Keyboard Quarterbacks

Under new management

2007-02-10T20:28:00.000-05:00

If you're at this page, you just learned about the imperfect world of Internet search engines.

We're under new management. You can read the Keyboard Quarterbacks at http://www.newsday.com/keyboard-quarterbacks.

Mets musings

2005-06-02T10:53:00.000-04:00

Ponderings from behind the keyboard. . .

What's the over/under on Aaron Heilman taking a job in the Mets' starting rotation? My optimistic side hopes it's sooner rather than later, but my realistic side tells me the more time passes, the deeper he digs himself into the long reliever pigeon-hole. Every winning team needs a strong long-man, and Heilman certainly has looked the part, but his early-season success as a stopgap starter earned him the right to a few more starts.

Victor Zambrano and Kaz Ishii, no doubt, will continue their off-again, on-again adventures. Willie Randolph has already made it clear he's going to stick with those guys (and he sort of has to, based on whom they were traded for), so it may depend a lot more on injuries than it will on the performances of Ishii, Zambrano, or even Heliman himself. Over/under: July 15, two weeks before the trade deadline.

* * *

It's been a strange couple of months for the Mets' lineup, which seems to get hot and cold on almost daily basis. First, Cliff Floyd was hot. So was Doug Mientkiewicz, for about a week. Then Mike Piazza had a couple of "Piazza-like" games. Then Mike Cameron came back, and he got hot. Now David Wright is hot, although he's starting to cool slightly. Jose Reyes has had some terrific games, but almost as many clunkers.

Carlos Beltran is even harder to figure. As bizarre as this sounds, the one player to whom I can best compare him is Alex Rodriguez. He's got tremendous talent -- a transcendent five-tool player -- and has put up great (or, at least, very good) numbers, but for some reason hasn't found his place with the fans yet.

Fans always expect more from free agents who breeze into town with big hoopla (see: Giambi, Jason; Glavine, Tom). We're are never as forgiving to hired guns as are to homegrown stars like Derek Jeter or Reyes. However, I would be remiss not to go to bat for Beltran, who was booed after going 0-for-4 and leaving four runners in scoring position Tuesday night.

Beltran's defense has been the one key aspect that has gone, it seems, almost completely unnoticed. He's gotten a few ovations for strong throws from the outfield, but it's his intimidation factor that makes him an almost nightly force for baserunners to cope with.

Example: In Wednesday night's game, the Mets led 2-1 with two outs in the ninth inning. Pinch hitter Tony Clark singles, then Alex Cintron follows with a shot to center. Beltran fields the ball quickly and fires it in. Clark, the potential tying run, does not even try to advance to third. In that situation in any of the past, oh, 43 years, Clark is probably on third base.

I don't need to tell any knowledgeable fan the significance of keeping a tying run off third. It's good, fundamental, winning baseball. That's what Beltran brings to the Mets, and that's why he'll be a great influence to players like Reyes and Wright, who certainly have a lot to learn before they can ascend to the his stratospheric level.

* * *

Did a quick check of the All-Star voting yesterday and discovered the Mike Piazza was the leading vote-getter for NL catchers. Mike's a good man, but this only strengthens every argument against allowing fans to vote for All-Star selections. I suppose I shouldn't get so bent out of shape about it, since the MLB All-Star game is about the fans, after all, right?

But more than anything else, it's a popularity contest. Piazza, batting .249 with 6 home runs and 26 RBIs, is having, by anyone's valuation, the worst season of his career. I've never had problem with aging stars playing in All-Star Games, but at what point do you have to try to be fair to others who have earned the right to start the game?

I'm probably overreacting. But one last note before I move on: Two of the other top vote-getters at their positions -- Cubs shortstop Nomar Garciaparra and Cardinals third baseman Scott Rolen -- are currently injured and probably won't even play in the game. And Tino Martinez leads all AL first baseman by nearly 100,000 votes... *shrug*

* * *

Dae-Sung Koo is on his last legs with the Mets. There's no denying that now. Koo's struggles have brought about Omar Minaya's first real challenge of the 2005 season. He's got a surplus of starting pitching and outfielders, and no reliable lefty reliever anywhere in the system. How he molds and reshapes that group could have a significant impact on the rest of the season.

Check back on Newsday.com tomorrow afternoon, when I'll talk to Newsday's Dave Lennon about Minaya's plans for the team this summer, as well as some possible trade candidates at relief pitcher. Perhaps he can shed some light on the critical moves the Mets are bound to make over the next two months.

* * *

Speaking of lefty relievers, it seems that John Rocker has finally corrected the control problems that plagued him early in the season with the Long Island Ducks. But the Mets would never sign him, would they? Well, you'd be surprised. Stay tuned...

E-mail Mike Casey at michael.casey@newsday.com

A fun year to be a Yankee fan

2005-06-01T01:29:00.000-04:00

June 1, 2005. Fourth-place Yankees.

Wow! There are two sentences you never expected to hear in that order. At least in the post-1994 era, back when the Yankees were running away with American League before the strike delayed Don Mattingly’s first playoff appearance another year.

Speaking of 1995, didn’t the Yankees win 25 of their final 31 games that season to capture the AL wild card? Yes, I believe they did.

Ever since, Yankee fans developed a sense of playoff entitlement, never once considering that the team might struggle along the way.

Have a heart, people. Even the 1995-96 Chicago Bulls lost 10 games. And they had MJ, who cannot be compared with A-Rod, simply because baseball does not allow for one-man dominance the way basketball does.

The 2005 Yankees might just be the most exciting team since 1998. That team won every night and it was relatively new to see such domination. Following them in 1998 meant staring at the box score in amazement over another Yankee win and another six-game win streak and another Tino Martinez home run and another Paul O’Neill punching of a water cooler because he only went 3-for-4.

In the years afterward, the Yankees beating everyone up became passé. Sort of like when that new song you love hits the radio. You buy the single, listen to it 32 times in a week, then get tired of it.

That’s what the Yankees have done to baseball. Every year, they are the favorite to win. Every year, they add another few million to the payroll, making it that much harder to root for them.

And I’m a Yankee fan!!!!

But I remember the 1991 pitching rotation, which included Wade Taylor. ‘Nuff said.

I remember 1985, when the Yankees had to go into Toronto and sweep to win the AL East. They won the first game, lost the second, and then Phil Niekro earned his 300th win on the final day of the season.

That was exciting.

And so is 2005. Who knows what will happen? As Yankee fans, we must now monitor Baltimore, Boston and Toronto. And whoever thinks the Orioles and Blue Jays will falter, you may be right, but it’s June 1 and we’re still talking about them. No one expected that.

Now we don’t know what to expect. Kevin Brown could pitch a good game. Or, he could just pitch like Kevin Brown. We don’t know.

Randy Johnson might strike a few people out. He might even serve up three bombs. We don’t know.

A-Rod could hit three homers, or make three errors. We don’t know.

Which makes being a Yankee fan fun again. The Orioles and the Red Sox wrap up their three-game series on Wednesday. Yankee fans must hope against a sweep. That’s the best case scenario right now because there’s no sign of the Orioles slowing down. Not with that lineup. Plus, they’ve stunk up the joint something awful in recent years, so any little bit of success means a lot to hungry players.

The Red Sox aren’t going away, either, even if Curt Schilling doesn’t pitch again this season and Johnny Damon keeps running into walls. So long as the Yankees refuse to intentionally walk, pitch around or brush back David Ortiz, the Red Sox will remain a half-game ahead of the Yankees.

Every game from here on matters. They’re all important because, even though the Yankees won 16 of 18, they also lost 19 of 30.

It should make for an exciting summer. Unless, of course, you became a Yankee fan in October of 1996.

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Random sporting thoughts

2005-05-26T01:44:00.000-04:00

* Dwyane Wade is an extremely good basketball player.

* Dwyane Wade is an extremely amusing basketball player, what with that dunk at the end of the game to give the Heat a 92-86 win. Who cares about the sportsmanship aspect? The spread was 4 1/2. Wonder how the bookies felt about that dunk with one second left.

* Why do Yankees fans hate A-Rod? This is baffling. The man only leads the major leagues in home runs, RBIs and runs. Plus he's hitting .318. Why no love for this guy? We'll explore that next week.

* Michael Irvin on the big screen? "The Longest Yard" could immediately become a Top Ten classic. The Playmaker is second only to Screaming A. Smith as television's most amusing sports analyst.

* Some days, I wish I was a professional athlete. Not for the money, or the impressive address book or the amount of females at my disposal, but rather for the keen ability to commit crimes and get off with a slap on the wrist and a $538 fine.

* Today is one of those days.

* Spurs vs. Pistons would be the most unwatchable NBA Finals since television was invented. Average score: Spurs 19, Pistons 18.

* Jerry Rice is dangerously close to becoming football's answer to Evander Holyfield.

* Which is worse: Agonizing over ways in which the Knicks can mess up the draft or Watching the Knicks actually mess up the draft?

* Who will instigate the brawl this weekend between the Yankees and the Red Sox?

* Any chance Tom Glavine will beat the Braves once more before his contract expires?

* That was a rhetorical question.

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The Boss takes center stage

2005-05-23T18:29:00.000-04:00

George Steinbrenner is a great owner of a great team that plays a great sport in a great stadium in a great city in front of great fans. He is a great Yankee.

That should just about sum up the Steinbrenner installment of "Centerstage" on YES that aired this past Sunday. Steinbrenner said the word "great" 4.2 million times in the 90-minute show. Upon further review, that number could grow.

If you've never seen "Centerstage" before, Yankees broadcaster Michael Kay sits down for a one-on-one interview with famous people. The show is usually 60 minutes and it's taped in front of a studio audience which gets to ask questions in the latter part of the broadcast. It's actually a fairly decent piece of original programming on YES. Not great, but not bad, either.

These days, Steinbrenner rarely says more than a few sentences on his own. Most of his outlandish comments that we love to hear and read come in the form of statements released through his spokesman Howard Rubenstein. Basically, Rubenstein is to Steinbrenner as the mask is to Darth Vader.

So, for YES to land this interview was pretty impressive. Granted it's Steinbrenner's network and Steinbrenner's team and Steinbrenner's world, but he still had to agree to the interview. Of course, there were no hardball questions but the average fan doesn't care about that anyway. Kay served up a few softball questions that had you wondering if YES interrupted the interview to bring us another showing of Javier Vazquez pitching to Johnny Damon in Game 7.

When Steinbrenner wasn't using "great" like it was the world's preeminent adjective, he was answering Kay's questions and only answering Kay's questions. Very little elaboration on Steinbrenner's part. Just a lot of "How did that feel?" followed by "It felt great." That kind of stuff. At one point, you start to feel bad for Kay. Then, a commercial cuts in and any sympathy is washed away by advertisements.

The curt answers and the quick questioning afterward to avoid dead air created a choppy sequence of editing. There were times I wondered if Kay and Steinbrenner were in the same room. For a moment, I thought I was watching the scene in "Heat" where Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro are talking in the coffee shop. The editing in that scene gives the appearance that they are the same table talking, yet Pacino and DeNiro are never on screen at the same time.

Steinbrenner did offer a little insight into his psyche for those who don't anything about him. He yapped about how important winning is and how it's the only thing. Uh oh! I just used the verb yapped, which never has a positive connotation. Remind me to have someone else start my car for the next few days.

He laughed a bit, almost cried a bit, too. He went on about how he loved all these Yankees and how they were all great competitors, great men, great Yankees. Not too much on Howard Spira, Richard Nixon, Mr. May.

It was an interesting interview to watch. Not the best, but certainly better than anything Magic Johnson ever did on his late-night talk show back in the day.

Even with the boisterous Boss taking center stage for this show, Gary Sheffield won the award for Best Line.

In a clip from his appearance on "Centerstage" last year, Sheffield discussed his meeting with Steinbrenner as a free agent. "I told him he can bring in the greatest player in the game, but I'm still gonna be the best player on this team," Sheffield said, give or take a word. (Note: Not trying to pull a Mitch Albom here, but I just don't remember every single word from the quote, but that was the gist of it.)

That's a great line for a great player to drop on a great owner of a great team before signing a great contract.

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Top Gun Golf

2005-05-16T02:32:00.000-04:00

Every golfer has an Iceman hole once in a while. I have an Iceman hole once every nine holes.

You may not even know what an Iceman hole is. Let me learns you a bit here. The Iceman hole takes its name from Val Kilmer’s character in the 1980s classic “Top Gun.”

Kilmer’s call sign was “Iceman.” In the target-rich environment known as the bar, Goose (Anthony Edwards) explains to Maverick (Tom Cruise) how Iceman got his nickname.

“It’s the way he flies,” Goose said. “Ice cold. No mistakes. Wears you down. After enough time, you just get bored and frustrated, you do something stupid, and he's got you.

Starting to make sense now, isn’t it? How many times did you break a 9-iron over knee because you should have hit the 6-iron instead? How many times did you birdie the 4th hole, then hit driver 14 feet, top your 3-iron another 37 feet, shank the 4-iron onto the wrong fairway, chip into the trees, chip over the green, chip back over the green, chip onto the green and then three-putt on the 5th hole?

That, my friends, is an Iceman hole. That, my friends, is “Top Gun Golf.”

Footnote necessity: Lawyer friends Steve and Tim coined the phrase in golf terms.

I went ballistic on the fifth hole at Overpeck County Golf Course in Fort Lee, N.J., last Friday. It’s a seemingly average 418-yard, par 4.

I shank my drive to start the hole. I do that often, so I’ve had many Iceman holes. But practice makes perfect, so I have a better save percentage than Armando Benitez. Not exactly the best person to compare myself with, but after an approximate 126-yard drive, I’ll take what I can get right now.

Time for the trusty 3-iron. I hit “I’m not a player, I just crush a lot” shot and I’m back in the game.

Approaching my ball, lying 2, I noticed there’s a big ol’ weeping willow tree about 30 yards in front of me. A true golf stud would pull out the wedge and chip over the tree and plunk it on the green from 75 yards out. That was my first thought. Then I realized I’m not a true golf stud.

So, I turn toward my bag. Hurricane friend Fletcher asks what I’m doing. In true “Top Gun Golf” fashion, I say, “I’m too close for missiles. I’m switching to guns.”

Translation: I’m going to take out a low iron and punch it low under the tree and onto the green.
“You’re going ballistic?” Hurricane friend Fletcher said.

My 4-iron strikes the ball . . . and the ball does a fly-by of the green at over 400 knots. Not good. I walked around to the far side of the green and chip on . . . and off the green. Potential Iceman hole alert! Potential Iceman hole alert!

I walked passed Hurricane friend Fletcher, who politely tells me “Slider, you stink!”

Enter Maverick, who saves Iceman by chipping on the green and one-putting for the double bogey. For many a golfer, that’s not good. For me, that’s expected.

After About-to-be-lawyer friend Schatzie shanked his 12th straight drive, Hurricane friend Fletcher asked, “If you had to play in a charity golf tournament, would you want Schatzie with you?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” I responded.

The 413-yard par-4 15th hole wore me down. I got frustrated. I did something stupid. Ditton on the 454-yard par-5 17th hole

We’ll begin in tee box, the birthplace of many an Iceman hole. Time to hit driver. Time for the ball to start off along the right side of the 15th fairway, then put the blinker on and wind up on the far end of the 14th fairway. Vanilla Ice alert! Vanilla Ice alert! Check out the hook while my Big Bertha revolves it.

I followed that with a monster 5-iron that faded slightly at the end, hit a tree branch and fell straight to the ground. Cue up the spiked hair and a volleyball scene because this has Iceman written all over it. Next shot has a brook in front of it that doesn’t really factor into my shot, except for that nice slab of concrete they call the wall of a foot bridge. Whammo!

My nice pitching wedge hugged the ground like a caterpillar and goes slamming off the front side of concrete. In any other world, the ball would have gone screaming back at my face and popped my eye out. But these must have been Mr. Tipton’s Laws of Physics at work here because the ball went left. Way left.

The ball settled next to a tree on the far side of the 14th tee box, some 60 yards left of the green. But, hey, I was pin-high. I lodged my patoot against the tree and launched what looked like a nice shot. Oops, too long. Chip onto the green. Two-putt. Seven. Triple bogey. Iceman.

On to the 17th, which featured a 53-foot swinging-bunt single for a drive, a nice long iron, a bad long iron, a “Caught in a jet wash” short iron, a crash-and-burn wedge and a “You’ve lost that loving feeling” putt that lipped out. Double bogey.

That’s Top Gun Golf.

The plaque for those shooting over 100 is downstairs in the ladies room. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.

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We must be in the front row

2005-05-12T20:58:00.000-04:00

Row A at Yankee Stadium means when Luis Sojo coached third base, "Oooooh, he's so close, it's like i'm having a cup of coffee with him in the kitchen," Mama La Monica said.

Row A at Yankee Stadium means when $252 million Alex Rodriguez made the first of his two errors Wednesday afternoon and got yelled at by fans, "This is like going into IBM and yelling at the chairman," Papa La Monica said.

Row A at Yankee Stadium means when Alex Rodriguez made the second of his two errors Wednesday afternoon, he had no choice but to hear one fan yell out, "Pagliarulo would've made that play."

I was that fan. Life in the front row is pretty cool. Not that I'm an A-Rod hater, but he made two huge mistakes and had to be called out on it by a fan who knows what it's like to sit in the upper deck's Row U (that's pretty much above the lights) and Row W (that is pretty much on the moon) for a game.

But this was Row A. Time to capitalize on the opportunity.

Papa La Monica scored tickets along the third-base line for Wednesday's game. It was Papa La Monica's birthday, too, making it even more fun.

Ever watch a game on television and say to yourself "How did those people get those seats?" when the cameras pan around the first few rows. These were those seats. We were those people.

