April 27, 2005
Where the Buffalo Roam
It's happened to me more times than I can possibly remember -- I'm in the midst of a heated tennis match with a close friend when suddenly, out of nowhere, a herd of unruly bison storms the court, causing all manor of chaos to break out as they claim the court as their own.
Okay, in all reality, this has never happened to me, as you could probably guess. But yesterday a pack of buffaloes did indeed escape from its home farm and storm a local tennis court in a ritzy neighborhood. Now, I've heard tell of some funny occurrences on a tennis court in my day -- including, but not limited to, my dad's freshman year roommate, a fellow by the name of Rick Smoke, who stood about 6-7, attempting to hurdle the net after losing a match to a pretty girl he was courting, only to catch his foot and fall flat on his face on the concrete -- but I think this pack of wayfaring beasts takes the grand prize.
There are obviously so many absurdly wonderful aspects to this story, but one question in particular stands out to me. If you take a look at this image, in which one Buffalo is actually attempting a Rick Smoke leap of his own over the net, you might notice one thing that's slightly out of place here. Yes, that's right, just below the buffalo's outstreched limbs is a yellow kiddie pool, which appears to be filled with water. Now what exactly is this doing in the picture? I have never in my day heard of children taking the old kiddie pool out to the tennis courts to swim. That just doesn't make sense. Let's look for some blazing hot concrete to put this thing on!
Naturally, confronted with this mystery, my overactive imagination begins to wander. And I can't help but think that it was the buffaloes who put the pool on the court in the first place. You see, this was all part of a bigger plan that must have taken them months -- nay, years -- to conjure. At precisely the right moment, they snuck off the farm, picked up the necessary accessories (kiddie pool obviously being integral), and headed to the tennis courts, where they were planning some sort of summer blowout party.
Sadly, the cops broke the party up before it could really get started. And today, word came down that the party is over in a much broader sense. These tennis court frequenting, partygoing bison are going to be
slaughtered. But you have to give them this much -- at least they took their shot.
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April 26, 2005
The Wrong Guys: MLB Steroid Testing Off Target
I am by no means dying to see positive steroid tests in Major League Baseball, but I understand that they are inevitable. And I must admit that like you I have my suspicions about some of the game's most high-profile players. So though I may not be clamoring for them, when I see that there has been another positive test, it is with some excitement that I click the link to see who has been cheating.
Today, MLB announced its fourth positive steroid test, and when I saw the headline that it was a Mariners' outfielder, for a moment I was intrigued...
...but I should have known better. The player who tested positive was Jamal Strong. What -- you've never heard of Jamal Strong? Come on -- the guy got 2 at-bats for the Mariners in 2003. Weren't you paying attention?
If you're keeping track -- and I certainly am -- that's four positive tests announced so far, and the biggest name nabbed is Devil Rays' outfielder Alex Sanchez. Come on now, people, give me something to work with here! Jokers like Jamal Strong, Jorge Piedra and Agustin Montero are hardly even worth mentioning. And in my opinion, it's somewhat embarrassing for MLB, and to a lesser degree, all of us who have been whining (myself included) all these months. It's kind of like the citizens of Anytown USA constantly complaining about crime in the city, the police responding by saying they're going to crack down and make arrests, but all they can find are a couple of kids peddling bootleg DVD's downtown. I mean, seriously, is this what we have gotten all fired up for? I'm not trying to say that I suddenly doubt that there are a number of prominent players in baseball who have been using steroids, but with each passing pathetic announcement -- as baseball's equivalent of the DVD-hawking teenagers are taken down to the precinct, in theory to be an example but in reality just making the authorities look desperate -- I'm starting to think that this testing policy might truly be a joke.
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Braves-Mets on Display, Uncommonly Up Close
Went out to Shea Stadium Monday night for a Mets-Braves tussle, and though the end result -- a 5-4 Mets
win -- chapped my ass even more
than did the surprisingly frigid
weather, my seats were the finest
I've had in recent memory: five
rows behind the Mets' dugout, just
next to the on-deck circle. With a
view that close to the action, a
number of things caught my eye:
1) He basically looks like a short, stocky and yes, reasonably strong guy on TV, but let it be known that Mets' 3B David Wright is built like a cyborg. (For the record, I briefly considering using, for the ninety-one millionth time in history, the tired phrase "built like a tank," but when you think about it, that truly is just about the dumbest phrase ever. I mean, do these people we're comparing to military equipment really have treds for feet and giant cannons attached to their heads? If so, I applaud the use of said phrase, but otherwise it really doesn't make sense. And, yes, I do understand that it's meant to signify that someone is extremely strong and durable. Also, I'm aware that I've now effectively used the detested cliche to explain what David Wright looks like without really using it.) Anyhoo, the point is, Wright
-- much like teammate Cliff Floyd -- is far bigger than he looks on TV.
