that the pick is okay, and explain to every naysayer I can find why the Hawks may have actually been smart to draft said lummox even though I hate myself for being such a pathetic stooge.
Beaten down so many times over, I've trained myself to expect disappointment from the Hawks, and enjoy the draft for what it is -- one of the year's finest nights of sports entertainment. Here are some of my thoughts from draft night 2005:
-Part of the entertainment of watching the NBA Draft is to see what kind of outfits people will wear. It's a night for players to dress up in the finest -- and most outrageously huge -- suits that money can buy. Most of these guys come up on stage in suits so baggy they make a 6-foot-8 man look like Tom Hanks in the last scene of "Big." I'm certainly no fashion guru, so I won't pass judgment on whether this look is or isn't stylish, but I can say this: NBA Commish David Stern's dark blue jacket/khaki pants combo was not easy on the eyes. I generally think of Stern as having his act pretty well together, but the outfit he wore last night set the fashion movement back at least a decade. Honestly, he might as well have gone up there in Bermuda shorts, a sweater-vest and saddle shoes. Come on, commish!
-Before listening to the interview with Andrew Bogut's father Michael last night, I had never, to my knowledge, heard a Croatian/Australian accent spoken. What I learned is, it sounds weird.
-And speaking of Bogut, I cannot tell you how terrified I was that the Bucks were not going to take him number 1 and the Hawks would end up with him. Forgive me, because this is going to sound horribly elementary, but I think sometimes -- and I really do mean only sometimes -- you can get a decent sense of what kind of player someone's going to be just from looking at those short highlight clips they show of each player after he's picked. And Bogut's highlight reel just wasn't that impressive. They've got him rattling in ugly little hook shots, laying the ball in when other big guys easily would have dunked it, shooting a broken-looking jump shot. I'm not saying the guy isn't going to be a good player, but the Hawks need a superstar, not a safe, sure thing with limited upside.
-As for the Hawks' pick at number 2, I had convinced myself from reading ESPN NBA guru Chad Ford's columns over the past several days that the Hawks might be taking Illinois point guard Deron Williams. Being conditioned as a Hawks fan, I had already begun to prepare myself to tell people why this was a smart move. Don't get me wrong, I like Deron Williams a lot, but even as I was convinced I was excited about him being a Hawk at #2, it didn't quite feel right. And when the Hawks took Marvin Williams at #2, it absolutely did. Even though they already have about three guys who play Marvin's position, they had to take the best talent, the guy who had a chance to be the best player in the draft. I think on this night, the Hawks got it right. Except that they're the Hawks, so of course they didn't.
-Saw an ad for NBA Live 2006 during one of the commercial breaks, and I have to say, from a graphics standpoint, this game looks pretty sweet. But I will also add -- with the caveat that I stopped playing Playstation regularly about two and a half years ago, so I can't really consider myself an authority -- from the brief glimpse I got at Live '06, it seems like EA Sports still hasn't been able to fix the biggest problem with their NBA Live games, which is that the players move more or less like robots on the court. (This unfortunately didn't stop me from wasting approximately 12 percent of my waking hours playing the NBA Live series between the ages of 17 and 24.)
-After Chris Paul was taken by the Hornets at #4, ESPN sideline reporter Mark Jones grabbed Chris' brother C.J. for an interview, at which point C.J. discussed how violent he and Chris' pickup games used to get when they were younger. C.J. got so into the discussion that he said, "Chris used to run and grab a knife 'cause I was so much bigger than him," at which point Mark Jones burst out laughing. I mean, I get that this was supposed to be a light-hearted moment, but Jones' choice to burst out laughing right after the mention of a deadly weapon entering the fight was a bit odd. I can only imagine how hard he would have laughed if C.J. had talked about the one time Chris stabbed him in the throat.
-Gotta say I was happy to see Martell Webster go sixth overall. After all, he's the only player in the draft I am one degree from having played
against -- a family friend once had the misfortune of trying to guard Martell when the two played against one another in high school.
