October 28, 2004
Horse Play
Last night, the unthinkable happened, as the Boston Red Sox won their first World Series in 86 years. And today, after that incredible high, the entire sports world seems to be hung over. Take a look around -- there's absolutely nothing going on in the world of sports. Sure, there's some preseason NBA, and a little bit of college football, but all across the nation, there's not a single big ticket sporting event to tune in and watch. And by extension, there are no interesting headlines to be found in cyberspace.
With so little to preoccupy my time, I thought I'd take a quick glance around at some sports I don't usually consider. I first decided to check in on the NHL lockout, but quickly bailed out when I saw that much of the premium content on NHL.com consisted of profiles of various league general managers. This, as you can imagine, is not the best of times. As you can see, I've provided a link there, but in this instance I'm going to advise you not to click on it, as it's some of the most horrendously boring material I've ever encountered.
Nearly despondent after the hockey debacle, I found myself about ready to give up on this enterprise entirely. Until something caught my eye, and I did something I've never done before: I clicked on ESPN.com's horseracing page.And upon arriving there, I was pleasantly surprised when I learned that a horse named Perfect Soul was going to be retired to stud.
Now, I'm not sure if you are aware of what this means, but it may be the most fantastic concept in sports history (whether or not horse racing really counts as a sport is another debate for another time). Anyhoo, what happens, as I understand it, is that when a male horse is very successful, at the end of his career, he is deemed a "stud." Some would argue that being a successful horse makes one a stud in the first place, but this studliness has to do with something else: when the horse is made a stud, he basically buys a lavish house in the country and spends his days awaiting the arrival of various lady horses which he fornicates with upon their arrival at his aforementioned palacial country mansion in order to produce future successful horses.
I find this concept fascinating not only because it involves two horses involved in an act of passion, but more so because it is the rare case in which an athlete's life becomes arguably more glorious after his career is over. You hear so much about former NFL players who can barely walk because they've taken too many hits on the playing field, it's refreshing to think about good old Perfect Soul spending his days making horse whoopie in the countryside.
Of course, there is a downside to this whole happy tale. I haven't mentioned what happens to an aging horse who happens to get injured.
He gets taken out back and shot.
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October 26, 2004
One Ring to Rule Them All...
Not sure if you heard this yet, but the reigning NBA Champion Detroit Pistons are planning on giving a championship ring out to one fan, chosen at random, as a way of recognizing the thousands of fans who supported them during their title run. My initial reaction upon hearing this news was that this was the stupidest idea I'd ever heard -- what fan, after all, is deserving of an NBA championship ring? Was Philip, the guy sitting in the third row behind the bench, banging with the top power forwards in the league on a nightly basis, hauling down tough rebound after tough rebound? Was Bernice, the woman sitting behind you, attempting clutch 3-pointers with time running down and a defender's hand in her face? Absolutely not. For all intents and purposes, this was one of the most assanine sports-related publicity stunts I'd ever come across...
...until I realized that the lucky ring-winner could be me.
Just think of all the possibilities. Going to shake hands at a party -- "Oh, that? Yeah, that's my NBA championship ring..." Getting mugged on the mean streets of Anytown, USA? Punch your assailant's lights out with the assistance of your "brass knuckle." Couldn't an NBA ring even vault you into society's elite class, much like Lloyd Christmas fantasized that moving to Aspen would do for him in "Dumb and Dumber"? Okay, probably not. In fact, having the ring arguably makes you a bigger loser than not having it, because then you have to explain that you're the dummy who basically won it in a raffle. But apparently the ring's value on the open (read: black) market is about $15,000. That's certainly all the incentive I need to sign up.
The only snag to applying is that you have to have a Michigan address, but in this day and age, who uses "real" mail anyways? That's for nerds! It's all e-mail these days. Now, I'm not necessarily encouraging you to "falsify" your address, but what are the Pistons' people going to do -- come knock on your fake front door in Michigan to make sure you live there? I don't think so. They'll e-mail you, or call you on your cell phone. And all you have to do then is say, "Man, it sure is getting cold early this year -- this is the worst winter I can remember. We've already turned on the furnace!" and they'll definitely think you live in Michigan.
