A great moment in literary booze from Raymond Chandler's "The Lady in the Lake." - - - He looked at me with steady blue eyes and I looked at him. In spite of his weathered appearance he looked like a drinker. He had the thickened and glossy skin, the too noticeable veins, the bright glitter in the eyes. - - -
Happy to post more great moments like this if you got them.
As cynical as I was during CitiField's construction process, I couldn't help but be a little excited attending the ballpark's soft opening featuring the baseball squads from St. John's -as the visiting team- and Georgetown last Sunday. On the ride there, if I wasn't certain which major league team called the ballpark home, I was painfully reminded by the same miserable cold and wet weather that closed out Shea Stadium. That was a shame, because it killed any chance of a festive atmosphere -outside of one St. John's cheering section in the 'Promenade:' I'll get to the stupid section names later.
Upon arrival at the Mets/Willets Point station, -good for the MTA for attempting to get something out of the Mets and Citi- you're spit out into the entrance plaza with some token tree and flower patches sprinkled in to try to differentiate it from the adjacent parking lots. The grand entrance, the Jackie Robinson Rotunda, is a hulking mass of fake brick arches and massive steel trusses that along with the cheap looking escalators evokes a subway station much moreso than Ebbets Field. Would it have killed anyone to put some skylights over the space and not make it seem like an entrance cavern? Like what the Yankees did in their entrance plaza? Anyway, the rotunda has some nice posters of Jackie Robinson, though there were still a few open slots left to be filled. While this is a great gesture to one of the most important athletes in American history, where's the love for Branch Rickey? I'll get to the very, very, very uneven 'tribute' to New York National League baseball later as well.
Moving on, the concourses are wide and lined with plenty of concession stands and restrooms, but the exposed metal decking of the floor above is more appropriate for a warehouse, not a ballpark -wasn't this supposed to be a departure from austere and minimalist designs of the 60s? How about a hung ceiling at least? Or get creative and make it vaulted. The only highlight of my time there was seeing Jeff Coup-, er Wilpon strolling around with an associate, probably trying to overhear conversations or go over punchlists. The centerfield food court offers a great selection of food, including tacos/burritos, Danny Meyer's Shake Shack and Blue Smoke as well as a grocery -very generic, shoulda used local context and model it after a Corona bodega- that sells packaged salads, sushi and most importantly Mamma's of Corona's heroes. Thankfully, the skyline that graced the top of Shea's Gambler's Scoreboard™ has a new home on top of the Shake Shack and Blue Smoke -the original apple unfortunately is in a dark corner under the bullpen bridge: cave troll treatment. Speaking of the Gambler's Scoreboard™, it's successor pales in comparison. It's an obstructive little row of scores over the left field upper level seats that considering how much empty ad space the park has around the jumbotron and outfield wall, they may as well have put a newer, bigger one, like what's done in the parks Pacific Northwest cousin, Safeco Field. The ads that are there consist of an embarrassing array from the likes of Bob's Discount Furniture, Alliance Building Services (???) and an equipment rental company whose name I can't even remember. All that's missing are ads for pawnshops and Denny's.
A word of advice when navigating the ballpark, unless you want access to the Mets' offices -with gorgeous chop shop views- do not take the staircase on the promenade level behind center field and next to the mechanical equipment. It takes you straight down to the exit at street level, or if you're adventurous you can attempt re-entry by walking through the inner ring that connects to the clubhouses and press room -which by the way looks great, Jerry Manuel is gonna love talkin gangsta with the press after games- and eventually the elevators that can send you back up to your choice of the Metropolitan, Empire, Sterling (nice Wilpon schill) or Promenade Levels. I would've loved to have seen Coup's Stoop, Bernie's Bench or something a little more creative, but that's just me. That's probably one way the Mets differentiated the park from its peers in Philadelphia, Pittsburgh and St. Louis, because if you didn't know any better, you wouldn't be able to tell where you are if you were sitting in the middle of the park.
I suppose the one instance of 'creativity' evident in the park are the 'homages' to the New York Giants in the form of black and orange garbage receptacles and outfield wall. Yeah, so deep, I can see Willie Mays snagging flies in center field and throwing his gum away in a trash can... The Phillies, who had no need to even reference their much more successful cross town rival, the Athletics, put up a nice exhibit chronicling the history of Philadelphia baseball: if HOK and the Mets are gonna use templates from every other new park, where was this one? The Giants were the class of New York National League baseball, but you wouldn't know it, at least according to ol' Fred. We've to thank Fred 0as well as co-conspirators Mayor Giuliani and George Steinbrenner- for these new parks, because if he and George didn't leave their parks in such disarray, there wouldn't have been enough clamor for replacements. Dodger Stadium is as old as Shea and even older than Yankee Stadium II and is in great shape. Where have you gone, Nelson Doubleday?