-And speaking of hats (yes, I am aware we weren't talking about them before), best hat of the night award undoubtedly goes to Beula Walker, Martell Webster's 82-year-old grandma. This, my friends, is the Urban Sombrero gone terribly wrong. It looked like a chef's hat with the top part flattened out and turned up on its side. But she looks like a terribly nice lady, and she's 82. I only hope I'm still wearing crazy hats and not lying dead on my kitchen floor at age 82.
-Poor Charlie Villanueva. Not only does he not have any eyebrows as far as I can tell, but he got completely ripped apart by the ESPN crew (whose voices are broadcast on the PA system at Madison Square Garden) just because the stupid Raptors took him about 10 picks too early, making him the clear worst pick of the draft up to that point. What the hell are the Raptors doing? Last year, Rafael Araujo, and now this? Villanueva's talented, but they probably could have had him with their second pick, at number 16. Raptors' GM Rob Babcock is definitely the guy who takes a kicker in the third round of his fantasy football draft every year.
-I would just like to say that Orlando, at #11, was the fourth time I incorrectly predicted that Gerald Green was about to get drafted.
-And I did it again with the Clippers at #12. All I have to say about that is, Boston may have gotten the steal of the first round getting Gerald Green at #18. Remember what I was saying earlier about highlights in some cases revealing what kind of player someone is? Well, if Andrew Bogut's highlight reel was a Volvo 240 -- efficient if not always easy on the eyes -- Gerald Green's was a [insert really cool and trendy sportscar name here]. Honestly, this dude is unbelievable. He can shoot, he can fly, and there hasn't been a word about any red flags from his interviews or background checks. Also, he's 19 years old. Sometimes I wonder what Celts' director of basketball operations Danny Ainge is doing, but this is not one of those times.
-One tidbit you might be interested to know: Gerald Green's nickname is "G Money."
-I have a new favorite player in the draft: Julius Hodge. From the moment the draft started, I was actually somewhat curious to hear Hodge's interview with Stuart Scott, primarily because I had heard quite a bit about Hodge's swagger and attitude during his pre-draft workouts. From what I understand, he basically called Rashad McCants a sissy after McCants pulled up lame during a one-on-one workout they had together. Anyhow, when it came time for the interview, Julius did not disappoint. Not only does he have a tremendous NY accent (he's from the Bronx), but during the interview, which he more or less hijacked, he called out "Thank you, Denver!" I don't know why, but there was something about the way he thanked the Nuggets that seemed genuinely sincere. It was as if he said, "You won't regret this," though he didn't actually say it. And as the interview ended, he added one last parting shot: "Harlem on the rise!" Why is this guy not a Knick?
-This may be a ridiculous thing to say, but on the whole I don't think Jay Bilas is that annoying. Okay, he's pretty annoying. But for whatever reason, I can tolerate him, mostly because he so clearly takes his job very seriously. However, if the man mentions a players' "wingspan" one more time, I'm going to tear my arms out of their sockets, fling them out the window, and write a formal letter to Mr. Bilas explaining that, technically speaking, I now have "zero wingspan," and it's all his fault. (Yes, it's getting late.)
As round 1 drifted towards round 2, minutes having already turned to hours, my attention began to wane. And just like that irritating friend you inexplicably like, there's ultimately only so much NBA Draft you can take in one evening.
But on the whole, this was a good night of entertainment, and more importantly, for the first time in years, I didn't have a feeling of irritation at my hometown Hawks for having blown yet another opportunity. Marvin Williams may have been an obvious pick in most people's eyes, but for the Hawks, making that obvious pick was a huge step in the right direction. As I prepared to depart this year's draft in search of alternate programming, I wondered if it could possibly be true, this understated feeling of satisfaction. Was this the beginning of excellence? No, probably not. But I couldn't help thinking it nonetheless:
ATL on the rise.