This was a Bob Uecker commercial come to life. Whoa! We really must be in the front row.

Mama La Monica, excited enough to be within the same zip code as Derek Jeter, even waved and yelled out to Skippy, the left-field ball boy.

In this gated community, (OK, it was chained off but in a stadium built in 1923, you take what you can get), the seats are cushioned. Typically, I have to bring my own patoot-softening device.

In this oh-so-chic section, you get served. Typically, I have to go rent the movie.

A Stadium employee runs around with some sort of Palm Pilot situation and takes your order. Menus are available, stuck in the cup holder. Cup holder? Cup holder! Typically, I have to bring a safe to the Stadium to store my $5 souvenir cup of soda under my seat so I don't have to worry about Coke-soaked peanut shells and soda-saturated sneakers.

In this posh part, the only people sitting in front of you are the corporate clowns that paid a lot of money to sit in the seats that were installed several years ago so that corporate clowns could pay a lot of money to sit the seats. Most of these fans bought an unlimited-ride Metrocard on the bandwagon.

Since that's a man-made hazard and therefore not part of the original infrastructure of the Stadium, it can't change the fact that we're sitting in Row A and they're not.

(Note: When those corporate clowns left after the 7th inning - how predictable! - Papa La Monica and I jumped down to their seats. It's a pretty cool view.)

Having chair service is an interesting experience for a family that used to save enough coupons from the Dellwood milk cartons just to get four free seats in the upper deck. The Stadium accepts credit cards down there in Row A, so I had to charge something while sitting down there in Row A if for no other reason than I could charge something while sitting down there in Row A.

But, I also had to get up and buy something from the concession stand. Mama La Monica wondered why. Two reasons:

1) I never forget where I came from, which is somewhere in the tier reserved section (that's the upper part of the upper deck).

2) I wanted the security guy to stop me trying to come back to my seat so I could show him my ticket, drop a Lil Jon/Chappelle "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" on him, and then walk past all those other lettered rows and resume my game-watching from the comfortable position of Row f-bombing A!

The game began and I offered my obligatory "What's up, guy?" to A-Rod, Jeter and Sojo. More importantly, I know they heard me. That makes four Yankees to hear my signature line (sure, it's stolen from Nicky Eyes in "Goodfellas," but I'm more famous than the actor who played him, so it's mine now). Gary Sheffield was the first, back when I got booed at Yankee Stadium. So far, I've received zero responses. Not even a complimentary "Howyuzdoin?"

Oh well. I can live with that. I'm in Row A.

Brother La Monica joked before we left for the game that he was taking all the money from his accounts and betting it on the Mariners. This seemed a smart play, considering Papa La Monica is better known as Frankie Mush when it comes to Yankees games. He's 0-2 this season, and roughly 2-35 since we started going to games as a family in the early 1980s. One of those two losses this season was the Mariano Rivera five-run ninth inning against the Red Sox. Mama La Monica had no choice but to go 0-2 this year, as well.

Case in point: In the early 1990s (or maybe it was the late 1980s, we're not quite sure anymore), Papa La Monica had to work in San Francisco for a few summer months. The Yankees were on a West Coast trip and went 10-1. The one game they lost was the Oakland. Yep, he was there. Frankie Mush!

I clearly inherited his genes. I was 0-2 this season, with those losses being a blowout by Baltimore and a Randy Johnson loss to Tampa Bay before Randy Johnson remembered he was Randy Johnson and not Randy Jackson, dog.

So, the La Monica family was 0-4, and clearly the betting parlors didn't know we were going to the game because the Yankees were still favored.

When the Mariners scored five runs in the first, we had no choice to laugh and blame Frankie Mush. So much for my theory of two negatives becoming a positive.

But, this was Row A, so let the game last 12 hours. I don't care. Boss friend Jon was kind enough to let me come to work late, but I had to add in a "Work on the laptop during the car ride home" clause for the commissioner to approve the trade.

Brother La Monica was telephoned with one out in the first inning and the Yankees trailing 5-0. He simply couldn't believe it. Well, he could believe it, which is why he couldn't believe. Such stark reality can appear imaginary when it happens live.

The Yankees rallied back for the 5-5 tie in the bottom of the first. Brother La Monica was telephoned. The Mariners took a 9-6 lead. Brother La Monica was telephoned. The Yankees tied it at 9. Brother La Monica was telephoned. The Yankees took a 12-9 lead. Brother La Monica was telephoned.

That Tino Martinez homered to tie it at 9 meant Mama La Monica made the right decision in wearing her new Tino Martinez shirt. She considered rocking the Jeter home jersey, but "Tino's doing good, so I had to wear my new shirt."

Can't argue with Mama La Monica, even if Mother's Day already passed.

The Yankees won, 13-9. We reversed the curse!

No more Frankie Mush. Well, at least for one afternoon.

Row A means the next time I go to a game at the Stadium, I'll be back with the steerage. Row A means it was definitely worth it.

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The Great waste of time

2005-05-11T20:04:00.000-04:00

Talk about a non-story. Wayne Gretzky might coach the Phoenix Coyotes.

Can someone tell me just what he is going to coach them to do? They clearly won’t be playing hockey next season. One could argue that there hasn’t been hockey in Phoenix for a few years anyway.

The NHL gets worse every day the lockout goes on. This is a sport that is now listed under Tennis and Women’s Basketball in the navigation of ESPN.com. A sport whose top headlines include news of Patrick Elias’ bout with hepatitis, breaking news about USA Hockey and U.S. Figure Skating executive directors resigning and finally news on how the NHLPA wants to block replacement players.

Block replacement players! As if they could do anymore to assure that hockey will never be played again in North America. Since the end of football season and because of my absolute refusal to watch NBA basketball, I have been stuck watching rodeos, NCAA baseball and even NASCAR over the weekends. I even watched the Masters in hopes of seeing someone check Tiger Woods as he got ready to putt in the playoff.

Meanwhile, Mike Milbury just returned from a scouting trip to China. Unless they can get Yao Ming in a trade for Alexei Yashin, the Isles might be better off if the NHL never returns.

Forget Giacomo, just call the Guru

2005-05-11T03:52:00.000-04:00

Horses are beautifully strange creatures. Those who gamble on the horses are just strange.

So, for a brief 25 minutes on Tuesday, I was clinically strange. (This is different from my everyday life, where I’m 4 degrees before tap-dead-center strange.)

Many a horse race begins with the horse you picked starting off strong. Then that horse drops to the middle of the pack. Then, if you’re lucky, your horse makes a mad dash to line and wins the race by a length.

So, let me get this straight: Starts off strong, fades to virtual oblivion in the middle, then races to glory at the end. Hmmm, add in a six-day cocaine bender and we’ve got ourselves a VH1 “Behind the Music” special.

On this particular afternoon, I entered an OTB. I was there to cash in on the best bet from the eighth race at Belmont on Saturday.

A little recap for you horseheads out there: Saturday was the Kentucky Derby. I had gone to a different OTB with Papa La Monica. He’s retired these days, which is code for “Let’s go play the horses because I’ve got nothing else to do and my back hurts from playing golf yesterday.”

I played the chalk trifecta of Bellamy Road, Afleet Alex and Bandini. My horse luck is more Rodney Dangerfield in “Easy Money” and less Richard Dreyfuss in “Let it Ride.” But I’m an Ivy League graduate, so I decided to hedge my action and played along with the Guru. He liked Exit to Heaven. I like the Guru. So the bet seemed like a good fit.

Well, Exit to Heaven came in third for a nice $5.30 payout. It cost me $6 to bet across the board, so that’s a sweet 70-cent loss. Nice pick, pal.

Fast forward to Tuesday afternoon.

I was in the neighborhood of OTB so I went in to pick up my $5.30, which promptly became $5 after the OTB took its vig.

With time to kill, I decided to make my money work for me. It was time to reinvest that $5. But what the frig do I know about the horses? Nothing. However, I know a guy who knows more about horses than horses do. Yes, that’s right, I called the Guru.

I flipped through my recent calls database on my cell phone. (I had called the Guru for Derby help, but he didn’t pick up his phone. Plus, I doubt he would have given me Giacomo, even if he is the most Italian guy with a non-Italian last name I know.)

Guru picks up the phone. I’m sitting pretty now.

“Kid, what are you doing, kid?” he asked.

“I’m at OTB cashing in your monster best bet from Belmont on Saturday,” I answered. “What do you got for me today at Belmont?”

“It’s Tuesday, kid, they’re not running at Belmont,” he said.

Great, now I’m a bigger idiot than I was 12 seconds ago. But, I’ve known the Guru long enough for him to let it slide.

“It’s all out of town tracks today, kid.”

“Well, Guru, gimme something outta town.”

“Let’s go to Calder.”

“OK.”

“Kid, second race, we’re gonna go with an exacta box on 6 and 5.”

Hey, works for me. He tells me the name of the horses I’m about to wager my lunch and dinner on. I can’t understand what he said, more so because my cell phone cut off than because he starts every sentence with “Kid.”

I strolled to the window, dropped some cash on 5-6 in an exacta box. I feel like my dad. I feel like his dad. And I’m clearly the youngest person in here by at least 75 years.

I found the television showing the races at Calder and plopped myself down in a chair. Twelve minutes to post.

Five minutes.

Two minutes.

Race time.

Here’s comes the 6 horse, racing out. The 5 horse isn’t even on the screen. Great! Nice pick, Guru. My cell phone is open and I’m ready to call him up and tell him he’s a jerk and he owes me dinner. What’s the use in having a hookup if he leaves you hanging?

Around the second turn, the 6 horse is lagging, the 5 horse is taking a nap in the gate.

Around the third turn, here comes the 6 horse. The 5 horse seems to remember there is a race going on.

Down the stretch, it’s all about the 6 horse. And the 5 horse is making a Giacomo-like run on the outside.
At the finish, it’s . . . it’s . . . it’s the 6 horse in first and the 5 horse in second. Guru is off the hook.

I sat in my chair laughing my patoot off for about seven minutes. I felt great. I felt like a degenerate. I felt like I wasn’t alone.

An older gentleman asked me what was so funny? I kindly responded, “Kid, the Guru strikes again!”

And I still don't know the names of the horses. I don't even know where Calder Race Track is.

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So much for a relaxing night at the ballpark

2005-05-10T23:55:00.000-04:00

As seems to be the case a lot lately in Central Islip, there was an unusual buzz in the air Tuesday night. It was about a lot more than just a rematch of last year's Atlantic League World Series against the Camden Riversharks.

It was about a man. A man who has become the object of such intense scrutiny and curiosity that it belies his otherwise modest and friendly surroundings. You know who I'm talking about -- you're probably sick of reading his name. It's John Rocker.

Sitting in the press box at Citibank Park, I saw Rocker's impact on the team from a unique perspective.

First and most obvious, there was the media presence. Newsday sent two reporters and a photographer. The Daily News sent a photographer and a reporter. Even the Newark (N.J.) Star Ledger sent a reporter. Had it been a normal May 10 ballgame, I may have been the only writer in the ballpark. But it's hard to feel normal when John Rocker's in town.

During the pre-game chatter that usually fills the press box with light banter and talk of the local Major League teams, one cameraman detailed his efforts to photograph Rocker during pre-game warm-ups:

"He came out of the bullpen and I stood on the first baseline. When he saw me, he kind of turned his back to me and walked like, sidesaddle, towards the dugout."

Someone cracked, "Did he do the Moonwalk?" That was the kind of night it was.

A palpable feeling of tense anticipation permeated the press box, and indeed the entire ballpark, until Rocker entered the game in the 7th inning. At that point, the media contingent let out a collective sigh of relief -- they had not made the trip for nothing -- and the fans rained down their emotions -- some cheers, some jeers -- with passion uncommon in the normally casual Citibank Park atmosphere.

After the game, too, Rocker's presence was felt. When the Ducks' public relations staff informed us that "John Rocker will not be available for comment tonight," my first reaction was not to feel surprised, even though we'd been told Rocker would talk if he pitched in last night's game. After all, this is a man who's had so much trouble dealing with the media, he hired his own publicist -- and even that hasn't keep him out of trouble.

I even felt a little sorry for the PR staff, which is proud of the affable environment they've constructed and must feel a strain from dealing with a headache the size of the state of Georgia.

"He's a very positive influence around here," Ducks skipper Don McCormack told us after the game (a noble effort from a manager who's just trying to help his pitcher win games and get back to the majors).

But hasn't Rocker's presence made things a little more tense these days?

"Not for those other guys," McCormack said, referring to Rocker's teammates.

They must be the only people who haven't noticed.

Going down with the ship

2005-05-05T21:48:00.000-04:00

Most Yankees fans I talk to can hardly remember the last time they felt this badly about their team's fortunes. You would think it's been 111 years, not 11, since their team last missed the playoffs. Although, as good as they've been in the last decade, you can sort of understand why they'd feel that way.

All that winning has led to a much-deserved confidence/arrogance among Yankees fans that the team, as currently configured, will turn things around. But as I watched the Bombers go down to a third straight humiliating defeat against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays tonight, I got to thinking: What if they DON'T turn it around? Is this the end of the Yankee dynasty as we know it?

Invariably, when dynasties end, good people get hurt along with the bad. In much the same way, the Yankee cornerstones of Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada, and Bernie Williams could be enjoying their last few months together. Sometimes you have to throw out the apple to kill the worms.

So I decided to handicap the odds that various players and coaches will be traded, released, or fired by the Yankees before the end of the season, assuming the team continues to falter. All bets/parlays must be placed prior to May 31 and sent to Newsday.com, c/o Mike Casey, Assistant News Manager, 235 Pinelawn Rd. Melville, NY 11747. Hmmm. . . On second thought, that's probably not a smart idea. Just use these for "recreational" purposes, like the point spreads they print in the newspaper:

DEREK JETER: 999 to 1.
Jeter is a cornerstone in the truest sense of the word. Take him out of the mix, and the entire team would crumble. His trade value is astronomical, but the Yankees wouldn't dream of dealing him. Not only is he a leader and team captain, he's one of the few players who hasn't underperformed this season. And he's still the most marketable and popular Yankee.

ALEX RODRIGUEZ: 750 to 1.
Good luck getting rid of this guy. Sure, he's got great numbers. But he's also got a $500 bazillion contract and zero World Series rings. Even if the Yankees wanted to trade him (they don't), they wouldn't be able to find a team that could afford him.

HIDEKI MATSUI: 750 to 1.
Matsui has been the Yankees' most reliable offensive player the past two seasons. He plays good defense and is a solid citizen. He never complains and he hits well in the clutch. No reason the Yanks would ever part with him, unless George Steinbrenner fired Cashman and replaced him with George Costanza.

MARIANO RIVERA: 500 to 1.
The Yankees wouldn't really considering trading Mariano, would they? No, probably not. But if -- and it's a big if -- he continues his recent run of mortality, and the Yankees drop out of the playoff race, someone desperate for a proven postseason closer could float a very appealing offer the Yankees' way. The deal would have to include someone the Yanks felt strongly could become their next great closer, though, and those guys just don't come along every day.

CARL PAVANO: 500 to 1.
The Yanks would be nuts to trade him. They've got him under contract through 2008 and he's practically a teenager (29) by Yankee standards. He's one of the few guys on this team who has a chance to still be in his prime three years from now. They'll keep him.

GARY SHEFFIELD: 400 to 1.
He's played very well and he makes a lot of money. That means two things: 1) The Yanks don't want to trade him. 2) The Yanks would have a tough time trading him. The only variable is if the team takes a serious nosedive and he pulls a "Milwaukee Brewer," mailing it in and becoming a clubhouse nuisance. But so far, so good.

RANDY JOHNSON: 250 to 1.
Ironic that he said he would only go to the Yankees because they gave him the best chance to win a World Series, isn't it? Steinbrenner paid a small fortune to acquire him, and he's got him under contract through next year. Johnson actually wouldn't make bad trade bait, but the Yankees have way too much invested in him to ever give him up. He'll stay in pinstripes.

BERNIE WILLIAMS 200 to 1.
Your natural inclination is to think Bernie is safe. He's won four rings. He's still immensely popular. But he's also in the last year of his contract. The Yankees would never resort to the embarrassment of releasing him, but they might consider trading him if a team desperate for a good switch-hitting pinch hitter comes knocking in July. Emphasis on might.

TINO MARTINEZ 150 to 1.
Tino is well-liked and respected in the Yankee clubhouse. But there's no reason to keep him around at his age if it's not going to be as a leader on a young or playoff-bound team. He could draw interest at the trade deadline from the Cardinals, Braves, or Angels as a solid lefty pinch-hitter or defensive replacement off the bench.

JASON GIAMBI: 100 to 1.
The Yankees would love -- love -- to unload this guy. But he's still owed about three Michael Jackson settlement's worth of money, which means a buyout is out of the question. If he ever got hot, which isn't likely to happen, Cashman would shop him all over town. Maybe they'd find someone dumb enough to take him. Is Kevin Malone still general managing somewhere?

JOE TORRE: 75 to 1.
It amazes me how many Yankees fans want him fired. It isn't that he's done such a great job with this particular installment of Bronx Bombers -- it's that I don't know who could do any better. Who exactly would the fans prefer to coach this bunch of indifferent moneygrabbers? The drill sergeant from "Full Metal Jacket?" Jimmy Doogan from "League of Their Own?"

Joe has never enjoyed a fully harmonious relationship with Gen. Steinbrenner, which means he could stand before the firing squad if this $200 million whale goes in the tank.

MIKE MUSSINA: 60 to 1.
Fight it all you want. The fact is Mike Mussina makes $19 million and has a 4.50 ERA. He's been decent as a Yankee, but not outstanding. His high price tag and reputation for being a snobbish clubhouse presence make him a fairly unattractive player to dangle as trade bait. However, his past credentials and detachment from the hearts and minds of the Yankee fan leave him as their most tradable starting pitcher.