2) And speaking of Floyd, I have been aware for a number of years that he used a very small bat for a man who stands 6-4, but up close you really realize just how tiny the thing is. So taken aback was I by this image of Floyd up there with a tiny bat -- and so irritated was I that the Braves couldn't hit the soft-tossing Aaron Heilman -- that I screamed at Floyd while he was on deck to inform him that his "lumber" was "stubby," a thinly-veiled attack on his manhood and a somewhat embarrassing plunge for me into belligerent fandom.
3) I don't generally feel sorry for millionaires, but as a non-Mets fan it's tough not to sympathize just a little bit with Mets' 2B Kaz Matsui. The poor bastard just gets relentlessly booed by Mets fans, sometimes, I'll admit, for good reason. Last night he made one boneheaded play, attempting to bunt for a base hit with a man on third and two outs, and for the rest of the night he was treated like a horse thief in a medieval village (what am I talking about? I'm not exactly certain). He was booed when a ground ball base hit that was clearly out of his reach rolled into right field. Later in the game, when he laced a clean single of his own to right, some a-hole sitting behind me started screaming at him again about his earlier bunt attempt, as if somehow getting a hit was inflammatory to the whole situation. I know that professional players are supposed to be impervious to such things, but you just know that the constant booing wears on guys. Hasn't it ever occurred to any New York fans that maybe, just maybe, if you occasionally cut these guys a break they might be better off for it? Okay, now I'm kind of starting to annoy myself -- I sound like some tightwad who has never watched baseball before. It's clearly Kaz Matsui's fault.
4) I already was a big fan of Braves' utility man Pete Orr before Monday night's game, primarily because he runs the bases with the intensity of a man whose trousers are aflame. But with his two-run pinch hit homer in the eighth inning last night, the legend of Pete Orr grew even greater. I can't be certain because I haven't yet seen a photo or a replay, but I'm pretty certain that when he hit his homer -- the first of his career -- Pistol Pete went down to one knee a la Reggie Jackson. (Okay, so Orr's swing didn't exactly look as good as Reggie's, but it was still pretty sweet.)
4) Major props to the Mets' jumbotron crew. Not only did they show the footage of the Canadian woman forgetting the lyrics to The Star Spangled Banner before a hockey game, after which she left the ice to get the lyrics only to slip and fall on her ass when returning to the ice, they also, much to my shock, showed a replay on the board of a great defensive play by Braves' shortstop Rafael Furcal. I've complained in the past that the home team often neglects to show great defensive plays made by the visiting team, which is absolutely absurd. I suppose the theory is that the hometown fans don't need to relive anything bad that happens to their team, but the fact is, real baseball fans want to see a great play no matter who made it. Last night the Mets' crew got it right.
5) This isn't an observation from Monday night's game, but it must be said nonetheless: this absurd feud between Time Warner Cable and Cablevision, which has resulted in Mets and Knicks games being blacked out to Time Warner subscribers, has got to stop. Tonight (Tuesday) all I -- and undoubtedly thousands of other fans -- wanted to do was watch the classic pitching matchup of John Smoltz and Pedro Martinez. But the game, like the majority if other Mets' games on cable this year, was nowhere to be found (50 of the Mets' games this season are airing on the WB, which has not been stolen away from us by the evil cable empires). I couldn't watch the game on TBS -- or on the Major League Baseball Extra Innings TV package I pay extra money for -- because it's blacked out in favor of the local New York broadcast, which, of course, I can't get. I even tried borrowing a friend's password for MLBTV.com, the service that allows you to watch games live on your computer, but somehow that too knew I was in New York and told me to piss off. My only options were to go to a bar or, as I ended up doing, listen to the game on the radio in my apartment, which made me feel as though -- much like these petty cable companies -- I was taking an unnecessary step backwards.
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April 24, 2005
Mad Dog Speaks
He may not exactly be Paul Shirley when it comes to immortalizing the life of an NBA bench player, but it has recently been called to my attention that T-Wolves' backup forward Mark Madsen has an online diary of his own. Those of us who try as we might can't forget the worst dancing performance we've ever seen in our lives no doubt know Madsen best for his horrendous gyrations at the Lakers' victory celebration following the 2001 NBA Finals. While that dancing performance may ultimately be an unforgivable sin -- and while Madsen may remind you, as he does me, of that obnoxious tenth-year grad student who used to show up at the college gym for a pick-up hoops game wearing a paper-thin old t-shirt and mouthpiece, setting hard picks, relentlessly talking trash and generally taking the game far too seriously -- it's worth noting that he's got a few entertaining stories to tell, most notably his recollection of the time during his rookie year that Shaq took him shopping. I think I like this story primarily because it affirms that Shaq -- though not necessarily my favorite player to watch -- is clearly the coolest athlete on the planet. I wouldn't necessarily buy a ticket to watch Mark Madsen play, but Mad Dog's diary is worth a look.