Now, if and when you do win the ring, I'll need you to bring it to me so I can examine it for authenticity. I'll only need to see it for a moment. There, yes, hand it over to me. Let me...just...hold it for a second. My...Precious...
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October 24, 2004
Prime Time Returns
12 years ago today I attended Game 6 of the 1992 World Series at Fulton County Stadium in Atlanta. Blue Jays vs. Braves -- a series that Toronto won four games to two when Otis Nixon was thrown out on an inexplicable bunt attempt for the series' final out. Remember that moment? Jays' first baseman Joe Carter jumping up and down in a bizarre moment of glee, as though someone had just shoved a pirahna down his pants.
I don't know about you, but a lot has changed for me since that night. Back then, I wore Bo Jackson model Nikes that were too big for me (my uncle once told me my sneakers looked like "moon boots" juxtaposed next to my skinny legs). My favorite albums were Guns N' Roses Use Your Illusion I and II, I basically had a bowl cut, and my favorite movie was "Young Guns." Okay, I have to admit, I still kind of like "Young Guns," even though it hasn't aged so gracefully. But you get the point -- I'm not exactly blasting the G n' R on my IPod on the way to work these days (as far as you know).
On that October Atlanta night 12 years ago, another relic of a lost era was on display, an athlete I idolized like no other. For the Series, he hit a dazzling .533 (the best average on either team), slugged .667, and had five stolen bases. He was nothing short of electric -- the fastest man in baseball (and perhaps the NFL) with an uncanny ability to come up big when the pressure was on. They called him Prime Time, and if you were one of his fans, you understood why. I'm speaking, of course, of Deion Sanders.
I not only admired Deion for his incredible speed, unmatched style and for the illusion of invincibility he presented, but also for the fact that he could be downright irreverent. I'll never forget the image of him dumping a bucket of ice water on FOX broadcaster Tim McCarver because McCarver had said something disparaging about him on the air.
Of course, in the years to come, it came to light that Deion was troubled, even downright crazy to a degree, and his aura faded somewhat in my eyes. But I've never forgotten the excitement he generated back when he was a star for the Braves and the Falcons.
And today, for a moment, some of that excitement was back, as the 37-year-old picked off two passes in the Ravens' 20-6 win over the Bills, returning one of them for a touchdown. After crossing the goal line, he paused for a second, and then -- as if there was ever any doubt -- he broke into one of his ridiculous celebratory dances.
Perhaps it was just a fleeting glimpse; an aging former star having a rare big day. And maybe you've always thought Deion was nothing more than a loud, brash, obnoxious and overpaid fool. But like it or not, on this day, Prime Time was back, leapfrogging 12 years like it was nothing at all.
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October 21, 2004
Pinch Me
I awoke with a start, as FOX broadcaster Joe Buck's ominous words rang out in my head: "There's a drive to right, and Bellhorn can't come up with it...Jeter scores, Matsui scores, and the Yankees have tied this game at 10-10."
The clock read 6:28 a.m. And for a brief moment, I couldn't believe it -- the Yankees had come back to tie Game Seven of the ALCS against the Red Sox.
A moment later, I realized it had only been a nightmare -- my baseball sense pointed out to me that Mark Bellhorn probably hasn't played right field (the position he was playing in my dream) since high school. In another bizarre distortion created by Dreamland, Bellhorn attempted to catch the line drive (which he really should have caught, by the way) with a glove on his right hand, and then when he went to pick the ball up, the glove was on his left hand and he was throwing with his right hand. I think what happened was, the dream was just creating the story on the fly, as fast as it could, and it threw Bellhorn in right field with a glove on the wrong hand, but somewhere my brain said "No. Uh uh. Mark Bellhorn does not field the ball with his right hand."
Now I'm no scientist, but I think it must have been this "glitch in the Matrix," so to speak, that caused me to wake up with a start. But I digress, regardless of why I woke up. I could easily end this by saying that the Red Sox beating the Yankees after having trailed three games to none in the series is "like a dream," but I'm going to resist, mostly because writing that would make me the most annoying person ever, if I'm not that already.