JORGE POSADA: 40 to 1.
All the conditions are right for Posada to become the first member of the Yankee nucleus to leave town. He makes a somewhat manageable $11 million. He's played on championship teams, which increases his trade value. At 33, teams may believe he's still got a couple of productive years left in him. He's underachieved this season, but if you think teams won't overpay for a power-hitting, switch-hitting catcher at the trade deadline, see Nurse Ratched at the asylum.

KEVIN BROWN: 20 to 1
Forget about a trade. This guy is about as untradable as a 1992 Fleer Kim Batiste rookie card. He's a multi-million dollar albatross around the Yankees' neck. The only way they'll get rid of him is if the Boss takes a big bite out of the $15.7 million Brown's owed and swallows hard. As bad as he's been, and as disliked as he's reported to be in the clubhouse, it's not hard to believe that will happen.

TONY WOMACK: 10 to 1
He can still hit, he can still run, and he's not bad defensively. He wants to play for a winning team. If the Yanks freefall, Womack will be among the first to go. He's extremely marketable at $2 million, and he'd make a good trade deadline addition for any club looking to bolster a playoff-bound lineup.

BRIAN CASHMAN: 3 to 1
Brian is an upfront, honest guy. That's hard to come by in New York. But he's made one bad move too many, and he'll be the first to go if the house of cards falls. You might argue that many of the poorest moves he's made (Giambi, Brown, failing to re-sign Andy Pettite) were orchestrated by the Boss himself. Fair or not, he's going to take the blame. That how things work in Steinbrenner's world.

Comments? E-mail me at michael.casey@newsday.com

Rockin' out with the Ducks

2005-05-04T23:04:00.000-04:00

Watch my video intro

Bottom of the third inning. Time to trot out toward the Ducks bullpen in right field and see what's happening.

By now, the alcohol should start taking its effect on those consuming such beverages at Citibank Park. I can only imagine what a bunch of rowdy Long Islanders will yell at a defenseless John Rocker sitting in the bullpen watching his team play. I'm thinking it's somewhere between typical Yankee Stadium chants from the bleachers and what John Rocker said six years ago to make John Rocker become, well, John Rocker.

I've been looking forward to this study on human psyche/stupidity for a few days and could barely sleep Tuesday night after hearing of his spat with a fan in Atlantic City earlier that day.

Damn! He's not even out here.

This is disappointing.

Shut down for four days with what the Ducks officially called a "dead arm," Rocker was nowhere to be found. I'm quite upset. Rocker is the one we (CIRCLE BEST ANSWER) curious/crazy/degenerate people pay to see. Rocker is the one that brought the reporters. The New York Post, New York Daily News and Westchester Journal News traveled to little ol' Central Islip for an independent Atlantic League baseball game. To a town in Suffolk County that may as well be home to Donald Duck or Kevin Duckworth, let alone the Long Island Ducks, for all these news outlets care.

And I'm probably the only one of the card-carrying sports media horde willing to go rogue and string together these four words in this powerful order: John Rocker is awesome.

Yeah, I said it.

You're probably ready to dye my hair purple and throw me on the No. 7 train for a few hours right about now. Please don't. Here's why.

Rocker spoke his mind. Though I don't agree with his assessment of the people who ride the No. 7 subway, I admire him for saying what he thought. He may have insulted every New Yorker, but in a world where athletes speak for hours without ever saying anything, his honest emotion was refreshing. Immature and primitive, but refreshing.

Then again, that was six years ago, and everyone deserves a second chance. Think about how many of us wouldn't be where we are if not for second chances. If Hockey friend Zamboni hadn't stepped in for Jersey friend Tiny to give me the Heimlich maneuver hours before Game 2 of the 1998 World Series, I'd have choked on my barbecue chicken sandwich and missed Tino Martinez's grand slam off San Diego's Mark Langston. I'd also be dead.

But enough of Johnny Rock, at least for now. You can read about him at http://www.newsday.com/sports. With Rocker nowhere in sight, it's time to appreciate some of the other treats offered at a Long Island Ducks game at Citibank Park. Let's take a walk and see what's available to the 6,000-plus fans who spend their 7, 9 or 10 bucks per ticket:

* Dominick's, the official sausage of the Long Island Ducks.
Any sports team that has an official sausage company deserves respect.

* A chance to see former Yankee greats.
Who could forget the immortal Donovan Osborne? Or the once indispensable Todd Erdos? And what if the Yankees had held on to almost-an-All-Star Chris Latham?

* Pete Rose Jr.
Haven't seen a guy getting by on name recognition like this since Eddie Murphy in "A Distinguished Gentleman."

* $2.75 sodas.
Or, if you want to splurge for the souvenir Ducks cup -- and, frankly, who wouldn't? -- it'll cost you a whopping $3. For those counting at home, that's cheaper than it costs to use an ATM at a bank that's not yours.

* Speaking of franks, how about the $3.25 hot dog, and $3.75 jumbo dog.
Sure, it's not the 3 for $3 deal on the service road of the L.I.E., but they taste extremely good and you don't have to stop on the service road of the L.I.E.

* $4.75 beers, $5.50 if you're a serious drinker.
About the best deal imbibers will ever come across at a sporting event, at least until one team develops the guts to offer "Rollback Prices" night.

* The concession stands workers who appreciate a great movie quote dropped in the course of everyday life.
"We're not making any more jumbo hot dogs. They didn't even tell us," one young fella said.
"Maybe they didn't come up there and tell you," I responded in proper Goodfellas format. "No more shines."

* The Rafael Palmiero lookalike sitting in Section 212.
Not sure if he's a season-ticket holder, but I bet he can put it over the 325-foot sign in right field quite a few times.

* The fans.
Half of them don't even know a baseball game is going on.

* The stats.
They appear meaningless to most in attendance, which is rather refreshing in an obscure way.

* The games.
No, not the game. Out by the Ducks' bullpen, they have a game where fans can throw a strike, or a ball, and get clocked on the radar gun. The true beauty of this game is that the clock is not visible. Would-be hurlers are told their speed. C'mon Ducks. You're defending champions and sell out the park nearly every game. Splurge for the display. Is Joe Torre in charge of this game? (For the record, in 10 minutes of viewing, I thought Tom Glavine was pitching. That's how many strikes weren't thrown.)

* The games, part deux.
Plenty of kids lined up to take part in radar. Plenty of parents walking around drinking drinks their children will have to wait until the next decade begins to purchase legally. Yes, I hear you begging, so here's my question: Who's driving home?

* The ninth inning.
In the Atlantic League, no game is over until the final out. Some of the strangest things have occurred while watching Ducks games.

* Free junk.
72 home games, 54 promotional giveaways. And six fireworks nights. Not too shabby.

* John Rocker.
Johnny Rock will rise again!

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The Boss and Bellamy Road

2005-05-03T01:36:00.000-04:00

One stable boasts a champion in waiting. The other stable is full of financial champions and just a sprinkle of true champions.

So what would happen if George Steinbrenner, the 74-year-old owner of early Kentucky Derby favorite Bellamy Road and the underachieving New York Yankees, gets confused? What if he has a “senior moment” this week and starts barking out final-authority orders to the wrong people?

Some things we might see:

1) There he is, waiting on the final turn at Churchill Downs, Luis “Send ’em home” Sojo, waving Bellamy Road around to the finish line.
Anticipated result: Bellamy Road finishes out of the money, just like every Yankee runner that gets thrown out at the plate by 15 feet with Sojo coaching third.

2) No way? Way! Steinbrenner finally sends Kevin Brown out to posture.
Anticipated result: Brown winds up in your next bottle of Elmer’s glue.

3) Bellamy Road faltering at the finish line and Brian Cashman having to answer to the Boss.
Anticipated result: Steinbrenner buys the Derby winner and races him at the Preakness and Belmont Stakes.

4) Bellamy Road’s jockey makes a bad move and gets pinned in along the rail.
Anticipated result: The jockey gets dealt to the Newark Bears and is hit by a John Rocker fastball in the eighth inning. Before the end of the ninth inning, Rocker is signed by the Yankees.

5) New centerfielder Hideki Matsui makes three errors this week.
Anticipated result: (TURN ON BOB SHEPPARD VOICE) “Ladies and gentlemen. Batting second, playing centerfield, Bellamy Road.” (TURN OFF BOB SHEPPARD VOICE)

6) Bernie Williams does not play the rest of the week.
Anticipated result: Williams is put out to pasture.

Oops, that one already happened. My bad.

7) Bellamy Road jockey’s whipping mechanics get all out of whack.
Anticipated result: Organizational pitching guru Billy Connors is called in to fix the situation.
Anticipated ripple effect: Javier Vazquez and Jeff Weaver win big on a High Fly-Don’t Get Mad exacta.

8) Bellamy Road wins the Derby.
Anticipated result: “He’s a true Yankee.”

9) The Tampa office and New York office of the Yankees meet to hammer out issues.
Anticipated result: Nick Zito becomes the new pitching coach and Bob Baffert the new third-base coach. Joe Torre retires to wash the horses in the stable and Sojo becomes a rider.

10) Mariano Rivera blows an easy save on Saturday.
Anticipated result: Joe Pesci, reprising his scene from the movie "Easy Money," sprints onto the field and jumps on Rivera.

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My surreal Paul O'Neill moment

2005-04-26T12:45:00.000-04:00

On Saturday, I covered the Yankees for the newspaper, which was kind of funny, since I hadn't even been to Yankee Stadium in 10 years. As surreal as it was to make my return to the Bronx as a member of the working press, it was more surreal to find myself in a clubhouse with Jeter, A-Rod, Mariano, and Bernie. Down the hall and to the right, Joe Torre's office, decorated with photos of his finest baseball memories, included a framed shot of he and Don Zimmer celebrating with their arms around each other. It was a Yankee fan's mecca and and a baseball fan's heaven rolled into one. And even as surreal as all that was, my most striking out-of-body experience came at a most unexpected time.

During the third inning, I slinked off the men's room and soon found myself standing next to the Yankee legend known as Paul O'Neill. Paul was working with the YES Network, hence his skyscraping presence in the media restroom.

My first thought was, "Good lord, he's a tall man!" I think my next thought was "I guess even legends have to answer the call of nature." Then I thought about how funny it was that I was standing next to one of the most popular Yankees of all-time, one of the most emotional players in recent memory, and now here he was, calm as could be, standing next to me -- a young reporter he's never heard of -- in the media restroom. We were peers. I mean, what's more unremarkable than standing next someone in a men's room at a baseball game? (Don't answer that).

I wondered if it felt as surreal for him to be a part of the media as it did for me to be standing amongst the stars in the clubhouse. In the media workroom, O'Neill almost could have been 'one of the guys,' except for the fact that he was the only one over 6 feet tall, the only one wearing a size 68 suit (that's a rough estimate), and the only one who the players smiled at when he walked in the clubhouse.

My mind wandered, and just that quickly, he was gone. He brushed past me and sprinted back to the broadcast booth. The fourth inning had begun. He had to get back on the air. And I had to get back to my laptop. And that's what it's like to cover the Yankees.

Baseball's stupid (and unwritten) rules

2005-04-25T01:33:00.000-04:00

How many more times can we hear a baseball analyst drop some brainiac analysis of a pier-6 slobberknocker brawl such as "That's baseball. A pitcher has to protect his hitters"?

For me, the number is slightly less than zero. Next analyst that looks into a television camera and says that, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, better duck because I'm firing my 73-mph cheese into the studio. Hey, sorry, but a viewer has to protect his television set.

It's one of those unwritten rules of baseball that people love to glorify. The reason they are unwritten is simple: If they were actually written down, then players could read them and realize just how stupid these rules really are.

How much more damage does a pitcher do to his team by getting ejected from the game, especially if he's pitching well?

On Sunday, the Devil Rays and Red Sox got into several brawls in the seventh inning of shame. It began on Friday when batters were hit and Tampa Bay's Eduardo Perez crushed a homer and flipped his bat. On Saturday, Curt Schilling plunked Carl Crawford in the ribs with a fastball as if he were playing pin the tail on the Devil Ray without a blindfold. David Ortiz hit a monster bomb and flipped his bat the exact way Perez did a day earlier.

In the sixth inning on Sunday, Bronson Arroyo pegged Tampa Bay's Aubrey Huff. Seems Arroyo has his best control when he aims outside the strike zone (just ask A-Rod). In the top of the seventh inning, Tampa Bay reliever Lance Carter fired behind Manny Ramirez. Ramirez homered on the next pitch.

Four pitches later, Ortiz was knocked on his considerable patoot by some high heat. He erupted, benches cleared. Ejections followed. As did another beanball. In the bottom of the seventh, Arroyo nailed Chris Singleton in the leg. Another bench-clearing. More ejections.

Typical stupidity of baseball players. Forget testing for steroids. How about some IQ tests?

Pitchers are expected to "protect their hitters." But by throwing at a player in retaliation, all they've done is up the ante again and put yet another teammate in harm's way. If Schilling didn't plunk Crawford on Saturday, perhaps Carter wouldn't have felt compelled to go after Ramirez. If Carter hadn't gone after Ramirez, perhaps he wouldn't have felt compelled to go after Ortiz, either. If Carter hadn't gone after Ortiz, perhaps Arroyo wouldn't have felt compelled to go after Singleton.

And if Woody had gone straight to the police, none of this would have ever happened.

We've reached the point where a pitcher cannot hit a batter without reporters asking the interested parties if it was intentional. Sure, sometimes it is (just ask Tino Martinez about Armando Benitez). But, sometimes it's just a very bad pitch. Things happen. We don't always perform to our best. Hey, if i write 150 columns in one year, one of them has to rank No. 150. (Note: This isn't that one.)

But by continually retaliating, the situation escalates. That, in turn, creates more bad blood for the next inning, the next game, the next series.

Protecting your teammates is a noble cause. But if a pitcher does not retaliate, then odds are no one else on his team will get hit, punched, kicked, scratched, body-slammed, put in a figure-four or hit with a steel chair.

And the players who speak up about their pitchers not doing something are just exacerbating the situation. They make the pitchers, both those involved in a particular altercation and those on the outside looking in, more conscious of pleasing their teammates.

Not fair.

These pitchers have enough to think about, what with trying to find the strike zone and throw a pitch that won't get crushed. If you think I'm wrong about pitchers' concerns, then why did only 18 starters in the majors have an ERA under 3.50 last season?

If a pitcher must hit a batter, do it with a curveball so the opposing team thinks it's accidental. This way, you've pleased your teammates and you get off scot-free because no one would think a curveball was thrown intentionally at a batter.

If a pitcher must be stupid, he should learn how to be an idiot savant.

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Mocking the draft

2005-04-22T13:54:00.000-04:00

Alex Smith or Aaron Rodgers? Aaron Rodgers or Alex Smith? Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

By now, you're so flooded with NFL mock drafts and "Who's going No. 1" speak, FEMA has approved disaster relief funds and musicians are lining up to do a benefit concert to save you.

But, here in Keyboard Quarterbacks, a safe haven from mainstream nonsense (we prefer our own brand of nonsense), we don't care who goes No. 1, who trades down, who trades up and who's that girl?

We'd much rather enjoy mocking the silly things that could occur on draft day. Here goes:

* The Minnesota Vikings miss their first-round pick for the third straight year and have to scurry to the podium to get their selection before another team jumps in and steals their guy.

* Unlike previous drafts, Vikings head coach Mike Tice did not scalp his tickets to the Jacob Javits Center.

* With the Oakland Raiders back in the first round, the odds of an early afternoon "I didn't even have him on my board" outburst from Mel Kiper Jr. went up by a factor of 10.

* No first-round pick for the Jets means no Blair Thomas and Jeff Lageman repeats.

* The idiocy of Eagles fans could reach legendary status this year. With the No. 31 pick in this year's NFL draft, the Philadelphia Eagles select "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO." Eagles fans boo for no good reason, like it's their unalienable right to bash their team's management. If Auburn running back Ronnie Brown inexplicably dropped from the top five to No. 31, fans would be pissed when the Eagles drafted him. It's as if years of arguing Geno's cheesesteaks vs. Pat's cheesesteaks finally turned the brain matter into cheese whiz.

* Which college player will outdress Michael Irvin?

* Over/under on number of times Irvin says, "The U," a reference to his alma mater Miami Hurricanes: 7.

* Over/under on number of uses of the phrase "He makes plays" in the first round: 17.

* In the first day: 416.

* Number of clips shown of a defensive player that was just drafted missing a tackle in a game: 0.

* Michigan wide receiver Braylon Edwards is a terrific player and potential top 5 pick. Let's just hope the team that drafts him doesn't throw any footballs on stage. Edwards has a knack for dropping%

In defense of Sheff

2005-04-15T01:17:00.000-04:00

First reaction on the latest Red Sox-Yankees fan fight was that the guy was simply trying to reach over for the baseball and accidentally grazed Gary Sheffield's face. It seemed as if these two people just met at the wrong time in their lives, not unlike when Sonny whacked that no-name in the street because he smacked Joe Pesci's windshield with a Louisville Slugger in "A Bronx Tale."

Upon further review, that is a load of hoo-hah! This was Bostonian scummetry at its best, which the rest of America understands to be the dregs of human lifeform.

It was a complete cheap shot at Sheff. With the help of constant replays on ESPN, YES, the Web and some assistance from the DVR, here's the tale of the tape:

* This Bostonian ham-and-egger fan didn't even try to bend down to get the ball. The ball was bouncing low to the ground the entire way and only the infield at Calhoun High School in the mid-1980s could generate an alternate hop high enough to change its path.

