What freakin' year is it?!?!
My calendar says it's the second month of 2009, but I'm skeptical. And I blame the sports media.
Every time I've turned on ESPN (seldom) or FOX Sports (frequently) or visited an online resource in the last couple of weeks, I've been bored to tears by a story that's as stale as a frat house carpet. None—I repeat, NONE—of the "big" stories to hog the headlines recently have revealed new information.
They've certainly confirmed some pretty sensational suspicions so I'm not saying they're totally unworthy of prominence. However, their treatment left prominence in the rearview many miles ago. We're closing in on full-blown hysteria for some of these puppies. Consider:
1. Michael Phelps narc'd out by some spineless, hypocritical college kid for taking bong rips at a college house party.
In November of 2004, after Phelps' first Olympic haul, he was busted as a 19-year-old kid for drunk driving.
Poor judgment? Check. Youthful indiscretion? Check. Mind-altering substance use? Check.
On top of that, drug use in this country is far more prevalent than anyone will admit. The last three Presidents have copped to smoking weed and I believe the last two have either admitted to or been heavily implicated in use of cocaine.
The loudest, most ignorant, and (thus) most respected voice in the neo-conservative universe admitted to an OxyContin addiction. Everyone knows that blimp, Rush Limbaugh, couldn't stop the pop. What gets less publicity is that his pill of choice was essentially synthetic heroin (or so I've heard).
It's no wonder that both the National Review and Wall Street Journal—not exactly bastions of liberal and/or progressive thought—have criticized the United States' anti-marijuana laws in the wake of the Phelps' picture.
When voices that speak in unison with George W. Bush shake down on the side of legalizing something, I think it's probably time to ease of the 40-point font. Forgive me if I don't think a young kid—who spends 95% of his life keeping his body in supreme physical condition—smoking some reefer merits several days of headlines.
Not only was this story tired because of Phelps' earlier arrest, but also because it represents a tired social attitude i.e. the demonization of marijuana use.
Although it does get points for indirectly bringing the latter into sharper focus.
2. Kobe Bryant drops 61 points in Madison Square Garden.
In the winter of 2005-2006, Kobe hung 62 on the Dallas Mavericks through only three quarters and put 81 on the Toronto Raptors in regulation.
I've covered this one already so let's just say we already knew Kobe could score with the best of 'em and we already knew the 2008-2009 New York Knickerbockers play zero defense.
I get it—he broke Michael Jordan's single-game, MSG scoring record. MJ did it against a much better defense and Kobe beat him by six points. That's still not reason for several days of headlines.
Especially because the man has an 81-point game to his credit.
3. Alex Rodriguez' urine tested positive for steroids in 2003.
Barry Lamar Bonds, who was arguably Major League Baseball's best player (a phrase now applicable to A-Rod), has been under investigation since 2003 for perjury after admitting to ignorant use of performance-enhancing drugs.
Then there's the Mitchell Report...and Roger Clemens...and Andy Pettitte...and Jason Giambi...and Jason Grimsley...and you get the point.
Furthermore, the list of sports tainted by PEDs has ballooned well beyond the confines of MLB—cycling with that Landis dude, the National Football League with Shawne Merriman and the Pittsburgh Steelers doctor, mixed martial arts, professional wrestling, etc.
Once again, this confirmed a widely-held suspicion so it deserved to get hit hard. But dammit if we're not entering the third day of big bold type dedicated to the "revelation."
You'd think it was 1998 and somebody walked in on Mark McGwire plunging a syringe into Sammy Sosa's backside.
4. Brett Favre announces that he won't play for the New York Jets in 2009.
I won't even dignify this with an entry other than to say that I guess it had to be reported since the team and year have changed.
Is it really that hard to find new topics to cover? Or how about just a new angle on one of these stale arcs? I don't think that's too much to ask.
Some will say the sports media is just giving the fans what they want, catering to the masses and all that jive.
I don't buy it.
I don't believe that, if FOX didn't have a story about the steroid fall-out or ESPN didn't lead with Favre's latest hobble into the sunset, the fans would seek those stories somewhere else. My faith in humanity forces me to believe the majority of you are like me—looking to those outlets for access and information otherwise unavailable to the average fan.
And if these stories were so monumental in what they disclosed as to warrant the treatment they received, my calendar must be years ahead.
Of course, it could be worse. I could be a finance nut under the impression it's the 1930s.
Thank heavens for small miracles.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
MLB, Steroids, and False Idols: If PEDs Ruined the Purity of the Game, That Means It Was Once Pure
Today is February 11, 2009. The story about Alex Rodriguez' steroid use and positive test from 2003 broke on February 7th, followed by the interview with Peter Gammons on the 9th. That means we're four full days from the "news" breaking and another two full days from A-Rod's skin-deep mea culpa.
Yet Major League Baseball's problem with performance-enhancing drugs is still all anyone can talk about, although Brett Favre's annual look-at-me-fest has bumped it a bit...temporarily.
Even FOX Sports is guilty—letting Mark Kriegel have his way with the subject.
There are a lot of things to sincerely like about FOX. For one thing, it's helped bring Bleacher Report a larger audience through a partnerships between the two. For another, it doesn't fall prey (as much) to the sensationalistic side of sports that ESPN loves to splash all over its front pages and flagship channels.
Seriously, Terrell Owens and Manny Ramirez run amok over there.
But Kriegel's latest piece on the Steroid Era isn't one of FOX's brightest offerings. In fact, it's almost an out-and-out disgrace because it includes two of the more ignorant and transparent crticisms of the Steroid Era. Criticisms that speak to a deeper bias (I'd guess bitterness, but I've never met the man so who knows).
The first is the idea that PEDs are magic; some secret ingredient that turns every juicer into Brady Anderson.
I'll let Kriegel hang himself with his own words: "I'm talking about answers to questions that link [McGwire's] fate and yours. What wouldn't you do to stay healthy for a full season in the big leagues? What wouldn't you do to set a home run record?"
While I think it's probably impossible to overstate the prevalence of PED use in MLB and other professional sports, I think just the opposite is true of their impact. It's very convenient to say that none of these guys are great athletes, just a normal Joe that got on the magic sauce.
That's exactly what Kriegel's implying—if the juicer's fate is linked to mine, it's because I could've taken PEDs to stay healthy and hit major league pitching. Possibly to the tune of breaking some records.
Clearly, human growth hormone and anabolic steroids improve/inflate numbers. But they do not turn your average chump in the stands into a prospect destined for the Show. That's simply not the way it works.
The chemicals augment natural ability and pretty effectively if modern numbers are any indication. But the talent's gotta be there to begin with (either in the form of biological gifts or abnormal drive).
Furthermore, baseball is a mental game—the wear and tear is not merely physical—so there's more to it than muscles and coordination. There's an entire side of the game (and many would argue it's the more important one) that PEDs don't help nearly as much.