What really amazes me about my dream is the level to which the Yankees-Red Sox series invaded our collective consciousness (and unconsciousness) as sports fans. After intently listening to Joe Buck's voice all week long, his voice in my dream could not have possibly sounded more real. In fact, the entire dream itself was so real, I honestly believed that the dreaded Yankees had somehow come back to tie a game the Red Sox had led 10-3.
Until, of course, I realized that Mark Bellhorn was playing out of position with his glove on the wrong hand...
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October 20, 2004
The Diamond No One Needs
With seemingly every sports fan in America completely unable to turn away from the unbelievably compelling Yankees-Red Sox series (and not to mention a pretty good series going on between Houston and St. Louis as well), it's impossible not to have an opinion on FOX's coverage of the baseball playoffs.
As a general rule, I'm not the biggest fan of FOX's sports broadcasts, primarily because they have a tendency to overdo everything. Announcers yell too much, digitized audio sounds accompanying fast-flying graphics make you think you're under attack from a hostile new species of cyborg. It's always overdone, and it detracts from the product on the field, as opposed to adding to it.
This postseason, however, I've been willing to ignore it, for the most part. Sure, I think they go to the well on the crowd shots way too often, and the Kenny Albert interviews have been absolutely horrendous -- why, just yesterday, he put a 12-year-old girl on camera just to have her confirm for us that a ball was indeed a home run, something that TV replays had already conclusively shown. The entire interview consisted of Albert asking her if the ball was a home run, to which she responded, "Yeah." Now that's good television! But the fact is, the baseball games have been so good, I've been able to put aside all of my not-so-petty complaints. Except for one...
Every year, FOX has a new little "gift" for us, it seems. Some wacky new camera angle (remember the one they put inside first base?) is unveiled. Some are kind of neat, some are annoying but harmless enough, some are unbearably awful, and then there's Diamond Cam. In case you've somehow missed it, Diamond Cam is planted in the ground near home plate, and gives you the perspective you would have on the batter's box if you were a two-toed tree sloth lying prone on your back approximately three feet up the first or third-base line. Not particularly exciting -- there's a reason they don't put seats there, and it's not just because you can't have seats on the field (just trust me). What makes matters worse is that during broadcasts, they repeatedly show us the view from Diamond Cam as though it's an authority on anything other than what a slow-moving, tree-climbing mammal would see if he were splayed out just in front of home plate. FOX will use it to determine whether or not a batter checked his swing (which it does nothing to illuminate because it's at the wrong angle), or to point out the "nasty break" on a pitcher's slider. Great, except, once again, the useless angle does nothing to show how much the pitch is breaking.
You get the point. The damn thing is infuriating. It's enough to make me want to suit up in a ninja outfit, stealthily infiltrate the stadium before game time, and put an end to Diamond Cam once an for all.
Now if I could only find where they've buried it...
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October 19, 2004
A Break from the Norm
Had a somewhat unique experience browsing the Internet this evening. Has this ever happened to you? You're perusing the web looking for sports-related news (or perhaps, as some of you "normal people" do, you're looking for actual real news), and you find yourself exhausted by a deluge of negative headlines:
The once-incomparable Jerry Rice, whose career has slowly been sliding down a toilet wall as he languished on the sidelines in Oakland, will now get a chance to show how much his skills have diminished, as he's been traded to Seattle. Of course, the Rice trade was necessitated by the fact that promising young Seattle wide receiver Koren Robinson is facing a four game suspension for violating the league's drug policy. Which would bother me if Robinson weren't such an underacheiving bum in the first place...
Awash in negativity -- whether it's cheating, discontent, or the inevitable effects of age on a marvelous career -- suddenly a headline catches your eye towards the bottom of the page.
And while this is exactly the type of boring headline that normally makes you want to hurl yourself in front of a fast-moving rickshaw, you find yourself strangely drawn to it. Now there's a nice story, you think. Shaquille O'Neal is getting along with his teammates. That sounds just about perfect right now. A little harmony among NBA players...
But as you go to click on the link, a sudden shift in your mood occurs, and your true intentions become clear. You're not really hoping for nice. And to be quite honest, you don't want harmonious. You're curious to read this article because you're hoping that beyond the rosy headline, there's some undertone of dischord. You're secretly hoping that Shaq's "Preseason Greeting" is actually a big old Preseason F.U., directed at longtime teammate and rival Kobe Bryant, or the rest of the league, or the entire planet. You line up your mouse, center it on the link, and vigorously hit click, ready to mine for filth.