There's so much more I can vent about, but I don't want this to become a dissertation. As the old saying goes, I root for the laundry, so I don't care where the Mets play, as long as I can go to games every once in a while. At least I can stuff my face to avoid thinking about CitiField's shortcomings. Oh well.
I was strolling the aisles of the 'brar yesterday and came across "Ernie," everlasting Ernest Borgnine's autobiography. Look at that mirthful mug! So I picked it up but then had second thoughts. Sure, he's been in some greats, but could I get through his entire boo? I decided to flip to a random page, if it was good, I would take it out.
Well, this is the first sentence I read:
"The last thing Sam Peckinpah had said to me was that I should go fuck myself. So did I want to work with him again? You bet your life!"
SOLD!
Amongst the many classic tales he tells is of the time he was a struggling actor in New York. Walking despondently along 10th Avenue in midwinter, he comes across a roasted chestnut cart with a sign that read:
"I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to keep my nuts warm."
Borgnine took the creed to heart, working on almost any project that came his way, always reaching for the stars with feet planted firmly on the ground.
So, next time you're in your local 'brar, check it out! Get it? Check....out...ahh forget it.
I made this of image Oscar hating on y'all inspired by the brilliant t-shirts that line the stalls of discerning Senegalese t-shirt/kicks/chains/beeper vendors along the hallowed thoroughfares of Delancey Street, Canal Street and BK's Fulton Street.
Presenting Jackie Earle Haley aka Kelly Leak aka Rorschach in The Watchmen and two-time NBA MVP, the dime-dishin Steve Nash. Eh? Kinda? Sorta?
And if you've seen the movie (ugh) doesn't he do a better Christian Bale than Christian Bale? Take heed kids, keep puffing those Kools and guzzling that Old Crow and you too can hoarsely mutter lines like "Wait till they get a load of me," or "I'm not locked in here with you....you're locked in here with me!"
By many accounts the NBA is doing better financially. Ratings are up and the league can count on at least 5 powerhouse teams that dominate while still playing entertaining ball.
At the same time, the League continues to carry dead weight. We know the usual suspects, the games you skip watching when your team is on the road visiting them cuz it's too depressing to peep.
The Memphis "Sloe Gin" Grizz, playing in front of 4,000 fans; 3,500 of which are U.Memphis fans too confused from inhaling biscuits slathered in gravy to tell the diff-diff. The other 500 are 3-6 Mafia members.
The L.A. "Sailin Takes Me Away" Clippers, thrilling their bizarre celebrity row of Penny Marshall, Billy Crystal, Malcolm in the Middle and the Sports Guy. That foursome would make for the grossest foursome orgy outside Japan.
Then you have the New Jersey "If Only John Starks Hadn't Broken Kenny Anderson's Wrist" Nets. Is there a better indication of the health of the franchise than peeping the above prices on Stubhub.com? ZERO DOLLARS FOR A TICKET. Sure, the team currently sits 10th in the East, but they have a young, exciting team of emerging stars such as Brook Lopez and Devin Harris. Plus, Vince Carter sometimes pauses from launching jumpers to drop a nasty yam on an unsuspecting fool.
ZERO DOLLARS FOR AN NBA GAME.
The worst part is the Nets had a chance to instantly leap from the League's most moribund to Str8 Baller status by moving to Bucktown, U.S.A. Brooklyn loves its ball. A borough that would be the fourth-largest city in the country were it independent. A location near NINE subway lines, right above the Long Island Rail Road, near the BQE, near three bridges, within walking distance of downtown Brooklyn's offices and within walking distance of several upper-middle class neighborhoods.
But now, the Brooklyn deal is all but dead. Whispers abound that owner Bruce Ratner is bankrupt. Meanwhile, there are three new stadiums in the New York area that are almost done, the new Yankee Stadium, the new Mets stadium, and the new Giants Stadium. None of the three were really necessary. All those teams draw huge crowds and clock more cheese than Chuck e. The one that was necessary, in Brooklyn, is the one not getting done.
As an alternative, the Nets could go to Newark. But the Jersey market has never supported the Nets. For example, we are approaching the 20th anniversary of the McDonald's Family Pack, a package that failed to entice despite offering 4 Nets tickets, 4 McD's extra value meals and a disposable camera for $40. Still, it sure beats staying in the swamp. Driving out there in after-work traffic is more depressing than Drazen. The bus from Port Authority wasn't a bad deal, but that's gone, replaced by a two-train dance that requires a transfer in a place that sounds like a public access Sesame Street knockoff - "Secaucus Junction."