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June 27, 2005
Watch Closely
On Saturday morning I was viewing Episode 4 on my recently-purchased "Chappelle's Show: Season 2" DVD when something unexpected happened. During one of Dave's segments in the studio between sketches, following a joke, the cameras quickly panned to the crowd. Just a quick flash of a couple guys laughing -- a moment's glimpse -- and then the cameras were back on Dave.
Pretty crazy, right?
Just kidding -- there's more to the story than that. As I sat there watching the rest of Chappelle's monologue, something about the laugh I heard and one of the faces I saw echoed with familiarity. I reached for the remote and rewound. When I got to the quick shot of the crowd, I hit the pause button, and I knew right away.
The two guys laughing were Marlins' pitchers Dontrelle Willis and Josh Beckett.
Okay, so I know this isn't quite as monumental as, say, running into Ron Artest on a street corner, but I was pretty happy with this little celebrity sighting nonetheless. First and foremost, it validates me as something of an idiot savant when it comes to recognizing sports figures in just about any setting (that sound you hear as you're sighing and rolling your eyes is me popping my collar). Secondly, it brings to light that Willis and Beckett are friends, and I don't know about you, but I'm always amused to find out what players hang out together on particular teams. Furthermore, Willis and Beckett's endorsement of the show -- on top of Chappelle's friendship with musicians from John Mayer to Common to Ceelo -- makes me wonder quite seriously if Dave Chappelle might not be the coolest dude in showbiz.
But perhaps most importantly, seeing Dontrelle Willis and Josh Beckett watching the show and therefore essentially not having anything better to do than us pretty much grants me -- and you, lazy, couch-sitting persons out there -- a lifetime free pass to watch this show, and like-minded shows whenever and for however long we wish without feeling a smidge of shame or guilt. Be it a sunny weekend afternoon, the morning of an important business presentation, or your turn to pick up your son from preschool, pop that DVD in, hit play, and you're all but guaranteed to feel like a champion. Just remember that your good buddies Dontrelle W. and Josh B., for one afternoon at least, chose the same activity as you did.
Welcome to the big leagues.
Now peel your ass off that couch and go get me a soda, rook.
________________
Fine Dining
Set a world record tonight for "total number of NBA players sighted by friends of mine in more than one state on the same night," with three. First, at 8:28 p.m., got a text message from my buddy Jesse in ATL saying that he spotted Jerry Stackhouse eating at upscale Buckhead restaurant Nakato. Stackhouse, Jesse noted, was "iced out," in case you were wondering. For a moment, I had designs on stirring up the NBA rumor mill to suggest that Stack might be visiting ATL to consider signing with the Hawks as a free agent. Then, I realized that Jerry Stackhouse won't be a free agent until after the 2006-07 season. Oh well.
My disappointment at not being able to start any Stackhouse-to-the-Hawks rumors was quickly dissipated when, at 10:06 p.m., I received a call from another friend, Jack, here in New York, saying that he had just spotted Marvin Williams and Raymond Felton at Dallas BBQ on 72nd street.
After I finished thinking, "Wow, that's pretty cool," I got to thinking some more. Williams and Felton were eating at a barbeque restaurant, so it's reasonable to infer that they probably enjoy barbeque food. And you know what city has great barbeque food? The ATL.
Marvin Williams to the Hawks with the #2 pick tomorrow night!
You heard it first right here. And yes, I am so terrified that the Hawks will botch their pick and take some stiff, as they've done so many times in the past, that I'm willing to concoct bizarre scenarios to convince myself that they will definitely select the guy they're supposed to take.
Yes, the Hawks have made me into a freak, and maybe you can't understand. But you never had to watch Priest Lauderdale play. You never paid money to see Cal Bowdler lumber around like a crippled giraffe.
And I know what you're saying right about now -- shut up, stupid Hawks fan. I don't want to hear your whining. Fair enough, I understand. Sometimes I even annoy myself. The bottom line is, it's late, and all this talk has made me quite hungry.
BBQ, anyone?