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Christian on the Loose
Call off the search, sportsfans -- I've found Christian Okoye. Okay, truth be told, there never was a search as far as I know, and if there was one, I certainly was not a part of it. But I was more than happy to act on a tip from a loyal reader and log onto christianokoyemortgage.com. Yes, that's right, the former KC Chiefs RB is now refinancing homes, and as far as I can tell, the Nigerian Nightmare's foray into the business world is very much a bad dream. Consider this opening sales pitch on the webpage:
"Playing for the Kansas City Chiefs I was known as the 'Nigerian Nightmare.' The media gave me this nickname because I created havoc with opposing offences. Buying a home or refinancing a mortgage can also be a nightmare, don’t just punt! Make the call to a team of professionals that will quarterback the entire process for you."
I guess my main question is, how the hell is Christian Okoye qualified to help me refinance my mortgage? According to this paragraph, it appears as though his greatest strength is "creating havoc." Not to question the man's intelligence when I've never met him, but what's he going to do, shoulder-ram down my front door and then plow through my living room wall a la The Incredible Hulk? Call me crazy, but I'm not sure that the wrecking ball angle is the way to go with something as delicate as home finance and mortgage payments. I understand that Okoye is using his name recognition to build a business, but it might be best for everyone involved if he distanced himself -- even just the tiniest bit -- from the image of a guy who is just as likely to tear your home to shreds as he is to improve your mortgage situation.
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April 20, 2005
It's only just dawning on me now, and I doubt he ever realized it himself, but Myron Ludvick taught me what it means to be a gym rat.
See, I grew up in Atlanta playing soccer and baseball. For whatever reason, when it came to basketball, I didn't have the same passion. But at age 14 I shipped out to an overnight sports/outdoors camp in New Hampshire, and it was there I met Myron, a kid from the Bronx who always seemed to have a basketball in his hand, a court under his feet and something to chatter about. We weren't best friends, but we were two kids seemingly across the planet from home, united by geographic displacement -- and that's a powerful thing.
I won't lie and say that from that day forth I was a hoops junkie, or that my hopelessly broken left-handed set shot was suddenly fixed under Myron's tutelage. But something came to life for me that summer -- the basketball goal was no longer that thing on top of my garage whose installation had been an epic waste of time. After that summer, the court behind my house gradually became my sanctuary, and as I spent afternoon after afternoon hoisting j's, healing my badly wounded form (which to this day remains, I'm told, a tad bit unorthodox), basketball became something I loved.
In the summer of 2000, after my senior year of college, I saw Myron for the first time in eight years. We had been friendly that first summer in 1992, but as basketball counselors working together every day in the hot New Hampshire sun, we became friends.
My hoops game has come a long way in the past 13 summers. I'm still not the kind of guy who'll light you up for 30. I can bury a mid-range j and I'll hit the occasional three, but I'm not crossing anyone over and my spin moves are strictly limited to the dance floor. While I dream of dunking on someone's head just once in my lifetime, I probably never will.
But the basketball court -- once as foreign to me as New Hampshire's gravelly roads -- has become a place I seek out. I smile there, I curse there, sometimes I wince in pain, but whatever the case -- and I think this would make Myron proud -- I never stop chattering.
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April 18, 2005
A Crazy Connection
This really has nothing to do with anything, but it dawned on me while watching a recent edition of Sportscenter that Pacers' shooting guard Stephen Jackson bears a bizarre and somewhat striking facial resemblance to actor Willem Dafoe.
Though probably not the most noteworthy discovery you've ever come across, this little tidbit strikes me as interesting for one reason exactly: Stephen Jackson and Willem Dafoe are both clearly insane. Tell me it hasn't crossed your mind while watching Jackson backpedal down the court with an odd glimmer in his eye, fearlessly hoisting shots with no regard for degree of difficulty and, oh yes, climbing into the stands and try to remove a fan's head with a devastating right cross, that the man might be just a little bit off. And while Dafoe, to my knowledge, doesn't have a track record of trying to bludgeon his paying audience into submission, he's just got that look about him, much like Jackson, that says he could potentially say or do just about anything at any given moment.
Singer/songwriter Seal (who as best I can tell doesn't resemble anyone else on the planet) once said, "We're never gonna survive, unless we get a little crazy," and while I'll readily admit that in some cases Jackson and Dafoe have gone a little too far -- see the aforementioned punches thrown at fans or witness Dafoe's performance in the outrageously delightful (often for the wrong reasons) "Boondock Saints" -- I think it's that element of unpredictability, a constantly imminent and threatening lunacy, that is the primary reason for Jackson and Dafoe's success.
