November 30, 2004
Potty Training
He has toiled in obscurity for much of his three-year NFL career, but last night Packers' running back Najeh Davenport busted out in a big way, rumbling for 178 yards and a touchdown against the Rams on Monday Night Football as he filled in for injured teammate Ahman Green.
Seeing Davenport go off reminded me for the 10,000th time that unlike in other professional sports, NFL backups are frequently just as capable as the starters, and simply need a chance to play. It also reminded me of one of the truly great (and by "great," I mean "horrifying") sports stories ever told: the time Najeh Davenport broke into a women's dorm and laid a steaming pile of feces in her laundry bin.
I think what's most remarkable about this story to me -- other than the fact that it involves a grown man laying down a growler amidst someone's dirty clothes -- is the fact that Davenport's name isn't nearly as synonymous with pooing on laundry as you might imagine. Mention the name "Najeh Davenport" to most sports fans, and you'd be lucky if half responded by saying, "Isn't that the guy who..." Sure, the incident in question took place two years ago, and it helps that Najeh has been a backup most of his career, thus keeping him out of the spotlight. But a 50 percent rate of response in this case is simply unacceptable. Considering the absurd and unprecedented nature of Davenport's actions as a professional athlete, it doesn't matter whether he laid the pile in question 10 years ago -- in my mind, Davenport should forever be known as "The Defecator." Think of the possibilities: The Defecator leaps over the pile and into the end zone...touchdown, Green Bay!
But alas, somehow Davenport has managed to keep his little issue with doodie off our radar. And while stealth clearly isn't his forte -- I'm sorry, but you don't shit in someone's laundry while they're present in the apartment unless you're secretly hoping to get caught -- in this case, The Defecator deserves some credit for putting his smelly little secret somewhere we can't find it.
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November 17, 2004
A Rose in the Alley
Just in case any of you missed it (and my guess is, many of you did, considering that it involves the extracurricular activites of a relatively marginal player on an NBA team in Toronto), Raptors' guard Jalen Rose attended the Vibe Awards earlier this week in Santa Monica, CA. The Vibe Awards -- again, for those of you not in the know -- are an annual celebration of hip hop. Which explains why Jalen was sitting just a few tables away from the one, the only Dr. Dre.
Now, this story would be fairly tame and completely un-noteworthy if an unidentified man hadn't walked up to Dre and slugged him in the face, touching off a melee involving Dr. Dre's bodyguards, during which a man was stabbed.
Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly what you'd call "street wise," which is to say that me soiling myself at the sound of someone's car backfiring is not out of the realm of possibility. But rest assured that when the shit went down at the Vibe Awards, our hero Jalen was not the least bit fazed.
"I wasn't scared at all," Rose said. "It's not like we were in somebody's alley somewhere."
Ahhh, yes. The old addage that "if you're not in an alley when people are being beaten and knifed, there's no chance that you could possibly be involved in said beating and knifing." How silly of whoever asked Jalen that question in the first place.
Also, I don't understand what he means by "somebody's alley." I understand that occasionally people will have alleys behind their houses or apartments, in which case it could be considered "their alley," but isn't the very nature of an alley -- especially one where there might be beatings and knifings -- that it's in some remote and dark area on the mean streets of Anytown, USA and therefore is not really owned by anybody?
But now I'm just being silly. If Jalen Rose doesn't have time for a reporter who asks him if he was afraid when someone was getting knifed two tables away, he certainly can't be bothered with semantics.
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November 14, 2004
Head Games
Have you ever seen something and thought: damned if that's not one of the most horrifyingly inappropriate things I've ever seen. So why am I laughing?
A teacher at my high school once brought a police officer into school to lecture his students during a seminar he was giving on crime. Now, this was not your standard, every day cap, knightstick, badge and gun officer. This guy was a member of the Atlanta Police Department's special drug enforcement unit, better known as "Red Dog." Sunglasses, drug-sniffing dog by his side, built like a tank. The image of intimidation. Oh yes, and did I mention that he had a pistol with a laser site on top of it?
In case you don't know, a laser site on a gun is basically like a laser pointer. It produces a red dot on the shooter's target (you've probably seen this in movies). Well, at some point during his presentation, the police officer pulled out said weapon to give a demonstration of how this piece of equipment worked. And while many, including myself, would question the ethics of pulling out a pistol in a high school classroom, the police officer really crossed the line when he pointed the thing at a student's head.