________________
June 24, 2005
Bad Call
Like hand-slung feces smacking against a barnhouse wall, the NBA Finals came to an end with a dull thud last night. Not to say the game wasn't without exciting moments -- Manu's explosive dunks, 'Sheed's inspired attempt to bring the Pistons back -- but from an offensive standpoint, this game was hideous (or perhaps from a defensive standpoint it was brilliant). Either way, the final result -- an 81-74 Spurs win -- left this hoops fan feeling a wee bit empty inside. And to be honest with you, it wasn't just because of the product on the court. In fact, as I think back on the game, there's no question in my mind that the players on the court were playing their asses off. However, I can't help but feel like the broadcast team from ABC didn't bring its best to Game 7. For the most part, I've got no complaints with color commentator Hubie Brown -- in fact, even though he sounds quite a bit like a color-commentating cyborg, I kind of like his style. He's insightful, and more importantly, passionate.
Play-by-play man Al Michaels, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Sure, he's insightful enough, but the contrast between him and Hubie in terms of passion was glaring. From everything I saw and heard, Michaels was mailing it in. Maybe it's just me (and it may very well be just me, considering that most of the sports world seems to love Al Michaels), but when he's calling basketball, I get the feeling that his level of excitement never changes. Sure, he'll amp it up a bit during important moments, but he just doesn't seem to be fully into it. In last night's game, there were a few moments in particular where the game went into a crescendo -- a couple of breathtaking drives by Ginobili, Rasheed's flurry of jumpers down the stretch -- and Michaels wasn't inspired enough to make those moments seem transcendental. I mean, you've got freaking Manu Ginobili shooting the gap between a pair of Pistons' defenders and flying into the lane for a sick, twisting, quintesentially Ginobili but wait -- right handed -- dunk in a key moment, and from the reaction Michaels gave, you'd think Manu had just dribbled the ball out of bounds off his knee. As for Rasheed Wallace's shots down the stretch, it's not like Michaels ignored them, but it seems like he was so busy pushing his own agenda -- namely, marveling at the play of Ben Wallace non-stop, even when it seemed irrelevant to do so -- that he missed the moment with Rasheed. Here's a guy who had been maligned earlier in the series -- and through much of his career, for that matter -- for his play, sat out much of the second half with foul trouble, and suddenly had come into the game drilling fade-aways, step back jumpers and spot-up threes. But as Rasheed kept hitting shots, it was as if each one was the first he had hit. No momentum registered with the man who's supposed to enhance the game-watching experience for us. Where's the excitement from Michaels? Each shot from Rasheed, each big play, there should have been something building in his voice, some sense that this was big. I kept waiting for things to escalate, but they never did. Now that I think about it, I probably would have even accepted a well-delivered cliche, like "Now Rasheed's putting the Pistons on his back!" But even that was apparently too much to ask.
As the game neared its end and it was becoming clear that the Spurs were going to win the title, Michaels recited -- and I say recited because you could tell the line was something he had been planning to say -- about some place in San Antonio or some thing turning into "Margaritaville." I didn't write the line down, so I don't remember it exactly, but exactly what he said is irrelevant. The point is, the line, clearly read off an index card if not memorized beforehand, was a reflection of Michaels' performance. Well-prepared, but ultimately uninspired.
________________
In the Year...2007
You know it's a slow news day -- nay, a slow news year -- when you find yourself reading reports like the one I was perusing today, which informed me that Barry Bonds was considering playing through the year 2007. I mean, really, who gives a rat's ass? The more I think about it, it's not so much boring as it is irrelevant. Isn't the main question right now surrounding Bonds whether he's going to make it onto the field this year? I mean, here we are in the first full year of something resembling steroid testing in baseball, and the game's greatest slugger has yet to play a single inning, plagued by a mysterious knee injury, after being quite durable throughout his career up to now. Really, who gives a swollen head what he's planning to do in 2007?!? This reminds me of that famous Jim Mora tirade -- "Playoffs? Don't talk about playoffs. Are you kidding me? Playoffs?" "2007? Don't talk about 2007. Are you kidding me?" Give me a break. No, I'm serious -- please give me a break from this crap. If you, the entity that is the American sports media, don't have anything better to talk about than what Barry Bonds plans to be doing in two years' time, than I can't see any reason for you to continue writing. Yup, that's right -- we're shutting the whole thing down. No two weeks notice, no severance pay -- that's it. I expect you out of this office -- and by "office," I mean "my life," by 3 p.m. today.