* The Boston fan was barely watching the path of the baseball.

* He swiped his hand at the ball after the ball was beyond his reach.

* The beer that turned Sheffield's Yankee jersey into a throwback Mickey Mantle uniform complete with the stench of alcohol was intentionally dumped. Don't believe the hype! It was completely intentional.

* Two fans to Sheff's left held cups of beer. The one closest to Sheff was a woman and she held on to her cup for as long as possible. The second person was a man who dumped his beer on Sheff just before Sheff came up to push the fan.

* Sheff did not throw any punches. He used his glove and his right hand to shove the Ma$$hole out of the way.

"These people shouldn't be allowed to walk the streets much less come to a ballgame," Yankees manager Joe Torre said.

Ordinarily, players should never go anywhere near striking a fan, no matter how much they deserve it. (And fans definitely deserve a solid pistol-whipping.)

The fools in Detroit deserved some sort of beatdown, and this Bostonian deserved a shot heard 'round the world with a Pesky Pole to the noggin.

He took a blatant cheap shot at a major league baseball player. It's no different than if in a bar or a sidewalk. It's attempted assault, but since it happened in a stadium during a sporting event, no one will ever see it as anything more than a fan who drank too much. (Note: The level of alcohol consumption of this man on Thursday night is not known, but drunkenness will be the popular assumption.)

Sheff was perfectly within his right to shove back once. The tape also showed Sheff heading toward the stands looking to lay the smack down on this fan's candy patoot. But somewhere between the foul line and the wall, he had a Ron Artest flashback and thought better of building a woodshed at Fenway Park and dragging this fan behind it.

Credit Sheff for showing restraint. The natural reaction to getting hit in the face is to strike back like Debo from "Friday." But Sheff makes more than $13 million each year to hit baseballs, not fans. This fan surely does not stand to lose as much as Sheff.

"It would have been worse if I lost my composure," Sheffield said. "I almost snapped, but I thought about the consequences."

Sheff should be fined $5,000 by Major League Baseball for his conducts because Bud Selig has some of his droopy, cheeky face to save. But Sheff was definitely not wrong.

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He HAD to be there? Get outta here

2005-04-13T08:23:00.000-04:00

It's rare that I can actually stomach more than a few minutes of WFAN's Chris Russo "taking" calls from listeners ("taking" more like "deflecting"). But every so often he stumbles upon a topic that is both pertinent and interesting to the sports fan.

Tuesday's subject du jour? Should Pedro Martinez have skipped the Mets' home opener at Shea Stadium in favor of attending the Boston Red Sox's World Series ring and banner ceremony at Fenway Park?

"This isn't about Pedro and his relationship with the Boston front office or the Mets fans," Mad Dog howled. "Pedro's been a Met for two weeks. This is about baseball history."

"For the sake of baseball history," he said, "Pedro had to be at Fenway. He HAD to be there!"

I'm sorry, let me get this straight: The Mets spend $53 million on a stud pitcher, annoint him the new face of the franchise (the batters eye will attest to that) and he's NOT going to be at their home opener? After two brilliant games, you're not going to give the fans a chance to cheer their new hero?

Let's think for a second about the kind of a message that sends to Shea's paying customers. Yeah, well, uh, thanks for showing up. I know we got this new guy but, uh, he's not around right now, so, uh... just clap for him and we'll show you highlights of him wearing another team's jersey while you try to get excited about your 1-5 team.

Seriously...

As much as "Baseball" needed Pedro to be at Fenway, the Mets needed him at Shea. For the sake of a fan base that hasn't had an ace since Dwight Gooden; for the sake of a team that's trying to forge a new identity; for the sake of Mets fans who love the pomp and circumstance of Opening Day, Pedro HAD to be at Shea.

Sure, it would have been nice if Pedro had gone to Boston. It would have been nice for Bosox fans to see him smile and wave his new ring. All those things could have happened, too. All Boston had to do was sign on the dotted line.

E-mail Mike Casey

Vote: Pedro on Opening Day

I got booed at Yankee Stadium

2005-04-09T12:02:00.000-04:00

Brian Roberts homered to right field on Friday night and my future autobiography earned itself an unexpected new chapter. In the seconds following the Baltimore Oriole’s blast, I got booed at Yankee Stadium.

On this fateful night, I was sitting with my boy Joey Colskore in Weatherman friend Mike’s season tickets. Section 23, Box 91. Great view of the entire field and the rightfielder can hear everything you yell at him.

Roberts’ blast hit off the screen attached to the foul pole and bounced back down the foul line. Gary Sheffield came over, scooped the ball and looked toward the stands like a smart, fan-friendly player should. The thing of it was that Sheff was no more than 5 feet away from me.

I jump up. Colskore, seated to my left, boxes out the fake Pedro Martinez, two innocent Yankee chicks and Scorebook guy like the shortest Shaquille O’Neal you’ll ever see. I box out three guys to my right like I’m Bill Russell reincarnated and snatch that baseball with my right hand.

What an amazing feeling to hold a baseball from a live game in my hand. Never happened before. This was my first foul ball/home run ball ever, and I’ve been going to Yankee games for the last 19 years. I came close twice. The first time, Papa La Monica couldn’t box out the 8-foot Nordic guy from three rows behind us with arms like telephone poles. The second time, I was on a beer run for my friends, I came back to the seats (upper deck, right field) and they’re showing me a Mo Vaughn foul ball. I already disliked the taste of beer, but this sealed the deal.

So there I am, holding a major league baseball in my hand. The leather was soft and I could feel the pine tar and dirt that was rubbed in it before the game started. It was quite a moment.

Then Colskore pulled a Fredo and turned on me. He started screaming “Throw it back! Throw it back!” The entire section joined in. Soon, most of right field is screaming at me to throw it back. What the hell am I supposed to do? Sheffield was kind enough to look me in the eye and toss the baseball in my direction and I’m supposed to slap him in the face and take a dump in his hat by throwing it back on the field? That doesn’t seem fair.

On the other hand, it was a home run by an opponent, and as a rule, those should never be kept. If you want a souvenir that bad, spend the extra 50 cents a get the 44-ounce soda in a souvenir cup. Or splurge for some ice cream in a Yankee helmet.

Then there’s the Mama La Monica factor to consider. She’d be pissed if she knew that I had the baseball and gave it up. On the other hand, she’d probably be happy that I did it because it was the product of something bad happening to the Yankees (and by default, her “honey buns” Derek Jeter). And Papa La Monica would be mad because then he couldn’t take the ball from me, use it for his baseball team, The Legends, and save $9.

The smart move is to throw it back, a sign of disgust toward the Orioles and a virtual “Stick it up your patoot, Roberts!” But if I throw it back, odds are I’ll get kicked out. It’s the third inning. The seats were good (and free). No sense in getting tossed this early.

But I can’t keep this thing, even if that means symbolically spitting on Sheff.

All these thoughts took place in a span of 12 seconds. So, I turn to my left and give a Jason Kidd no-look pass to the right-field line. That’s right. I gave the ball back. I was content with my decision. Besides, roughly 43,127 of the 43,128 in attendance have never been in the Yankees clubhouse interviewing Sheff, A-Rod, Jeter, Torre and the rest. So I got that going for me, which is nice.

However, due to my sneaky pass, most of the Stadium thought I kept the ball, so they booed me for keeping an Oriole home run. I was booed in Yankee Stadium. An amazing feeling. By Colskore’s estimation, roughly 29,000 booed me for at least 7 seconds. Do the math. That’s a lot of boos. I felt like Bernie Williams striking out for the 38th time in four games this season. I felt like A-Rod grounding out with runners in scoring position again and again ………and again.

If only these fans knew the truth. Well, here it is. I gave the ball back and kept my seat at the same time. Take that, you non-observant fans. Boo this!

Now, I just have to smooth things over with Sheff.

E-MAIL ME

"The Sports Surreal Life"

2005-04-08T11:11:00.000-04:00

Just when it seemed Mariano Rivera was headed for a comfortable spot as a washed-up has-been on the sports version of “The Surreal Life,” along comes John Rocker, fresh off a five-year run as the most hated sports person in New York not named Reggie Miller or Rich Kotite.

Rocker signed with the Long Island Ducks of the independent Atlantic League on Thursday, which arguably is the best thing to happen to Suffolk County since getting its own zip code a number of years ago.

When will News12 or Telecare do a “Behind the Music” documentary on Johnny Rock?

The reliever with the big left arm and bigger mouth will become a fan favorite instantaneously if not sooner, kind of like Peter Brady (allegedly known by his real name of Christopher Knight) reinventing himself as a mack daddy and being courted successfully by America’s top model, Adrianne Curry, on the fourth season of VH1’s “The Surreal Life.”

Hmmm, speaking of “The Surreal Life,” which puts has-beens, former B-level celebrities, wanna-be-but-got-cut-by-the-coach celebrities, and assorted other famous-for-a-minute-or-more people in the same house for a few weeks, it’s amazing to think this hasn’t crossed over into the sports world yet. With the wave of reality crapola television destroying the brain cells of America, it seems a natural fit to combine the two worlds.

Let’s hope a network executive is out there reading this. If so, here’s a suggestion for the first season’s six-person cast of “The Surreal Sports Life.”

1) Jose Canseco
He’s in the news more now than when he was trying to sleep with Madonna in New York City during his playing days. But his gel job and outrageous clothing give him amazing star power. Other perks of him taking up residence in the house: He could offer another opinion on steroids; a trip to his probation officer in Florida would make for great television when the whole cast goes with him. He also fills the slot of relatively recent athlete.

2) Mary Lou Retton
She likely hasn’t grown much (vertically, that is) since winning Olympic gold in 1984 and her schedule these days probably has a few open weeks. The sight of this gymnast standing next to Canseco makes her a must for this show. Given her pedigree, she could easily fit the role of house ruler and lay down the law on a weekly basis. This would also help alleviate any post-Olympic trauma that may be lingering 21 years after the fact. Plus, every series needs one of those “Oh my God, I can’t believe she’s still alive” cast members.

3) Charles Barkley
Though Dennis Rodman may seem like a more obvious choice, he’s been more exposed than a porn star. Sir Charles is the perfect man for this job. He’s a Southerner who is not afraid to say what he’s thinking. From mind to mouth, there are no filters when it comes to the Round Mound of Rebounds. Can’t you just picture Regis and Kelly or the women on “The View” talking about Barkley’s latest insensitive comments? It’s very likely that Barkley would beat up Canseco, sleep with a cast member on the pool table, insult everyone on and off the show and at the same time be loved by America.

4) Amanda Beard
We need someone to pull in the young crowd. We need some sex appeal. And we need someone outlandish enough to have people talking about that sex appeal. Beard is an Olympic champion, so by definition she has some celebrity status but not too much because Olympians are rarely remembered more than once every four years. But everyone remembers this swimmer posing for Maxim, Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issues and other flesh-infested magazines.

5) Rich Kotite
Though it’s true the FCC outlawed the spoken usage of those two words in succession, surely we can seek a temporary injunction. This clown may be the worst coach in NFL history, and that history includes Ray Handley, Mike Tice, Joe Bugle, Mike White, Gene Stallings, Dick MacPherson and the bevy of coaches who haven’t even been born yet. Ask a Jet fan which he or she would prefer: a) The Doug Brien field goal fiasco in Pittsburgh; b) Kotite as the head coach. Even Kotite would choose A. However, the show needs an old man and a whipping post, so Kotite fills both roles.

6) Morganna, the kissing bandit
What’s a reality show without an old celebrity who was never really a celebrity but became popular because she was blond and, uh, well-endowed in that area above the stomach and below the shoulders? For those wondering, Morganna used to run onto a baseball field and kiss a player. It was one of those strange things that caught on in the 1980s, sort of like leg warmers and painter’s caps with the tails. Couldn’t you just picture Morganna running across the patio to kiss Canseco as he was injecting Kotite with some Deca or Winstrol? That’s why TiVo was invented.

E-MAIL ME

Oh, by the way

2005-04-06T00:01:00.000-04:00

E-MAIL ME

My Carolina blue heaven

2005-04-05T02:01:00.000-04:00

I tried to front like the outcome of Monday night's NCAA national championship game didn't really matter to me. I even convinced myself it was possible. Wow, what an amazing lie that was.

I really thought I wouldn't mind if North Carolina lost to Illinois and Roy Williams continued his pursuit of being the new Phil Mickelson.

By halftime, my stomach was in knots. It may have been the first known occurence of a hangover without the consumption of alchohol. UNC led, 40-27, but that's no safety net. CHEAP SHOT ALERT! CHEAP SHOT ALERT! Nothing is safe with Raymond Felton throwing the ball like Braden Looper. Plus, as a Raiders fan since 1983 and a Jets fan since 2001, I've seen my share of ridiculous defensive collapses late in games. (Then there's that little matter of the Yankees up 3-0, then down and out 4-3 to Boston in last year's ALCS).

I followed every shot of the second half. Work be damned! The stories can wait. My Tar Heels were on the verge of something the world hasn't seen since forever and I was not about to miss a minute. Plus there was always the possibility of my DVR not working and I simply was not about to take the chance of missing a play and never being able to recapture all its glory.

The lead soared to 15, then plummeted to zero with about five minutes left. Then, Ray-Ray put up a ridiculous three from MTV Rock 'N Jock distance while being double-covered. Swish. UNC up, 68-65.

Fast forward. Game tied at 70. Rashad McCants, who probably hired an agent at the half given his 0 points in the final 20 minutes, got silly and gave the world a look at one of my patented driving layups -- up and under with a ridiculous one-handed hook scoop that doesn't go in. Fortunately, Marvin Williams brought in the hands team from Madden '95 and got the tip-in for the 72-70 lead. Then Ray-Ray comes up with the big steal and some free throws.

Next thing you know, I'm standing and clapping at a 13-inch color television and screaming in my head. (Hey, I had to at least have the presence of professionalism in the newsroom, or at least fake it best I could.)

I then sat down, exhausted.

But wait, here comes "One Shining Moment." Can you believe some people had the nerve to speak during the year's best moment of sappy television? Such insanity. Where did these people grow up? CHEAP SHOT ALERT! CHEAP SHOT ALERT! They're probably Duke fans.

E-MAIL ME

Random shining thoughts

2005-04-05T01:47:00.000-04:00

Things that ran through my brain during the three or so hours of North Carolina's triumphant return to the top of college basketball:

* Sean May is a stud. Should he declare for the NBA draft and my hunch is he will, it will be really fun to watch the Knicks bypass him in the lottery.

* Raymond Felton has an amazing knack for making UNC fans hate him in the first half and love him in the second. He'll make lazy passes in the first 20 minutes, then amazing ones in the second. He'll commit dumb fouls in the first 20 minutes, then none in the second. He'll miss shots in the first 20 minutes, then drain 25-footers in the second. Then again, if I had to choose, I'd prefer a second-half player.

* Rashad McCants will turn pro in a matter of minutes.

* "One Shining Moment" is without a doubt the greatest moment of sappy, emotional string-pulling in television, and I let it happen to me every time.

* Or, as Editor friend Dave said, "If you don't like get emotional during 'One Shining Moment,' then you don't have a pulse."

* Roy Williams is no longer "Best coach to have never won a national championship." Somewhere, Oklahoma State coach Eddie Sutton is pissed at Williams. He's got one more year left and his best players won't be Cowboys next season.

* Special shoutout to Doctor friend Christy, Writer friend Jason and Editor friend LaRonda, all of whom happen to be Duke fans: Eat it!

* Back-to-reality disclaimer: I fully understand that Duke's program over the past 15 years has been more consistent than North Carolina, but at least for a day or two, please let me have my shining moment. After all, it'll take another 12 years or so for the Heels to win another one.

* Marvin Williams should stay in school another year. Maybe then he'll learn how to catch the ball.

* Of the 10 starters in Monday's night game, there's a chance none of them will be in college next year. Note: Only four are seniors.

* It seems I should donate a few thoughts to baseball's opening day, what with that always being the best day of the sports year. So here goes: Nice pitch, Looper!

E-MAIL ME

Restoring the pinstripes

2005-04-01T03:27:00.000-05:00

Opening Day is Opening Night this season for the Yankees. It also, just by sheer coincidence, happens to be against the Boston Red Sox the season after the Yankees took a 3-0 lead in the American League Championship Series then lost such a series, 4-3, to those same Boston Red Sox.

Wait, let me rephrase. It also, just by shear coincidence, happens to be against the Boston Red Sox the season after the Yankees took a 3-0 lead in the American League Championship Series then completely choked and got a fresh "how's ya father" while losing the next four games in a row to those same Boston Red Sox, the archest of archenemies.

Oh yeah, the Red Sox won the World Series, too.

Watching the Yankees become the first baseball team to do such a thing certainly was interesting from a historical perspective. This city has seen its share of championships. At some point, it gets boring, at least for a little while. This may be why far too many men cheat on their wives.

But as 2005 begins, the Yankees must still wonder how it happened. There will be constant reminders in the next two weeks. From April 3-12, the Yankees play nine games. Six are against the Red Sox. At least one of those games will be on national television, and you can bet the other five will be scrutinized by every John Kruk and Harold Reynolds seconds after the final out. Screaming A. Smith may even get in the mix, just for fun.

It will be impossible for the Yankees to forget about what happened last October. They will say all the right things when scribes and TV puppets ask their questions. They will conduct themselves as if they lost to Detroit in a six-game series that was a battle the entire way. The average person will marvel at how calm and collected the Yankees appear.

But no matter what they say, the collapse has to creep into their minds somehow. Forgetting it would be like trying to buy The Godfather Trilogy on DVD and asking the store to not charge you for “The Godfather III.” It won’t work. (I’ve tried.)