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April 15, 2005
Interesting update to the ongoing Mike Vick-Ron Mexico saga: No doubt spurred on by my suggestion last week, uncounted minions flocked to the NFL.com site to attempt to order custom-made #7 Falcons jerseys with "Mexico" on the back. Now, word has come down that the NFL has gone fun police and banned sale of such jerseys. Meanwhile, one opportunistic businessman (I use that term somewhat loosely here) has seized the moment and started up his own Ron Mexico website, which he's using to sell t-shirts.
And as we speak, an auto parts supplier in Brighton, Michigan who just so happens to have the first name "Ron" and the surname "Mexico" wonders why people are laughing in his face every time he introduces himself.
The NFL may have foiled our plan to get the custom-made jerseys, but rest assured: A name this good doesn't just fade away. Somehow, some way, Ron Mexico will live on.
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April 11, 2005
Siegfried and Roy: Under Siege
Much like that distant cousin you never knew existed until he ended up on the police blotter for defecating in someone's recycling bin, former Raiders' kicker Cole Ford went from virtual unknown to bonafide loon with the recent revelation that he attempted to assassinate Vegas entertainers Siegfried and Roy because he believed they were legitimate threats to our well-being.
The fact is, to think that the two of them are somehow involved in any sort of nefarious plot is probably crazy, but I guess that's the point -- Cole Ford has clearly lost his peanuts. And that's understandable; it does happen to people. But I guess my beef is, if you're going to have paranoid delusions and attempt to murder people in a drive-by shooting (as Ford attempted to do last September), your train of thought at least ought to follow some baseline level of logic, crazy as it may be.
But here's how Ford's psychiatrist explains it: "'While watching Siegfried and Roy, [Ford] had a sudden realization that what was wrong with the world was linked to the illusionists' treatment, dominance and unhealthy intimacy he saw them having with their animals.'"
I'll be honest -- this explanation just isn't working for me. It's one thing to say, "these two guys are a danger to us all because they're training their army of tigers to take over the world," because while that's pretty out there -- crazy, if you will -- at least there's some kind of logic to it. An army of tigers, if set loose on the world, would indeed pose a threat (even if it was led by a couple of apparently pacifistic entertainers). And it would be another thing altogether to simply accuse Siegfried and Roy of "getting intimate" with their animals. But what Ford does is entirely different. He claims that Siegfried and Roy are a threat to us -- to you and me -- because they may or may not get a little bit frisky with the animals captive in their completely bizarre Secret Garden and Dolphin Habitat. Now, I'm as appalled by bestiality as the next guy, but I just have a hard time seeing how a couple of Vegas entertainers allegedly doing the humpty dance with a tiger or attempting to mount the occasional unsuspecting dolphin is going to compromise anyone's safety to the point of necessitating that a former NFL kicker drive by their house and blast at them with a shotgun.
It's often said, virtually to the point of cliche, that one has to be just a little bit out there to be a successful kicker in the NFL. In this case, that unfortunately appears to be a severe understatement.
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April 7, 2005
Michael Vick: South of the Border
Perhaps you've read the headline by now: Superstar Falcons' QB Michael Vick is being sued by a woman who claims he gave her herpes. Now, under normal circumstances, this is not something I would be screaming from the rooftops. Mike Vick is the face of a football renaissance in my hometown ATL, and while I'm not ordinarily one to deify athletes, I feel pretty comfortable saying that Number 7 is a football god. Quite simply, no one else can come close to doing what he does on a football field, and even if you hate the Falcons, you'd be hard pressed to name an athlete in any other sport more exciting than Vick.
It's with this mentality that I'd like to take a nice relaxing float down De Nile River and pretend this little incident never took place. But it just so happens there's another layer to this particular piece of news, and it's one that, try my best, I simply can't ignore:
According to his accuser, when getting treatment for his herpes, Michael Vick used the alias "Ron Mexico."
First off, let's get this out in the open: I don't condone the transmission of herpes in any way, shape or form. However, I do condone the use of outrageously funny aliases, and Vick's selection here may be the greatest nom de plume of all time. Sorry Mark Twain, you've got nothing on Ron Mexico. Honestly, I challenge you to think of a better alias than this. I don't think it can be done. I'm seriously giving thought to going to NFL.com and ordering a custom-made Falcons' #7 jersey with "Mexico" on the back.
The trademark of a transcendental athlete is that he can do something so remarkable on the field that it makes us forget, at least for a moment, where we are and what we have to worry about. Michael Vick's done that more times on the field than I can possibly recall. Now he's accomplished the feat off the field -- so blinded am I by the big, bright flashing neon light emblazoned with the name "Ron Mexico," a la "Dirk Diggler" in Boogie Nights-- that I have almost completely forgotten what Michael Vick allegedly did wrong in the first place.
I told you he was good.
-Matt Stroup 
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