I'll give you a call in 2007 to let you know what Barry's up to.
________________
June 20, 2005
Hurry Up
I once had the audacity to refer to subway riding as a sport. But oh, how wrong I was. Compared to what I do every day now, hopping on a New York City train for 10 minutes seems so relaxing, I'm inclined to toss my pager into the ocean and take a sip of my Corona.
That's right, friends -- I have become something I never nightmared I would be: a commuter.
Where my morning routine once consisted of a one-block stroll to the aforementioned short and sweet subway ride, it has now morphed into a crippling triathlon of transportation -- a perverse test of wits so grueling it could break down a habitual steroid user hopped up on PCP.
Hard to imagine, right? Well, not if you've done it yourself. So, hop aboard, and come along for the ride. Here we go!
Due to ongoing efforts to maximize efficiency and waste exactly zero minutes of sleep, you -- the commuter -- have precisely 19 minutes to get to your train. Seems easy enough, you say? Well, here's the problem: standing in your way is an 843-acre, centrally-located expanse of grass (a park, if you will). Once across it, you must travel over two miles by bus and train, hoof it on foot for the final stretch, all while carrying a bag that may or may not contain a) a bunch of papers and miscellaneous items that serve no purpose except to weigh the bag down, b) your lunch, and c) a laptop. The clock is ticking...
7:52 a.m. Well, this is a surprise! I've left early today. This means I'll actually have 22 minutes to get to the train. That'll make a huge diff-- ohcrap. Iforgotmylunch!
7:55 a.m. Good. That's just great. Now I'm sweating already. And -- perfect. The light's changing up ahead, and the only way to get the bus I need is to sprint across that six-lane street. So it begins...
7:57 a.m. I'm pretty sure this crosstown bus could not possibly be more crowded. If I stuck my tongue out, I would be licking another man's armpit.
7:58 a.m. I hate people. It's a feeling I have often in New York, maneuvering through crowds, getting bounced around like a billiard ball in a crowded bar, but nothing quite brings out my pent-up rage like a crowded public bus. Good times.
8:02 a.m. We successfully cross the park, and in the past five minutes I've been intimate with seven strangers against my will. They really need to make these buses wider.
8:04 a.m. I board the subway, needing to travel 39 blocks with eight minutes until the commuter train's departure.
8:09 a.m. 22 blocks to go. The subway isn't moving fast enough.
8:12 a.m. I get off the train in a dead sprint, feeling the weight of my bag far too early considering I have to run up three flights of stairs before I'm even out of the subway station. I spring up the stairs, hit the street, and from the corner I can see the elevated train platform. One long block, two minutes until departure, and no sign of the train yet.
8:13 a.m. Two thirds of the way up the block, my eyes fixated on the platform, I see that most ominous of sights: the tip of the train pulling into the station. Do I have another gear left?
?:?? a.m. I'm running through the station, a desperate man.
No regard for anyone in front of me
Oh God, I forgot about the stairs. Two flights of them, up to the platform.
I make it past the first flight, but I've got perilously little left in my legs.
Midway up the second flight, there's a small plateau, a break between sets of stairs. I hit it, and suddenly my legs go. Out from under me -- a strange feeling I've rarely experienced. Fatigue, sure. But nothing left? Nothing? I stumble, and start to go down, but I brace myself. The impact nearly knocks one of my contact lenses out, and my computer bag swings in front of me, costing me a step. I groan, gurgle like some horrible creature. I'm vaguely aware of people on the stairs looking at me. I muster one last push...