If there's one thing we've learned about the success of sports franchises, (football excluded because football is in its own class), is that teams do better located in the heart of cities rather than in the 'burbs. Same reason why bars and restaurants do better in cities. In the burbs people just want to survive the traffic and get to their nice homes to relax. In cities, at night, people will use any excuse, including attending regular season hoops, to escape the hovels they call their apartments.
Only in New York could a story about ballplayers giving each other haircuts in the clubhouse ignite a firestorm worse than, well, Super-Friend Firestorm.
So, like Cam'ron, come with me back to the Mets of 2003, languishing in last place, rudderless under the leadership of the walking dead Art Howe. It was early May of that year when news broke that Harmando Boonitez, whose steely, confident gaze graces the banner of this very blog above, gave shortstop Rey Sanchez a haircut during a game.
OH MY!
Reaction was swift. Unquestioned clubhouse leader, Mo Vaughn, plumbed the depths of his dome to offer, "Rey knows the rights and wrongs, but we're not going to make a big issue of that as a team. We've got too many other things to worry about."
Like the lack of butterscotch syrup in the clubhouse to douse his post-game sundae with! HI-YO!
Potential Hall-of Fame GM Steve Phillips, in perhaps the best summation of his ruinous reign, offered, "I don't get embarrassed about anything anymore.
In hindsight, that was likely the truest thing Phillips ever said. After all, those fake ESPN press conferences were he impersonated various baseball GMs still awaited him in the future.
- - -
Peep for more classic NY Post offerings in the future as I take full advantage of developments in scanner technology.
It is sometimes said that art only truly soars when mankind suffers. Has Jim Jones, P.O.M.E., borne this out? With our country sliding towards depression, Dip-Set's erstwhile consigliere has let loose a nation's frustration with his Recessionary Blues infused remix of Kid Cudi's "Day N Nite."
"Hey....hey, you ever have a meatball sandwich?" "Ummm, yeah?" "Well, shoot, you ever have a meatball sandwich while getting your ol' hangdown tugged by the Philly Phanatic?" "uhh..............."
Is it bothersome that the New York Giants and Jets play in East Rutherford, New Jersey. A tad. Despite only a river running through us, there is a psychological barrier that makes Jersey seem impossibly far away. As way of example, I'd rather make the hour+ trek to Coney Island for the Cyclones than go out to the Meadowlands.
Does it make the Giants' "ny" logo any less awesome? No. But, for shits and giggles, here's G-Men helmet for all the Goddz of the Earf.
inspired by a Grrrrrrrreat game, america leaped out of bed this morning, tossed back a diet pepsi max,, took a look ahround, put on its elastic-lined pleated j.c. penny jeans one leg at a time, and skedaddled off in that guldarned-leased-Explorer to Denny's for a Grand Slamer. Abso-friggin-lutely necessary. Big fuel. For a Big Day. IHOP is for babies.
The lights of our nation's Wal-Marts flicker to life, illuminating miles of ailes of bahgans. KFC's deep fryers hum with anticipation, ready to melt those 11 secret herbs and spices into the crust enveloping that juicy all-white (alllll-right) breast meat. Millions of dull-eyed office drones in 2007's striped shirts boot up their 2006 Dells, determined to use this first fantasy-football free day to hunker-bunker down, yessir, no distractions, no procrastinating. Real work to be done, dump that data into Excel, revel in the number-crunch, eye-drop those bleary eyeballs, ergonomically adjust our wrists, Seamless Web our din-din.
Determined, like Santonio Holmes to brush all ten toes upon turf, to roll up our sleeves and lick this darned recession of ours. Why, shoot, if our F-150's can have an 1800-3050 pound maximum payload, we can sure as sam-heck change the oil and rotate the tires on the economy!
And as we settle into our beds tonite, from the lighthouses of Maine to the raging surf of San Diego to the Eurotrashed shores of South Beach, to the asshole banker yuppies 2.0 of FiDi to the churning waters of Pugent Sound to the Massive Massives of the Midway to the panty-droppin varsity blues of windswept West Texas, to the Testaverde-Pining Paisans waddling through the stripped malls betwixt the Sound and the Atlantic, bellies full of Hot Pockets and Sierra Mist Lite, let us be lullabied to sleep with the soothing words written by some who-cares from, like, a long time ago, but so lovingly hip-hopped by our generation's defining poet/troubadour, Will.i.Am;
May God bless and keep you always, May your wishes all come true, May you always do for others And let others do for you. May you build a ladder to the stars And climb on every rung, May you stay forever young, Forever young, forever young, May you stay forever young.
May you grow up to be righteous, May you grow up to be true, May you always know the truth And see the lights surrounding you. May you always be courageous, Stand upright and be strong, May you stay forever young, Forever young, forever young, May you stay forever young.