Sure, feeling physically stronger will help with focus, confidence, etc. But a slump will destroy a juicer's mental state the same way it will anyone else.
And nothing—NOTHING—prevents a slump.
Kriegel's second flawed argument is more problematic because it's a greater sin than dismissing the achievements of culpable men. Plus, it's one repeated—either explicitly or implicitly—by every fan who is up in arms over performance-enhancers, arguing that the purity of baseball and its record books have now been tainted.
Again, I'll let Mark's words draw the noose: Kriegel says Mark McGwire symbolized "baseball's transformation from a pastoral sport to a menagerie of muscleheads."
Pastoral, huh?
I'm guessing Josh Gibson and Satchel Paige felt differently. I'm betting No. 42, Mr. Jackie Robinson, and the woman he widowed at the tender age of 53 would beg to differ. How about all the African-American and Latin American ballplayers who never got a shot. The ones who were relegated to toiling in the obscure summer heat of the Negro Leagues, far away from the public spotlight that shined on the Bigs?
When we wail and bemoan the fate of MLB, when we rue the day the Bash Brothers burst on the scene as the moment baseball lost its innocence, what are we saying about the Era of the Gentleman's Agreement?
That baseball was innocent?
For instance, you'll often come across the name Babe Ruth whispered in reverent tones. The Sultan of Swat is a particularly common protagonist foil to Barry Bonds' arch-villain of the Steroid Era.
Babe played his last game in 1935. Jackie played his first game in 1947.
I understand that Babe had no significant role in baseball's segregationist stance while today's juicers have made individual, informed, and voluntary (more or less) decisions to use PEDs. Additionally, today's pros have spread the problem by tacitly endorsing its use and many are spoiled, ungrateful malcontents.
Those certainly are arguments for assigning different moral grades to the players. So maybe the players were more pastoral (except a lot of 'em weren't). But if you think that the Steroid Era is a more damning blight on baseball's history, well...
And if you think the lack of color in MLB prior to Jackie didn't skew performance/numbers, then you haven't been paying very close attention to the racial demographics of most major American sports.
Then there are the societal ramifications of implying a sport—rife with racial animosity and barely 60 years removed from its segregated roots—was "pastoral" until the introduction of performance-enhancers.
Let's say they're unflattering and leave it at that.
Yet, every time another "the sky is falling" PED article comes out, that's exactly what the author is doing. Whether he/she realizes it or not.
So, enough. Yes, performance-enhancers are a problem. Yes, it needs to be addressed. Yes, the Steroid Era is bad for baseball. So was segregation.
But baseball survived the Gentleman's Agreement and it'll survived this, too.
Yet Major League Baseball's problem with performance-enhancing drugs is still all anyone can talk about, although Brett Favre's annual look-at-me-fest has bumped it a bit...temporarily.
Even FOX Sports is guilty—letting Mark Kriegel have his way with the subject.
There are a lot of things to sincerely like about FOX. For one thing, it's helped bring Bleacher Report a larger audience through a partnerships between the two. For another, it doesn't fall prey (as much) to the sensationalistic side of sports that ESPN loves to splash all over its front pages and flagship channels.
Seriously, Terrell Owens and Manny Ramirez run amok over there.
But Kriegel's latest piece on the Steroid Era isn't one of FOX's brightest offerings. In fact, it's almost an out-and-out disgrace because it includes two of the more ignorant and transparent crticisms of the Steroid Era. Criticisms that speak to a deeper bias (I'd guess bitterness, but I've never met the man so who knows).
The first is the idea that PEDs are magic; some secret ingredient that turns every juicer into Brady Anderson.
I'll let Kriegel hang himself with his own words: "I'm talking about answers to questions that link [McGwire's] fate and yours. What wouldn't you do to stay healthy for a full season in the big leagues? What wouldn't you do to set a home run record?"
While I think it's probably impossible to overstate the prevalence of PED use in MLB and other professional sports, I think just the opposite is true of their impact. It's very convenient to say that none of these guys are great athletes, just a normal Joe that got on the magic sauce.
That's exactly what Kriegel's implying—if the juicer's fate is linked to mine, it's because I could've taken PEDs to stay healthy and hit major league pitching. Possibly to the tune of breaking some records.
Clearly, human growth hormone and anabolic steroids improve/inflate numbers. But they do not turn your average chump in the stands into a prospect destined for the Show. That's simply not the way it works.
The chemicals augment natural ability and pretty effectively if modern numbers are any indication. But the talent's gotta be there to begin with (either in the form of biological gifts or abnormal drive).
Furthermore, baseball is a mental game—the wear and tear is not merely physical—so there's more to it than muscles and coordination. There's an entire side of the game (and many would argue it's the more important one) that PEDs don't help nearly as much.
Sure, feeling physically stronger will help with focus, confidence, etc. But a slump will destroy a juicer's mental state the same way it will anyone else.
And nothing—NOTHING—prevents a slump.
Kriegel's second flawed argument is more problematic because it's a greater sin than dismissing the achievements of culpable men. Plus, it's one repeated—either explicitly or implicitly—by every fan who is up in arms over performance-enhancers, arguing that the purity of baseball and its record books have now been tainted.
Again, I'll let Mark's words draw the noose: Kriegel says Mark McGwire symbolized "baseball's transformation from a pastoral sport to a menagerie of muscleheads."
Pastoral, huh?
I'm guessing Josh Gibson and Satchel Paige felt differently. I'm betting No. 42, Mr. Jackie Robinson, and the woman he widowed at the tender age of 53 would beg to differ. How about all the African-American and Latin American ballplayers who never got a shot. The ones who were relegated to toiling in the obscure summer heat of the Negro Leagues, far away from the public spotlight that shined on the Bigs?
When we wail and bemoan the fate of MLB, when we rue the day the Bash Brothers burst on the scene as the moment baseball lost its innocence, what are we saying about the Era of the Gentleman's Agreement?
That baseball was innocent?
For instance, you'll often come across the name Babe Ruth whispered in reverent tones. The Sultan of Swat is a particularly common protagonist foil to Barry Bonds' arch-villain of the Steroid Era.
Babe played his last game in 1935. Jackie played his first game in 1947.
I understand that Babe had no significant role in baseball's segregationist stance while today's juicers have made individual, informed, and voluntary (more or less) decisions to use PEDs. Additionally, today's pros have spread the problem by tacitly endorsing its use and many are spoiled, ungrateful malcontents.
Those certainly are arguments for assigning different moral grades to the players. So maybe the players were more pastoral (except a lot of 'em weren't). But if you think that the Steroid Era is a more damning blight on baseball's history, well...
And if you think the lack of color in MLB prior to Jackie didn't skew performance/numbers, then you haven't been paying very close attention to the racial demographics of most major American sports.
