Ladies and gentlemen, the witch-hunt is on! The federal government is picking up where Major League Baseball left off. Actually, Bud Selig and (paid-off) friends haven't stopped, but they're no longer significant since Barry Lamar Bonds is facing federal charges. The starting gun was lost in all the pre-Super Bowl, National Football League mania, but it's been fired.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Since I already did it in that article, I won't re-indulge myself in the injustice of holding Bonds responsible for a generation of athletes' "sins." I'll just repeat that abuse of performance-enhancers is a widespread issue in professional athletics. Too endemic to pin on one man, no matter the size of his head (figuratively/literally) or accomplishments.
Or how much of a donkey he was been (and apparently continues to be).
For those haters out there who would argue that the firing squad lining up in front of Barry is preparing for a righteous kill, listen up.
There is nothing righteous about instituting a federal tax invasion against the mother-in-law and wife of Greg Anderson in an effort to get him to roll on Barry Bonds. In fact, it's a pretty damn unconstitutional abuse of process and malicious prosecution if you ask me—not that anyone would or has. Remember, attempts to force Anderson via direct pressure (aka a year in prison) were ineffective and then this little gem pops up.
Yeah, that's pure coincidence.
Don't get me wrong—the time in prison for Anderson was perfectly fair. He was given a chance to explain himself and the court decided he was obstructing justice. Done and done.
This latest maneuver, though, is totally fatuous and ridiculously inefficient to boot.
The economy is crumbling, stalwart companies are dumping jobs like radioactive waste, the Nation is in two wars, and part of the Justice Department has a pro baseball player bent over a barrel. Not only that, it's bending the Sacred Document to do it.
And this has been going on since 2003.
How much money do you think has been wasted? How many man/woman hours? How much brain power and other intangible resources that could have been better spent towards the considerable and real problems facing our Country?
The whole thing is just awesome.
Then, there's the actual perjury charge against Barry.
Again, this one started off totally fair—I don't believe for a second that Bonds would put anything in or on his body without knowing exactly what it was. Nor would he let anyone else. No, you can definitely add perjury to his list of personal accolades. You just will never be able to add a perjury conviction to them.
The bigger issue is that the prosecutors have to know it.
Understand, perjury is almost impossible to convict unless you've got some sort of recording of the individual making a statement like "hey, I perjured myself" or "I knew exactly what I was putting in my body" or something equally incriminating. You need such because you have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the man lied.
That means proving he knew he was using performance-enhancers, not that he was on performance-enhancers.
So you have to prove Barry's subjective state of mind beyond a reasonable doubt. That's pretty freakin' difficult in any sense of the phrase. It's even more brutal doing so when used in the legal sense.
You've gotta prove that NO reasonable person could doubt that Bonds lied. But the legal reasonable person can't have any preconceived notions about Barry until they're proven in court—he/she can't consider what a dick Bonds is or any of the other skeletons in his closet since most aren't relevant. The reasonable person would be able to look at whether Bonds has a deceitful character or a reputation for being fastidious about what goes into his body if such can be shown.
But look at the evidence:
A statement by a jilted lover, leaked grand jury testimony (that's pretty egregious by itself), positive urine tests, testimony by Bobby Estalella and the Brothers Giambi that they had juice schedules prepared for them by Anderson as well as the juice itself, and other circumstantial tripe like BALCO documents with his first name and last initial on it.
That's all really conclusive for proving that Barry Lamar Bonds was on steroids or human growth hormone or whatever. It also makes him look really bad in the court of public opinion.
Unfortunately, it just won't float a conviction in federal court for the serious felony of perjury (at least it shouldn't as I understand things). None of the above shows Barry has a history of lying or making sure he knows exactly what's going into his body. All it shows is that an ex-girlfriend may or may not be exacting revenge and that his trainer gave steroids to other people as well as Barry.
Again, the issue is whether Bonds knew anything.
Our courts don't like to hand out serious punishment when there is a shred of legal doubt and none of that really proves anything legally about Barry's knowledge of the situation. That's the key—it's ultimately a legal decision controlled by the courts. Even if the jury decides the factual issue against Bonds this time around, I promise you Bonds' legal team already has the appeal typed up.
Maybe the prosecution has an ace up its sleeve except it doesn't. The prison time and tax investigation prove that the ace is Greg Anderson. If the prosecution had anything else, we'd have seen it in the last five (going on six) years.
No, the ace is Anderson and the ace is not talking.
And the longer he stays silent, the louder the witch-hunt becomes. People are already beginning to notice and that's good news for Barry Lamar Bonds.
Because everyone love a martyr, even if it's Barry.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
The Golden State Road Warriors? Only with Monte Ellis
With the National Basketball Association heading into its All-Star Game, it's about time for me to start picking up the scent of the season's developing storylines. The 2008-2009 campaign has several very interesting ones going—will the Boston Celtics repeat, will LeBron James essentially deliver the Cleveland Cavaliers to the promise land single-handedly, will Kobe Bryant finally get his ring-sans-Shaq, are the Orlando Magic for real, and many others.
I'm gonna focus on one closer to home: what might have been if the Golden State Warriors had Monte Ellis for all 82 games?
That might seem like an odd question to ask after one of Monte's less-than-stellar games. During last night's win over the New Orleans Hornets in the Big Easy, Ellis put up the following: 6-12 for 15 points, five fouls, four turnovers, three rebounds, two steals, two assists, and a block in a pear tree. That doesn't tell the whole story, though, because he also played pretty nice defense on Peja Stojakovic.
Not a bad game and we shouldn't dismiss D'ing up Peja even though he's getting older so he's lost a step that he probably didn't have to begin with. But it's not great for a Monte Ellis who's hitting on all cylinders (obviously, Monte isn't yet).
Except I'm not a stat guy.
The most significant thing I see is a 15-32 Warrior squad who just went into New Orleans and hung a loss on a 28-15 team that currently sits comfortably in the playoffs with home court in its first round. A team that would be leading the NBA's Northwest Division and features one of the brightest young stars in the game (Chris Paul). I know, Tyson Chandler was in street clothes.
So what? Golden State didn't have Marco Belinelli.
Nah, just kidding. Chandler is a good player and much more important to the Hornets' chemistry set than Belinelli is to the Warriors'. However, it's not like the guy is an unstoppable force of nature who is known for putting the squad on his shoulders and carrying it to victory.
He's still just Tyson Chandler—maybe he would've helped on Andris Biedrins, but maybe not. Maybe the presence of a big name guy would have spurred Andris on to even greater numbers (6-7, 12 points, nine rebounds). Andris might've been even more engaged. If you don't know about Biedrins, you better learn because the 22-year-old kid is going to be a monster. Kinda already is.
But back to Monte.
I saw his mere presence (even showing considerable rust) open the floor for the other weapons on the team. Guys like Stephen Jackson, Jamal Crawford, Corey Maggette, C.J. Watson, and Biedrins had plenty of room to operate/shoot because of Monte's ability to slice and dice a single defender. That said, I saw the miss a lot.
I saw the Warriors defeat a very good team at home by shooting poorly, playing solid defense, and hitting big shots down the stretch. Hmmmm.
And don't forget, the victory in New Orleans was just Monte's fourth game back and second on the road.
In Ellis' season debut, the Warriors were a LeBron buzzer-beater away from taking down one of the NBA's best teams in Oakland. In his second game, the Warriors beat the Los Angeles Clippers in Oak-town. In his third (and first road game of the year), Golden State got trounced by the Dallas Mavericks (a playoff team at the moment).
In those four games, Golden State has shown more life than in any of the previous games I've seen this year (admittedly, not a lot to date). They've given arguably one of the three best teams in the entire league a run for its money, taken care of business against a bottom-feeder, suffered humiliation at the hands of good-but-not-great Mavs five, and taken down one of the best teams in the Western Conference in its own building.
That ain't too shabby especially when you consider where the Warriors have been. And where they've been is listlessly lingering around the depths of the NBA's nether regions.