Unfortunately, you don't find it. Just as you'd initially hoped, the article is pretty much nothing more than a feel good story about how happy Shaq is to be in Miami, blah blah blah. The closest thing you find to excitement is the discovery that Shaq accidentally elbowed hapless Hawks' center Jason Collier in the head. Not exactly thrilling. And now you've wasted your time reading this "smut."
But there is one positive to come out the whole experience. After going through the agony of reading that nice-talk about Shaq and his new teammates, you're fully recharged and ready to browse the 'net for some good, honest, decent...negativity.
The More Things Change...
The past two nights, the Yankees and Red Sox have waged a pair of playoff battles that have been unforgettably epic, and remarkably similar. Both games were over 5 hours long, extra-inning affairs that saw the Red Sox come back from a deficit late in the game, with both managers using their closers for multiple innings and burning up virtually their entire bullpen before each game finally ended on a hit by Sox first baseman David Ortiz. Having watched the better part of both games, I have to confess to feeling a little bit of disorientation, and quite a bit of deja vu. The feeling only becomes more exacerbated as I look around the world of sports and see a number of storylines I can't help but think I've seen before:
-The Red Sox have a paunchy, charismatic lefty first baseman/designated hitter in the heart of their lineup who is not only a prodigious power hitter, but something of a cult hero in the Boston area...
-Gary Sheffield is acting like a surly, malcontent misanthrope...
-Shaquille O'Neal is playing hoops for an NBA team in South Florida...
-Some pitcher named Clemens is throwing mid-90's heat and on the verge of leading his team to the World Series...
-A quarterback named Kurt Warner -- who no one had any confidence in entering this season -- has his team at 4-1 and looking like a playoff contender...
-Speaking of the Hawks: Jon Barry, Kenny Anderson and Kevin Willis will all be suiting up and running the floor in ATL this season...
What year is this again?
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October 13, 2004
Into the Woods: Qyntel's Trouble with Canines
Forgive the expression, but it's the kind of headline that makes me salivate --Portland Trail Blazers' forward Qyntel Woods has been suspended by the team while it looks into allegations that Woods has been involved in dogfighting.
Just in case you're confused, dogfighting is not the opposite of what is commonly known as a "catfight" -- a brawl between two girls. Dogfighting is, quite literally, the practice of having two dogs fight, and the winner (or winning owner) takes home money that was bet on said dogs.
Now, generally speaking, I'm an "innocent until proven guilty" kind of guy, but when it comes to something like dogfighting, I'm pretty sure you don't just end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, or randomly get accused because of mistaken identity. If you're being investigated for dogfighting, I think it's safe to assume that you've been training Brutus to do a little bit more than defend your home at night.
The story, of course, gets better. Apparently, it is believed that Woods abandoned his dog, a pit bull, because it was not willing to fight for him. I don't get it -- is this dog a pacifist? A conscientious objector? Or is it possible that Qyntel wasn't cutting him in on any of the loot and he was holding out for more money...
As you know if you've followed the NBA over the past several years or if you have a police scanner you monitor on occasion, this is the latest in a long line of brushes with the law for Trail Blazers' players. But I'll refrain from making the requisite "Jail Blazers" jokes -- I'm pretty sure this fiasco is good enough to stand on its own.
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October 12, 2004
Culpepper Raises the Question: Is Fantasy Becoming Reality?
A good friend of mine who lives in Houston was in attendance at the Texans-Vikings game on Sunday, and he had something pretty interesting to report. Apparently, there was a fan sitting pretty close to the field who was holding a sign that read, "I'm a Texans fan, but this guy is on my fantasy team." Next to the words "this guy" was the picture of Vikings' quarterback Daunte Culpepper. As you may or may not know, Culpepper had a huge day, throwing for five touchdowns. And after each one, he pointed to and winked at the fan holding the sign, a public acknolwedgement that he was helping that individual's fantasy team.