Then there are the societal ramifications of implying a sport—rife with racial animosity and barely 60 years removed from its segregated roots—was "pastoral" until the introduction of performance-enhancers.
Let's say they're unflattering and leave it at that.
Yet, every time another "the sky is falling" PED article comes out, that's exactly what the author is doing. Whether he/she realizes it or not.
So, enough. Yes, performance-enhancers are a problem. Yes, it needs to be addressed. Yes, the Steroid Era is bad for baseball. So was segregation.
But baseball survived the Gentleman's Agreement and it'll survived this, too.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Are the NFL, the NBA, and MLB the First to Fall to Sports Armageddon?
And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.—Revelations 6:7
As I understand it, one interpretation of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse is that they each represent a different blight loosed upon mankind. One for Violence, one for Famine, one for Deceit, and one for Disease. There are other, more sophisticated interpretations—I like that one.
Because it fits easily into the contemporary professional sport landscape.
Chris Jericho and his equally culpable gaggle of fans herald the coming of Violence.
You could argue mortal violence has also been done by the latest "crusade" launched by the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. This time, to logic and common sense.
That's right, folks. That sinister institution known as the American Kennel Club is at it again—putting their charges in canine-bondage, trotting them out on the auction block, and then retiring to their "plantations" to breed a master race of puppies.
On the positive side, at least Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton will have a target for the next several days that makes even them look sympathetic by comparison. And one that should keep them from harassing reasonable people for a while.
Famine already has the National Basketball Association under hoof.
Al Jefferson of the Minnesota Timberwolves joined the growing number of stars that have been lost for the season or a good portion of it. His torn ACL gets him a long stretch in street clothes beside Michael Redd (torn ACL/MCL), Jameer Nelson (torn labrum), Jason Terry (fractured finger), Andrew Bogut (stress fracture in his back), Gerald Wallace (collapsed lung/broken rib), Andrew Bynum (torn MCL), Chris Paul (strained groin multiplied by several factors due to his importance), Andrei Kirilenko (surgically-repaired ankle), Gilbert Arenas (surgically-repaired shoulder), and Elton Brand (shoulder surgery).
Meanwhile, Major League Baseball has Deceit at its throat.
Bud Selig, Scott Boras, Donald Fehr, and Barry Bonds have long been promising its arrival and Alex Rodriguez' "apology" announces that day is here. A-Fraud's really earning his new list of monikers (I like A-Roid, too) because his repentance was an exercise in transparency:
"And although it was the culture back then and Major League Baseball overall was very — I just feel that — you know, I'm just sorry." Translation: "Yeah, I used. But only because everyone else was—it's not my fault."
"Since then I've proved to myself and to everyone that I don't need any of that." Translation: "That test was from the last time I ever used. Trust me, I haven't used steroids since 2003."
"It was such a loosey-goosey era. I'm guilty for a lot of things. I'm guilty for being negligent, naive, not asking all the right questions. And to be quite honest, I don't know exactly what substance I was guilty of using." Translation: "I can't explicitly say that I never knowingly used steroids because that doesn't seem to be going so well for my buddy Barry. So, instead, I'll say everything to that effect except for those exact words."
But the real danger is Disease, which has been insidiously eroding the foundation of sports for years now in the form of conceit and egoism.
If you have any doubt, listen to Ray Lewis.
Here's a man who's been compensated to the tune of millions and millions of dollars by a franchise over the course of his career. For playing football. But Ray-Ray is staring his twilight dead in the eyes and he's not hearing that his increasing age means a decreasing value. See, all those millions in the past aren't enough—he wants his new contract to reflect his past service in addition to compensate him for that in the future.
And Lewis will flirt with anyone who looks his way to make sure he gets his damn Benjamins.
Nor is he hearing the subtle message from hundreds of thousands of regular Americans (and counting) who suddenly find themselves jobless as the economy continues its historic nosedive.
Still not convinced? How about Manny Ramirez' latest pearls?
Forget that the guy remains resolute in his belief that there's a four-year contract out there to his liking. That would means he sincerely believes a club will sign over between $80 and $100 million if his litany of rejections is any indication.
Forget that rather egregious sin because of these words, "Understand me, I have goals. I know that if I play six more years, I could get to my 3,000th hit, and, who knows, maybe my 700th home run."
Yeah, we understand you Manny.
We understand your goals are all about you, your numbers, and your ego. We understand you want at least $80 million so you can dog it for a couple years and still get paid because none of the criticism bothers you.
We understand it and that's why we're hoping our team doesn't sign your malignant caboose.
But perhaps there's even more to understand.
Step back from the situation and take it all in. Violence, famine, deceit, and disease—the Four Horsemen of the Sports Apocalypse—are trampling almost every arena of our beloved sports.
The only question is whether it's too late to turn them back.
As I understand it, one interpretation of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse is that they each represent a different blight loosed upon mankind. One for Violence, one for Famine, one for Deceit, and one for Disease. There are other, more sophisticated interpretations—I like that one.
Because it fits easily into the contemporary professional sport landscape.
Chris Jericho and his equally culpable gaggle of fans herald the coming of Violence.
You could argue mortal violence has also been done by the latest "crusade" launched by the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. This time, to logic and common sense.
That's right, folks. That sinister institution known as the American Kennel Club is at it again—putting their charges in canine-bondage, trotting them out on the auction block, and then retiring to their "plantations" to breed a master race of puppies.
On the positive side, at least Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton will have a target for the next several days that makes even them look sympathetic by comparison. And one that should keep them from harassing reasonable people for a while.
Famine already has the National Basketball Association under hoof.
Al Jefferson of the Minnesota Timberwolves joined the growing number of stars that have been lost for the season or a good portion of it. His torn ACL gets him a long stretch in street clothes beside Michael Redd (torn ACL/MCL), Jameer Nelson (torn labrum), Jason Terry (fractured finger), Andrew Bogut (stress fracture in his back), Gerald Wallace (collapsed lung/broken rib), Andrew Bynum (torn MCL), Chris Paul (strained groin multiplied by several factors due to his importance), Andrei Kirilenko (surgically-repaired ankle), Gilbert Arenas (surgically-repaired shoulder), and Elton Brand (shoulder surgery).
Meanwhile, Major League Baseball has Deceit at its throat.
Bud Selig, Scott Boras, Donald Fehr, and Barry Bonds have long been promising its arrival and Alex Rodriguez' "apology" announces that day is here. A-Fraud's really earning his new list of monikers (I like A-Roid, too) because his repentance was an exercise in transparency:
"And although it was the culture back then and Major League Baseball overall was very — I just feel that — you know, I'm just sorry." Translation: "Yeah, I used. But only because everyone else was—it's not my fault."
"Since then I've proved to myself and to everyone that I don't need any of that." Translation: "That test was from the last time I ever used. Trust me, I haven't used steroids since 2003."