May your hands always be busy, May your feet always be swift, May you have a strong foundation When the winds of changes shift. May your heart always be joyful, May your song always be sung, May you stay forever young, Forever young, forever young, May you stay forever young.
"I had a vision, of a world without the Brooklyn Nets. The Izod Center ground out a little debt and the league tried to shut them down, one good player at a time. And it was so... boring. I've had a change of heart. I don't want Mr. Reese, er Frank spoiling everything, but why should I have all the fun? Let's give someone else a chance. If Coleman Re-Lawrence Frank, isn't fired in sixty minutes then I blow up Derrick Coleman's Escalade."
Lawrence Frank, Head Coach, New Jersey Nets
Joshua Harto as Coleman Reese / wormy lawyer, The Dark Knight
Ebbets Field facsimile? Check. Collection of no-heart bums? Check. Wait till next year refrain from the fans? Check.
Congratulations, Fred Wilpon, you've done it. You have fully absorbed all the great traditions from the Brooklyn Dodgers and merged them with the New York Mets. Who needs the winning legacy of the New York Giants when we have dem bums all over again? If I were Willie Mays, I wouldn't have shown up yesterday knowing what lengths Mr. Wilpon has gone through to completely ignore a franchise that was New York baseball in the early 20th century.
Adding insult to injury was Mr. Met revealing the Domino's Pizza, er, CitiField logo on the Shea countdown board. Enjoy your new Disneyland digs, bums.
After weeks of non-stop coverage and obsessing over the old gunslinger, the long national nightmare is over, Brett Favre finally compromised his original position of Packers, Vikings or bust. He will take the first snap behind Nick Mangold at steamy Shea Stadium South, er Dolphin Stadium on September 7th, and begin the most highly anticipated season since 1999 -also led by big thrower well into in his 30s. His acquisition caps off the offseason binge that included retooling the offensive and defensive lines of the team, the most vital positions in football -ask the Giants- that were the weakest links last year. With what should be very adequate protection and a very capable running game -Thomas Jones doesn't scare anyone, but knows how to get the job done, the Jet offense can now keep opposing defenses, especially safeties crowding the box, honest. Will Favre throw foolish shuttle passes and throw deep into triple coverage? You bet. But you can also be assured you will not see cornerbacks guess right and intercept at least one Chad Pennington 15-yard sideline pass a game or Kellen Clemens stumble as he works on his improving his accuracy and decision making.
The transition for Favre will not be easy. The media spotlight will be an obvious challenge. More importantly, the quarterback and coaching staff -head coach Eric Mangini and offensive coordinator Brian Schottenheimer, both younger than Favre- will have to reconcile differences in offensive systems, though I imagine adapting Favre's West Coast expertise to the Jets odd mix of a conservative run-first approach mixed with some elements of precision passing and trick plays will not be impossible. Laveranues Coles is perfectly suited for the short, over the middle plays dictated by the WCO, and Jerricho Cotchery is also becoming an increasingly reliable receiver. Neither are particularly nimble after the catch as desired by the system, though newly drafted tight end Dustin Keller could provide some good YAC -it feels good to use football acronyms after dealing with the lousy VORPs, WHIP, OPS+, etc with the mediocre Mets. That said, Favre made his name going deep, and a home run hitting speed burner would be nice to have to open up room for the Jets running back committee.
All this being said, these are still the Jets, and it's entirely possible Favre's starting streak could get broken on a flukey blindside hit by a scrub Dolphin linebacker, but it gives the team some juice -despite the best efforts of Bill Belichick killjoy disciple Mangini- entering the season, and makes ten wins and a wild card berth very possible. The Jets will have a fighting chance against the Patriots in the home opener -so much for warming up with a cupcake- but will not challenge their stranglehold on the AFC East. That said, the recent wild card runs of the Steelers and Giants makes anything possible, right?
An 11-16 record against the Nationals, Giants, Astros, Padres and Mariners so far. That is why the Mets will not make the postseason this year. A complete organizational mentality -from managers, coaches, scouts and players- that bad teams will lay down and die against the Mets has existed for a calendar year now. That homestand against the Giants and Rockies looks to hurt this argument, but those teams aren't even as bad the Mariners, Padres and Nationals. Time for football! Woo!
And what better way to kick off the season with Broadway Brett! Steve Serby can hardly contain himself.
C.C. classily said goodbye to C-town via a full page ad in the Plain Dealer, thanking the fans, the team, and others for 10 great years. (10 years!) C.C. is clearly proud to have played in Cleveland, but he seems ashamed of Chief Wahoo. How else to explain the complete absence of Wahoo in the three shots in this picture? Note:
Upper-right hand picture: C.C. has doffed his cap so that we cannot see Wahoo, and he sports "Cleveland" on the chest.