After the game, Culpepper walked over and autographed that fan's sign before leaving the field. It was the only autograph he gave.
Most people, sports fans or not, realize that fantasy football is an unbelievably popular activity among those who aren't good enough to play pro sports or manage a pro sports franchise -- hence the "fantasy." But it's becoming increasingly clear, as in the case of Culpepper, that NFL players are quite aware of when their contributions on the field help their thousands of fantasy owners nationwide.
I first noticed this phenomenon a couple of years ago, when former 49ers QB Steve Young wrote an article explaining how he was constantly aware of how he was or wasn't helping his fantasy owners during any given game. I can't find a copy of that article for the life of me, but earlier this season, something similar happened: after running for a late, meaningless touchdown in a game despite having an injured hamstring, Indianapolis Colts' running back Edgerrin James told The Indianapolis Star that he risked further injury because he "had to please the fantasy guys."
Culpepper and James' recent behavior and comments are just further examples that fantasy football is absolutely taking over the NFL. To be completely honest, despite my own love of fantasy football, I think the whole thing has gone way too far. Nothing annoys me more than when they give "fantasy updates" during TV broadcasts, or tell you who the "standout fantasy player of the game" is. The announcers' hearts are never in it, and frankly, it's kind of embarrassing. To me, there's something wrong about acknowledging the whole fantasy football thing so openly. It's kind of our little nerdy secret club, and openly catering to our obsession with it cheapens the whole enterprise in some way. But I have to confess, while the jury's still out on Edgerrin James risking injury to please his fantasy owners, I find behavior like Culpepper's on Sunday absolutely hilarious, and refreshing in a way I can't quite put into words.
Turner Field's Finest Hour
Something unusual happened last night at Turner Field -- and no, I'm not talking about the Astros' 12-3 thrashing of the Braves. I think the baseball nation is all too well aware of that one.
What happened last evening was that Braves' fans -- maligned over the years as some of the most passive and disinterested in all of sports -- swarmed Turner Field like a pack of crazed lemmings. Pre-game chanting filled the streets and the stadium corridors, and once the game began, the crowd of over 54,000 screamed for that team with as much passion as I've ever witnessed at a major league baseball game.
Though the crowd was eventually taken out of the game when the Astros erupted for four runs in the seventh inning, essentially putting the game out of reach, for five innings there was something downright special (and I hate that word, but it fits) going on in those stands.
Say what you want about the Braves being chokers (not that your team could ever imagine winning 13 straight division titles), but don't blame us, the fans, as you've so often done in the past, Braves Haters. Atlanta is a city filled with transplants; people who moved from other cities in their mid-twenties or thirties, with lifelong allegiances to other teams. The fact is, sometimes Turner Field is quiet because many of the fans coming to the game have alliances to different clubs. But there are thousands and thousands of diehard, legitimate Braves fans out there -- and last night, almost 60,000 of us ended up in the same place. Though you may think we're a tired act, and you're sick of our team winning in the regular season only to lose in the playoffs, you can't say we don't care; not after last night. For this unlikely band of overacheivers, we poured our hearts out.
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October 11, 2004
MLB Playoffs: Decision 2004
Baseball and politics. Two powerful entities whose ideologies have the power to both bind, and divide. But it's not necessarily all that often that their paths intersect. Sure, you'll get Senator John Kerry talking about his allegiance to the Red Sox, as he did during last week's presidential debate, but for the most part, baseball and politics exist in separate universes.
But that's not to say they don't have anything in common. One undeniable similarity between the two is the fact that in baseball and politics, it's very difficult -- well nigh impossible, even -- for an individual to keep secret which team he's rooting for.
Which is why it suprises me that this day was so long coming. A day when a long-lasting, stunning affiliation will be revealed, with potentially disastrous consequences.
With the decisive Game 5 of the National League Division Series taking place this evening, my father and I both having flown to Atlanta to attend, there is no other time I could possibly break the news. Today is the day I will reveal to my father...
Now, as loyal Braves' fans since the 1980's, I don't think either my dad or I ever realized, or thought to consider, what Smoltz's political affiliation was. And if it ever did come to our attention, it wasn't an election year when it happened. Stakes were lower, and it was forgotten. But now it has seized my attention, and I can honestly say that in some respects, things will never quite be the same between me and Smoltzie from this day forth. I can only imagine that the same will be true when I explain the situation to my father.