"It was such a loosey-goosey era. I'm guilty for a lot of things. I'm guilty for being negligent, naive, not asking all the right questions. And to be quite honest, I don't know exactly what substance I was guilty of using." Translation: "I can't explicitly say that I never knowingly used steroids because that doesn't seem to be going so well for my buddy Barry. So, instead, I'll say everything to that effect except for those exact words."
But the real danger is Disease, which has been insidiously eroding the foundation of sports for years now in the form of conceit and egoism.
If you have any doubt, listen to Ray Lewis.
Here's a man who's been compensated to the tune of millions and millions of dollars by a franchise over the course of his career. For playing football. But Ray-Ray is staring his twilight dead in the eyes and he's not hearing that his increasing age means a decreasing value. See, all those millions in the past aren't enough—he wants his new contract to reflect his past service in addition to compensate him for that in the future.
And Lewis will flirt with anyone who looks his way to make sure he gets his damn Benjamins.
Nor is he hearing the subtle message from hundreds of thousands of regular Americans (and counting) who suddenly find themselves jobless as the economy continues its historic nosedive.
Still not convinced? How about Manny Ramirez' latest pearls?
Forget that the guy remains resolute in his belief that there's a four-year contract out there to his liking. That would means he sincerely believes a club will sign over between $80 and $100 million if his litany of rejections is any indication.
Forget that rather egregious sin because of these words, "Understand me, I have goals. I know that if I play six more years, I could get to my 3,000th hit, and, who knows, maybe my 700th home run."
Yeah, we understand you Manny.
We understand your goals are all about you, your numbers, and your ego. We understand you want at least $80 million so you can dog it for a couple years and still get paid because none of the criticism bothers you.
We understand it and that's why we're hoping our team doesn't sign your malignant caboose.
But perhaps there's even more to understand.
Step back from the situation and take it all in. Violence, famine, deceit, and disease—the Four Horsemen of the Sports Apocalypse—are trampling almost every arena of our beloved sports.
The only question is whether it's too late to turn them back.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The NBA Welcomes You to the Land Where Time Stands Still
Imagine you're in that white room with all the televisions at the end of the second Matrix. Imagine that, instead of whatever convoluted nonsense that old dude said in the movie, he drops the following two choices on the table and you must select one:
1. Return to your world through door A to find the National Basketball Association alive and well, but college basketball never existed.
2. Return to your world through door B to find college basketball alive and well, but the NBA never existed.
What would you do?
I can tell you I'd be hoppin' in line for door B and I bet the line would stretch around the block (we're obviously no longer in the Matrix hypothetical).
As far as a general consensus, I'm can't say for sure that there is one—despite my suspicions. And I won't pretend to speak for those of you who would join me in opting for a world where only CBB existed if pressed on the question. However, I'll gladly tell you why my choice wouldn't be a difficult one.
Coincidentally, I even have a perfect example all cued up and ready to go.
The question is easy for me because the NBA just isn't as exciting.
For a variety of reasons—the players don't seem to care as much, the fans don't seem to care as much (with some notable northeastern exceptions), there are too many fouls, there are too many timeouts, there are too many rule tweaks that hamper the flow of a game, the number of games understandably dilutes emotion, etc.
Don't get me wrong, I really do love the NBA.
The sea of NBA fans is locked on all sides by college basketball, college football, the National Football League, and Major League Baseball. Consequently, its size is shrinking and I'd consider myself a member of that diminishing minority. The players are still the best athletes on the planet, they do incredible things with their bodies/the ball, and the level of basketball is simply unrivaled.
If you love basketball, you will not see it played at a higher level anywhere else and that is reason enough for me to love the NBA.
But this is a comparison to college basketball where you can only choose one.
And I'll take the pure, raw excitement of college basketball any day o' the week and twice on Sunday.
For instance, one of the biggest advantages the college game has on the pro version is the final minutes of competition. A close college game finishes in a flurry of emotion and enthusiasm whereas a close pro game finishes in a drudgery of fouls, timeouts, half-court advancements, and a bunch of other nuanced rules that kill the flow of the game when flow is most important.
Take the Boston Celtics' game today against the San Antonio Spurs.
With 1:01 left in the game and Boston winning by three points (93-90), Roger Mason committed a foul and stopped the clock. From there, the game took 17—SEVENTEEN—minutes of real-world time to end in regulation. That's not a mistake; I've gone back and timed it just to make sure my TiVo wasn't on the fritz.
So 61 seconds of game time took 17 minutes of my life (luckily, I've got some spare time). Oh, but it gets better.
That Man Again (Roger Mason) knocked down a three with 20.4 seconds to go in regulation that put the Spurs up by two, 95-93. Those last 20+ ticks on the big hand of the official game clock took 15 minutes.
Seriously, 20.4 seconds equalled 900 seconds in Boston today.
I know that the NBA rules afford the losing team every opportunity to make up a reasonable difference on the scoreboard, even with time dwindling. I understand that they may even create more close games than otherwise since the trailing team can abuse poor free-throw shooters and claw back into it.
At what cost?
Like I said, I won't pretend to speak for anyone else, but the finish in Boston today killed the game for me. That's a shame because it was a great battle up until that point. Furthermore, the finish was pretty good—San Antonio stretched out its lead and the Cs came Hail-Marying back only to ultimately lose.
The problem was that I didn't notice. I was getting too angry about the 15+ minutes of commercials and blather I had to endure just to see the action, which was about 90 percent from the charity stripe anyway.
Nobody on the court even looked to be slightly perspiring at the end. It was ridiculous. Just a bunch of standing around and seeing if Boston could throw in desperation threes.
Wonderful. Scintillating stuff. Well done, David Stern and friends, you've discovered the secret of temporal manipulation and you're proving it on the court.
Even so, I'll take door B and college basketball. Especially if it means I get to fly around through explosions and stuff.
1. Return to your world through door A to find the National Basketball Association alive and well, but college basketball never existed.
2. Return to your world through door B to find college basketball alive and well, but the NBA never existed.
What would you do?
I can tell you I'd be hoppin' in line for door B and I bet the line would stretch around the block (we're obviously no longer in the Matrix hypothetical).
As far as a general consensus, I'm can't say for sure that there is one—despite my suspicions. And I won't pretend to speak for those of you who would join me in opting for a world where only CBB existed if pressed on the question. However, I'll gladly tell you why my choice wouldn't be a difficult one.
Coincidentally, I even have a perfect example all cued up and ready to go.
The question is easy for me because the NBA just isn't as exciting.
For a variety of reasons—the players don't seem to care as much, the fans don't seem to care as much (with some notable northeastern exceptions), there are too many fouls, there are too many timeouts, there are too many rule tweaks that hamper the flow of a game, the number of games understandably dilutes emotion, etc.