Right now, the Yankees are like 25 versions of Austin Powers running around in search of their mojo, and there’s no Heather Graham waiting at the end of this scene. Just a Fat Bastard named David Wells waiting to steal it once again.

The voice inside their heads is no longer little. It’s louder than the heavy metal music Wells used to play in the clubhouse on days he pitched. Shoot, it’s louder than Wells. How does a team respond after engineering the greatest choke in baseball history?

We could argue that it begins this weekend with a few wins at the Stadium, and continues the following week by beating the Red Sox in Fenway the day they receive their rings. We could, but that would be a load of hoo-hah the likes of which we haven’t seen since Biff crashed his car into the horse manure truck in “Back to the Future II.”

We could argue that the therapy continues throughout the season and every win is a step in the right direction. That’s nice, but they’re not recovering alcoholics.

The only way to atone for such transgressions is to win the World Series this year. There is no other tolerable course of action. And if the Yankees can beat the Red Sox on their way to a fifth ring in 10 years, well, that’s quite all right, too.

E-MAIL ME

Psyched? You might say that

2005-03-30T09:18:00.000-05:00

Finally, a long, cold New York winter has subsided. For Mets fans used to spending the majority of the offseason trying to justify a junk heap's worth of hot stove moves, it was the most satisfying winter in team history...

* * *

...It was one of those signature sporting moments -- the day I found out the Mets signed Carlos Beltran. I was at my friend Kevin's house, had just woken up after a three-hour sleepover at Penn Station obliged due to a missed last train home. The Broncos-Colts playoff game had quickly devolved into a reasonable facsimile of Super Bowl XXIV (possibly the worst sporting event ever propagated upon mankind). So like a good (bored) Newsday.com minion, I decided to see how our site was looking.

That's when it hit me.

Beltran! The Mets were supposed to sign Beltran that day. Sure enough, like clockwork, Jon Heyman had sent in an early-for-web story pronouncing the good news. Beltran was Amazin'. The era of the New Mets had officially begun. And a half-decade of second-guessing finally ended.

For Mets fans, there's no need to rehash the whole painstaking itinerary. But for the sake of dramatic effect, I'll do that.

First there was the A-Rod debacle, the tipping point that led to the decline following the Mets' 2000 World Series appearance. Then came the Robbie Alomar trade, the can't miss deal that did -- badly. The Mo Vaughn trade (shudder). Jeromy Burnitz. Cliff Floyd and Tom Glavine, not the difference-makers the Wilpons claimed them (and paid them) to be. The Vlad disaster of '04. And ohhhh the talk radio. The way fans -- fans of the Mets! -- would lambaste Fred & Jeff and Phillips & Duquette. The only thing missing was another idiotic Bobby Bonilla or Roger Cedeno acquisition -- or no, wait -- there was one of those, too, wasn't there?

But at last -- at long, long, sweet last, Mets fans have what they've been longing for. Not one, but TWO, difference-making players who actually have a shot to earn some of the ridiculous money they're being paid to play ball.

Are there problems with Pedro? Sure, there could be. Is it possible Beltran will suffer a meltdown? Yeah, I guess. But is there anyway you can second-guess Omar Minaya for bringing them to Shea? I can't imagine there is.

With the instant credibility a pair of stars like Pedro and Beltran bring to the Mets, they've suddenly got one of the most star-studded lineups in baseball, not to mention a decent pitching rotation. Of course, Mets fans have become used to disappointment from their top stars. But it hasn't always worked out that way. Mike Piazza sure delivered on his promise, didn't he? In fact, wasn't the Piazza trade -- a deal for a high-impact, high profile star in the prime of his career -- the singlemost significant deal in Mets' rise from mediocrity in the late 90s?

This was the kind of winter Mets fans have only dreamed of until now. And as with the heady optimism of spring, there will be great expectations and disappointments and peaks and valleys throughout the season. But the Mets are in the ballgame. They matter again -- and right now, that's all that matters. Welcome to the New Mets.

Random Thoughts on Madness

2005-03-29T14:47:00.000-05:00

Some things that scurried through my brain while watching this weekend's Madness:

* Pittsnogle needs to shave that squirly goatee off.

* Roy Williams did his best to avoid another letdown in the Final Four by nearly tanking games against inferior opponents.

* I wish I DVR'd the Duke loss. Would have enjoyed viewing those events. It's always fun watching the fall of an empire.

* Lots of poor coaching on display this weekend.

* Third worst coaching move: Tubby Smith, Kentucky. Wow, that was some play he drew up at the end of the first overtime, where the Cats wasted as much time as possible before dribbling to the baseline and letting the buzzer sound before shooting. Ashley Judd must have been beside herself. Or perhaps that made her forget about her starring role in "Double Jeopardy."

* Second worst coaching move: Rick Pitino, Louisville. This guy showed his Long Island roots by entering the game in a bold, brash and punkish manner. He opened in a zone against West Virginia, which just happens to be the hottest shooting team from the perimeter since the people assembled for the NBA's three-point shooting contest. He actually gameplanned this strategy. Unbelievable. Perhaps that's why the Cardinals got blown out in the first half and had to scrap their way toward overtime.

* First worst coaching move: Lute Olsen, Arizona. Twelve seconds left in overtime, your team trails by one (after blowing a 15-point lead in the final four minutes, oh by the way.) How does Salim Stoudamire not touch the ball. Instead, some other guy gets the inbound, dribbles, passes to a guy who is two feet away from him, gets the ball back, waits, then throws up a brick three-pointer as the buzzer sounds. Nice clock management and crunch-time decision making. Perhaps Olsen should retire. I hear the Herm Edwards School of Clock Management is looking for a new assistant dean.

* Illinois = good.

* North Carolina = very good.

* Duke = home.

* The Villanova traveling call at the end of the game against North Carolina may have been the worst call in a big spot in the history of worst calls in a big spot. Even a Tar Heels fan such as myself can freely admit that call was bogus. Even a Tar Heels fan such as myself can freely not complain about the call.

* Tom "H to the" Izzo deserves commendation for beating Duke and Kentucky in a 48-hour span. Regardless of what kind of teams those schools fielded this year, beating two storied programs such as those is an impressive feat.

* Can't wait to see Roy cutting down those nets in St. Louis on Monday night!

E-MAIL ME

Sleeper City Update

2005-03-22T18:47:00.000-05:00

Over there in Bracketville, I'm the village idiot. In case you need proof, I've got four brackets at the ready.

But here in Sleeper City, I'm the mayor, town planner, comptroller and ombudsman. In case you need proof, here we go with a review of my sleeper picks offered here last week:

Syracuse Regional -- Villanova.
Oh, lookee here. 'Nova has a date to the Sweet Sixteen with big, bad UNC. No. 5 Villanova's run will end here against the eventual national champion, but seeing how the Wildcats never fully achieved until this year, it's a nice step forward for Jay Wright. Plus, it's always good to see the local kid, Amityville's Jason Fraser, play big. As Editor friend Tim would say, "Felton, May, McCants, Jawad, Roy, whoozzgonnabeeeetem?"

Austin Regional -- Vermont, Utah.
Here in the Stone Cold regional, I'm dropping bombs. No. 13 Vermont was a monster call, and that 43-foot three-pointer for no reason was beautiful. Bye bye No. 4 Syracuse. However, I declined to pick the Catamounts in most of my brackets because I tweaked. I had a gut-check moment like Johnny Moxon at Jules Harbor's burger window in "Varsity Blues." But at least I take comfort in Vermont ruining Jim Boeheim's year. That's always a pleasurable feeling.

Don't look now, but we've got the Ashley Judd-Rick Majerus remix. Set up your DVR, or your TiVo. It's all about Judd Cam! (Ashley, if you're reading, drop me an e-mail). No. 6 Utah made it to the Sweet 16 and faces No. 2 Kentucky. I don't particularly care who wins this game, but more Kentucky games on TV mean more Ashley Judd sightings on TV, so I guess I particularly care who wins this game. Go 'Cats. And as Jamal Magloire once told Lexington lawyer friend Munster, "Man, they play in the WAC!"

Albuquerque Regional -- Georgia Tech/George Washington.
Oopsies. Looks like I missed one. No. 4 Louisville hammered No. 5 Tech, so the bet-against went against the bettor. Oh well, they can't all be winners. Even Tommy Lee dated an ugly girl once.

Chicago Regional - Arizona.
Amazingly, these Wildcats haven't self-imploded yet, thus making my sleeper pick look extra explosive. Mustache friend Ernie, a displaced Arizonan, wasn't very happy with my pick because he knows the deal. No. 3 Arizona always finds a way to mess things up. Not this year. They're taking out No. 2 Oklahoma State, then No. 1 Illinois. And I'll be dancing all the way to the bank . . . and asking for a loan to pay off my debts.

Sweet Sixteen sleeper: Texas Tech.
Can Bobby Knight get to the Final Four? Yes he can!

E-MAIL ME

Back on the radar

2005-03-22T07:27:00.000-05:00

Has it really been six weeks since I last felt inspired to contribute anything to our wonderful blog? I guess so...

Contrary to popular belief, I have not gone missing for any of the following reasons:

1) Suspension due to derisive comments regarding women's college basketball. Turns out, a lot of people agreed with me.

2) Overdosed on anti-depressants following cancellation of 2004-05 NHL season. Thank God for March Madness. But the Mets had better be playing 'meaningful games' this September...

3) Bought time-share in Port St. Lucie to be closer to the 'new' Mets. No, I'm not one of those. I'm glad I'm not one of those. By "those" I mean people like the Cowbell Man at Shea, the Yankee superfan who paints the logo on his face, and the lady Cardinals fan from the "I Live for This" commercial who says she cries before every game. I like baseball, but I mean, c'mon. Should MLB really be rewarding these people by putting them on television?

4) On sabbatical to discover the meaning of life. Actually, there's an element of truth to this one. But all I really discovered was how much I hate saturated coverage of spring training, the NBA in general, and the fact that I have memorized the outcome of every 2004 World Series of Poker tournament.

Now that I'm back, I plan to write at least once a week, provided I'm not commandeered to do other things -- like work. In the meantime, don't worry folks: I'm not planning any 1,000-word masterpieces on the NHL's new blue ice.... yet.

Here are some interesting sports things I've got kicking around my head these days:

NFL committee proposes 19 rule changes

Sabres draw attention with blue ice

Regis wins Class B state title

Diary of a Madness man

2005-03-18T04:44:00.000-05:00

Today is Friday, which makes yesterday Thursday, which just so happened to be the second greatest sports day of the year behind baseball’s Opening Day.

The first day of March Madness is an amazing sporting event. Games all day, office pools changing as quick as a game of no limit hold’em.

The following is a diary of my day with bonus coverage of the baseball congressional hearings. Here’s a good time to mention that I have four different brackets, none of which are the same. Good and bad. You’ll see.

Thursday, March 17, 2005
10:28 am – Wake up on couch. Perhaps that second game of no-limit Wednesday night wasn’t the best idea.
10:41 –- Wake up on couch.
11:27 -– Wake up on couch.
12:14 p.m. –- Wake up on couch.
12:19 -- Picture-in-picture technology (PIP) was made for days like this. Madness on the big screen. Silliness (a.k.a. steroid hearings) on the little screen.
12:21 -– Tipoff. Here we go. Back in college, we’d be in front of a television at Lawyer friend Scurvy’s apartment, brackets in hand, classes somewhere else on campus .
12:22 – Eastern Kentucky takes a 2-0 lead over Kentucky.
12:39 – I get the brilliant idea to turn on the television in my other room. It’s the 13-inch TVCR and it gets 12 channels, but one of them is CBS. So, in case I need to send an email for some reason, I can stay updated on the games. MacGyver ain’t got nothing on me!
1:02 -- Alabama trails, 38-28. Damn! Where are my bracket sheets? They’re at work. Not good. A mental mistake like that can be costly during the tournament.
1:05 -- I know I have Pitt in at least two brackets. Will Pitt ever hit a three-pointer today?
1:13 –- Please get Pitt off my screen. They’re destroying me.
1:18 –- Rep. Tom Lantos (D-Calif.) is now rambling about nothing on the big screen during the congressional hearings on steroids in baseball . Dear Lord, let’s go back to the Pitt game.
1:27 –- At the Half! Clark Kellogg time. No thanks. Time to take a shower.
2:09 -– Uh oh. Kentucky only up by 5 with four minutes left. Will have to call Lexington lawyer friend Munster should the Wildcats choke. Mockery is a great byproduct of Madness.
2:21 –- Kentucky wins. No phone call for me. Boooooooo!
2:22 –- Oh great. More of the Pitt game. Someone at CBS doesn’t like me.
2:27 –- Mark McGwire just walked into Congress. Pop that sucker on the big screen.
2:31 –- Jose Canseco says steroids are bad. A complete contradiction to his book. Funny.
2:36 –- Since when does Sammy Sosa need an interpreter? Back in 1998, he spoke just fine while chasing the home run record.
2:38 –- Can’t wait until SNL parodies this hearing. Must DVR that one.
2:43 –- Rafael Palmeiro, no stranger to pitching drugs (he’s a Viagra spokesman), points at the committee and vehemently denies ever using steroids. Ladies and gentlemen, we just witnessed history: a man with a mustache has proven himself trustworthy. It was an amazing moment. A watershed moment. My children’s history books will have a chapter solely devoted to this moment.
2:49 –- Schilling is yapping away. What, no cheap shot at A-Rod?
2:49 –-PIP technology rules! Pitt stinks!
3:07 –- ESPNEWS replays McGwire’s "emotional" statement. Emotional my patoot! He’s nervous. Scared. Afraid he’ll just blurt out the truth. He looks like a man who knows he’s lying and he’s not happy about it.
3:10 –- Let’s see what you got, B.C. The time for half-measures and talk is over. Take your 4-seed and beat Penn by at least 7.
3:15 –- Damn! Time to leave for work. I should have called in sick. It’s Madness.
3:32 -- B.C. up 10 as I pull up to work and get out of the car.
3:37 -- At my desk, B.C. up 13. Whew.
3:38 -- Where the hell are my bracket sheets? Bingo. Top drawer. Damn. 3 Pitts, 1 Pacific. 3 Alabamas, 1 UW-Milwaukee. But alas, the Pacific and the UW-Milwaukee are on the same bracket.
4:02 -- At work now. Bumming. TV to my left, with no audio. TV to my right, with no video. But it appears B.C. is smacking Penn, 48-28, at the half.
4:11 -- Nick Williams. Cincinnati. Stud. Making that second-round knockout of Kentucky looking nice. At least in 2 of my 4 brackets.
4:26 -- McGwire doesn't discuss androstenedione. Ah, the squirming continues.
4:28 -- I keep looking in the background for Ozzie Canseco. Sure, it's not the same as Pentangeli's brother showing up in Godfather II, but it's as close as I'll ever see in my lifetime.
4:40 -- McGwire squirming. The Big Irishman getting treated like this on St. Pattie's Day is the best thing I've seen since a New York City cop took a picture of three drunk college kids posing on the hood of his car during the St. Pattie's Day Parade in 1998.
4:46 -- "Is steroids cheating?" a committee member asked. "That's not for me to determine," McGwire responded. The committee member asked McGwire what his message would be to people as a spokesman for baseball. "That steroids are bad," he responded. The committee member then asked, and I'm paraphrasing here because of laughter issues, "How do you know?" No answer. McGwire makes Pete Rose look like angelic.
4:47 -- Note to self: Find out who that committee member was, then move to his district and vote for him twice each year.
4:52 -- Gotta love the ticker on the bottom of ESPN2. I can watch McGwire twitch and still keep track of games. B.C up 14 with 5:11 left. This is looking nice.
5:09 -- B.C. up by 19 with 35 seconds left. I think it's safe to assume the Eagles will cover the 6.5-point spread and I'll be a little richer this evening.
5:16 -- Amid the squirming of McGwire and the revelry of B.C., it appears UTEP and UTAH are tied at 54 with less than a minute left. BRACKET CHECK ALERT! BRACKET CHECK ALERT!
5:17 -- "The story is Utah, Frank."
5:23 -- u-TAH! u-TAH! u-TAH!
. . .
6:06 -- Work is crazy. Just looked to my left for the first time in a half-hour. It's freaking Ernie Anastos. Guess I missed the end of a game or two. This job is really starting to get in the way.
6:59 -- Dammit! Start the night session.
7:24 -- Never really watched Wake Forest play this season. Chris Paul is fast.
7:38 -- Watching McGwire opening statement again online right now. Hi-larious.
8:01 -- Still haven't come to grips with getting rivered twice last night in hold'em tournaments. Must seeking counseling from the mighty Eddie Mac.
8:08 -- Bug Selig talking I can't believe these hearings are still going on. Wonder how much this will cost taxpayers when Congress files its overtime slips.
8:25 -- Work is really starting to interfere with things. I need a Wake score. Let's check.
8:25.38 -- Dear Lord, Wake trailing 26-25 to No. 15 Chattanooga early in the second half. Maybe I'm glad I missed most of the first half. Must have been ugly.
8:32 -- Editor friend LaRonda e-mails me. Seems Arizona, my super sleeper, is struggling. Damn those Wildcats. I guess after 12 years, I'll never learn. I vowed never to pick Arizona again after losing to Santa Clara as a 2-seed back in 1993. And I never did, until this year. Karma? Krapola!
8:50 -- Breathing easier now as Wake begins to pull away. Nothing worse than losing a Final Four team on the first day, except for losing a Final Four team on the first day on ALL FOUR of your brackets.
9:02 -- C'mon Winthrop. Smack those Zagoffs back down to reality. You're tied at 56 with 7:22 left. Have some heart, Winthrop. We'll pulling for you in New York, North Cacalaka and Compton. I'm tired of those mid-major morons. Gonzagian popularity is 38 times worse than when the Jamaican bobsled team rose to cult status. At least they had cool accents. All Gonzaga has is a whiny coach who won't accept his mid-majordom.
9:18 -- Let's go Texas. Let's go Nevada. I'm too confused now. I've got Texas in two brackets, and Nevada in the other two. But seeing how the Nevada bracket is the same as my UW-Milwaukee bracket, then it's Nevada, Nevada, Nevada.
9:31 -- Winthrop = garbage.
9:55 -- Reaching that point of saturation now. No major upsets or buzzer-beaters. Hmm, this 11-10 Illinois lead over FDU seems like fun.
10:07 -- Wait just a second here. FDU is trailing 17-14 with 10:44 left. I don't usually root for anything involving New Jersey, with Bon Jovi being the obvious exception, but since Bostonian broadcaster friend Andy always admired the FDU-LIU rivalry from afar, maybe I could root for the upset.
10:08 -- 19-14, Illinois. So much for the upset.
10:12 -- 20-19, FDU. Two big dunks for the "Big Ital" Andrea Crosariol. (TURN ON CHRIS BERMAN VOICE) From? (TURN OFF CHRIS BERMAN VOICE; TURN ON TOM JACKSON VOICE) Long Island Lutheran! (TURN OFF TOM JACKSON VOICE.)
10:21 -- 30-20, Illinois. The dream is dead. Time to go do some work before I get fired.
10:30 -- Halftime. 32-31, Illinois. Get the shock sticks, rub 'em together, CLEAR! We're breathing again. Tamien Trent knocks down a three for FDU at the buzzer. (TURN ON CHRIS BERMAN VOICE) From? (TURN OFF CHRIS BERMAN VOICE; TURN ON TOM JACKSON VOICE) Center Moriches! (TURN OFF TOM JACKSON VOICE.)
10:33 -- An Illinois loss would destroy all but one of my brackets. It's likely Illinois will win, what with no 1-seeds ever losing in the first round. But I can't deny myself a chance at witnessing history. This would be just as amazing as watching the Red Sox rally from 0-3 down to beat the Yankees in the ALCS. Maybe even more so.
10:56 -- Back from the bathroom. FDU down, 39-31. What the f-bomb? All I did was No. 1, and it wasn't even one of those Ogre trips from Revenge of the Nerds. This isn't good. So much for history.
11:05 -- 46-33, Illinois. Next game!
11:12 -- Not for anything, but can LSU at least show up? Geez. UAB is wiping their patoots with LSU right now. Somewhere, Shaq is pissed.
11:36 -- OK, this West Virginia three-point shooting is getting annoying. BRACKET CHECK! BRACKET CHECK! Damn, got Creighton in two pools, West Virginia in the other two. Why do I do this to myself every f-bombing year?
11:37 -- Why?
11:37 -- Oh, yes, I know why. I'm an idiot!
11:41 -- It's official. Mighty FDU is again just a school in Dirty Jersey. Illinois wins, 65-54.
11:47 -- Creighton is crap. Tied at 61. Watch them blow this and screw my local bracket and my web bracket but keep me living large in the Lexington lawyer friend Munster pool.
11:49 -- Unbelievable! Creighton screwed it up. This is why mid-majors don't belong in the NCAA Tournament. The point guard falls, the shooting guards gives up a good look from deep, drives into traffic with three seconds left on the shot clock and passes it off to a doubly covered teammate at the three-point line. Airrrrrrrrrrr-ball! Airrrrrrrrrrr-ball! And a West Virginia fast-break layup for 63-61 lead with 2.4 seconds left. This won't end well for Creighton.
11:53 -- It doesn’t end well for Creighton.
11:58 -- Texas Tech handles UCLA. Three minutes left in the UAB drubbing of LSU.
12:13 -- UAB finishes off LSU. An embarrassment. Time to go home and break down my brackets. Oh wait, I need a few drinks first. Guess I'll go meet Joey Colskore and The Kinger for some Gorney Justice at the bar. Holla. What a day. I barely had time to mock people waring green.