It all makes me wonder what could've been had Monte not suffered a stupid, selfish, yet serious injury in the offseason. Where would the Golden State Warriors be right now had they started from the jump with Monte alongside Jacks, Biedrins, and Maggette before adding Crawford via trade?
Because the Warriors' season has a fork in it that only a miracle would remove.
Golden State sits in 11th place, which doesn't sound too bad considering the top eight make it. Of course, the Warriors trail the eighth place Phoenix Suns by 11.5 games with less than 40 to play. They also sit 11 games behind the ninth place Utah Jazz and must hop the 10th place Minnesota Timberwolves to boot.
That's not impossible nor is it even remotely probable.
It would take a celestial finish by Golden State and—not one—but two awful finishes by teams who haven't exactly shown terrible weakness to date. In fact, you could argue both are only as low as they are by virtue of injuries and acclimation to new moving parts.
That makes the prospect of Phoenix and Utah going limp in the second half considerably more unlikely—the worst-case scenario might just be both teams treading water.
Too bad because these Golden State Warriors are really fun to watch. And they're dangerous, too. Watching them in the postseason would be a treat.
Unfortunately, it looks like the return to form will be too little, too late.
Let's just hope our guys have learned from Monte Ellis unfortunate example. Let's hope they can resist that intoxicatingly-sexy siren song of the moped.
The 2010 NBA Playoffs may just ride on it.
I'm gonna focus on one closer to home: what might have been if the Golden State Warriors had Monte Ellis for all 82 games?
That might seem like an odd question to ask after one of Monte's less-than-stellar games. During last night's win over the New Orleans Hornets in the Big Easy, Ellis put up the following: 6-12 for 15 points, five fouls, four turnovers, three rebounds, two steals, two assists, and a block in a pear tree. That doesn't tell the whole story, though, because he also played pretty nice defense on Peja Stojakovic.
Not a bad game and we shouldn't dismiss D'ing up Peja even though he's getting older so he's lost a step that he probably didn't have to begin with. But it's not great for a Monte Ellis who's hitting on all cylinders (obviously, Monte isn't yet).
Except I'm not a stat guy.
The most significant thing I see is a 15-32 Warrior squad who just went into New Orleans and hung a loss on a 28-15 team that currently sits comfortably in the playoffs with home court in its first round. A team that would be leading the NBA's Northwest Division and features one of the brightest young stars in the game (Chris Paul). I know, Tyson Chandler was in street clothes.
So what? Golden State didn't have Marco Belinelli.
Nah, just kidding. Chandler is a good player and much more important to the Hornets' chemistry set than Belinelli is to the Warriors'. However, it's not like the guy is an unstoppable force of nature who is known for putting the squad on his shoulders and carrying it to victory.
He's still just Tyson Chandler—maybe he would've helped on Andris Biedrins, but maybe not. Maybe the presence of a big name guy would have spurred Andris on to even greater numbers (6-7, 12 points, nine rebounds). Andris might've been even more engaged. If you don't know about Biedrins, you better learn because the 22-year-old kid is going to be a monster. Kinda already is.
But back to Monte.
I saw his mere presence (even showing considerable rust) open the floor for the other weapons on the team. Guys like Stephen Jackson, Jamal Crawford, Corey Maggette, C.J. Watson, and Biedrins had plenty of room to operate/shoot because of Monte's ability to slice and dice a single defender. That said, I saw the miss a lot.
I saw the Warriors defeat a very good team at home by shooting poorly, playing solid defense, and hitting big shots down the stretch. Hmmmm.
And don't forget, the victory in New Orleans was just Monte's fourth game back and second on the road.
In Ellis' season debut, the Warriors were a LeBron buzzer-beater away from taking down one of the NBA's best teams in Oakland. In his second game, the Warriors beat the Los Angeles Clippers in Oak-town. In his third (and first road game of the year), Golden State got trounced by the Dallas Mavericks (a playoff team at the moment).
In those four games, Golden State has shown more life than in any of the previous games I've seen this year (admittedly, not a lot to date). They've given arguably one of the three best teams in the entire league a run for its money, taken care of business against a bottom-feeder, suffered humiliation at the hands of good-but-not-great Mavs five, and taken down one of the best teams in the Western Conference in its own building.
That ain't too shabby especially when you consider where the Warriors have been. And where they've been is listlessly lingering around the depths of the NBA's nether regions.
It all makes me wonder what could've been had Monte not suffered a stupid, selfish, yet serious injury in the offseason. Where would the Golden State Warriors be right now had they started from the jump with Monte alongside Jacks, Biedrins, and Maggette before adding Crawford via trade?
Because the Warriors' season has a fork in it that only a miracle would remove.
Golden State sits in 11th place, which doesn't sound too bad considering the top eight make it. Of course, the Warriors trail the eighth place Phoenix Suns by 11.5 games with less than 40 to play. They also sit 11 games behind the ninth place Utah Jazz and must hop the 10th place Minnesota Timberwolves to boot.
That's not impossible nor is it even remotely probable.
It would take a celestial finish by Golden State and—not one—but two awful finishes by teams who haven't exactly shown terrible weakness to date. In fact, you could argue both are only as low as they are by virtue of injuries and acclimation to new moving parts.
That makes the prospect of Phoenix and Utah going limp in the second half considerably more unlikely—the worst-case scenario might just be both teams treading water.
Too bad because these Golden State Warriors are really fun to watch. And they're dangerous, too. Watching them in the postseason would be a treat.
Unfortunately, it looks like the return to form will be too little, too late.
Let's just hope our guys have learned from Monte Ellis unfortunate example. Let's hope they can resist that intoxicatingly-sexy siren song of the moped.
The 2010 NBA Playoffs may just ride on it.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Performance-Enhancers: Every Sport's Dirty Little Secret EXCEPT Baseball
There are certain things you have to be honest about if you consider yourself objective. One of those is the subject of your own failings. Conveniently, since I don't claim to be perfectly objective, I don't have to be perfectly honest about my flaws.
Ah, life is full of those happy little coincidences, isn't it?
That said, I will perfectly admit to occasionally getting stuck on a subject. I thought this might be one of those times because I set out to write a third article about the Last Emperor (one and two). This time, I was gonna address the notion that Fedor dominated a watered-down Pride FC Heavyweight Division while there were bigger fish to fry in the UFC.
A couple of funny things happened though while I was researching.
First, I discovered the idea wasn't even worth an article. Emelianenko Fedor (why was the Japanese announcement of his name so much scarier?) made his Pride debut on June 23, 2002. Starting with UFC 37.5—the day before Fedor's debut—and ending with UFC 67—the card where the Pride guys started entering the UFC in force—here are the colossi on the premier UFC cards fighting between 205 and 265 pounds:
Tank Abbot, Gilbert Aldana, Sean Alvarez, Andrei Arlovski, Mike van Arsdale, Paul Buentello, Dan Christison, Wesley Correira, Randy Couture, Marcio Cruz, Alexandre Dantas, Justin Eilers, Ian Freeman, Sean Gannon (whose primary qualification was beating Kimbo Slice), Gabriel Gonzaga, Antoni Hardonk, Brandon Lee Hinkle, James Irvin, Kevin Jordan, Cheick Kongo, Keigo Kunihara, Mike Kyle, Icho Larenas, Kimo Leopoldo, Gan McGee, Carmelo Marrero, John Marsh, Vladimir Matyushenko, Frank Mir, Jeff Monson, Tom Murphy, Mario Neto, Jake O'Brien, Sherman Pendergarst, Anthony Perosh, Pedro Rizzo, Ricco Rodriguez, Eddie Sanchez, Fabiano Scherner, Josh Schockman, Ken Shamrock (remember, this is post-2002), Wade Shipp, Assuerio Silva, Wes Sims, Tim Sylvia, Tra Telligan, Brandon Vera, Christian Wellisch, Vernon White, Jonathan Wiezorek, and Travis Wiuff.
It's a long paragraph that's incredibly short on elite talent. Outside of Couture and Mir, you could argue there's zero elite MMA talent there.