Don't get me wrong, I really do love the NBA.
The sea of NBA fans is locked on all sides by college basketball, college football, the National Football League, and Major League Baseball. Consequently, its size is shrinking and I'd consider myself a member of that diminishing minority. The players are still the best athletes on the planet, they do incredible things with their bodies/the ball, and the level of basketball is simply unrivaled.
If you love basketball, you will not see it played at a higher level anywhere else and that is reason enough for me to love the NBA.
But this is a comparison to college basketball where you can only choose one.
And I'll take the pure, raw excitement of college basketball any day o' the week and twice on Sunday.
For instance, one of the biggest advantages the college game has on the pro version is the final minutes of competition. A close college game finishes in a flurry of emotion and enthusiasm whereas a close pro game finishes in a drudgery of fouls, timeouts, half-court advancements, and a bunch of other nuanced rules that kill the flow of the game when flow is most important.
Take the Boston Celtics' game today against the San Antonio Spurs.
With 1:01 left in the game and Boston winning by three points (93-90), Roger Mason committed a foul and stopped the clock. From there, the game took 17—SEVENTEEN—minutes of real-world time to end in regulation. That's not a mistake; I've gone back and timed it just to make sure my TiVo wasn't on the fritz.
So 61 seconds of game time took 17 minutes of my life (luckily, I've got some spare time). Oh, but it gets better.
That Man Again (Roger Mason) knocked down a three with 20.4 seconds to go in regulation that put the Spurs up by two, 95-93. Those last 20+ ticks on the big hand of the official game clock took 15 minutes.
Seriously, 20.4 seconds equalled 900 seconds in Boston today.
I know that the NBA rules afford the losing team every opportunity to make up a reasonable difference on the scoreboard, even with time dwindling. I understand that they may even create more close games than otherwise since the trailing team can abuse poor free-throw shooters and claw back into it.
At what cost?
Like I said, I won't pretend to speak for anyone else, but the finish in Boston today killed the game for me. That's a shame because it was a great battle up until that point. Furthermore, the finish was pretty good—San Antonio stretched out its lead and the Cs came Hail-Marying back only to ultimately lose.
The problem was that I didn't notice. I was getting too angry about the 15+ minutes of commercials and blather I had to endure just to see the action, which was about 90 percent from the charity stripe anyway.
Nobody on the court even looked to be slightly perspiring at the end. It was ridiculous. Just a bunch of standing around and seeing if Boston could throw in desperation threes.
Wonderful. Scintillating stuff. Well done, David Stern and friends, you've discovered the secret of temporal manipulation and you're proving it on the court.
Even so, I'll take door B and college basketball. Especially if it means I get to fly around through explosions and stuff.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Alex Rodriguez Used Steroids...And the Sun Will Rise Tomorrow
Can we please stop with all this sanctimonious indignation over the news that Alex Rodriguez' urine tested hot for steroids in 2003? Woe is me, woe is me. The mighty and pure A-Rod was juicing. So freakin' what?
You can call him A-Fraud if you want.
The truth is he's no more of a fraud today than he was yesterday or the day before or the year before. Nor is he any more of a fraud than most other professional athletes competing in our modern, performance-enhanced world of sports.
If you're still surprised by an athlete—any athlete—being tainted by a doping scandal or a steroid scandal or a human growth hormone scandal, you're just not paying attention. Or you're incredibly naive and optimistic.
Those aren't necessarily criticisms—my mother fits both descriptions and they're two of the things that make her such a lovely person.
However, coming from the likes of Mark Kriegel, such traits ring false and cowardly. Kriegel goes on and on about how A-Fraud has messed with history because, until this moment, he was the untainted heir-apparent to Barry Lamar Bonds' very tainted homerun record.
What a load of bull excrement. What a very full load.
Because that is exactly what the media did during the Great Homerun Race of 1998—turned a willfully blind eye to abuse of performance-enhancers because doing so suited its purpose. Namely, the race sold newspapers and padded the bottom-line so nobody pointed out that something suspicious might be going on.
Then, that venerable institution did it again in 2001, when Barry made his assault on history.
Of course, when Bonds really started taking down the prized pelts of history, that's when the media finally cranked up the grinder and sharpened its spears. Some members told us how sorry they were, how they should've seen the situation for what it was, how they were blinded by this, how they were intoxicate by that, and how it would never happen again.
And, yet, this news comes as a surprise? To whom? Those same people who promised to keep their eyes on the ball?
Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, shame on you.
And I'm not fooled. Not by Rodriguez nor Kriegel nor anyone else trying to dodge their role in this morass. Nor is anyone else fooled who's been paying attention and reading between the lines.
It's not just the scrubs who've been caught. It's not just the older players or the sluggers or the relief pitchers or baseball players or football players or even athletes. Sylvester Stallone was busted trying to bring crates of HGH into Australia or something.
Weren't 50 Cent and a bunch of other rappers nabbed for purchasing it illegally?
These are all groups of insecure people who make a living off something that fades with age. Guess what? Human growth hormone and other performance-enhancers (allegedly) turn back the hands of time. They let you recapture a little of that fodder for future boring stories.
So what if Rodriguez is young and a physical specimen to begin with, he's also insanely insecure—even by celebrity standards. Additionally, by all accounts, he's a perfectionist from whom a lot is expected.
Sounds like the perfect candidate to me.
Yeah, it's probably got some pretty heinous long-term side-effects. So do a lot of the unhealthy things you and I take into our bodies everyday. Obviously, the maladies befalling steroid users and the like are usually much worse and more certain. Then again, the benefits of successful use are a hell of a lot more substantial than those of a Whopper or shot of Jack Daniels.
Still, the really ridiculous part of the whole episode is that all this faux-outrage and shock comes after the Mitchell Report. After Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens. After Jason Grimsley, Andy Pettitte, minor-leaguers by the busload, and Neifi Perez.
I mean, c'mon. Who are we kidding?
Look, I'm not saying everyone is guilty. What I am saying is that there's no longer a reasonable excuse for our heads to be in the sand. Sure, it'd be nice if there were some clean-but-still-elite players. There probably are some. Maybe even a lot. But that firm presumption is no longer reasonable.
Sad but true.
If the presumption isn't reasonable, than neither is the surprise. Even worse, that surprise is an attempt to separate from yourself from the guilty. It's an attempt to dodge your responsibility in all of this.
In fact, until we're actively and sincerely trying to solve the problem, I'm not even sure it's fair to be upset. After all, it's been clear for many years now that the system is broken. That it actually encourages the use of performance-enhancers rather than discourages it. That a sincere and sweeping effort needs to be made.
And that it has to come from the fans.
Everyone else is making money off the situation—the players, the agents, the executives, the owners, and the media. Great performances get great contracts, sell tickets, and move newspapers (as does a good scandal). Why would they want it changed?