Sleeper City, Baby!

2005-03-15T20:03:00.000-05:00

You've been staring at the brackets since Sunday night, searching for the one or two picks that will make the difference between you being the king of office pools and being the king of office fools.

Rub your eyes, splash water on your face, and for the love of Pete, shower. Then take a look at my super sleeper picks for this year's Madness.

(Note: For those keeping track, Thursday is the second best sports day of the year.)

Syracuse Regional
No. 5 Villanova -- Strange internal feeling right now as I select a Philadelphia-based sports team to be successful. But Nova's likely second-round opponent will be No. 4 Florida and I'm really excited about the prospects of watching Gators coach Billy Donovan overcoach in the first half, undercoach in the second half and lose it in the last minute. Ordinarily, I'd choose a Nassau gel specialist such as Donovan (Rockville Centre) over a Philly gel wonder, but Villanova coach Jay Wright has some Nassau gel skills. Remember, he coached Hofstra. Wow, never thought I'd call that a positive. But of course, the Wildcats will fall to North Carolina, as will the rest of basketball's free world this year.

Austin Regional
No. 13 Vermont -- Sentimental underdog. Plus Syracuse is not as good as they should be. Coppenrath vs. Warrick will be fun to watch. Besides, a 13-seed has won a game in nearly every tournament for the last 20 years. My fellow 'Cuse alumni will squeeze my oranges for picking against their beloved Boeheim, but I only went there for graduate school, so my loyalties run shallow. Plus, Boeheim wasn't so beloved until he won a national championship. Should the Catamounts sneak past Orangina, then the Spartan Factor will come into play and Vermont will beat Michigan State and reach the Sweet Sixteen. Duke will win that game because J.J. Redick will sink 18 three-pointers.

No. 6 Utah -- This is for purely selfish reasons. No, I'm not a mormon. But I love Ashley Judd. What am I talking about? Here goes: Rick Majerus, formerly the Utah head coach and currently ESPN's college basketball version of John Kruk, had this to say near the end of broadcasting a particularly bad game on ESPN, give or take a word: ''Well, there's not much to look forward to from here on out, so I'm trying to find Ashley Judd in the crowd. It beats the adult videos at the hotel.'' Wow. I'm throwing up from laughter. But if Utah makes the Sweet Sixteen, they could likely play Kentucky, which means Kentucky fan Ashley Judd will likely be in attendance, which means plenty of oh-so-necessary camera shots of her cheering for the Wildcats. She quite possibly could be the hottest white woman in the world. And a second helping of inane Majerus comments are quite tasty, provided he can remove the double-meatball parm hero from his mouth long enough to talk.

Albuquerque Regional
No. 5 Georgia Tech/No. 12 George Washington -- This is clearly the bet-against pick. Since a 12-seed always win a game, this one could be the upset. But regardless of who wins this first-round pairing, it's a lock for this team to beat Louisville. Rick Pitino did a great job getting his Cardinals this far, but they struggle to win big games and will end up losing in the second round. Hate to go against the Long Island guy, but I did it with Donovan up above, and Pitino is his basketball godfather, so the whole family will crumble in the second round. Where's Sebastian Telfair when you need him?

Chicago Regional
No. 3 Arizona -- I know what you're saying out loud right now: "Wow, way to go on a limb there, tough guy. You picked a 3-seed." Well, consider this: I'm picking Arizona to win the region and make the Final Four. It's even more of a bold pick when you realize that every time Arizona gets a high seed, they choke in the first round. Hellooooooooooooo, Santa Clara's Steve Nash, a.k.a Phoenix Suns' Steve Nash. He beat Arizona a few years ago in the tourney as a 15-seed. But the guess here is that Salim Stoudamire will find that can't-miss spot on the floor in Nintendo's Double Dribble and drop 33 points to beat Oklahoma State in the Sweet Sixteen and 36 to upend Illinois at home in the Elite Eight.

The Final Four:
North Carolina, Duke, Wake Forest (unless Chris Paul goes junk-hunting again), Arizona.

The National Championship:
North Carolina 83, Wake Forest 78.

Margin of error for all these picks: +/- 42.

Happy Madness!

E-MAIL ME

Random Sporting Thoughts

2005-03-11T01:36:00.000-05:00

Things that ran through my brain this week:

* What does it mean when singer Ricky Martin looks more like Jose Canseco's twin brother than does his actual twin, Ozzie?

* If you haven't seen the movie "Friday Night Lights" yet, don't waste your time. Of course, that is provided you have already seen "Any Given Sunday" and "Varsity Blues."

* Another week with no hockey. Such joy in March.

* We need a Met or Yankee to say something ridiculous soon. Otherwise, we've reached that point of spring training where stories about backup infielders, No. 7 starters and the fourth guy out of the bullpen appear important.

* Who's the bigger idiot: Mike Tice or Mike Tice? He got caught scalping his own Super Bowl tickets. It doesn't get more Suffolk than that!

* Madness is looming!

* We're slowly approaching Clark Kellogg time. God help us all.

* I wonder if Randy Moss ratted out Mike Tice.

* I hope Randy Moss ratted out Mike Tice.

* Don't bet against Geno Auriemma. He locked down another Big East title for the UConn women. Can he win a fourth straight NCAA title with a team that, by comparison to his previous championship teams, wouldn't even make the WNIT?

* Get those Coles jerseys out of the Dumpster. The bald and bitter receiver is back in Jet green (and he's got a lot of Dan Snyder's green, too).

* No Plaxico Burress for Giants = no way to avoid another 8-game losing skid this season.

* How long until Ken Griffey Jr. gets hurt again?

E-MAIL ME

UNC 75, Duke 73. E-yeah!

2005-03-06T23:06:00.000-05:00

It's 10:24 p.m. Sunday at the start of this most joyous blog session. I'm 14 minutes removed from returning to my palatial imitation apartment after a weekend on the Jersey Shore and in the poker room at the Borgata with Lawyer friend Steve and Fiancée friend Jamie. And 11 minutes removed from discovering that my beloved North Carolina Tar Heels obliterated Duke, 75-73.

But this story really began Friday afternoon.

I stopped off at my parents' house around 4 p.m. to mooch a ride to the train station so that I didn't have to risk leaving my car at the train station all weekend. There are heathens out there. Heathens, I say, heathens!

I checked my e-mail. Editor friend/Duke fanatic and alum LaRonda popped up in my inbox. She offered kind words of wisdom to a DVR newbie: Be sure to set the program manually and tape the extra half-hour in case the game goes long.

F-bomb!

Right there I knew it was a lost cause. I knew something absurd would happen in the final minutes and I'd miss it.

Jump ahead to Sunday. Something absurd happened. I missed it.

UNC goes on an 11-0 run in the final three minutes to smack Duke upside the head and win the ACC regular-season title outright for the first time since 1993. Oh by the way, that was the same year UNC won the national championship. (Gotta love C-Webb still. "Timeout. Timeout.")

I didn't know any of this until I did my research.

I checked my e-mail as soon as I got home and had 19 e-mails. None were from Editor friend/Duke fanatic and alum LaRonda. Ah ha! Clearly, UNC won. Or, she was slow-rolling me like some Doyle Brunson wannabe tried to do in the poker room early Sunday morning. I ain't no tourist, pal. Maybe it's in my bulk mail folder under some alias so I could walk right into an onslaught of anti-Heels propaganda. No such luck. All three e-mails in there were indeed spam. So I knew the answer. Duke lost. UNC won.

But to confirm, I went directly to ESPN.com. And there he was. The savior. Roy Williams holding scissors in one hand and a piece of the net in the other. You don't cut down the nets when you lose. Eeeeeeeeee-yeah!

It must have been an amazing run. ESPN.com said fans in the record crowd stormed the court at the Dean Dome. Beating Duke is always a treat, even if it has only happened four times in the last 19 games. OBJECTIVITY ALERT! OBJECTIVITY ALERT! Over the past 10 years, Duke has been a better program than UNC. I'd get kicked in the teeth, punched in the gut and kneecapped with a Kerrigan stick if I said that in Chapel Hill, but truth must always reign supreme regardless of geography.

But alas, I can revel in the revelry for today.

Too bad all I got to see of this glorious Carolinian glory was a three-pointer by Lee Melchionni to put Duke up 73-66, a Marvin Williams tip-in to pull UNC within 73-66, and a Shelden Williams foul one possession later with 2:03 left. Apparently, that occurred at 6 p.m. EST, which meant the end of my DVR session.

I can blame Cablevision for its narrow-mindedness in designing a product that goes based on pre-scheduled times. I can blame Florida coach Billy Donovan for not beating Kentucky earlier than he did and forcing a later start on CBS for the UNC game. I can blame CBS for not pulling a "Heidi." But that's all just misplaced anger at myself for DVR ineptitude.

Now for the happier side of life:

* Duke lost a game.
* UNC beat Duke.
* Duke fans had to sit through the ignominy of their team not scoring any points in the final three minutes.
* Cameron Crackheads must have thought the game was in the bag up nine with three minutes to go.
* An ACC title is always a wonderful thing.
* A No. 1 ranking awaits UNC in the new polls due out Monday afternoon. (No. 1 Illinois lost to Ohio State -- Did Teddy Ginn play for the Buckeyes? Clarett?)
* Didn't have to hear Billy Packer do color commentary on the game.
* A bit of revenge for losing to Duke, 71-70, earlier in the season.

Can't wait for this weekend's ACC tournament. It'll likely end with Duke beating UNC by two when J.J. Redick swishes a pull-up three-pointer from 42 feet. But UNC will get a No. 1 seed in March Madness and cruise to the national championship.

Holla Back

LaMont Jordan is a lucky man

2005-03-03T02:48:00.000-05:00

LaMont Jordan is the rarest of athletes in this strange sports world. He left one team for another, signed for a whole bunch of clams, and fans really can't get mad about him doing so.

Jordan, the talented backup running back for the New York Jets, is about to become the starter for the Oakland Raiders. Reports say Jordan will get $27.5 million for five years from Oakland, while the Jets were offering close to $3 million per year.

That's $2.5 million difference per year, give or take a diet peach Snapple. Jordan's agent claimed it wasn't about the money. MIKE HAMPTON ALERT! MIKE HAMPTON ALERT! When they say it's not about the money, then it's all about the benjamins, baby.

Only in this case, it could be the truth. Consider:

* Jordan was the backup to Curtis Martin.
* Martin led the NFL in rushing.
* Martin has two years left, at least.
* The Jets just signed Chad Pennington and Shaun Ellis to big deals.
* John Abraham got the franchise tag.
* Santana Moss wants cash, or he gets traded for Laveraneus Coles who makes more than Moss does or will.
* All Jordan ever wanted to do was play.

By signing with Oakland, Jordan will get what he always craved: a chance to start in the NFL. Jets fans cannot be upset or blame the franchise for losing Jordan. This was his opportunity. Let him go after it. The Jets simply cannot cut, trade, waive, release, whatever, Martin after his tremendous season. Thus, there's nowhere for Jordan to go but elsewhere.

It's like those favorite pair of sneakers you had a kid. Eventually your feet outgrow the sneakers and it's time to buy a new pair.

Of course, we all know that Jordan will now rush for 2,220 yards this year and Martin will tweak an ankle in Week 1, sprain a knee in Week 3, crack three ribs in Week 8, then limp in for another 1,000-yard season in the third quarter of Week 17. These things are givens. More truthful than any sworn testimony in a courtroom. More logical than the games section of the LSAT.

But do not blame Jordan for making the smart move for his career. He did too well this year in limited time and the Jets would be foolish to pay him starter's money to not play for more than half the game. Jordan would be foolish to take that deal.

Athletes are all driven by that inner fire, that quest for glory, that burning desire to be the best. Above the strength, the speed, the skill, it's that competitive edge that propels athletes to extraordinary feats.

So when Jordan returns to play against the Jets, cheer him during pregame introductions. Then boo him during the game. Boo, don't hate.

E-MAIL ME

What did Barry do wrong?

2005-02-24T11:48:00.000-05:00

Few athletes are as polarizing a personality as Barry Bonds. People either love him or hate him. There's no middle ground. He admitted taking steroids but he did it unknowingly. Whether you believe that statement or not, Bonds' (and Jason Giambi's) steroid use presents us with the classic "tree falling in the forest but no one saw it" debate.

Steroids were not banned substances by baseball. MLB did not test for it. So what did Bonds do wrong? If using something that has the potential to enhance performance is not against the rules, why are we chastizing them?

How different is steroid use from amphetamines, which by most reports, have been in baseball for 40 years? Amphetamines enhance a player's alertness which can enhance performance. Hypothetical: Carlos Beltran plays a 14-inning game until 1:06 a.m., then turns around for a 1 p.m. game the same day. He pops a "greenie" (nickname for amphetamine) at noon to help stay awake, then goes 3-for-4 with two home runs.

How different is that than steroids? Steroids don't have the immediate impact of amphetamines. Plus, if you take steroids, you don't automatically get huge. You still have to lift weights and have some ability, too. It's not like Popeye eating his spinach. Amphetamines are closer to that than steroids.

What about the creatine craze of the late 1990s? Or the vat of Mega-man 12 million they sell at GNC? How different is that from steroids? Again, none of these things are banned by baseball.

Look at Gabe Kapler. The Red Sox outfielder is routinely on the covers of muscle magazines. The guy is jacked. Whatever he may have taken to help get that big certainly wasn't against baseball rules.

Should steroids be banned from baseball? Probably. But so should amphetamines and any other method of enhancement that's not a weight/flexibility machine.

There are too many what-ifs when it comes to the medical aspect of steroids. A negative image exists around steroids because of what some doctors claim it can do to a user. But there are others who say such effects are not caused by steroids.

Lyle Alzado died from brain cancer caused by a human strain of Mad Cow disease, but because he admitted taking steroids, people automatically assume they know why he died.

However, Jose Canseco does admit in his book that his package costs less to mail.