8:14 a.m. Like Andy Dufresne springing from the sewers of Shawshank, I emerge atop the stairs, panting for air, barely able to move, but remarkably right on time. I stop my run and casually walk into the train without breaking stride as the doors close behind me right on cue.
Gasping for breath as the train pulls away, the commuter inside of me winces in anguish.
At the same moment, the athlete inside cries out:
Victory.
________________
June 16, 2005
Celebrity Hunter
I was on my way to my rec league hoops game at Hunter College tonight when an odd thing happened. After I got out of the subway at 68th and Lex, I headed towards the doors I normally use to enter the Hunter building. However, they were all locked. Slightly perturbed, I turned around and walked towards the building's entrance, just around the corner. But before I could get to the door, the striking figure of an unreasonably large man caught my eye. When I heard his voice and took one look at him, it hit me immediately.
It was Ron Artest.
Living in Manhattan, I run into athletes and celebrities on a fairly frequent basis -- and by "run into," I of course mean, "see on the street and gawk inappropriately at." I've walked right past Derek Jeter, Dan Marino,
Jay-Z, George Lynch, Mike Myers, Woody Allen, Bobby Brown, Whitney Houston and Natalie Portman, just to name a few of the luminaries who have been lucky enough to unknowingly grace my presence. And as excited as I was to see those people up close, there was something especially unique about coming face-to-face with Ron Artest. On an obvious level, there's the simple fact that, right or wrong, he's currently the most notorious player in the NBA (and perhaps in all of American pro sports) based on his actions in the infamous brawl in Detroit earlier this season. But to be honest, that wasn't really what I was thinking about when I saw Artest. Within the past year or two, I read a long feature article on Artest, I believe perhaps in Sports Illustrated. While I don't remember too many details about the story, I remember one anecdote in particular. One night, when Artest's team was on a road trip, he was sitting in his hotel room and suddenly decided, with no regard for the time of day, that it was time to practice his jump shot. So he got a driver to give him a ride to a nearby playground, and he proceeded to work on his jumper, at night, by himself. In the winter, if I recall correctly.
My lasting takeaway from that story is that for all his flaws, Ron Artest has this great everyman quality -- in a way he seems refreshingly oblivious to his celebrity. Tonight, outside Hunter College, I saw that quality firsthand. There he was, standing outside a university building, chatting casually with some guy I wouldn't be surprised to find out he had just met. No entourage, no bodyguards (though, trust me, when you're as big as Ron Ron is, you don't need any help -- the man is a tank). Perhaps best of all, he was standing there in a logo-less t-shirt and a pair of dark green khaki shorts. He didn't have a size XXXL throwback jersey, and he wasn't covered with jewelry. Not that I have a problem with throwback jerseys or jewelry -- if I could afford throwback jerseys, I'd gladly sport them myself. The point is, at that moment, Ron Artest was just a regular -- albeit outrageously tall and athletic -- guy, enjoying a comfortable June night in his hometown. (I later found out that the reason he was at Hunter is that he was playing in a summer league hoops game there.)
I'm not so naive to think that Ron Artest isn't, depending on who you trust, partially or completely insane, but there's something wonderfully unusual about a prominent pro athlete -- particularly one who's been scrutinized so much -- standing in the middle of a public area, not disguised with sunglasses and a hat, not avoiding the masses, just blending into the background as much as a 6-7, 246-pound man with an unshakable reputation can.
After marveling at this unexpected moment in an otherwise forgettable day, I walked into the Hunter College building behind a pair of guys who had clearly just seen the same thing I had. "Man, he is one big dude," one of them said to the other.
I couldn't help but think that they'd missed the point.
________________
June 15, 2005
Final Decision
Last night I was out to dinner with some family friends to celebrate my dad's birthday, and many of the guests present, knowing my sports fanaticism, asked me the same question: "Aren't you missing the NBA Finals?" My response, devoid of emotion, was more or less that yes indeed, I was missing the NBA Finals.