Furthermore, the last 20 years or so have proven that they will NOT change it unless a figurative gun is to their collective head.
Well, until we're ready to point it, we're part of the problem.
Step one is admitting that even your guy is probably on the juice. I don't like it and neither will you. But the important thing is that nobody inside baseball (or any other sport) will like it, either.
The innocent will demand real change to clear the aura of skepticism and the guilty will feel hunted. Agents will find it harder to sell their products, owners/executives will (rightly) fear the tangible manifestation of diminishing goodwill, and the media will lose a scandal to sell.
The fans might even get to a chance to win for a change. Wouldn't that be nice?
You can call him A-Fraud if you want.
The truth is he's no more of a fraud today than he was yesterday or the day before or the year before. Nor is he any more of a fraud than most other professional athletes competing in our modern, performance-enhanced world of sports.
If you're still surprised by an athlete—any athlete—being tainted by a doping scandal or a steroid scandal or a human growth hormone scandal, you're just not paying attention. Or you're incredibly naive and optimistic.
Those aren't necessarily criticisms—my mother fits both descriptions and they're two of the things that make her such a lovely person.
However, coming from the likes of Mark Kriegel, such traits ring false and cowardly. Kriegel goes on and on about how A-Fraud has messed with history because, until this moment, he was the untainted heir-apparent to Barry Lamar Bonds' very tainted homerun record.
What a load of bull excrement. What a very full load.
Because that is exactly what the media did during the Great Homerun Race of 1998—turned a willfully blind eye to abuse of performance-enhancers because doing so suited its purpose. Namely, the race sold newspapers and padded the bottom-line so nobody pointed out that something suspicious might be going on.
Then, that venerable institution did it again in 2001, when Barry made his assault on history.
Of course, when Bonds really started taking down the prized pelts of history, that's when the media finally cranked up the grinder and sharpened its spears. Some members told us how sorry they were, how they should've seen the situation for what it was, how they were blinded by this, how they were intoxicate by that, and how it would never happen again.
And, yet, this news comes as a surprise? To whom? Those same people who promised to keep their eyes on the ball?
Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, shame on you.
And I'm not fooled. Not by Rodriguez nor Kriegel nor anyone else trying to dodge their role in this morass. Nor is anyone else fooled who's been paying attention and reading between the lines.
It's not just the scrubs who've been caught. It's not just the older players or the sluggers or the relief pitchers or baseball players or football players or even athletes. Sylvester Stallone was busted trying to bring crates of HGH into Australia or something.
Weren't 50 Cent and a bunch of other rappers nabbed for purchasing it illegally?
These are all groups of insecure people who make a living off something that fades with age. Guess what? Human growth hormone and other performance-enhancers (allegedly) turn back the hands of time. They let you recapture a little of that fodder for future boring stories.
So what if Rodriguez is young and a physical specimen to begin with, he's also insanely insecure—even by celebrity standards. Additionally, by all accounts, he's a perfectionist from whom a lot is expected.
Sounds like the perfect candidate to me.
Yeah, it's probably got some pretty heinous long-term side-effects. So do a lot of the unhealthy things you and I take into our bodies everyday. Obviously, the maladies befalling steroid users and the like are usually much worse and more certain. Then again, the benefits of successful use are a hell of a lot more substantial than those of a Whopper or shot of Jack Daniels.
Still, the really ridiculous part of the whole episode is that all this faux-outrage and shock comes after the Mitchell Report. After Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens. After Jason Grimsley, Andy Pettitte, minor-leaguers by the busload, and Neifi Perez.
I mean, c'mon. Who are we kidding?
Look, I'm not saying everyone is guilty. What I am saying is that there's no longer a reasonable excuse for our heads to be in the sand. Sure, it'd be nice if there were some clean-but-still-elite players. There probably are some. Maybe even a lot. But that firm presumption is no longer reasonable.
Sad but true.
If the presumption isn't reasonable, than neither is the surprise. Even worse, that surprise is an attempt to separate from yourself from the guilty. It's an attempt to dodge your responsibility in all of this.
In fact, until we're actively and sincerely trying to solve the problem, I'm not even sure it's fair to be upset. After all, it's been clear for many years now that the system is broken. That it actually encourages the use of performance-enhancers rather than discourages it. That a sincere and sweeping effort needs to be made.
And that it has to come from the fans.
Everyone else is making money off the situation—the players, the agents, the executives, the owners, and the media. Great performances get great contracts, sell tickets, and move newspapers (as does a good scandal). Why would they want it changed?
Furthermore, the last 20 years or so have proven that they will NOT change it unless a figurative gun is to their collective head.
Well, until we're ready to point it, we're part of the problem.
Step one is admitting that even your guy is probably on the juice. I don't like it and neither will you. But the important thing is that nobody inside baseball (or any other sport) will like it, either.
The innocent will demand real change to clear the aura of skepticism and the guilty will feel hunted. Agents will find it harder to sell their products, owners/executives will (rightly) fear the tangible manifestation of diminishing goodwill, and the media will lose a scandal to sell.
The fans might even get to a chance to win for a change. Wouldn't that be nice?
Major League Baseball's 10 Funniest Confrontations of All-Time
For this installment of the collision between comedy and sports, I'm switching back to the standard article format. The slide-show was fun, but I couldn't add the video links (at least I couldn't figure out how to do it) and those are more important than the pictures.
Plus, it was tough finding shots of relatively old stuff that were clear enough to use. Obviously in some cases, I didn't succeed.
So it's back to the tried and true method for a look at the funniest confrontations in Major League Baseball history.
And that's confrontation in the broadest sense of the word.
I'm talkin' one-on-one stand-offs, bench-clearers, tete-a-tetes with the umpires, and any other example of men matching tantrums. The only rule is it had to be funny—not always in the same way or for the same reason.
But you still gotta laugh. Here we go:
No. 10—Batman goes nuts on his latest caper.
You'll notice I usually hand the tenth spot to an entry that is a bit of a stretch for whatever the list may be. That's because there's usually a borderline case from another arena that is simply too perfect to exclude.
Christian Bale's hissy-fit (caution: a ton of profanity) on the set of the newest Terminator is certainly one of these.
So how can I include his apocalyptic showdown with the director of photography on a movie set? On a list that's supposed to be about sports?
In truth, I shouldn't. But...
A. Bale did play Batman—and Bateman, weird—who defends Gotham. New York City is often called Gotham and is synonymous with MLB because of the pin-stripes all over the game's history.
B. Christian was originally tabbed to play George W. Bush in Oliver Stone's biopic, W. Dubya, as we all know, was a co-owner of the Texas Rangers before moving on to do for America what he did for the Rangers.
C. Robin Ventura apparently went by the nickname, "Batman."
Weak, I know. But more than enough of a reason to include such a priceless clip.