Powering up the laser site and producing a red dot on the now-trembling student's forehead, the cop uttered the words, "Red...is...dead."
Okay, so now that I think about it, that story is pretty much about 98% disturbing. But somewhere in that remaining two percent, there's something oddly humorous about the episode, just because it's so absurd.
I bring this up because last week, Cleveland Browns' defensive tackle Gerard Warren uttered one of the most insanely diabolical quotes I've ever heard. Speaking of his upcoming matchup against Steelers' rookie quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, who has been one of the great surprises of this season as he's led Pittsburgh to a 7-1 record, Warren said his strategy would be, "Go across his head, just like you would anybody else. Got to get to him and go across his head." When asked what he meant by this comment and whether he was just saying he wanted to get "inside of" Roethlisberger's head, Warren continued, "On his head. Not in it, on it. One rule they used to tell me: 'Kill the head and the body's dead.'"
Kill the head and the body's dead? Are you kidding me? This is either the greatest or the worst sports quote I've ever heard. And to tell you the truth, I think it's both at the same time. I have so many questions about this I'm not quite sure where to begin. But I suppose the most pressing inquiry is: who is the "they" in the line, "One rule they used to tell me..." Was Warren once a member of the Red Dog drug enforcement squad prior to his career as a professional football player? Is he an assassin who was trained in deadly force by some of the world's elite ninjas? Did he have a set of coaches who once explained to him during defensive team drills that the head is the housing for the brain which, if destroyed, will terminate all of the body's functions and render a person (especially a quarterback) dead? Perhaps he simply hears voices...
We may never know what caused Warren to say what he said, but I can't help but think that it's a funny game some media-types play here in the world of sports. People claim that they want athletes to be role models, and when athletes make mistakes in their personal lives, the vultures are all right there screaming and pointing and accusing. They can't believe that athletes would do something like drink and drive or report to training camp out of shape or "make veiled death threats at an opposing quarterback." Shame, shame on them, the critics say. But this whole thing with Gerard Warren reminds me of the real reason we the fans and the media take it upon ourselves to play the role of moral police, monitoring these players' every move. It's not simply that we disapprove of their behavior. Of course, in some cases we do. But the real reason we're paying such close attention is that we're looking for good gossip. And here Warren has given us some of the best material ever.
And under these twisted circumstances, I suppose we all owe Gerard Warren a "thank you."
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November 10, 2004
Crazy Kids
In a series of events that could potentially set the human race back hundreds of years, two Michigan State freshman football players were recently arrested after planting a number of "MacGyver Bombs" -- homemade explosives in plastic bottles -- around campus in what they referred to as a "prank."
A few thoughts come to mind here:
First off, I've done some foolish things in my day. I once jumped off a moving school bus, just out of curiosity. Like many boys in their teenage years, I had a healthy (and by "healthy," I mean "completely diabolical") affinity for making things burn and explode. Strapping a couple of firecrackers to G.I. Joe's chest? Guilty. Shaking up cans of soda, shooting them with a b.b. gun and then giggling like a fool as carbonated liquid flew everywhere? Certainly seemed like a good idea at the time. I've never been mistaken for a child psychologist (as far as I know), but I feel pretty confident saying that most boys in their early teenage years have a fair amount of agression that they need to take out. And what better targets than G.I. Joe and can of soda? Of course, I think you're generally supposed to kick the vandalism habit before you go to college. Partially because it ain't cool to be playing with action figures on the hallway floor of your dormitory (trust me), but moreso because when you're 18, you can go to jail for such transgressions as "planting bombs." Apparently our friends at Michigan State missed that announcement. And while I can identify with the joy of seeing plastic action figures explode into a thousand pieces, I pretty much have a disconnect in general with the whole notion of bomb-making.
Along that same vein, wouldn't you say it's rather absurd to call planting homemade bombs around campus a "prank"? Isn't it pretty much included in the basic definition of "prank" that theoretically, you (the prankster) and the person upon whom you're playing said prank could, under some conceivable circumstances, get together and have a chuckle about what a good prank it was? Yeah, man, you got me. I have to admit, when that bucket of feces fell on my head, I wasn't too happy about it. But then I thought about it; that was pretty clever.
Okay, that was a bad example, but you get the point. I mean, what are you going to do -- run up and cackle at the person whose leg you just blew off with your homemade bomb? Awwww, man! That was the best prank ever! When your leg flew off into that bush, me and Steve totally lost it!!!