There's just no need to run through the guys Fedor Emelianenko was facing while these punching bags and/or one-dimensional fighters were 'battling" it out in the UFC. Once Pride really crumbled?
Hey, you'll get no argument from me that the Last Emperor has been fighting peasants.
The second thing that I noticed was an annoying little phrase kept popping up: after the bout, fighter X tested positive for anabolic steroids. So I did a quick search for mixed martial artists who had tested positive for some sort of performance-enhancer. This list is shorter, but far more significant:
Tim "The Maine-iac (on steroids)" Sylvia—6'8", 263 lbs.
Antonio "Big Foot (on steroids)" Silva—6'4", 300 lbs.
Stephan "The American Psycho (on steroids)" Bonnar—6'4", 205 lbs.
Josh "The Baby-Faced Assassin (on steroids)" Barnett—6'3", 250 lbs.
Kimo Leopoldo (on steroids...and a cross ironically)—6'3", 235 lbs.
Royce Gracie (on steroids)—6'1", 176 lbs.
Vitor "The Phenom (on steroids)" Belfort—6'0", 205 lbs.
Chris "The Crippler (on steroids)" Leben—5'11", 185 lbs.
Kevin "The Monster (on steroids)" Randleman—5'10", 205 lbs.
Phil "The New York Bad-Ass (on steroids)" Baroni—5'9", 170 lbs.
Sean "The Muscle Shark (on steroids)" Sherk—a Napoleonic 5'6", 155 lbs.
I listed the height and weight just to show that the guys caught with their hands in the juice jar can be found across the weight classes.
In fairness, some of these guys deny they were knowingly using and some have legit excuses (particularly Randleman). Unfortunately, this is an era in professional athletics when even the "clean" performers are highly suspect by association.
Many feel the superstars are guilty by association. So the ones who actually piss hot? Done and done.
And I gotta believe there're more coming and others who'll never be caught.
For example, who believes that Brock Lesnar never hit the sauce? The guy spent several years in professional wrestling where guys are dropping left and right from their years of steroid abuse. It kinda defies logic (and the naked eye) to argue that Lesnar didn't use for at least a little while.
Yet, how much and how often do you hear about steroids, human growth hormone, and other performance-enhancers outside of baseball?
There's the occasional story about Lance Armstrong and a momentary blip when some National Football League contributor gets busted. Maybe a story here or there when somebody dies from 'roid rage or other abuse-related complications.
But in baseball, it's all steroids and all the time: preseason, regular season, postseason, offseason.
Barry Lamar Bonds, Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire (and now his brother whose name I thankfully can't remember), Sammy Sosa, Rafael Palmeiro, Jason Grimsley, George Mitchell, Jose Canseco, ad nauseam.
Well, here's my last list and it's incomplete:
American football
Canadian football
Australian-rules football
Rugby
Cricket
Soccer
Field hockey
Handball
Ice Hockey
Speed-skating
Curling
Ten-pin bowling
Volleyball (although she was East German)
Tennis
Squash
Track and field
Race-walking (I'm not kidding)
Cycling
Biathlon
Triathlon
Pentathlon
Skiing
Swimming
Water polo
Surfing
Kayaking
Rowing
Weight-lifting
Boxing
Judo
Wrestling
Gymnastics (including rhythmic)
Shooting (and, it's sisters sport, rapping)
That's a list of athletic-related activities that've had participants test positive for performance-enhancers ONLY i.e. individuals pinched for marijuana, cocaine, and other recreational drugs are absent (unless a couple who tested positive for narcotic metabolites got through).
I'll close with two observations.
1. My title is a little misleading. OK, it's flat out wrong because the National Basketball Association is nowhere to be found on that list. Run one of athletes who tested positive for marijuana and the NBA would be all over the place. I guess weed ain't a gateway to steroids.
2. I've always assumed it's the steroid abuse that is dangerous, not the abuse in combination with a particular activity. So what makes baseball so special?
Ah, life is full of those happy little coincidences, isn't it?
That said, I will perfectly admit to occasionally getting stuck on a subject. I thought this might be one of those times because I set out to write a third article about the Last Emperor (one and two). This time, I was gonna address the notion that Fedor dominated a watered-down Pride FC Heavyweight Division while there were bigger fish to fry in the UFC.
A couple of funny things happened though while I was researching.
First, I discovered the idea wasn't even worth an article. Emelianenko Fedor (why was the Japanese announcement of his name so much scarier?) made his Pride debut on June 23, 2002. Starting with UFC 37.5—the day before Fedor's debut—and ending with UFC 67—the card where the Pride guys started entering the UFC in force—here are the colossi on the premier UFC cards fighting between 205 and 265 pounds:
Tank Abbot, Gilbert Aldana, Sean Alvarez, Andrei Arlovski, Mike van Arsdale, Paul Buentello, Dan Christison, Wesley Correira, Randy Couture, Marcio Cruz, Alexandre Dantas, Justin Eilers, Ian Freeman, Sean Gannon (whose primary qualification was beating Kimbo Slice), Gabriel Gonzaga, Antoni Hardonk, Brandon Lee Hinkle, James Irvin, Kevin Jordan, Cheick Kongo, Keigo Kunihara, Mike Kyle, Icho Larenas, Kimo Leopoldo, Gan McGee, Carmelo Marrero, John Marsh, Vladimir Matyushenko, Frank Mir, Jeff Monson, Tom Murphy, Mario Neto, Jake O'Brien, Sherman Pendergarst, Anthony Perosh, Pedro Rizzo, Ricco Rodriguez, Eddie Sanchez, Fabiano Scherner, Josh Schockman, Ken Shamrock (remember, this is post-2002), Wade Shipp, Assuerio Silva, Wes Sims, Tim Sylvia, Tra Telligan, Brandon Vera, Christian Wellisch, Vernon White, Jonathan Wiezorek, and Travis Wiuff.
It's a long paragraph that's incredibly short on elite talent. Outside of Couture and Mir, you could argue there's zero elite MMA talent there.
There's just no need to run through the guys Fedor Emelianenko was facing while these punching bags and/or one-dimensional fighters were 'battling" it out in the UFC. Once Pride really crumbled?
Hey, you'll get no argument from me that the Last Emperor has been fighting peasants.
The second thing that I noticed was an annoying little phrase kept popping up: after the bout, fighter X tested positive for anabolic steroids. So I did a quick search for mixed martial artists who had tested positive for some sort of performance-enhancer. This list is shorter, but far more significant:
Tim "The Maine-iac (on steroids)" Sylvia—6'8", 263 lbs.
Antonio "Big Foot (on steroids)" Silva—6'4", 300 lbs.
Stephan "The American Psycho (on steroids)" Bonnar—6'4", 205 lbs.
Josh "The Baby-Faced Assassin (on steroids)" Barnett—6'3", 250 lbs.
Kimo Leopoldo (on steroids...and a cross ironically)—6'3", 235 lbs.
Royce Gracie (on steroids)—6'1", 176 lbs.
Vitor "The Phenom (on steroids)" Belfort—6'0", 205 lbs.
Chris "The Crippler (on steroids)" Leben—5'11", 185 lbs.
Kevin "The Monster (on steroids)" Randleman—5'10", 205 lbs.
Phil "The New York Bad-Ass (on steroids)" Baroni—5'9", 170 lbs.
Sean "The Muscle Shark (on steroids)" Sherk—a Napoleonic 5'6", 155 lbs.
I listed the height and weight just to show that the guys caught with their hands in the juice jar can be found across the weight classes.
In fairness, some of these guys deny they were knowingly using and some have legit excuses (particularly Randleman). Unfortunately, this is an era in professional athletics when even the "clean" performers are highly suspect by association.
Many feel the superstars are guilty by association. So the ones who actually piss hot? Done and done.
And I gotta believe there're more coming and others who'll never be caught.
For example, who believes that Brock Lesnar never hit the sauce? The guy spent several years in professional wrestling where guys are dropping left and right from their years of steroid abuse. It kinda defies logic (and the naked eye) to argue that Lesnar didn't use for at least a little while.