And exactly how different is Canseco, Bonds, Giambi and the others from Steve Howe, Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry and those that went through more cocaine than all of Colombia? Howe was suspended from baseball seven different times for using coke.

The last time I checked, cocaine was just as illegal as steroids.

And if you're going to claim that cocaine cannot enhance performance, give Gary McClain a call. You know, the Villanova point guard who played the best game of his life in the 1985 NCAA national semifinals against Memphis State. He was coked out of his head.

E-MAIL ME

Gotta love Barry Bonds

2005-02-23T01:36:00.000-05:00

Barry Bonds is my new hero.

Not for his ability on the baseball field -- he had plenty well before these pesky steroid allegations arose -- or for his skillful toying with a San Francisco grand jury. Not even for the mustache he used to rock in the 1980s with the Pittsburgh pastry-costs. (That would be Pirates for the wordplay-challenged readers.)

Bonds earns hero status for giving us something we rarely see in sports anymore: a great press conference.

Too often, it's a player or manager talking into a microphone for 20 minutes and not saying anything. It's like talking to your girlfriend in your high school for three hours. The only difference now is that you don't care if your parents hear what you're saying.

Jason Giambi had two press conferences in less than 14 days and he gave us two big syringes worth of informational nothingness.

But not my boy Barry. Whoa no.

"I don't know Jose [Canseco]," Bonds said Tuesday in his first public interview since before the BALCO bombshell erupted last December. "I was better than Jose then, and I've been better than him his whole career. If he wants to go make money, go ahead. ... For somebody who brags about what he did, I don't see any of your records."

Someone get me Emeril on the horn. I need an authentic "BAM!" after that one.

I cheered and gave my Tiger Woods fist-pump in the office when I heard that. I may have been alone in my excitement but that's OK by me.

I knew Barry would dazzle me some more.

"You guys are like re-running stories," Bonds said to and about the media. "This is old stuff. It's like watching 'Sanford and Son.' It's almost comical, basically. ... Are you guys jealous, upset, disappointed, what?"

Someone get me Joey Lawrence on the horn. I need a cheeseball Blossom-infused "Whoa" right now.

Hit me, Barry, one more time.

"Because Babe Ruth is one of the greatest baseball players ever, and Babe Ruth ain't black, either," Bonds said. "I'm black. Blacks, we go through a little more. ... I'm not a racist though, but I live in the real world. I'm fine with that."

Someone two-way Ja Rule immediately and tell him to call me. I could use a genuine "Holla!" right about now.

Much rings true in that statement. We may like to think that since this is 2005, society has become progressive enough as a whole to dismiss racism. Sad to say, but that isn't the case.

Bonds grew more pugnacious as the press conference went along. It was easily the most exciting gathering on television since The Real World reunion show of the first five seasons on MTV. If networks were smart, they'd run this in primetime during sweeps week. Forget Trump and the grumpy Brit on "American Idol." This was reality television.

I've got this press conference slated as No. 2 on the all-time list. Counting down:

6) Raiders coach Bill Callahan calling his players "the stupidest team in America."
5) An Atlanta Falcons press conference where no reporters asked questions and coach Jim Mora Jr. was done in 45 seconds.
4) Jim Mora Sr.'s "playoffs" rant
3) Allen Iverson's "We talking about practice" diatribe
2) Bonds on Day 1 of 2005 spring training
1) John Chaney telling John Calipari "I'll kill ya" after a basketball game between Temple and Memphis.

The only way to top Chaney would be if Bonds popped some 'roids at the table. But Bonds performed ably. You just gotta love Barry Bonds.

Coming Thursday: What did Bonds do wrong?

E-MAIL ME

Rejoice! Rejoice! Hockey is gone!

2005-02-17T01:15:00.000-05:00

Crack open the champagne! Don't waste your time pouring the bubbly into a cup. Just swig straight from the bottle.

The NHL is D-O-N-E! Gone! Finito! Audi 5000! Peaced out!

I've never used this many exclamation points in two paragraphs since I first learned how to write two paragraphs in a row. Then again, this is a most glorious day.

I feel like Eddie Murphy's girl in 1985 because I just want to party all the time.

No more hockey. As my boy Busta Rhymes used to say, "Woo-hah! Woo-hah! Got ya all in check."

Technically, Mr. Rhymes, there ain't no more checking going on. Not on the ice. Not by the bank tellers in hockey players' banks.

You want to watch hockey now? Go rent "Swingers" and watch the Superfan 99 scene. Or hop on e-Bay, buy Sega, call your buddies over, pop in NHL Hockey '93 and do "The Move." Maybe you'll make that one save and win, 24-23. (Ring a bell, Levittown friend Eddie K?)

If that doesn't whet your hockey appetite, spend a few more buckaroos (something NHL owners used to do) on eBay and get the vintage Nintendo. Pop in the Ice Hockey game, select three fat guys and one skinny guy and go beat the Russians.

If that doesn't work, resign yourself to reruns of "Miracle."

If that doesn't make you grow a mullet, loose two teeth and drink Stoli all day, then here are three words for you: Blades. Of. Steel.

Because that's the only hockey you're going to see for a long time. At least a year. More, with any luck.

The worst sport in the history of worst sports has eliminated itself because the owners were stupid then and the players are stupid now. I care not where the blame gets placed in the next few days. It cannot take away all that we've accomplished on this tremendous day.

Ironically, hockey, the fifth of the four major professional team sports, went were no other sport had gone before. It canceled its entire season. Not even baseball did that.

Players' association executive director Bob Goodenow may not have played these negotiations too well. NHL commissioner Gary Bettman may not have played these negotiations too well. However, they combined to put ESPN analyst/mullet magnate Barry Melrose out of a job and off my television, and for that, they should be commended. (Hey, Bobby, Gary, if you're reading, can you go after Jim Rome next? Please. I'll go to an Islander game if I have to . . . once the league returns in 2009).

Let's weigh the pros and cons of life without the NHL:

Pros

No more having to wonder why the two-line pass is illegal?

Other sports have more pronounceable names.

Earning 1 point for losing a game in overtime? You f-bombing lose and still get rewarded? That's just plain stupid.

Bad haircuts are only something you see in childhood pictures.

No more "NHL on thin ice" headlines followed by "NHL on thinner ice" headlines the next day.

More hockey dad fights at amateur/youth league games. (Those are always fun; almost as good as NASCAR crashes.)

We can watch Nassau Coliseum decay even further without having to go inside it.

Cons

Hmmm . . .

. . . I'm thinking . . .

. . . Uh, gimme a minute . . .

. . . Yeah, still thinking . . .

. . . Ah, here's one . . .

. . . Nah, that's not a con . . .

. . . How about this one? . . .

. . . Nope, not a con . . .

. . . OK, OK, I got one, for real . . .

. . . More attention paid toward regular-season NBA games.

I'll make that trade and I don't even need cash considerations or conditional draft picks.

Bye bye NHL.

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Talkin' Baseball

2005-02-15T00:36:00.000-05:00

The third greatest sporting day of the year is 12 hours away, even less if you slept in today.

Pitchers and catchers report!

Oil up out the glove, stretch the rotator cuff, dust off last year's hat, re-bend the brim and start spouting phrases like "15-game winner," "Walks-to-hits ratio" and "torn labrum."

Tuesday, Yankees pitchers and catchers report to Tampa for the first day of spring training. The only better sporting days of a year are 1) The first day of March Madness and 2) Opening Day for baseball.

Perhaps, just for 2005, the first day of pitchers and catchers will be the best day of the year because it coincides with the impending doom of the NHL canceling its season. I could be drunk by noon! (And I typically wake up around 11:30.)

But back to baseball.

On this day, summer unofficially begins. On this day, we can forget about Jose Canseco and his big burly Irishman Bash Brother. We can forget about the steroids scandal and anything else that plagues the game right now. If only for one day we have the purity of baseball to enjoy, just like when Dad took us to the game and baseball cards cost 35 cents for a wax pak.

On Feb. 20, Arn Tellem's puppet strings will be cut and Jason Giambi will have to face the scrutiny of the New York and national media. The media will have free reign then, unlike last week's carefully orchestrated farce at the Stadium. It promises to be brutal, with every reporter thinking they will be the one to get Giambi to say something of substance.

But let's forget that all for one day and revel in the sights of Jorge Posada catching Randy Johnson's first throws as a Yankee. Or Mike Piazza doing the same for Pedro, or insert catcher's name here and pitcher's name here.

There are six weeks of spring training, 162 games and the playoffs to deal with all the bad things about the sport.

Just give me one day to revel in the beauty of baseball.

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Duke 71, UNC 70. Ugh!

2005-02-10T01:48:00.000-05:00

OK, now I really hate Duke!

I put this picture of party animal Coach K celebrating his 15th win in the last 18 games against my Tar Heels. If you North Carolina fans are not sickened by that stat and that picture, please close your browser, shut down your computer and throw it in the river, followed shortly thereafter by yourself.

The point is we UNC fans should bookmark this blog entry and look at it every day until March 6. Let it serve as a reminder of the level of mediocrity bestowed upon UNC in the last 10 years. It had been since March of 1996 that UNC ranked ahead of Duke when the two teams played.

I was forced to rub Editor friend LaRonda's Duke keychain after the game. That hurt. But I'm a good sport. Besides, just as Sonny told C in "A Bronx Tale," Mickey Mantle won't pay my rent.

Then I get home and receive a lovely e-mail from Doctor friend Christy, who I've known since the third day of college in 1993: "All I have to say is 71-70."

Yeah, well, Christy, if you're reading, all I have to say is "I can't print all I want to say."

But the intelligent side of my brain is beginning to take over. I can't fault Duke for winning. The Blue Devils played well and slowed the Tar Heels down. J.J. Redick scored 18 points, but I swear I saw him hit 12 threes and all 37 of his free throws.

And all but one of Duke's field goals in the second half were three-pointers. Great perimeter defense, Heels. Way to make us proud. I was going to call in sick Wednesday night (Boss, just kidding) to watch the game, but I'm glad I saved the sick day. For today!

I suppose we can blame Roy Williams, who must have thought it was a Final Four. That may explain his coaching.

Or as Lawyer friend Steve said on my voicemail at 11:17 p.m. after the game: "Did Coach Williams go to the Herman Edwards School of Clock Management? Are you kidding me? That was worse than the freakin' Jets."

I can't hate on Roy too much because he did bring UNC this far. And in the last 12 months, we saw the Red Sox win a World Series, the Pistons defeat the mighty Lakers for the NBA title and Longwood win the Class I Long Island football championship with two losses, so maybe, just maybe, Roy Williams can finally win a national title.

Instead, let's focus our disgust on Raymond Felton. Here's a sentence from the AP's story: "North Carolina squandered a chance to win in the final seconds, never getting a shot off after inbounding with 18 seconds left."

That would be because Ray-Ray took a dump in his pants. With about 10 seconds left, he burned his defender with a spin move and had plenty of room to penetrate from the three-point line. The Duke defender in the paint would have stepped up to defend, leaving Rashad McCants, Sean May or Marvin Williams wide open underneath the hoop for the easy layup, dunk or foul. But noooooooooooooo!

Felton went rogue and decided not to win the game. Helloooooooooo! Hellooooooo! You play to win the game. Instead, Ray-Ray backs out, goes to his right and throws a dumb pass to a well-guarded David Noel. Noel then lost the ball out of bounds, the clock ran out and then you have that picture at the top of this blog.

C'mon Ray-Ray. You can't be that bad in the biggest game of the season so far. Even Gary McClain, the coked-up point guard for the 1985 national champion Villanova Wildcats, wouldn't have made that play.

But at least Tar Heel alum/ESPN anchor/Destroyer of SportsCenter Stuart Scott has to live with the loss, too. And it hurts him more than it does me. Boo-yah!

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A hockey fan's lament

2005-02-09T13:08:00.000-05:00

You know, since hockey's gone away, I've found a lot of new ways to spend my time. I watch a lot more poker. I play a lot more roller hockey. I get a lot more sleep. I spend a lot less time patching up holes in my wall. But now that football season is over, I've found myself inundated with lousy televised sporting events from the mediocre to the just plain dull.

Here's a small sampling of my hockey-replacement therapy:

The Knicks

I would say watching the Knicks has absolutely no entertainment value at all, except there's something strangely hypnotic about watching a team miss 14 free throws in a row.

Unfortunately, the drama is gone when your team is down by 30 points at halftime. Time to switch to a "Law & Order" re-run.

Semi-Pro Bowl

If there is a more embarrassing sports event than the NFL Pro Bowl, I'd like to see it. I've lost track of how many players have begged out of the game due to injury, or in the case of the Jets' Curtis Martin, plain old indifference. Can someone tell me again what's so exciting about watching a bunch of replacements play two-hand touch on an island a week after the Super Bowl?

Unless you've got money on the game (and if you do, you are a full-blown dullard in my book), I can't think of one single reason to watch it. Take a look at that picture. Does that look like football to you?

Isn't sports supposed to be about entertainment and competition? Let's face it, the Pro Bowl is about as entertaining and competitive as ladies' billiards. "Ohhhhh Allison Fisher pockets the three ball... and oh wow! Look at that position on the four!" ....... Wow, indeed.

Women's hoops

Now that I've sufficiently bored you to death, I'd like to opine on another unwatchable sport -- women's college basketball. [Bracing for anti-me backlash]

You know, I just can't get psyched about watching a basketball game when some of the players cannot pass, dribble, or shoot from outside 10 feet. Sorry if I sound naive and chauvinistic, but aren't those fundamental skills of the game? I would hate to see a single school shut down its program, but do I really have to watch William & Mary and Hofstra put up brick after brick on my television screen on Sunday afternoon? Wasn't there a "Knicks Life: All Ball" re-run MSG could've showed?

Epilogue

Maybe I'm just grouchy because I miss the NHL. Maybe my increased exposure to alternative events has made me more aware of their incompetence. Don't hold it against me, though. You see, a part of my life has been stripped from me.

"You're going through withdrawal," a friend recently told me.
"Withdrawal?" I asked.
"Hockey withdrawal. Do you have a good health plan?"
"Yeah, why?" I said.
"Well maybe you should seek counseling,"

Anyone know the name of a good therapist? Or network exec?

UNC vs. Duke: Let's get ready to rumble

2005-02-08T19:23:00.000-05:00

I hate Duke.

Wait, let me choose my words more carefully.

I loathe Duke. Despise Duke. Detest Duke. Abhor Duke. And whatever other words your thesaurus of choice suggests for my rampant negativity toward Duke, Coach K, the Cameron Crackheads and Christian Laettner's f-bombing shot to beat Kentucky in the 1992 East regional finals.

This Blue Devil disgust is borne of my North Carolina patriotism. Been a fan since Worthy and Jordan.

It goes like this: if you're a fan of UNC men's basketball, then you are not a fan of Duke men's basketball.

It's like being a baseball fan raised in New York. If you like the Mets, you hate the Yankees. If you like the Yankees, you hate the Mets. Those who claim to root for both teams have no souls.

We New Yorkers think we know rivalries. We have no clue. I've met people and walked out of the room upon learning of their Dukedom. And I grew up in New York. Those submersed in the epicenter of Carolina-Duke have far worse stories. Their feelings run deeper than Confederate flags, the secret to good moonshine and four-named first names.

I'm sure families were torn apart and engagements broken off based on Carolina's 102-100 double-overtime drubbing of Duke on Feb. 2, 1995, at Cameron Indoor Stadium.

That was the year of Jerry Stackhouse, Rasheed Wallace, Donald "The Duck" Williams and Jeff McInnis. Duke countered with the ugly Jeff Capel.

There are dozens more. I simply can't go through them all without missing one and thereby insulting the likes of Kevin Salvadori, Pat Sullivan, Shammond Williams, Jeff Lebo or Brad Dougherty. But a few quick highlights of the most blood-thirsty rivalry in the game:

Vince Carter's missed dunk -- Easy Ed Cota threw a ball off the backboard during a fast break. Vince jumped from South Carolina, caught the ball in mid-air and threw down what Stuart Scott referred to as "the greatest missed dunk of all-time." The ball clanged off the back of the rim and went back near half-court. If memory serves, UNC won by at least 50 points.

That famous Zwikker-to-Calabria combo -- On Jan. 31, 1996, Serge Zwikker missed a shot near the end of game (Dookies claim Greg Newton blocked it, but even video can be manipulated). Dante Calabria, perhaps the best Italian athlete not named Joe DiMaggo, Roberto Baggio, Alberto Tomba or Paolo Maldini, tips it in for the 73-72 win. Another Duke defeat. Oh so pretty.

Christian Laettner's 5-6 career record vs. UNC -- Some things just sound nice.

Dean Smith -- He may look and sound like Buddy Hackett, but the man can coach.

Grant Hill's flattop -- OK, so there is one redeeming quality about Duke. That thing rivaled 1989 Big Daddy Kane.

In fairness, I must admit two things:

1) UNC has had a few off-years of late, mostly because of Matt Doherty. (But he did recruit Sean May, Raymond Felton and Rashad McCants. Thanks, Matt, the pride of East Meadow!)

2) Coach K deserves props. The man knows what he's doing and he built the program into a national power. (But he pronounces his name Sha-sheff-ski, yet it's spelled Krzyzewski. Seems kind of silly to me.)

Now, on to Wednesday night's game.

UNC will manhandle Duke. The Tar Heels will maul the Blue Devils. The bloodbath begins at 9 p.m. Editor friend LaRonda, a misguided soul/Duke fan and alum, has promised "fighting [is] imminent" when the game is on and we both have to watch it in the office. I've vowed peace. I'm probably lying, but I'm not sure yet.