Lastly, isn't the name "MacGyver Bomb" a complete and total misnomer? I understand why it's called that -- because the bomb is homemade, and the TV show character MacGyver was renowned for his ability to do things such as turn an old shoe and a spool of yarn into a hangglider. But wasn't MacGyver an agent of good, fighting the forces of evil? And doesn't the practice of calling it a "MacGyver Bomb" suggest that the supposedly noble crimefighter was actually spending most of his time trying to blow people's legs off on college campuses around America?
Now I'm officially rambling. And to be honest, I'm not quite sure why you'd bother listening to me in the first place -- I'm the fool who once jumped off a moving bus.
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November 8, 2004
The Bell Tolls for Thee
NBA season is back in full swing, and I, for one, could not possibly be more excited. While the product may not always be beautiful to watch, the individual talents -- and personalities -- are off the charts in terms of entertainment.
However, I must say, tonight as I was watching the Warriors-Mavs game on NBA TV, something bizarre, even disconcerting happened. With just over four minutes left in the first quarter and the shot clock winding down, the Warriors had possession of the ball and were working to get a shot off, when suddenly, a blaring, intrusive, piercing noise invaded my ears. Once, twice, three, four times it howled. A noise I hated, yet one that was unmistakably familiar. Then it dawned on me:
it was the sound of my alarm clock.
This was all good and well, except that it was about 10 'til 8 in the evening and I was quite certain I hadn't set my alarm clock to go off at this time. Furthermore, since the noise was coming directly out of my TV and streaming into my headphones, I knew it couldn't be the dreaded black box that wakes me every morning at 8 a.m. and then about seven times more as I insist on hitting the snooze button for some unknown reason.
After a brief moment of confusion, I realized what was going on. The noise of the alarm clock was being used by NBA TV to signify that the shot clock was winding down. Each horrible wail of the alarm came as the waning seconds ticked away.
Though I was temporarily pacified just by virtue of having figured out what the hell was going on, some questions remained. First of all, why had the sound of an alarm clock been chosen? Couldn't they have chosen the tick tock of a clock, the braying of a donkey, or better yet -- how about no sound at all? Who said that there had to be a sound telling us the fans that the shot clock was winding down in the first place? Any savvy basketball fan is watching the shot clock anyway, as it's often displayed at the top of the screen. Also, if an alarm clock had to be used, how and why was the sound of my alarm clock chosen? My alarm clock is about 14 years old, and that's not an exaggeration. Did some secret operatives from NBA TV infiltrate my one-bedroom apartment and make a digital recording of my alarm whilst I slept unknowingly? And just what was I doing wearing headphones in the first place?
While I can't necessarily answer all of these questions, I do know this much. Television networks are constantly competing to see who can come up with the newest-fangled (read: obnoxious) gimmick to supposedly enhance our viewing experience, but more often than not, all it does is make things worse (and in the case of the alarm clock, it makes us reflexively jump off the couch, put on a pot of coffee, and jump into the shower fully clothed in a confused state of delirium). I think I speak for many of my fellow viewers when I say: less is more. Give us solid announcers, clean-looking graphics, and don't get carried away trying to reinvent the wheel. The only thing the alarm clock should signify is that you stayed up too late watching sports the night before.
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November 5, 2004
Wally World
Not sure if you've seen the news yet, but Arizona Diamondbacks' manager Wally Backman was fired today. If you missed the announcement that he got the job in the first place, that's understandable -- he was only hired on Monday. But Backman was axed just four days after his hiring when the organization found out that he had multiple brushes with sketchiness in his past, including engaging in fisticuffs with ladies, which is pretty much a no-no for all those who wish not to be considered barbarians.
You obviously can't fault the D'Backs for firing Backman so quickly after they hired him, and no one really is, as far as I can tell. It's become pretty apparent that he's carrying around a bit of excess baggage, and I don't mean that he had to check one of his carry-on bags planeside. Where everyone's faulting the Diamondbacks' brass -- and rightfully so -- is for not having given Backman a background check before they offered him the job. Now, in most cases, this would almost be excusable. You've gotten good recommendations on a guy, seen him manage in the minor leagues, been impressed with what he's done, gotten good reports from his players, etc. You haven't explicitly heard anything bad, so you assume everything is good. That logic is fine, except for one small (and by "small," I mean "large") catch:
Now, I think profiling in general is a very tricky, complex and inflammatory issue, but if anything warrants an exhaustive background check, it's a freaking 1986 world series ring on your finger. In case you haven't been informed, the '86 Mets were arguably the biggest bunch of galavanting, carousing, coke snorting, booze guzzling, woman fondling, masterbating-in-the-bullpen (haven't you heard that rumor?) maniacs ever to walk the hallowed halls of professional sports. Having been on the '86 Mets is almost a failed background check in and of itself.