Left side picture: C.C. wears his cap backwards, so that our eyes are spared the sight of the O.G. Redman.
Main photo: C.C. wears this year's sharp Sunday alternate throwback-style uni, complete with more baseball-appropriate than Wahoo block letter "C."
Stay classy (and gassy), C.C. And get classy Tribe.
Sabermetricians can use line drive rates, zone ratings and a myriad of other statistics to predict a player or team's future results or explain the past performances. While the analysis between the foul lines has become more and more advanced, there is still one frontier that no expert has yet to crack: the analysis between the ears of a relief pitcher. Forget Bill James, Rob Neyer and Nate Silver: we need to call in Dr. Phil.
The concept of a closer by committee seems extremely logical. Why not use your best pitcher in the highest leverage situations? Why not match up a team's lineup with a righty or lefty specialist, even if its the ninth inning? Why have a pitcher in the bullpen who can only enter the game with a lead of three runs or fewer, and often pitches ineffectively when asked to pitch in a tie game or blowout? Newly hired Boston Red Sox general manager Theo Epstein and his advisors, including Bill James, pondered these questions prior to the 2003 season after seeing how volatile Ugueth Urbina could be, and made the infamous decision to move forward with a closer by committee comprised of Alan Embree, Ramiro Mendoza, Mike Timlin and others. After some highly publicized blown leads early in the season-ESPN and other media outlets treated this experiment with high scrutiny- Red Sox managment converted Byung-Hyun Kim, acquired from the Arizona Diamondbacks midseason, to a reasonably effective closer until his meltdown against the Oakland Athletics in Game One of the Division Series. Understandably, the Red Sox gave up on the experiement and traded for Keith Foulke the following winter, and the rest is history.
So this brings us to last night, when Duaner Sanchez, a fairly reliable set up man called upon to hold a three run lead against the fifth due to closer Billy Wagner being sidelined -eerily similar to his absence in parts of August and September last season-with shoulder spasms, sixth and seven spots of the Philadelphia Phillies admitedly potent lineup. Several flat fastballs and meatball changeups later, the bases were loaded with no one out. The opposing batters were right on top of his pitches, not swinging and missing a single time -it would be difficult for the Mets to blame sign stealing this time, as they were at home. So how do you chalk it up? Just a bad night? Perhaps Sanchez was too confident up three runs and didn't feel inclined to put as much zip on his pitches? Regardless, having any pitcher inherit the bases loaded is a recipe for trouble, and despite shortstop Jose Reyes miscalculation of a Joe Smith induced chopper, the blame for the ninth inning meltdown has to be solely placed on Sanchez, though Pedro Feliciano surrendering a deep drive to banjo-hitting outfielder So Taguchi is also inexcusable -you can't blame left fielder Endy Chavez for having it go over his head, as Taguchi's bat doesn't exactly warrant a no-doubles defense. By the time shortstop Jimmy Rollins was up, you knew the game was over, as when it rains for Feliciano, it pours-the issue of inheriting runners is also an important one, as some releivers are just awful at handling them.
Other teams have also experienced trouble patching together the latter ends of games, including the Milwaukee Brewers after they shelved Eric Gagne. It took them some time to find a suitable replacement until Salomon Torres took over the closer's role, and the Mets may have to do the same -Houston Street?- if they want to contend without Billy Wagner.
What is it about closing games? Is it getting pumped up by loud metal music? Feeding off the psychological pressure of the 'save?' Be sure to see my poorly timed post in that entry regarding saving a three-run lead. And if the ghost of Jerome Holtzman wanted to spite me, well I'll just pay you back in Hell, Jerome.
In support of Cleveland Frowns' quixotic crusade to rid the world of Chief Wahoo I offer this proposal for a new cap logo, which in my mind would be a compromise by retaining Wahoo's distinctive feather while chucking his ugly mug. It also suggests an interlocking 'C' and 'I' for the Cleveland Indians. It also represents history by evoking the Tribe's pre-Wahoo wishbone "C" cap logo without causing confusion with Cincinnati.
That's Big Mo. He's as bald as our nation's tearful eagles that soar free for freedom.
Tonight! Live! From that steep-tiered 31-year old "cathedral" in the Bronx, it's the All-Star Game! Corey "Allegory" Hart digging in against Cliff "Curse of Chief Wahoo" Lee! Chase "Boo?Fuck You!" Utley against Joakim "You'll be" Soria!!!!! WHEEEEEE!!!
Yeah, not really feeling the All-Star game. Judging by the flat ratings not many of you are either. There was a time in this country when people genuinely enjoyed watching the game of baseball. People, children and adults, played the game. In the days when the two leagues were almost-independent fiefdoms fans were eager to see stars face off against each other.