Yet, how much and how often do you hear about steroids, human growth hormone, and other performance-enhancers outside of baseball?
There's the occasional story about Lance Armstrong and a momentary blip when some National Football League contributor gets busted. Maybe a story here or there when somebody dies from 'roid rage or other abuse-related complications.
But in baseball, it's all steroids and all the time: preseason, regular season, postseason, offseason.
Barry Lamar Bonds, Roger Clemens, Mark McGwire (and now his brother whose name I thankfully can't remember), Sammy Sosa, Rafael Palmeiro, Jason Grimsley, George Mitchell, Jose Canseco, ad nauseam.
Well, here's my last list and it's incomplete:
American football
Canadian football
Australian-rules football
Rugby
Cricket
Soccer
Field hockey
Handball
Ice Hockey
Speed-skating
Curling
Ten-pin bowling
Volleyball (although she was East German)
Tennis
Squash
Track and field
Race-walking (I'm not kidding)
Cycling
Biathlon
Triathlon
Pentathlon
Skiing
Swimming
Water polo
Surfing
Kayaking
Rowing
Weight-lifting
Boxing
Judo
Wrestling
Gymnastics (including rhythmic)
Shooting (and, it's sisters sport, rapping)
That's a list of athletic-related activities that've had participants test positive for performance-enhancers ONLY i.e. individuals pinched for marijuana, cocaine, and other recreational drugs are absent (unless a couple who tested positive for narcotic metabolites got through).
I'll close with two observations.
1. My title is a little misleading. OK, it's flat out wrong because the National Basketball Association is nowhere to be found on that list. Run one of athletes who tested positive for marijuana and the NBA would be all over the place. I guess weed ain't a gateway to steroids.
2. I've always assumed it's the steroid abuse that is dangerous, not the abuse in combination with a particular activity. So what makes baseball so special?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Fedor Emelianenko: The Last Emperor, Possibly the Last of His Kind
As long as I can remember, I've never been that enamored of statistics as they relate to sports. My guess is that I fell in love with athletics before I was old (and/or smart) enough to really correlate the numbers in the paper to what I saw watching the professionals and experienced playing with my friends. Once I made the correlation, I quickly realized that most of the athletes who put up big numbers in the fancy categories are overrated.
The full explanation is a story for a different day, but that's enough of an introduction to explain my love of mixed martial arts.
Technically, there are stats in MMA. Stuff like wins, losses, height, weight, reach, strikes thrown, strikes landed, knock-outs, submissions, etc. are all very much statistics that either measure success and/or factor into an attempt to predict it. The difference, however, is that they rarely drive the debate about a fighter.
It's all about who you fought and if you won. Doesn't matter how you won—with some notable exceptions—because all the other stuff is out the window. It's a fight, pure and simple.
Yes, it's on television. Yes, lots of money is often at stake. And yes, the winners get a shot at celebrity. I doubt that matters when you're staring the prospect of an ass-beating in the face. In front of millions of people.
At that point, I very much doubt any fighter is worried about looking pretty, posturing, style-points, padding his punch stats, or any of the other frailties of ego that plague my favorite sports.
That's not to say the data is irrelevant or that nobody pays attention to it—if you haven't guess by now, I'm not exactly an expert on MMA. The fact that my sphere of exposure doesn't heavily rely upon MMA statistics should be taken with a rather large rock of salt.
My point is just that the eye-test is much more sacred in the fight world.
Which is why I'm a little stunned at some of the reaction to a recent piece I wrote following Fedor's stone-cold dismissal of Andrei Arlovski. It's why I'm even more perplexed by the plethora of articles surfacing that dare to call out the Last Emperor.
Several have been authored by some of Bleacher Report's most enthusiastic and respected (at least by me) fight fans.
Again, I'll emphasize that I am a novice in the sense that I've never trained for a martial art. Forget about a mix of them.
That said, I have been watching the UFC since its earliest days. Back when there were almost no rules, no gloves, and pretty much anything went. When the identities of the fighters were irrelevant because each guy was an elite fighter, but only in one thing. The focus was on skill versus skill until Royce Gracie changed all that (by beating Dan Severn at UFC 4, in my opinion).
My college buddies and I started watching circa 1997. In addition, we rented all the older cards on VHS to get caught up and see the days of no weight classes.
Incidentally, I was hooked forever by UFC 1 when a kickboxer annihilated some sumo blimp. Sumo came barreling forward and took a digger, but couldn't get up. Kickboxer measured a soccer kick to Sumo's grill and delivered it without remorse.
I'm almost positive I saw teeth go into the crowd.
Back to Fedor—I've been watching since before he arrived. I saw his legend rise in Pride. So I'm utterly at a loss when it comes to understanding how any knowledgeable fan of MMA could doubt this monster. And (like I said) some do.
One problem people seem to have with the elder Emelianenko is that he hasn't proven himself worthy of the hype.
To some extent, I understand this gripe because Fedor hasn't been fighting in the UFC since it became the premium fight organization. On the other hand, he hasn't lost to anyone outside it and has been dispatching its former (and seriously flawed) heavyweight champions with relative ease. Furthermore, most of his fights are available on YouTube so you can see for yourself what the fuss is all about. You can get a glimpse of why—those of us who have Fedor love—have it so bad.
Plus, you can check his body of carnage on Sherdog.
Please show me an elite heavyweight mixed martial artist whom Fedor has not faced and defeated since he exploded onto the scene in 2000.
To me, there are three you can legitimately put in that group: Brock Lesnar, who just arrived and is locked out due to his contract with the UFC; Frank Mir, who is basically in the same boat with Lesnar due to his horrific injury and participation in the UFC since he arrived in 2001; and Randy Couture, who has spent almost his entire career in the UFC.
I can't see a reasonable argument for holding those three absences against Emelianenko.
You might wonder where Josh Barnett is. First, he's had numerous chances to fight Fedor and some people seem to think he's dodging the Last Emperor (we'll see because he's got no excuse not to fight him now). More importantly, he's lost to several guys Fedor defeated rather handily. Sorry, I'm skeptical.
But forget about the guys Fedor Emelianenko hasn't fought. Look at who he has fought.
Opinions will differ, but I say his most impressive bullet point is the trio of fights against Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira without a loss (one was a No Contest).
Make no mistake about it—Minotauro in his prime was a terrifying force in his own right with which to reckon. This was a brute who had never been finished in his career (including by a truck when he was a 10-year old in Brazil, which I assume means he got excellent medical care). Mir changed that by putting him to sleep, but that was a different Minotauro.
Indeed, many astute observers feel the Mir fight might have officially announced that Big Nog's finally succumbed to the cumulative punishment dished out by a long pro career. One that's seen almost 40 fights against the sport's heaviest hitters.
If that's indeed the case, Nogueira's tandem demolitions at the hands of the Last Emperor deserve a lot of the blame. I just checked; these fights are on YouTube. Hit 'em up and you'll see that neither was an arguable unanimous decision—one came when Minotauro was the reigning Pride Heavyweight Champion with the belt on the line. Both came when Big Nog was in his prime.
If you not a Minotauro fan, how about Fedor's unanimous decision pulverization of Mirko Filipovic? That one's also on YouTube so you can see for yourself that it wasn't close.
Not impressed by Cro Cop?
How about Fedor's submission of Mark Hunt? Ditto Mark Coleman (actually ditto, ditto since Fedor tapped Coleman out twice). Or you can see him survive a suplex from Kevin Randleman that would've probably broken most individuals in half, only to submit the Monster moments later.
Again, they're all on YouTube—you don't have to take my word for it.
As are his brutalizations of Heath Herring, Gary Goodridge, Tim Sylvia (watch that one), Matt Lindland, Hong Man Choi, Zulu, and Kazuyuki Fujita.
Those YouTube clips should also dispel the notion that the Last Emperor's power is a vulnerability. It's true that his ground game is his greatest strength, but he's got plenty of striking prowess and dynamite in those hands.
In fact, he often finishes his opponents on the ground because they quail at the thought of continuing to stand with him (ask the Maine-iac).