No. 9—Two Korean teams' unintentional intentional comedy.
This one defies explanation. The crowd gets a huge kick out of the players' antics, but I don't get see the joke. So why is it on the list?
Because it's hilarious for a different reason.
When I'm laughing, I'm not laughing with the players (who are enjoying themselves way too much). I'm laughing at them. Clearly, this took a lot of coordination and thought. Yet hopping around on one leg while doing battle with a crooked knee?
That's the punchline for all the effort?
There's a pretty good chance this is the product of cultural divide and the Koreans would be just as confounded by our American counterpart. Let me know what that would be.
I'm not even sure it's a real baseball game. Let's just move on.
Note: this was also listed as Japanese, but I think it's Korean. If it's Japanese, I apologize. In my defense, it's listed as both, the clarity isn't great, and I don't happen to speak either language.
No. 8—Tony Batista makes a Japanese pitcher say, "Oops I crapped my pants."
Yet another great clip of a pseudo-confrontation from the Far East. Batista got plunked, took several vicious steps towards the mound, and then harmlessly trotted to first. But the Japanese hurler bit.
Hard.
In the pitcher's defense, he was a good sport about it—laughing the incident off—and you can't blame the guy.
For one thing, Tony Batista looked much older and bigger. For another, the guy on the mound had good reason to be worried.
You'll see what I mean.
No. 7—Kyle Farnsworth proves that Jeremy Affeldt picked the right sport and he did not.
Kyle Farnsworth should be a fantastic relief pitcher. He's enormous, which makes him an intimidating presence on the mound.
He throws serious gas, which makes him an intimidating presence on the mound.
And he's a little crazy. Possibly a lot crazy. Again, intimidating.
The only problem is that, to be an intimidating pitcher, you've got to actually throw strikes on occasion. When you do, those strikes must find the catcher's glove or foul territory. Otherwise, all the other stuff is just a fancy waste.
So Kyle Farnsworth is not a fantastic reliever. I'm not even sure he's a good one. On the other hand, he looks like he'd make one hell of a cage fighter or football player.
The apparent error in career choice is what gets this bad rider on the list.
The video clip doesn't do Farnsworth's tackle on Affeldt justice because it's merely a string of stills and none catches the actual tackle. Trust me, it really was a textbook thing of beauty. Incidentally, that's my Giants' new toy at 40 seconds (with Kyle's paw all up in his mug), again at about 62 seconds (beaten and bloodied), and then again later on.
There's also a pretty good shot of a James Shields' haymaker (he looks like he knows what he's doing) and a moment Derek Lee would probably like erased (he does not look like he knows what he's doing).
No. 6—The reason die-hard San Francisco fans knew it was just a matter of time before the Big Unit put on a Giants' uniform.
Unfortunately, there's one in every group—the problem child. In this case, it's a video clip that can't be found. If this were higher on the list, I'd have spent more time looking instead of settling on the above photo. As it was, I spent a good 15 minutes and that's usually long enough to find something if it exists online.
Unless, of course, you're a moron...don't say I didn't warn you.
I forget who sparked off the brawl; that's not really important. The important part is both benches cleared and Randy's Arizona Diamondback hat got knocked off his mullet in the melee that ensued. As order was being restored, a visibly angry Johnson grabbed a lid and jammed it on his head.
After a couple more seconds passed and calmed him down, he began to tug at the cap because it wasn't sitting right. Finally, he whipped it off and, lo and behold, it was the orange and black of San Francisco.
If you can find it, let me know because this one is even funnier now that Randy Johnson actually is a Giant.
But don't worry, we'll see the Big Unit later on.
No. 5—If only Nolan Ryan were a director of photography in Hollywood.
I doubt the movie Batman would've been so courageous as to upbraid the all-time strikeout king had he been the one "screwing up" Bale's eye-line. Not after seeing what he did to (apparently) MLB's version.
The funniest thing about this is not the ass-whooping Father Time dropped on a very young Robin Ventura. In truth, most of those punches were to the top of the head so they probably weren't doing much. Only that last one really got through to a soft spot.
The funniest thing is that Ventura sure was in a hurry to get out there. I mean, it's Nolan Ryan—the Ryan Express is/was baseball royalty—and Robin ran out there after a pitch that wasn't even very close.
Then proceeded to get punked. Ah, life is good sometimes.
No. 4—You just do NOT get in the Big Unit's way.
Although this would apply to Randy's confrontation with the camera soon after arriving in the Big Apple, that clip wasn't funny. Predictable? Yep, but not funny.
If you're in PETA, well, this one's probably not gonna be too funny either.
I'm not in PETA. I find that clip outrageously funny. Yes, I feel bad for the bird.
And that's significantly worse than the bird ever felt about the incident because that baby was DOI—dead on impact. Man, did it go down a hero though. In a ball of feathers rather than fire, but still pretty cool.
Plus, the freakish nature of the episode has to make you laugh. Seriously, what are the chances that the timing could ever be that perfect? I'd almost guarantee you that Johnson couldn't do it again in 100 tries.
I doubt the bird could've either. Well played sir.
No. 3—Everyone run! It's Rod Allen!
Before there was Godzilla (with Matthew Broderick), there was Rod Allen. Perhaps the entire city of Tokyo didn't tremble at his name and scurry from his approach, but one guy certainly did.
And I think he might still be running. Because I'm certainly still laughing.
However, I can't say that I blame him.
Mr. Allen looked slightly agitated by that beanball and the Japanese general attitude towards fighting in the midst of a baseball game doesn't seem to be the same as the American one. Shoot, why do you think Tony Batista looked so scary?
Rod had size, motivation, and a sincere head of steam.
It's just a good thing that pitcher could run better than he could throw.
No. 2—Phil Wellman introduces himself the umpire crew...and the rest of America.
God bless YouTube and the wonders of modern technology.
If I had to describe this, I'm not sure the article would ever see the light of day because there is simply no way to put it into words. You simply have to see Wellman's meltdown for yourself.
Oh man, there's just no way that will ever be topped by another manager. How could it be? What would a better tantrum look like?
And what was he thinking? The fast-forwarded version takes over a minute. That means the real thing would've given Wellman plenty of time to simmer down. I'd love to have been watching that game from the first pitch because something egregious must have happened.
No way that anger was fabricated.
The guy had time to get on his hands and knees, carefully cover up and tamp down the dish, and then draw a new plate with exaggerated boundaries.
Then he walked to third base, uprooted it, walked to second base, and chucked third into center field. Then came the soldier crawl to the rosin bag and phenomenal grenade toss at the ump.
Do you think that was an act of premeditation on Wellman's part? Or was it a spur of the moment thing?
Whichever it was, the execution was brilliant. Right down to the little puff of white "smoke" when it landed at the ump's feet.