These days, factors such as interleague play, a fading in rivalry between players of each league, the same umps for all games, fantasy baseball, and highlight saturation have robbed the midbummer classic game of much of its appeal.
Most importantly, and this is just a hunch, despite record attendance figures, people do not enjoy watching the game itself. Oh sure, people will watch their own team play, but I think the main reason that national regular season broadcasts, such as Espn's Sunday Night Baseball, don't do very well is because people's tolerance for the sport does not extend beyond their own teams, no matter how marquee the Sunday night matchup may be. As an aside, and this is a topic for the future, I think the main reason for record attendance figures in recent years is the rash of new ballparks and their 'beer garden' atmospheres.
Anyhoo, the All-Star game is outdated and lacks any juice to make it must-watch TV. My only memory in recent years is Larry Walker batting right-handed against Randy Johnson. Zany!!
The All-Star highlight of the past 10 years?
What follows is not my original idea, but is an idea worthy of consideration, why not stage the Final Four of the World Baseball Classic in lieu of the All-Star game? The lesser countries, such as China, Italy, Canada, and the United States, could battle it out over the winter in qualifiers, while the top four, Japan, Cuba, D.R. and South Korea, could receive byes until the last eight perhaps. The last eight could be narrowed down to four in two days during the first week of spring training, and then the semifinals could be played during the current All-star break.
It's quite likely that the U.S. wouldn't make it to the final four, but I'd still rather see Japan taking on the D.R. tonight than the A.L. take on the N.L. in a glorified exhibition. Judging by the large crowds and healthy ratings for the inaugural WBC final four in 2006, which the U.S. did not partake in because they were terrible, I think many would agree.
Of course, owners and players would howl about playing these games in the middle of the season. It's a fair argument, but it would only be two games and the pitchers would be on pitch counts. For comparison's sake, World Cup qualifiers are played during the club footy season, as are all manner of friendlies. If anything, it's healthier to play such games in the middle of a season than at the very beginning of spring training, when their bodies are not warmed up to the daily grind of baseball.
And if the U.S. were to somehow make it into the final four, why, there'd be more juice than the Kool-Aid Man taking a wicked pissah. "U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" is a far catchier chant than "Jun-ior Cir-cuit! clap! clap! clapclapclap!" And besides why should we fight amongst ourselves on A.L.-N.L. fault lines when we can fight the rest of the world? We're used it in real life anyways.
The upcoming Major League Baseball All Star Stadium being held at Yankee Stadium celebrates the final season of the facility, and like clockwork, baseball writers over 40 flood the print media and airwaves with memories of the Mick, Joe D and sometimes reaching back for the Iron Horse and the Babe. That's fine and dandy, but let's recall those legends played on a field that was seven feet higher than the existing one, was enclosed by fences in left and center field far deeper than the dimensions we know today -including Monument Park being part of an even more intimidating Death Valley, covered by a roof trimmed with the iconic brass frieze, not aluminum paneling over the remade upper deck shell and recorded by a far more informative scoreboard. Much of the original structure is intact, but to say the the two incarnations of the ballpark are the same ignores the two years spent to reconfigure the park: this is no seat replacement and paint job a la the tweaks the Mets made to Shea Stadium made in the early 80s. Some sources, such as the ESPN Sports Almanac, refer to the pre-1974 park as 'Yankee Stadium I' while other publications keep the continuity.
It is this tie to the past that allows writers like Mike Vaccaro to glorify the park with gems such as "the chance to come see Yankee Stadium, one last time, in all its resplendent splendor." Resplendent Splendor? In those cramped concourses? Embarassingly understaffed vending pool? Two inning lines for hot dogs or restrooms? OK, so their elevators are in better shape, not that the average fan would know. Maybe they have better pregame dessert carts for members of the press. If Mike Francesa, one of the biggest Yankee fans and historians around today, literally and figuratively, could get worked up about the need for a new venue, no nostalgic rose-colored glasses of the park are needed anymore -it is worth noting that debate between Francesa and Chris 'Mad Dog' Russo was one of their most fiery of the year, though that discussion included the issue of public funds for a stadium, which can be addressed here another time.
Is this a vision of Cleveland's worst nightmare? (Well, up there with Byner) How appropriate that The Chosen One stand in Upper New York Harbor, betwixt Money-Makin, Bucktwon and Dirty Jerz? -Ring-Ring- "Hovie on line one, Donnie Walsh on line two, baby...." "Oh word?........"
Four years ago, Greece stuffed a thick, sloppy souvlaki down the footy world's throat with its 1-0 European final victory over the high-flying Portuguese. While yesterday's 1-0 victory for Spain over Germany was far-less shocking, the two sides achieved their glory through flawlessly executed tactics. Otto Rehhagel's Greek side held their opponents scoreless through the 2004 knockout stages by playing numbing, impenetrable, defense. Spain held their opponents scoreless through the 2008 knockout stages by completely dominating the shit out of the ball with their endless one-touch passing through the midfield.