Though this has forever changed my opinion of Smoltz -- probably my favorite Braves' pitcher of the last 15 years -- one thing has not changed: at tonight's Game 5, if that son of a bitch comes in the game, I'll be on my feet screaming like a maniac, just like everyone else.
Reeve, Caminiti: A Reflection on Strength
There was something incredibly surreal about getting on the internet today and seeing that Christopher Reeve, Superman himself, had died of heart failure. The feeling became even more pronounced when I clicked on the front page of sports and saw that former NL MVP Ken Caminiti had died of heart failure as well.
Here were two men who personified strength in incredible, and extremely different ways. Reeve, once a Hollywood superhero, paralyzed years ago after a horseback riding accident, had somehow become even more strong after he physically became weak. His determination to walk again was overwhelming -- and oddly enough, mentioned by John Kerry in the presidential debate last week, before Reeve's death.
Caminiti was once extremely strong as well, but in a far different way. His strength was superficial, but at the same time awe-inspiring. A brute force of a man who admitted to using steroids during his career, Caminiti, when healthy, was a tank of a third baseman -- fully-extended dives, barrel rolls around the infield, and undoubtedly the most powerful throwing arm in the league.
Sadly, Caminiti's strength was mostly a mirage; a deception brought about by cheating. And his life after baseball, after his physical strength was gone, was tragic, as he struggled with drug addiction, constantly in trouble with the law.
Reeve and Caminiti, two men who led very different lives, but both died too young -- of heart failure. In the days to come, they'll both be remembered as strong, and rightfully so. But simply using that word won't tell the whole story.
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October 8, 2004
Friday Night Lights: A Troubling Numbers Game
I'll hold off on passing a final judgment until I've actually seen the film, but let me go on the record as saying I'm a tad bit concerned about Friday Night Lights, which opens today. Just so we're clear, I'm not particularly worried about the movie being entertaining -- from everything I can gather, it will be loud and fast, with big hits, amped-up audio, everything you'd expect from a football movie. And to tell the truth, I won't be particularly surprised if the movie ends up being compelling on some level. Not that you can ever tell much from a preview, but the one that I saw had me kind of excited, despite myself.
My concern -- or perhaps I should call it chagrin -- comes primarily from the movie poster I've been seeing in subway stations and various other outposts around town. To the casual observer, this poster looks pretty innocuous -- in fact, it's essentially the same as the cover of the book. But there's one glaring discrepancy: the movie poster, like the cover of the book, features three Permian High football players holding hands as they enter a stadium in front of a raucous crowd. However, on the movie poster, the numbers on the backs of the players' jerseys are different. The players on the book cover wear 20, 85 and 62, while the players on the movie poster wear 4, 20 and 45.
Perhaps it makes me sound petty or nitpicky, but this really bothers me, and I'll tell you why -- I don't think there's any way this mistake was made out of carelessness. It's not like they didn't try to have the correct numbers on the players' jerseys. For some reason, the makers of the film weren't allowed to use those numbers. (As a side note, I can't imagine why -- it's not like there could possibly be licensing issues with Permian High School players from the 1988 season.) But no matter what the reason, the people who made the movie must have been told those numbers were off limits, and they just decided to let the detail slide. It's not on the level of making a movie about Hank Aaron and having him wear number 67, but it's a pretty blatant concession. If the makers of Friday Night Lights were willing to concede the uniform numbers of three of the key characters, what else were they willing to let slide? What other fights did they not fight?
Now, if this were simply a book about a high school football team, that would be one thing. But this is a book about what high school football in a West Texas town tells us about race, about socioeconomics, about America.
As I said before, I don't doubt that this movie will be entertaining. But I do fear that it will be a perversion of a story with a powerful message about our country. Sure, it will probably hit on the issues of race, and economics, and poverty. But will it stay true to the book's message? I hope it does. If you're going to make a movie like this, it doesn't work to cut corners. You've got to get it right. And the snafu with the movie poster strikes me as a troubling omen.
-Matt Stroup 
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