-Yeah, we'd like to offer you the job, but it says here you played for the Mets in '86.
-Crap, I was hoping you wouldn't notice that. Ah, well. Thanks for having me come in and interview.
And if the 1986 Mets association wasn't enough to arouse suspicion, all the D'Backs needed to do was take a look at the guy. Yes, I know we're not supposed to pass judgment based on people's appearance, but in this case, I'm making an exception. Wally Backman, despite having perhaps the most innocuous-sounding name ever (see how many different ways I can jump to conclusions?), looks like a troublemaker. He looks like the kind of guy who wakes up in the morning and is scheming before his feet hit the floor of his trailer.
I know, that was unduly harsh; a cheap shot at people who live in trailers just to try to drive home a point and maybe get a cheap laugh. You probably think I'm a bad person now, and for that I am truly remorseful.
But at least you saved yourself the trouble of doing a background check on me...
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November 3, 2004
What's in a Name?
I feel pretty comfortable saying that this -- Wednesday, November 3 -- has been the darkest, bleakest, most gloomy day of 2004. And I'm not talking about the weather, if you catch my drift. I'm salty, disgruntled, disillusioned, frustrated, downright bitter. But in amongst the horrendous smog that has hung over my day, there was at least one moment of levity; a brief glimpse of amusement, laughter, even unbridled joy when I made an unexpectedly wonderful discovery.
The Seattle Seahawks have a wide receiver named Taco.
Perhaps you're more "mature" than I am, and you don't immediately start snickering when you think about someone named after a hard or soft shell corn tortilla stuffed with lettuce, tomato, cheese and your choice of meat or vegetarian filling. Sue me. For the record, his name is Taco Wallace, and when I clicked on a link to look at his picture, I imagined -- nay, hoped -- that I'd see a man so fat (from eating tacos, of course) that his face would barely fit in the square space alotted. However, upon seeing the picture, I was disappointed to see that Taco Wallace clearly isn't a 400-pound slab of gelatinous human flesh stuffed into a football uniform, his helmet sitting atop his head as though it were a yarmulke. As it turns out, he is a relatively normal-looking guy.
My disappointment was even greater, however, when I learned that "Taco" is not actually his given name; it's more of a moniker he's permanently taken on, much like a former Clippers' point guard with the last name of Richardson once decided to call himself "Pooh." Taco's real name, as it turns out, is Lawrence.
I guess when you get right down to it, it's just been that kind of day.
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November 1, 2004
Naughty Behavior
Despite posting some eye-catching numbers throughout his playing career, Dallas Cowboys' wide receiver Keyshawn Johnson may be most famous for popularizing the phrase "Just Give Me the Damn Ball." Now, the 32-year-old is trying to popularize something entirely different, and considerably more edgy: the notion of spanking female reporters when he doesn't like their story. Yes, unfortunately, you did read that correctly. Apparently, Fox sideline reporter Pam Oliver reported that Keyshawn yelled at a Cowboys' assistant coach last week, a report he found quite offensive, and inaccurate. To the point that he thinks Oliver needs to be spanked "with a ruler really, really hard because [the story] makes no sense."
Now, I'm no "professor of journalism," but I can't quite see how nonsensical or inaccurate reports merit being flogged with a ruler. Oliver, for her part, when asked by a reporter what she would do if Keyshawn tried to spank her, responded that she would punch him in the face. If I were her I would probably have punched the reporter in the face for suggesting that there's even a scenario in which Keyshawn Johnson could theoretically spank her, Pam Oliver, with a ruler. Where would this proposed spanking take place? And how would Keyshawn Johnson get a grown woman to bend over across his knee so that he could spank her behind? (Okay, strike that last question from the record -- I believe we're crossing over into territory that may be a bit too graphic even for my own liking.)
All gruesome images aside, I'm sure that dealing with the media on a daily basis gets unbelievably exhausting and irritating when you're a professional athlete, but our dear friend Keyshawn has clearly secreted an unfortunate pile of verbal diarrhea in this case. It's just a hunch, but I have this odd feeling that the phrase "Just Give Me a Damn Spanking" isn't going to catch on any time soon...
-Matt Stroup 
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