During the past week or so, friends of mine have been asking about the NBA Finals as well -- specifically, they've been attempting to organize outings to a bar or to one of our apartments to watch the games. Suddenly, hanging out with my friends doesn't seem so appealing.
If there exists such a thing as NBA Playoff Fever, at this precise moment my temperature could not possibly be closer to 98.6 degrees. (And yes, that's a horrible joke, I know. But the Finals made me do it.) I can honestly say that I have spent less than one hour combined watching the first three games of this series, and I know I haven't missed anything. I was talking with a friend of mine today, who told me that he was watching TV with his girlfriend last night, viewing a show of her choosing. I don't know what show it was, but for the sake of argument, we'll presume that it was something really brutal like Gilmore Girls (not that I've ever seen that show). At one point during the program, my friend (we'll call him "James") picked up the remote and flipped to ABC to see what was doing in the Detroit-San Antonio game. Immediately after checking the score, he flipped right back to the dreadful program they were previously watching, not so much as a brief pause to see if he might catch an exciting play, no plea of "hang on one sec, I just want to see this possession" -- coldly and dispassionately, he returned from the NBA Finals to television purgatory (lending some weight to the theory that the two are currently one and the same). His girlfriend was stunned. "You're not going to even fight with me to try to watch that?" She asked. The answer, of course, was no.
I bring this story up because I have a feeling that my friend James is not alone. Though people are going through the motions of feigning interest in this series, I cannot remember a less compelling major sports final in a long time. First of all, there are no real storylines, no players to really root for if you're not a Detroit or San Antonio fan. The series seems devoid of both heroes and villains. Who do I love on either of these teams? No one. Who do I hate? No one (except Larry Brown and Gregg Popovich for teaching such an efficiently vomitous brand of basketball). The only scenario in which I could possibly imagine getting excited about in this series would be if Detroit power forward Darko Milicic -- buried for the past two seasons on Larry Brown's bench -- suddenly emerged from his perennial daze, a la Austin Croshere in the 2000 Finals, to bring the Pistons back from a 2-1 deficit and win the series, permanently bringing dyed blonde tips and bangs that cover the forehead back into the American consciousness. Obviously, this isn't likely to happen, but this series desperately needs someone on either team to give us reason to watch. The media is clearly trying to force that role onto Spurs' guard Manu Ginobili, and while I won't argue that the guy is the rare player in this series who is a joy to watch, any seven-game series that's counting on the second or third-best player on a team (behind Tim Duncan and arguably Tony Parker) to be the star is seriously flawed.
But I suppose that's just where the NBA is these days. Arguably the two best teams are in the Finals, and it's the last series anyone in their right mind outside of Detroit and San Antonio wanted to see.
In case you're interested in tuning in, Game 4 is on Thursday, 9 p.m. As for me, I'm keeping my viewing options open -- rumor has it there's a Gilmore Girls marathon airing on Oxygen.
________________
June 9, 2005
A Bunch of Animals
I'm pretty sure a comment like this might earn me a full-scale beatdown from PETA (though I suppose beatdowns are kind of contrary to the spirit of their whole mission statement), but I'll say it anyway: In a certain scenario, I could imagine paying my hard-earned money to go see a cockfight. (And yes, for those of you who, like me, have a hopelessly juvenile mind, I am talking about the sport that involves two chickens dueling it out in the dimly-lit backroom of a bodega and not some other perverse activity.) Savage and backward as that "sport" may be, I can see its diabolical merits, which is to say I'm sure it's wildly exciting, if only in a twisted way. It's the same reason people pay money to see dangerous horned beasts run rampant with a rope tied around their ballsack at a rodeo or a bullfight. Or, in less brutal circumstances, why they go out to the tracks to see the dogs or the horses race. There's a great intangible about animal competition that makes it exciting. The beasts somehow manage to be complicit in the activity even though they really haven't been told the rules, but there's always a chance (given that their ballsack may or may not be tied up in a noose) that they'll go completely berserk at any given moment. And therein lies the appeal.