Lastly, give the umps credit. I would've broken character and left my posterior on the field in a fit of laughter.
Again, well played sir.
No. 1—Armando Benitez proves that HE is the craziest man in Major League Baseball.
There's courage, bravado, reckless bravery, stupidity, and then there's Armando Benitez on the mound against the New York Yankees.
Armando was busy inflicting his brand of torture on the Baltimore Orioles at the time and had just finished surrendering a lead to their rivals in the American League East.
With Tino Martinez at the plate, Benitez unleashed a sizzling fastball that found its mark right in the middle of Tino's back. You can tell everyone was expecting it because (a) the previous batter (Bernie Williams) had just launched a three-run tater and (b) the ump jumped out from behind the plate to thumb Armando like he was coiled and waiting for the chance.
Rightly so. But none of that is what makes this the number one stunna.
No, what earns it the top spot is what Armando Benitez does next.
With the entire Yankee dugout already at the top step—some were already out of it—Armando turned, took a look at the Bombers, and gave the universal sign for "come get some."
To the entire team.
Needless to say, the Yanks took him up on his offer. Particularly some reliever and Darryl Strawberry.
Unfortunately, the clip doesn't show Benitez gesturing at NY.
Still, you get a pretty good feel for the moment around the 2:12 mark and the rest of the video is a great "honorable mention" vehicle.
There's Krukow versus Dave Winfield, Mo Vaughn delivering the smackdown to George Bell, the Boston Red Sox minor leaguer who appeared to have some mixed martial arts training (nice sprawl), two of the more irritating pitchers in recent memory (Pedro Martinez and Jeff Weaver) getting dominated, and Chan Ho Park going at it with Tim Belcher.
All worthy candidates, but not worthy enough.
Friday, February 6, 2009
The NBA Pulls Back the Curtain on the Wizard of MSG
Whoops.
Scratch all those articles written about LeBron James triple-double in Madison Square Garden. The powers-that-be in the National Basketball Association have decided that LBJ's final line was actually 52 points, 11 assists, and nine rebounds. The tenth board (technically it was the ninth) really belonged to Ben Wallace.
To which I have a couple responses:
1. Thanks to Eric Adelman, I saw this coming. Eric posted a link to the clip on my profile and, any time the announcer casually says that player A secures the rebound and tips it to player B, it's a pretty good indication that player A deserves credit for the rebound. Good call by the NBA.
2. Whoever's next on the Cleveland Cavaliers' schedule is in a world o' hurt. If Kobe hanging 61 on the New York Knickerbockers prompted King James to wrestle with a trip-dub and light it up to the tune of 52, what is this gonna do?
Especially considering LeBron and the Cavs were already rightfully peeved about Mo Williams being personally snubbed by David Stern.
I think it's a pretty serious injustice (in the sports-sense of the word) that, while the Orlando Magic and Boston Celtics have three All-Stars each, the Cavs have only the One to Whom We Wear Witness. Nothing against Ray Allen, but both he and Williams were deserving so I think it's relatively obvious that Williams should've been given the nod due to Cleveland's overall success.
I think it's also pretty obvious why Stern gave Allen the nod and that stinks, but such is the double-edged sword of capitalism. And it's not like Allen didn't deserve to go so whatever.
Then again, I am not an ardent supporter of the Cavs nor am I one of their players. Try offering such platitudes to someone who fits that description.
Regardless, if I were an NBA player and in the way the next time the James Train rolled through the Big Apple? Or—basketball gods forbid—on the tracks in the next couple evenings?
I'd be finding the closest case of the flu available and gettin' really intimate with its source. Toot sweet.
Because I've written several times that I'm of the firm belief that truly great players can do almost anything they want when he/she gets particularly motivated. With a guy like Kobe Bryant or LeBron James or Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson, there should be a cartoon bubble constantly hanging over his head reading, "Handle with Care." If you get a player like that agitated, you might just see history fall.
And David Stern plus the rest of his henchmen have just placed a rather large burr under King James' saddle.
Hope they have the good stationary ready because I wouldn't be surprised if some poor schmuck ended up in the record books for the wrong reasons in the not-too-distant future. It won't be his fault—who amongst us mortal men could stop LBJ on a mission?
But there he'll be and the NBA front office will owe him an apology.
It's unwise to place yourself in LeBron James' cross-hairs. It's downright criminal to place someone else there.
Scratch all those articles written about LeBron James triple-double in Madison Square Garden. The powers-that-be in the National Basketball Association have decided that LBJ's final line was actually 52 points, 11 assists, and nine rebounds. The tenth board (technically it was the ninth) really belonged to Ben Wallace.
To which I have a couple responses:
1. Thanks to Eric Adelman, I saw this coming. Eric posted a link to the clip on my profile and, any time the announcer casually says that player A secures the rebound and tips it to player B, it's a pretty good indication that player A deserves credit for the rebound. Good call by the NBA.
2. Whoever's next on the Cleveland Cavaliers' schedule is in a world o' hurt. If Kobe hanging 61 on the New York Knickerbockers prompted King James to wrestle with a trip-dub and light it up to the tune of 52, what is this gonna do?
Especially considering LeBron and the Cavs were already rightfully peeved about Mo Williams being personally snubbed by David Stern.
I think it's a pretty serious injustice (in the sports-sense of the word) that, while the Orlando Magic and Boston Celtics have three All-Stars each, the Cavs have only the One to Whom We Wear Witness. Nothing against Ray Allen, but both he and Williams were deserving so I think it's relatively obvious that Williams should've been given the nod due to Cleveland's overall success.
I think it's also pretty obvious why Stern gave Allen the nod and that stinks, but such is the double-edged sword of capitalism. And it's not like Allen didn't deserve to go so whatever.
Then again, I am not an ardent supporter of the Cavs nor am I one of their players. Try offering such platitudes to someone who fits that description.
Regardless, if I were an NBA player and in the way the next time the James Train rolled through the Big Apple? Or—basketball gods forbid—on the tracks in the next couple evenings?
I'd be finding the closest case of the flu available and gettin' really intimate with its source. Toot sweet.
Because I've written several times that I'm of the firm belief that truly great players can do almost anything they want when he/she gets particularly motivated. With a guy like Kobe Bryant or LeBron James or Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson, there should be a cartoon bubble constantly hanging over his head reading, "Handle with Care." If you get a player like that agitated, you might just see history fall.
And David Stern plus the rest of his henchmen have just placed a rather large burr under King James' saddle.
Hope they have the good stationary ready because I wouldn't be surprised if some poor schmuck ended up in the record books for the wrong reasons in the not-too-distant future. It won't be his fault—who amongst us mortal men could stop LBJ on a mission?
But there he'll be and the NBA front office will owe him an apology.
It's unwise to place yourself in LeBron James' cross-hairs. It's downright criminal to place someone else there.
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