Yet, the icing on Fedor Emelianenko is the man himself.
This is an individual who is becoming the personification of his sport.
The Last Emperor is becoming to MMA what Tiger Woods is to golf (absent the considerable racial component). He is dominating the opposition like Michael Jordan and Barry Bonds. He is showing an ability to save his best for when he really needs it, like Joe Montana. He is amassing highlights like Barry Sanders.
He is redefining MMA like Bo Jackson redefined athleticism the minute he left his mother's womb.
Yet the Last Emperor is quiet. He's unassuming. He's humbly confident without ever seeming arrogant or aloof. He's probably not doing any sort of performance enhancer unless he's found one that leaves you looking a little soft around the edges. He has the utmost respect for his opponent as I have yet to see him show one up.
Emelianenko almost seems apologetic when he decimates someone.
When he's not in a fight ring, Fedor is the most average looking superhero I've ever seen. He's the most normally-behaved other-worldly talent I've come across.
No, I cannot conceive of one, single reason to doubt or dislike him.
In a landscape dominated by team sports that feature increasingly-egocentric antagonists, Fedor Emelianenko is dominating an individual sport with an old-school attitude. That should be reason enough to love him.
Of course, it doesn't hurt that he's the most dangerous man on planet at the moment without a weapon in his hand. Doubt him if you will, but I'd do it quietly.
The Last Emperor might hear you.
The full explanation is a story for a different day, but that's enough of an introduction to explain my love of mixed martial arts.
Technically, there are stats in MMA. Stuff like wins, losses, height, weight, reach, strikes thrown, strikes landed, knock-outs, submissions, etc. are all very much statistics that either measure success and/or factor into an attempt to predict it. The difference, however, is that they rarely drive the debate about a fighter.
It's all about who you fought and if you won. Doesn't matter how you won—with some notable exceptions—because all the other stuff is out the window. It's a fight, pure and simple.
Yes, it's on television. Yes, lots of money is often at stake. And yes, the winners get a shot at celebrity. I doubt that matters when you're staring the prospect of an ass-beating in the face. In front of millions of people.
At that point, I very much doubt any fighter is worried about looking pretty, posturing, style-points, padding his punch stats, or any of the other frailties of ego that plague my favorite sports.
That's not to say the data is irrelevant or that nobody pays attention to it—if you haven't guess by now, I'm not exactly an expert on MMA. The fact that my sphere of exposure doesn't heavily rely upon MMA statistics should be taken with a rather large rock of salt.
My point is just that the eye-test is much more sacred in the fight world.
Which is why I'm a little stunned at some of the reaction to a recent piece I wrote following Fedor's stone-cold dismissal of Andrei Arlovski. It's why I'm even more perplexed by the plethora of articles surfacing that dare to call out the Last Emperor.
Several have been authored by some of Bleacher Report's most enthusiastic and respected (at least by me) fight fans.
Again, I'll emphasize that I am a novice in the sense that I've never trained for a martial art. Forget about a mix of them.
That said, I have been watching the UFC since its earliest days. Back when there were almost no rules, no gloves, and pretty much anything went. When the identities of the fighters were irrelevant because each guy was an elite fighter, but only in one thing. The focus was on skill versus skill until Royce Gracie changed all that (by beating Dan Severn at UFC 4, in my opinion).
My college buddies and I started watching circa 1997. In addition, we rented all the older cards on VHS to get caught up and see the days of no weight classes.
Incidentally, I was hooked forever by UFC 1 when a kickboxer annihilated some sumo blimp. Sumo came barreling forward and took a digger, but couldn't get up. Kickboxer measured a soccer kick to Sumo's grill and delivered it without remorse.
I'm almost positive I saw teeth go into the crowd.
Back to Fedor—I've been watching since before he arrived. I saw his legend rise in Pride. So I'm utterly at a loss when it comes to understanding how any knowledgeable fan of MMA could doubt this monster. And (like I said) some do.
One problem people seem to have with the elder Emelianenko is that he hasn't proven himself worthy of the hype.
To some extent, I understand this gripe because Fedor hasn't been fighting in the UFC since it became the premium fight organization. On the other hand, he hasn't lost to anyone outside it and has been dispatching its former (and seriously flawed) heavyweight champions with relative ease. Furthermore, most of his fights are available on YouTube so you can see for yourself what the fuss is all about. You can get a glimpse of why—those of us who have Fedor love—have it so bad.
Plus, you can check his body of carnage on Sherdog.
Please show me an elite heavyweight mixed martial artist whom Fedor has not faced and defeated since he exploded onto the scene in 2000.
To me, there are three you can legitimately put in that group: Brock Lesnar, who just arrived and is locked out due to his contract with the UFC; Frank Mir, who is basically in the same boat with Lesnar due to his horrific injury and participation in the UFC since he arrived in 2001; and Randy Couture, who has spent almost his entire career in the UFC.
I can't see a reasonable argument for holding those three absences against Emelianenko.
You might wonder where Josh Barnett is. First, he's had numerous chances to fight Fedor and some people seem to think he's dodging the Last Emperor (we'll see because he's got no excuse not to fight him now). More importantly, he's lost to several guys Fedor defeated rather handily. Sorry, I'm skeptical.
But forget about the guys Fedor Emelianenko hasn't fought. Look at who he has fought.
Opinions will differ, but I say his most impressive bullet point is the trio of fights against Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira without a loss (one was a No Contest).
Make no mistake about it—Minotauro in his prime was a terrifying force in his own right with which to reckon. This was a brute who had never been finished in his career (including by a truck when he was a 10-year old in Brazil, which I assume means he got excellent medical care). Mir changed that by putting him to sleep, but that was a different Minotauro.
Indeed, many astute observers feel the Mir fight might have officially announced that Big Nog's finally succumbed to the cumulative punishment dished out by a long pro career. One that's seen almost 40 fights against the sport's heaviest hitters.
If that's indeed the case, Nogueira's tandem demolitions at the hands of the Last Emperor deserve a lot of the blame. I just checked; these fights are on YouTube. Hit 'em up and you'll see that neither was an arguable unanimous decision—one came when Minotauro was the reigning Pride Heavyweight Champion with the belt on the line. Both came when Big Nog was in his prime.
If you not a Minotauro fan, how about Fedor's unanimous decision pulverization of Mirko Filipovic? That one's also on YouTube so you can see for yourself that it wasn't close.
Not impressed by Cro Cop?
How about Fedor's submission of Mark Hunt? Ditto Mark Coleman (actually ditto, ditto since Fedor tapped Coleman out twice). Or you can see him survive a suplex from Kevin Randleman that would've probably broken most individuals in half, only to submit the Monster moments later.
Again, they're all on YouTube—you don't have to take my word for it.
As are his brutalizations of Heath Herring, Gary Goodridge, Tim Sylvia (watch that one), Matt Lindland, Hong Man Choi, Zulu, and Kazuyuki Fujita.
Those YouTube clips should also dispel the notion that the Last Emperor's power is a vulnerability. It's true that his ground game is his greatest strength, but he's got plenty of striking prowess and dynamite in those hands.
In fact, he often finishes his opponents on the ground because they quail at the thought of continuing to stand with him (ask the Maine-iac).
Yet, the icing on Fedor Emelianenko is the man himself.
This is an individual who is becoming the personification of his sport.
The Last Emperor is becoming to MMA what Tiger Woods is to golf (absent the considerable racial component). He is dominating the opposition like Michael Jordan and Barry Bonds. He is showing an ability to save his best for when he really needs it, like Joe Montana. He is amassing highlights like Barry Sanders.
He is redefining MMA like Bo Jackson redefined athleticism the minute he left his mother's womb.
Yet the Last Emperor is quiet. He's unassuming. He's humbly confident without ever seeming arrogant or aloof. He's probably not doing any sort of performance enhancer unless he's found one that leaves you looking a little soft around the edges. He has the utmost respect for his opponent as I have yet to see him show one up.
Emelianenko almost seems apologetic when he decimates someone.