Oftentimes, as they would pass and pass and pass in the midfield, like concertgoers at an Allman Brothers concert, it seemed as if they had no intent to penetrate, like President Slick Willie carefully avoiding "it" during his intern liaisons. But then just as suddenly, after alternately lulling their opponents to sleep or driving them bonkers with frustration, one of their midfielders, invariably named Xavi, would thread a perfect through-ball for one of their speedy strikers, either El Nino (spanish for Dolphin-Boy) or David "Getting More Illa Than The Thrilla in" Villa.
Torres' match-winner, scored in this fashion, was one for the ages. Philipp Lahm was exposed as a tits-up defender in the Turkey game, and it was his poor play in cutting off Torres' access to the ball that cost David Hasselhoff and his countryman a chance to exult in an 8th major championship (three World Cups, three Euros, One hell of a good-looking man). Torres' raw reacharound on Lahm will be the subject of study in saunas from Christopher Street to the Castro for years to come.
The end, inevitable when a game is not back-and-forth, was anticlimactic; unless, of course, you're eating paella as we speak. For me, the tournament peaked with the Holland-Russia quarterfinal, a game worthy of any final of any tournament in any year. That game encapsulated every trait that made this tournament so entertaining, two surprising teams with more speed than lower east side cocaine playing aggressive footy and exchanging the lead twice.
In our continuing effort to bring you people who kinda/sorta look like each other, we offer emerging Russian winger Andrei Arshavin and emerging nerd Michael Cera. Coincidentally, both had their development arrested in their latest endeavors, Arshavin against Spain and Cera in Juno. Get it? No? Looks like someone has a case of the Mondays!
Jerry Manuel can talk all he wants about trying to build up a home field advantage with a revved-up crowd and team at Shea Stadium, but getting shut out twice in three home games is no way to make friends with the fans. You could see the post-fifteen run letdown coming from a mile away, but to essentially give up after a few tough breaks early speaks to the many flaws in the team's lineup, which features the likes of Trot Nixon -he belongs in a George F. Will essay or an Iowa corn field-, Endy Chavez -best late-game defensive replacement outfielder in the majors, emphasis on late- and Marlon Anderson -already a butcher defensively, and best suited as a pinch hitter. Ryan Church's return should add more power to the lineup, but right field will remain a black hole that must be filled by a right handed bat that can OPS at 700 - much higher than the efforts of Damion Easley and Fernando Tatis. The waiver wire can only do so much, Omar.
Speaking of new acquisitions, Brian Cashman must already be scouring the majors for another starter, because he already used up one of Sidney Ponson's few bullets -no, not the silver ones.
It also seems appropriate to comment on Pedro Martinez continued ineffectiveness, but perhaps it is best to wait one more start before writing his career obituary -wow, two straight years a first ballot hall of famer's career crumbles with the Mets, eh?
What a game last night, eh? Turkey far outplayed the Germans, enjoying the better of both possession and decent attempts on goal. I'm guessing it was the Turks' physicality, something the Germans hadn't dealt with against Portugal, that accounted for their tentativeness and inability to string passes together with any incisiveness.
Germany's only decent player all night was Bastian Schweinsteiger, who ran madly up-and-down the pitch as if he were German schoolboy Uter being chased by Homer Simpson begging, "Pleez don't chase me, I am full of chocolates!"
Lukas Podolski had an excellent 1-on-1 breakaway opportunity in the first half but he was more wasteful in the box than Harvey Firestein in the champagne room. And Phillipp Lahm's decisive goal was the least he could do to make up for his comical defending throughout the game. The space Lahm enjoyed on that last goal was there for the Germans to exploit all night long, the finally did so at the death.
The New York Times published a browbeating article yesterday about the new capitol city of Myanmar, Naypyidaw. Myanmar's former capitol was Yangon, a city of 6 million which lies near the coast of the Bay of Bengal. The new capitol, built in secret and unveiled in 2005, lies some 500 miles north deep in rural, impovershed, farmland; far removed from prying eyes to further entrench the power of the military, which has ruled the country since a coup in 1962. Impenetrable to all, save perhaps Rambo.
The Times sums up its view of the situation thusly, "…the transfer of the entire bureaucracy to this relatively remote location, where malaria is still endemic and cellphones do not work, has drained the country’s finances and widened the gulf between the rulers and the ruled."
We in the West could leave it at that, shaking our heads and "tsk-tsking" at this latest move away from any semblance of an open or democratic government. Except, really, is the military junta's decision to move deeper into seclusion and secrecy all that different from America's decision to move our capitol to D.C. or where our states have chosen to place their capitol Or, to paraphrase a great 1980's anti-drug ad, "I learned it from watching you dad!"