When he's not in a fight ring, Fedor is the most average looking superhero I've ever seen. He's the most normally-behaved other-worldly talent I've come across.
No, I cannot conceive of one, single reason to doubt or dislike him.
In a landscape dominated by team sports that feature increasingly-egocentric antagonists, Fedor Emelianenko is dominating an individual sport with an old-school attitude. That should be reason enough to love him.
Of course, it doesn't hurt that he's the most dangerous man on planet at the moment without a weapon in his hand. Doubt him if you will, but I'd do it quietly.
The Last Emperor might hear you.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
San Francisco Giants' Offseason Continues to Thrill: Will Clark Is Back
Man, the San Francisco Giants' offseason just keeps getting rosier and rosier. This time, it's not a player acquisition that has me amped. In fact, the most recent player acquisitions have been by rival National League West squads and they aren't exactly insignificant.
Of course, they aren't particularly earth-shattering either.
The Arizona Diamondbacks have apparently signed Jon Garland and that doesn't bother me too much. Garland's a good pitcher and he joins an already-loaded staff of Brandon Webb, Dan Haren, Doug Davis, and Yusmeiro Petit/Max Scherzer (I'd wager on Scherzer). However, he features a sinker ball and that means he's like a poor man's Webb—whose arsenal includes arguably the best sinker in Major League Baseball.
That could be a significant problem when Garland tosses in the same series as Webb. Jon'll either be a nice little warm-up for the real thing if he throws before the ace. Or he'll be a sight for sore eyes (or lumber) after Brandon's put the opposing eight through the grinder.
Even if Garland throws to expectations (or slightly above), he still doesn't turn the Snakes into a terrifying specter that looms over the NL West.
Nah, that doesn't worry me too much.
Even less irksome is the developing story down in La La Land.
The increasingly kitten-like Los Angeles Dodgers have been throwing significant parts left and right, but the latest murmurings seem to have them going after Randy Wolf. That doesn't bother me in the slightest little bit. Not that Wolf isn't a perfectly good pitcher, it's just that he scares me about as much as I'm sure Randy Johnson scares Bum fans (man, I can't wait for the dog days of summer and trips down to LA).
However, the real news out here in the NL West is—once again—the San Francisco Giants. There's a sliiiight chance my bias is showing through here.
My beloved Giants have brought back one of my most beloved players in the history of baseball. That would be William Nuschler Clark, Jr.
That's right, we can all stand up and shout "hum baby" because the Thrill is back in San Fran!
So maybe it's not quite the same thing since the Thrill won't be a player. In fact, he won't even be a hitting instructor. He'll be a special assistant and that seems to mean he'll spend the majority of his time doing community relations. But, according to the story, about one-third of his time will be spent trying to impart bits of his substantial hitting prowess to the younger guys (and any older ones who are secure/wise enough to sit at Clark's elbow).
No, Will Clark won't be going into the Hall of Fame.
Not even I, one of his most ardent supporters, would argue he has what it takes to break down the gates of Cooperstown. But check the career numbers—1976 games played, 7173 at-bats, 1186 runs scored, 2176 hits, 440 doubles, 284 homeruns, 1205 runs batted in, a .303 average, a .384 on-base percentage, and a .497 slugging percentage.
That breaks down out to an average 162-game campaign of 588 at-bats, 97 runs scored, 178 hits, 36 doubles, 23 HRs, 99 RBI, and the same averages.
To round out the resume, the Thrill tallied five top-15 finishes in Most Valuable Player voting, six All-Star appearances, and two Silver Slugger awards. Again, not a rap sheet that will get him into the Hall. But it should get Will Clark the ear of any young ballplayer with a functioning central nervous system and a desire to make it in the Show.
Duane Kuiper and Mike Krukow (who played actually played with Clark in the Bigs) have always said that the Thrill was destined to be a teacher of baseball when ever the subject arose.
I am one of many who are smiling tonight at the thought of that grimace back in the Orange and Black. Hopefully, Will Clark can help make the San Francisco Giants better in 2009. That's not really the point.
Because, either way, the Thrill is back.
Of course, they aren't particularly earth-shattering either.
The Arizona Diamondbacks have apparently signed Jon Garland and that doesn't bother me too much. Garland's a good pitcher and he joins an already-loaded staff of Brandon Webb, Dan Haren, Doug Davis, and Yusmeiro Petit/Max Scherzer (I'd wager on Scherzer). However, he features a sinker ball and that means he's like a poor man's Webb—whose arsenal includes arguably the best sinker in Major League Baseball.
That could be a significant problem when Garland tosses in the same series as Webb. Jon'll either be a nice little warm-up for the real thing if he throws before the ace. Or he'll be a sight for sore eyes (or lumber) after Brandon's put the opposing eight through the grinder.
Even if Garland throws to expectations (or slightly above), he still doesn't turn the Snakes into a terrifying specter that looms over the NL West.
Nah, that doesn't worry me too much.
Even less irksome is the developing story down in La La Land.
The increasingly kitten-like Los Angeles Dodgers have been throwing significant parts left and right, but the latest murmurings seem to have them going after Randy Wolf. That doesn't bother me in the slightest little bit. Not that Wolf isn't a perfectly good pitcher, it's just that he scares me about as much as I'm sure Randy Johnson scares Bum fans (man, I can't wait for the dog days of summer and trips down to LA).
However, the real news out here in the NL West is—once again—the San Francisco Giants. There's a sliiiight chance my bias is showing through here.
My beloved Giants have brought back one of my most beloved players in the history of baseball. That would be William Nuschler Clark, Jr.
That's right, we can all stand up and shout "hum baby" because the Thrill is back in San Fran!
So maybe it's not quite the same thing since the Thrill won't be a player. In fact, he won't even be a hitting instructor. He'll be a special assistant and that seems to mean he'll spend the majority of his time doing community relations. But, according to the story, about one-third of his time will be spent trying to impart bits of his substantial hitting prowess to the younger guys (and any older ones who are secure/wise enough to sit at Clark's elbow).
No, Will Clark won't be going into the Hall of Fame.
Not even I, one of his most ardent supporters, would argue he has what it takes to break down the gates of Cooperstown. But check the career numbers—1976 games played, 7173 at-bats, 1186 runs scored, 2176 hits, 440 doubles, 284 homeruns, 1205 runs batted in, a .303 average, a .384 on-base percentage, and a .497 slugging percentage.
That breaks down out to an average 162-game campaign of 588 at-bats, 97 runs scored, 178 hits, 36 doubles, 23 HRs, 99 RBI, and the same averages.
To round out the resume, the Thrill tallied five top-15 finishes in Most Valuable Player voting, six All-Star appearances, and two Silver Slugger awards. Again, not a rap sheet that will get him into the Hall. But it should get Will Clark the ear of any young ballplayer with a functioning central nervous system and a desire to make it in the Show.
Duane Kuiper and Mike Krukow (who played actually played with Clark in the Bigs) have always said that the Thrill was destined to be a teacher of baseball when ever the subject arose.
I am one of many who are smiling tonight at the thought of that grimace back in the Orange and Black. Hopefully, Will Clark can help make the San Francisco Giants better in 2009. That's not really the point.
Because, either way, the Thrill is back.
Larry Fitzgerald: The Arizona Treat?
I'm about to do something I never thought I would do. As a San Francisco 49er fan during the franchise's heydays of the late 1980s and early 1990s, the idea that another National Football League wide receiver could even get a peak at Jerry Rice's place on the pedestal is unthinkable. It's a suggestion that wouldn't be worth rebutting since merely acknowledging such heresy would be giving it too much validity.
But, like the song says, never say never.
Because, as is the case with all transcendent athletes, new ones come along. It's the nature of the beast.
Michael Jordan replaced somebody and somebody will replace His Airness (cough, LeBron James). I'm of the opinion Barry Lamar Bonds replaced Willie Mays—chemicals and all—and that someone will replace him. Perhaps Alex Rodriguez will if he can ever resist the instinct to wrap his own hands around his neck and squeeze whenever the calendar flips to autumn—he certainly has the talent.
And the blond highlights.
In the NFL, you've really got to separate the finest athletes at each position since they each do such unique and discrete things. At the Big Three, you've got Barry Sanders, Joe Montana, and Jerry Rice. Obviously those are my opinions and open to debate.
Still, this is my party and I'll use them if I want to.
Nobody looks particularly close to Sanders' myth and, due to the increasingly punishing style of the NFL, I'm not so sure any back ever will.
On the other hand, Tom Brady's already sniffin' Montana's belt and...give me a second...it seems we have a challenger building momentum for a run at Jerry's, too.
Hey, football gods, kiss my rosy red derriere.
Isn't it enough that our Niners have been atrocious for almost a decade and are only now starting to show a pulse? Do you really have to start picking off our heroes?
The developing heir to Jerry's thrown is, of course, Terrell Owens.
Ha, ha, just kidding. Larry Fitzgerald, it's Larry Fitzgerald.
Leapin' Larry's on-field exploits have been heralded time and again. By me and others, especially now that we're only three days away from Super Bowl Sunday. That means a full 10 days have elapsed since the last snap in an NFL game.
More than enough time to identify, dissect, reconstruct, re-dissect, re-reconstruct, and beat to death every last iota of relevant information about the game's main protagonists. Fitzgerald is quite obviously one of these so the "identification" period didn't really exist for him.
I won't bore you with another recitation.
Suffice it to say that, numerically, Fitzgerald's still quite a bit behind the San Francisco Treat and probably always will be. Rice's regular season and cumulative postseason statistics are insane, maybe untouchable. However, I'm fond of saying that numbers don't necessarily tell the whole story or even the important part of it in sports. Especially in the NFL.
And Leapin' Larry has begun to rival Jerry's best single postseason. That right there is saying something.
More importantly for my comparison of the two, though, is everything else. I'm talking their maximization of talent, their attention to detail, their importance to their respective teams, their recognition of that importance, and their respect for it as well as the team concept.
Jerry was as integral (though probably not more so) than either Joe Cool or Steve Young. He knew it, relished it, but didn't hold the rest of the offense or franchise hostage with that fact. It was enough for Rice that it was true. Additionally, he knew that he needed the cooperation and determination of all those around him to become a legend.
If you doubt Larry Fitzgerald understands this exact same concept, you probably haven't heard this.
I'm not gonna draw a deviating parallel between Anquan Boldin and Fitzgerald's offer to "tweak" his contract to keep the apparently disgruntled Boldin in an Arizona Cardinal uniform. I'm not gonna do it (except that I may have just done it) because I've already killed him for his antics after the National Football Conference Championship game and—with even a tiny bit of distance—I think it's probably a forgivable offense.
Especially since the dude did come back from that grisly hit pretty damn quickly (notice Number 11 is the first guy to Anquan). Can't really accuse the guy of not doing what is important for the team to win based on that one incident.
But what I have no problem pointing out (possibly redundantly) is the obvious parallel between Rice and Fitzgerald.
Larry Fitzgerald has proven the ability to rise to the biggest occasions and deliver monster performances when his team has needed it most, like Rice. He isn't the most physically-gifted guy on the field, like Rice. But he has pillow-vises for hands, like Rice. And, like Rice, Fitzgerald does have at least one exceptional physical ability—to go up for the ball in a crowd and come down with it (Rice could get enough separation on just about any play with any coverage).
Perhaps the numbers will come. That's really irrelevant in my mind.
Because Larry Fitzgerald has already proven that he has the same foundation Jerry Rice had.
Now all he needs is to stay healthy in body and mind in a League bent on the destruction of both.
Good luck, Leapin' Larry. I love Jerry Rice, but I'll still be rootin' for ya.
But, like the song says, never say never.
Because, as is the case with all transcendent athletes, new ones come along. It's the nature of the beast.
Michael Jordan replaced somebody and somebody will replace His Airness (cough, LeBron James). I'm of the opinion Barry Lamar Bonds replaced Willie Mays—chemicals and all—and that someone will replace him. Perhaps Alex Rodriguez will if he can ever resist the instinct to wrap his own hands around his neck and squeeze whenever the calendar flips to autumn—he certainly has the talent.
And the blond highlights.
In the NFL, you've really got to separate the finest athletes at each position since they each do such unique and discrete things. At the Big Three, you've got Barry Sanders, Joe Montana, and Jerry Rice. Obviously those are my opinions and open to debate.
Still, this is my party and I'll use them if I want to.
Nobody looks particularly close to Sanders' myth and, due to the increasingly punishing style of the NFL, I'm not so sure any back ever will.
On the other hand, Tom Brady's already sniffin' Montana's belt and...give me a second...it seems we have a challenger building momentum for a run at Jerry's, too.
Hey, football gods, kiss my rosy red derriere.
Isn't it enough that our Niners have been atrocious for almost a decade and are only now starting to show a pulse? Do you really have to start picking off our heroes?
The developing heir to Jerry's thrown is, of course, Terrell Owens.
Ha, ha, just kidding. Larry Fitzgerald, it's Larry Fitzgerald.
Leapin' Larry's on-field exploits have been heralded time and again. By me and others, especially now that we're only three days away from Super Bowl Sunday. That means a full 10 days have elapsed since the last snap in an NFL game.
More than enough time to identify, dissect, reconstruct, re-dissect, re-reconstruct, and beat to death every last iota of relevant information about the game's main protagonists. Fitzgerald is quite obviously one of these so the "identification" period didn't really exist for him.
I won't bore you with another recitation.
Suffice it to say that, numerically, Fitzgerald's still quite a bit behind the San Francisco Treat and probably always will be. Rice's regular season and cumulative postseason statistics are insane, maybe untouchable. However, I'm fond of saying that numbers don't necessarily tell the whole story or even the important part of it in sports. Especially in the NFL.
And Leapin' Larry has begun to rival Jerry's best single postseason. That right there is saying something.
More importantly for my comparison of the two, though, is everything else. I'm talking their maximization of talent, their attention to detail, their importance to their respective teams, their recognition of that importance, and their respect for it as well as the team concept.
Jerry was as integral (though probably not more so) than either Joe Cool or Steve Young. He knew it, relished it, but didn't hold the rest of the offense or franchise hostage with that fact. It was enough for Rice that it was true. Additionally, he knew that he needed the cooperation and determination of all those around him to become a legend.
If you doubt Larry Fitzgerald understands this exact same concept, you probably haven't heard this.
I'm not gonna draw a deviating parallel between Anquan Boldin and Fitzgerald's offer to "tweak" his contract to keep the apparently disgruntled Boldin in an Arizona Cardinal uniform. I'm not gonna do it (except that I may have just done it) because I've already killed him for his antics after the National Football Conference Championship game and—with even a tiny bit of distance—I think it's probably a forgivable offense.
Especially since the dude did come back from that grisly hit pretty damn quickly (notice Number 11 is the first guy to Anquan). Can't really accuse the guy of not doing what is important for the team to win based on that one incident.
But what I have no problem pointing out (possibly redundantly) is the obvious parallel between Rice and Fitzgerald.
Larry Fitzgerald has proven the ability to rise to the biggest occasions and deliver monster performances when his team has needed it most, like Rice. He isn't the most physically-gifted guy on the field, like Rice. But he has pillow-vises for hands, like Rice. And, like Rice, Fitzgerald does have at least one exceptional physical ability—to go up for the ball in a crowd and come down with it (Rice could get enough separation on just about any play with any coverage).
Perhaps the numbers will come. That's really irrelevant in my mind.
Because Larry Fitzgerald has already proven that he has the same foundation Jerry Rice had.
Now all he needs is to stay healthy in body and mind in a League bent on the destruction of both.