In one of the early victories for Jeffersonian rural/agrarian philosophy over Hamilton's urban/finance philosophy, the two agreed to move our young nation's capitol to what would become Washington, D.C., then sparsely populated swamp land, in exchange for the Federal Government's assumption of the states' war debt.
Almost all of our major states have their capitol cities deep in the sticks, Sacramento, California; Austin, Texas; Tallahassee, Florida; Albany, New York; Springfield, Illinois; Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. And Juneau, Alaska takes the cake; you can only get there via plane or boat.
Under our federalist system it is the states that exert far more influence over vital issues such as education, transportation, and crime, yet our state lawmakers, mostly anonymous themselves due to a lethargic voting public, get to conduct their, I mean our, business in complete anonymity. Maybe they are so anonymous because they are so far removed from the daily lives of the majority of the people they serve.
Take our great state, New York. More than half the state lives in the NYC metro area (NYC, Nassau, Suffolk and Westchester), yet our leaders conduct their business far from prying eyes in Albany. The only true check on government is the Fourth Estate, the press, and while New York City's papers all have correspondents up there, the majority of their resources and focus are maintained down here.
The counter-argument is that state legislators need to conduct their work in peace and quiet, away from the hum-and-drum and shady influences of city life. Nor can they over-react to what seem like the daily crisises and quickly-built public clamor that go along with urban living. Of course, similar logic lies behind the creation of innumerable state authorities, which are quasi-governmental agencies that act independently of oversight through their boards because their business is too important to be entangled with everyday politics. The most prominent example of such a state authority is the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Immune from any real oversight or direction over its decisions at the state and city level, the MTA is run largely by multimillionaire board members who, despite not using public transportation themselves, get to decide how our system is run.
Transparency is essential to a well-functioning government, or as Steve Martin put it, “A day without sunshine is like, you know, night.”
Germany's Bastian Schweinsteiger sent in a free-kick from the left flank into the box. As the ball arrived, Michael Ballack pushed Portugal's (and Chelsea teammate--awkward) Paolo Ferreira out of the way and headed home what would turn out to be Germany's game-winning third goal. It was the sort of push that is not only a blatant foul in footy but in every single other team sport. Some might argue that despite the foul, Ricardo should have been in better position to make the save.
Of course, as our pal Frownie is fond of pointing out "If ifs and buts were candies and nuts..." Or put another way, "almost only counts for horseshoes and hand grenades." Had Germany remained at two goals, would the space have been there for Portugal to tie it? Unlikely considering the way Germany dominated play for the first 75 minutes.
The game exposed all of Portugal's greatness and all their faults. Case in point, substitute Nani. Nani is a breathtaking runner, but, as was often the case with Man U. this season, selfish. Too fond of taking on entire team he will often ignore wide-open teammates. He made a few of those wild, fruitless runs against Germany after first coming on, before unleashing that perfect pass from the left flank onto Deco for the second goal.
For all their playmaking ability, the Portuguese were helpless against Germany's superior size and sudden abandonment of the long ball that gave Portugal's D time to fall back into position.
More importantly, for the impartial fan, the game was an absolute thrill to watch. The latter stages of most tournaments are often dull affairs, with powerhouse nations pitted against each other too afraid to commit to attacking footy. Yesterday's game bodes well for an absolutely classic weekend or at least half of it. Speed merchants abound on both sides of the pitch for Holland and Russia. Sunday's Spain-Italy game, well, it has PK's written all over it.
My Big Fat Greek Footy Disaster. Defending Euro champs Greece tumbled mightly from their olympian perch, crashing out of this year's tourney with no (nil?) wins, three losses, one gol scored with five conceded. Could it be because they trotted out American Idol Taylor Hicks in Goal? Not funny? Do you find this post Hella bad? Get it? Opa!
The All-Star highlight of the past 10 years?
In our continuing effort to bring you people who kinda/sorta look like each other, we offer emerging Russian winger Andrei Arshavin and emerging nerd Michael Cera. Coincidentally, both had their development arrested in their latest endeavors, Arshavin against Spain and Cera in Juno. Get it? No? Looks like someone has a case of the Mondays!
Wesley "Snipes" Sneijder and David "If Batting .270 is Wrong I Don't Wanna Be" Wright. Kinda? Sorta?
My Big Fat Greek Footy Disaster. Defending Euro champs Greece tumbled mightly from their olympian perch, crashing out of this year's tourney with no (nil?) wins, three losses, one gol scored with five conceded. Could it be because they trotted out American Idol Taylor Hicks in Goal? Not funny? Do you find this post Hella bad? Get it? Opa!
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