Good luck, Leapin' Larry. I love Jerry Rice, but I'll still be rootin' for ya.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Hey PETA: Keep Your Politics Away from Our Super Bowl
"I'm a level five vegan—I don't eat anything that casts a shadow."—Jesse Grass, The Simpsons
Man, you gotta love the week of media gluttony leading up to the Super Bowl. It's the press's last chance of the season to gorge itself at the National Football League banquet. I don't mean to discount the Pro Bowl because it's obviously must-watch fare, but it's tough to follow up what has become America's most-beloved single day in its favorite sport.
What makes this last week even better is that everything that could possibly be relevant to the game has already been covered in the previous week of inactivity.
That means the really ridiculous, turn-you-stomach stuff that makes you a little ashamed to be an avid sports fan comes out this week. The Xs and Os have been hashed to death. The on-field exploits of the participants have been introduced, repeated, and beaten into the ground. So all that's left is the seedy underbelly of political crossover, scandal, and pop-culture hybridization.
Oh man, someone pass the Pepto 'cause I'm feelin' queasy.
My favorite so far has been this stellar little bit from People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. It's kind of the political equivalent to shooting yourself in the thigh while dancing the night away at a club in Manhattan. That lovable crusader for animal rights apparently had an ad pulled that promoted vegetarianism as another avenue to better sex. If NBC's (the station that will air the Super Bowl and refused to use the ad) description is to be believed, the clip showed scantily clad lingerie models vaguely simulating autoeroticism.
Look, I've lived in San Francisco for pretty much my entire adult life. I spent a year in Austin, Texas and the rest either inside the City proper or in the immediate Bay Area.
That means I've had more than my share of first-hand experiences with two things relevant to this tempest in a teapot:
1. Vegetarians, vegans, and fructarians (I'm not kidding, these people won't eat food that requires harming a plant for its production) as well as any other PETA-types.
2. Public display and discourse of sexuality.
This doesn't make me enlightened or better than those of you in the middle of the country—I'm not one of those who is thoroughly convinced reason in America has been pulled to its coasts. I'm just saying it to give some pertinent context.
Because I loathe PETA and organizations like it (not everyone who subscribes to them, just the political entities).
I hate any group that so arrogantly believes the lifestyle it condones is the only appropriate lifestyle because the truth is that NOBODY knows what the appropriate lifestyle is. Those groups just think they have the straight dope on what is what and they are really, really loud about sharing their opinions.
But trust me—all the volume in the world doesn't make opinion fact.
The reality is those people don't know any better than you or I. Not the Republicans and their blindly devout evangelicals. Not the Democrats and their rabid environmentalists. Not the NRA. Not the ACLU. And definitely not PETA.
Before those PETA-sympathisers out there deny that's what the ORGANIZATION advocates, look at its jackass spokesperson's quote on the subject of its ad being pulled:
"PETA's veggie ads are locked out, while ads for fried chicken and burgers are allowed, even though these foods make Americans fat, sick and boring in bed."
Hmmm. Does it sound like this moron leaves any room for debate on the subject? Think this dude would engage in a reasoned debate on the merits of the alternative lifestyles?
Furthermore, how is that little byte gonna help advance your cause?
I'm a reasonable person; it's almost impossible to offend me and I'd willingly enter my thick skin in any contest to find the thickest out there. So, even as a meat-eater and lover of fried chicken, this kind of nonsense doesn't bother me. But it sure doesn't make me the slightest bit sympathetic to PETA.
And if I'm extreme in my tolerance for insult, how about all those carnivores below me on the tolerance totem pole? Think they're gonna be sending in their PETA contributions any time soon? After all, according to Mr. Einstein-Public-Relations-Man, we're all sick and boring our mates when the lights go off and/or the handcuffs go on.
I get his point. I get that fast food is currently a greater danger to our country than sexual abandon. I get that other products use sexual innuendo far blunter than that (apparently) used by PETA. I get the frustration.
I don't get the arrogance and delusion about subjects as nebulous as diet and lifestyle. I don't get the incredible condescension slathered on those with differing opinions regarding topics of eternal interest.
And I really don't like the timing.
Sports and politics necessarily mix and I think that can often be a very good thing.
But this is the Super Bowl. This is the pay-off for a season of loyalty, disappointment, and redemption.
Keep your damn dirty hands off.
Man, you gotta love the week of media gluttony leading up to the Super Bowl. It's the press's last chance of the season to gorge itself at the National Football League banquet. I don't mean to discount the Pro Bowl because it's obviously must-watch fare, but it's tough to follow up what has become America's most-beloved single day in its favorite sport.
What makes this last week even better is that everything that could possibly be relevant to the game has already been covered in the previous week of inactivity.
That means the really ridiculous, turn-you-stomach stuff that makes you a little ashamed to be an avid sports fan comes out this week. The Xs and Os have been hashed to death. The on-field exploits of the participants have been introduced, repeated, and beaten into the ground. So all that's left is the seedy underbelly of political crossover, scandal, and pop-culture hybridization.
Oh man, someone pass the Pepto 'cause I'm feelin' queasy.
My favorite so far has been this stellar little bit from People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. It's kind of the political equivalent to shooting yourself in the thigh while dancing the night away at a club in Manhattan. That lovable crusader for animal rights apparently had an ad pulled that promoted vegetarianism as another avenue to better sex. If NBC's (the station that will air the Super Bowl and refused to use the ad) description is to be believed, the clip showed scantily clad lingerie models vaguely simulating autoeroticism.
Look, I've lived in San Francisco for pretty much my entire adult life. I spent a year in Austin, Texas and the rest either inside the City proper or in the immediate Bay Area.
That means I've had more than my share of first-hand experiences with two things relevant to this tempest in a teapot:
1. Vegetarians, vegans, and fructarians (I'm not kidding, these people won't eat food that requires harming a plant for its production) as well as any other PETA-types.
2. Public display and discourse of sexuality.
This doesn't make me enlightened or better than those of you in the middle of the country—I'm not one of those who is thoroughly convinced reason in America has been pulled to its coasts. I'm just saying it to give some pertinent context.
Because I loathe PETA and organizations like it (not everyone who subscribes to them, just the political entities).
I hate any group that so arrogantly believes the lifestyle it condones is the only appropriate lifestyle because the truth is that NOBODY knows what the appropriate lifestyle is. Those groups just think they have the straight dope on what is what and they are really, really loud about sharing their opinions.
But trust me—all the volume in the world doesn't make opinion fact.
The reality is those people don't know any better than you or I. Not the Republicans and their blindly devout evangelicals. Not the Democrats and their rabid environmentalists. Not the NRA. Not the ACLU. And definitely not PETA.
Before those PETA-sympathisers out there deny that's what the ORGANIZATION advocates, look at its jackass spokesperson's quote on the subject of its ad being pulled:
"PETA's veggie ads are locked out, while ads for fried chicken and burgers are allowed, even though these foods make Americans fat, sick and boring in bed."
Hmmm. Does it sound like this moron leaves any room for debate on the subject? Think this dude would engage in a reasoned debate on the merits of the alternative lifestyles?
Furthermore, how is that little byte gonna help advance your cause?
I'm a reasonable person; it's almost impossible to offend me and I'd willingly enter my thick skin in any contest to find the thickest out there. So, even as a meat-eater and lover of fried chicken, this kind of nonsense doesn't bother me. But it sure doesn't make me the slightest bit sympathetic to PETA.
And if I'm extreme in my tolerance for insult, how about all those carnivores below me on the tolerance totem pole? Think they're gonna be sending in their PETA contributions any time soon? After all, according to Mr. Einstein-Public-Relations-Man, we're all sick and boring our mates when the lights go off and/or the handcuffs go on.
I get his point. I get that fast food is currently a greater danger to our country than sexual abandon. I get that other products use sexual innuendo far blunter than that (apparently) used by PETA. I get the frustration.
I don't get the arrogance and delusion about subjects as nebulous as diet and lifestyle. I don't get the incredible condescension slathered on those with differing opinions regarding topics of eternal interest.
And I really don't like the timing.
Sports and politics necessarily mix and I think that can often be a very good thing.
But this is the Super Bowl. This is the pay-off for a season of loyalty, disappointment, and redemption.
Keep your damn dirty hands off.
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