I'm considering buying TiVo so I can have a digital record of the massacre. Then, I'll print out screen captures from Jawad Williams hanging over Duke's Shelden Williams after his monster dunk gives the Heels an 81-60 lead with four minutes to play and decorate my little corner cubicle.

J.J. Redick will score no more than six points. He might even be forced to transfer. Because no matter how good a shooter he is, when he takes a dump in his pants against the Heels on Wednesday night, he'll probably get beat up at the bar afterward.

Around 11:15 p.m. or so, Doctor friend Christy will pick up her phone. She will be upset because I woke her up. She will be even more upset when I yell, "Go Heels!"

Nothing's finer than when Duke loses to North Carolina!

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Random Super Bowl Thoughts

2005-02-07T01:23:00.000-05:00

Being how I haven't watched a Super Bowl the way an American should in six years, I can only offer sporadic thoughts on the bits and pieces I saw on television and the news I inferred from going through the wires at work and producing 100 photos so you lovely readers would have a nice keepsake photo album to peruse on Monday.

(Hot 97ish shameless plug alert! Hot 97ish shameless plug alert! Click here to see them.)

* Helloooooooo Tails! Gotta love that. Winning the coin toss bet always makes for a good Super Bowl.

* As predicted, Donovan McNabb tweaked. And his first pass was incomplete. Another victory for me!

* Bill Belichick smiled. He even had a minor eruption of excitement. It's true. I have photos to prove it.

* T.O. played a heck of a game. He should be commended for his desire to play in the biggest game of the season.

* Paul McCartney is coming dangerously close to challenging HBO boxing analyst Larry Merchant for the undisputed title "Guy who should have retired 12 years ago but refuses to because he thinks he's still good at what he does and the people can't live without him." I'd pay $39.95 for that pay-per-view fight.

* Tom Brady. Geez. Make a mistake! For the love of Pete.

* Somewhere, Rush Limbaugh is smiling, saying "I told you so." That's upsetting.

* Andy Reid and the Eagles botched the clock management in the last five minutes. Jets coach Herman Edwards played for the Eagles. Coincidence?

* How about Romeo Crennel? This guy wins his third Super Bowl in four years as the defensive coordinator. Five minutes later, he accepts the Cleveland Browns' head coaching job. Clearly, he already did, but was waiting until afterward to announce it. But, give it a day. The Browns are no better with you as their coach before Monday afternoon.

* If Deion Branch had this sort of game during the season, instead of a leg injury that cost him nine or so weeks, perhaps my fantasy team (The Fryburg Antonellis) would not have started out 0-5.

* Deity-of-your-choice damn the tuck rule!

* I still maintain that Rich Gannon was the most valuable player of Super Bowl XXXVII. He threw 5 touchdowns, three for his Raiders and two for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Though the Patriots didn't convert any of McNabb's three interceptions into points, McNabb still deserves consideration for MVP. He helped the Eagles almost win as much as he helped the Patriots definitely win.

* I wish I had TiVo.

* Were the commercials any good?

* Adam Vinatieri's field goal was the difference. But at least it didn't come in a blizzard, or at the end of the game, or in overtime, or as he got shot from the press box, or as he leg went sailing into the air, or as the Eagles blocked it and it bounced off Pat Pass' head and miraculously flew forward 22 yards and skimmed in. Not sure I could handle another ridiculous Vinatieri moment.

* Andy Reid exhaled during one play and the Eagles were called for having 12 men on the field.

* Super Bowl XL: Jets vs. Redskins. Randy Moss catches a record 5 touchdown passes from Chad Pennington as the Jets dismantle Joe Gibbs' squad. Herm botches the clock management again, but it doesn't matter because the Jets have a big lead. LaMont Jordan runs for 186 yards after Curtis Martin gets hurt in the AFC Championship. Patrick Ramsey throws a screen pass and Jonathan Vilma goes Jack Squirek, picks it off and runs it in for the easy touchdown. Maybe I won't have to work that night and I'll be able to watch the Super Bowl in front of my own television for the first time since 1998. Ah, what a glorious parlay that would be. Any takers?

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Against all odds

2005-02-03T13:26:00.000-05:00

Mama La Monica asked what on the surface appeared to be an easy question the other day.

"Who you betting on for the Super Bowl?" she asked.

I couldn't respond. Should I lie to my mother and say the Patriots? Should I lie to my mother and say the Eagles.

(Note: Mama La Monica is similar to Mama Scorsese in "Goodfellas," only she doesn't paint. But if my friends and I ever came home at 3 or 4 in the morning, odds are she's hear us, wake up and cook something for us.)

Truth is I don't know who to put my hard-earned nickels on. The Eagles are getting 7.5 points, which is a lot of points for a Super Bowl. The Patriots have had two weeks to get ready for Trick Daddy (Andy Reid) and Donovan McNabb, which is a lot of time for Bill Belichick.

So, you can see my dilemma. Take the points and go against Belichick? Lay the touchdown and trust Tom Brady to not make a mistake in another playoff game?

Man, funk dat!

It's on to the prop bets now. I shall open a new browser on my trusty/faulty Mac and on we go. Let's see what's out there. Here's my Dirty Dozen:

1) The coin toss: Any practicing degenerate worth his seediness must bet the coin toss. Take tails. Everyone always chooses heads. Be different. Think outside the box. We're already on to the prop bets, so why stop now? Besides, this bet sets the tone for the next four hours. You're either throwing the remote across the room or you're ordering more pizza.

2) Most first downs in first quarter: Wow. That's crazy. Think of what's involved. Who wins the coin toss? Will bad weather make them want to kick? Will Trick Daddy have a few tricks? Is T.O. really OK to play? This is what we call gambling. It's faaaaan-tastic.

3) Will Eagles score in 1st and 2nd quarters: There are some nice odds (+135) being offered. It's OK to be that guy at the party that stands up and yells "Cheesesteaks for everybody" when Dorsey Levens scampers in from 4 yards with that second-quarter TD to win your bet.

4) Will there be a lead-change in the second half? If you have a farm, bet it on yes!

5) Team to get the first penalty: Take the Eagles, solely because of their fan base.

6) First to use a coach's challenge: Oooh, this is tough. I say Eagles. Belichick has been in the Super Bowl before. Trick Daddy will tweak early.

7) First offense to cross midfield: Wow, this could be the juiciest dilemma since Fezzini had to choose which cup to drink from in "The Princess Bride." It's inconceivable how the coin toss plays such a huge factor on the rest of the game.

8) Over-under on Tom Brady's pass attempts: 31. Take the under. Eagles secondary is good. Run defense not as good. Belichick is smart.

9) Combined yards for Patrick Pass: 18.5. Hellooooooo over! Two catches, 1 rush, 23 yards. Super Bowls were meant for no names to make big plays, i.e. Larry Brown, Dexter Jackson and Timmy Smith.

10) Total tackles, sacks, interceptions by Mike Vrabel: 6. Under. Bruschi will shadow Westbrook. Less plays for Vrabel.

11) David Akers' total yards of successful field goals: 78. Do you hear that? It's me screaming "TAKE THE OVER!"

12) Player to score game's first touchdown: Terrell Owens is listed as 8/1 to do it. If the Eagles win the coin toss and cross midfield, McNabb will definitely try to get T.O. a TD. It makes for a great story. And for a great boon to the wallet.

I'll be at the bar wearing my "Tails" jersey in case anyone needs me.

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Mark's Media Day

2005-02-01T13:26:00.000-05:00

If my boss was kind enough to ship me to Jacksonville for Super Bowl Media Day, I’d be blogging all day about what people said and did, about which people should be publicly flogged during the halftime show for being stupid, about which Eagle cheerleader is the hottest, and maybe a few other treats.

But alas, the boss is pretty hardcore, so I’m stuck in Melville. But that didn’t stop me from asking questions. And besides, this is the WORLD Wide Web, so maybe Donovan and the boys down there will read this and e-mail me their responses.

If I were there for Media Day, here are the questions I’d ask:

To Terrell Owens: How many women have dropped their towel in front of you since Nicollette Sheridan did it on national television?
Follow-up: C’mon, T.O., be honest. How’d she look?

To Donovan McNabb: What makes you the coolest quarterback in football?
Follow-up: What’s up, guy?

To Brian Dawkins: Why won’t you shave the silly little mustache?
Follow-up: I can recommend a good razor if you need one. OK?

To Freddie Mitchell: The hair?
Follow-up: You should go see Stylist friend Claudette. She’ll hook you up. Want the number?

To Jeff Blake: Do you really still have a job?
Follow-up: Which was the best: Being a backup with the Jets? Being the backup with the Bengals after being the starter? Being a backup with the Saints after being the starter? Being the backup with the Eagles?

To Andy Reid: When T.O. catches a touchdown in the first half, will you wear the tights for the second half as payment of your bet with him?
Follow-up: How many trick plays do you have planned for this game, Trick Daddy?
Follow-up: Gino’s or Pat’s?

To Rodney Harrison: This is your second straight Super Bowl. Are you as surprised as the rest of America because you haven’t been in trouble with the law during these two weeks?
Follow-up: Who is the better ADA on Law & Order, Jack McCoy or Ben Stone?

To Tedy Bruschi: Why can’t you spell your first name like a normal person?
Follow-up: How many brewskies could a Bruschi drink if a Bruschi could drink brewskies?

To Bill Belichick: When was the last time you expressed emotion?
Follow-up: No, really. When?
Follow-up: Why won’t you let Charlie Weis and other assistants talk to the media?
Follow-up: Do you think you’re Bill Parcells?
Follow up: Is it true you’ll be head coach, offensive coordinator and defensive coordinator next year?
Follow up: Why is Steve Grogan playing free safety?

To Tom Brady: Did you really tuck the ball against the Raiders?
Follow-up: Why are you lying?
Follow-up: Do you have nightmares about Charles Woodson coming around the end unblocked and crushing you?

To Adam Vinatieri: If you pull a Ray Finkle, will you have a sex change operation?
Follow-up: Was Mars Blackmon right? Is it really the shoes?

To Willie McGinest: How’d you get an Irish last name?
Follow-up: Who’s the better Teddy: Pendergrass or Bruschi?

To Dan Klecko: You majored in physical education. Are you serious?
Follow-up: In the movie PCU, when Droz kicks the kid out of him room who majored in physical education, were you offended?
Follow-up: Your dad had a cameo appearance in the movie Cannonball Run. Any chance you’ll follow in his footsteps if I do a remake of that flick?

To Troy Brown: What’s the stupidest question you were asked today?
Follow-up: Thanks a lot, pal. I hope you get burned covering Jeff Thomason.

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The least wonderful time of year

2005-01-28T13:23:00.000-05:00

No football this Sunday. No baseball, either. No major sporting events. Just the final round of meaningless golf events and maybe some unbelievably unexciting NBA games.

Get used to it. Aside from Super Bowl Sunday on Feb. 6, the next meaningful weekend in sports television doesn't occur until March. And that's only because you can't change a channel without seeing college basketball. Conference tournaments, then the Selection Show, then March Madness tournament. That's a real triple crown, minus the legal gambling in every state.

Some will argue the NBA All-Star game is good viewing. These are likely the same people who organize their schedules around the NFL Pro Bowl and still eat ramen.

So we are stuck this weekend. Find a project quick. Go to the track. Pay attention to your wife. Do something, because there's no football and staring at the screen like the girl from Poltergeist won't help anyone.

This dark Sunday in between the AFC and NFC championship games and the Super Bowl is designed to make the Super Bowl fall in television's sweeps week, where commercial rates are set for the coming months. Is it fair to viewers? No, but then again, when was is the viewer's choice factored into anything except the MTV VMAs?

There will be an NBA game or two, UConn women vs. Notre Dame, and motorcross on television during the normal football viewing hours. If not for Geno Auriemma's wind-defying hair gel, I might unplug my television on Sunday. Sorry, but I'm waaaaay too young to appreciate non-major golf tournaments. And now that Phil Mickelson has already won a major, it's no longer fun watching him miss an 8-foot putt to blow the lead and lose the tournament.

We can only hope for ESPN to run a "Tilt" marathon -- all three episodes -- followed by "Hustle." Or maybe TBS will have a "Brewster's Millions" viewing, followed by every John Landis '80s movie. With any luck, Anthony Michael Hall as high school football legend Johnny Walker will grace my television screen in "Johnny B. Goode."

Gee, I wish there was some hockey on this weekend. Psych!

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Random sporting thoughts

2005-01-26T11:31:00.000-05:00

* Jon Gruden was once considered the best young mind in the NFL. It's amazing how he jumped the shark after winning the Super Bowl two years ago, culminated by his hiring of Paul Hackett as quarterbacks coach for the Buccaneers. Phil Simms should pull an Archie Manning and demand that his son, Chris Simms, be traded from Tampa Bay. Let Brian Griese suffer with the Hack Daddy.

* I liked having the Florida Marlins being a professional sports franchise more when they were selling players for umbrellas and sun-tan lotion rather than buying players for $52 million. Bring back 1998, please, and preferably without some would-be-out-of-work-if-not-for-VH1 comedians.

* If Terrell Owens plays in the Super Bowl, he will be the new Willis Reed.

* For the second year in a row, Rodney Harrison remains the morning-line favorite to get arrested during Super Bowl week.

* What if they were the New Jack City Patriots instead of the New England Patriots? This thing is bigger than Tom Brady. Soon, Belichick will itch, and Andy Reid will be there to scratch the hell out of him.

* Geez, the Knicks really, really stink.

* For at least the third time in the last month, the NHL players are having a "last chance to save the season" meeting. This is getting painfully annoying. Just step up and make a decision. It's worse than a 14-year-old girl trying to figure out what to wear on the first day of school.

* Most annoying stories during Super Bowl week, in order:
1) Belichick's a genius.
2) The Patriots are just a bunch of no-names.
3) Eagles fans.

* Is anyone else dreading next Tuesday's Super Bowl Media Day? I'm wondering what ridiculous things will occur this year that will require me to waste precious moments of my life writing about.

* UNC will win the national championship.

* I hate half-points.

* Forget the Super Bowl parties this year. Let's arrange the "NHL is over" party. THAT is a reason to celebrate with chips, wings, drinks, salsas from around the world, and twins.

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Super Bowl stories actually worth reading

2005-01-24T10:00:00.000-05:00

Now that the Super Bowl matchup is set, get ready for two weeks of hell. During the next 14 days, you can expect to read stories on just about every member of both teams, including the water boy, the special teams coach, and the guy who uncoils the headsets on the sidelines.

With so many unnecessary puff pieces and sob stories flooding your brain, it can be easy to forget the real issues behind the game. Fortunately, Keyboard Quarterbacks is here to help. Here's a list of interesting topics and stories to talk about during the next weeks while we wait for Super Bowl XXXIX:

T.O. flaps his wings, his legs, and his gums

Even though he'll probably be watching from the sidelines on February 6, there's no doubt the Eagles' Terrell Owens will say something stupid during the next couple of weeks. Of course, we in the media will love it because it'll give us something to talk about other than the punters' shiny new kicking shoes. And the Patriots -- a team that has proven it does not need any extra motivation -- will privately vow to make him eat his words by embarrassing Donovan McNabb and the rest of his teammates.

By the way, did you see Owens celebrating and dancing around on the sidelines Sunday like a boy with new legs? Apparently that injury isn't so bad.

Eagles fans must be wondering why their best receiver was doing a samba on the sidelines while bums like Todd Pinkston and Freddie Mitchell are trying to catch bullets from McNabb. But I guess nothing surprises me with the traveling sideshow known as T.O.

Perfect Pats vs. Dangerous Donovan

Donovan McNabb is one of the best athletes and quarterbacks in the game, and the best playmaker on the Philadelphia offense. But he faces a defense that has already humiliated Peyton Manning's Colts and a host of other top offenses this year.

The Patriots win games by not making mistakes, and forcing opponents to make a lot of them. If McNabb can keep the ball out of the arms of the Patriots defensive backs, the Eagles have a 50-50 shot to win this thing. Bonus points if Philly can actually pick off Tom Brady, who hasn't thrown a key interception since... well... ever.

The Westbrook factor

TV analysts made a big deal about Brian Westbrook being the key to the Eagles' offense with Owens out of the lineup. They're not wrong -- Westbrook is an exceptionally versatile back who can excel both as a receiver and a runner. But the Eagles would be wise to gameplan some other options.

After all, this is the New England team that shut down Marshall Faulk three years ago, when he was the best receiving/running back in the league. Westbrook can have an impact, but he isn't likely to gain the 135 all-purpose yards he picked up against Atlanta. Bill Belichick and Romeo Crennel will make sure of that.

Will Philly decide to come out throwing, get McNabb some confidence and open up holes for Westbrook by forcing the Patriots' DBs to drop into coverage?

Halftime show mayhem

Now folks, I hate the Super Bowl halftime show just as much as the next real football fan, but after last year's chaotic spectacle, I admit I will be watching. Naturally, the execs at FOX will take the necessary measures to ensure that a repeat of last year's $550,000 peep show does not occur.

One of those measures was naming as a performer ex-Beatle Paul McCartney, the sight of whose right breast would only make the 200 women in the viewing audience over the age of 60 swoon with glee, not flood the FCC offices with calls.

Unfortunately, the FOX honchos can't prevent Ashlee Simpson from dressing up as McCartney, running on stage, singing a few bars of "La La" and causing the 82,000 in attendance to storm the field in defense of their eardrums.

Troy Brown

As far as I'm concerned, this is the only guy on either team who deserves as much attention as he will get the next two weeks. Never once opening his mouth to complain, Brown willingly accepted Coach Belichick's request that he help out the Patriots' wounded secondary by transforming himself into a nickel cornerback.

Bear in mind that just three years ago, Brown caught 101 passes and was one of the top receivers in the league. This year, he caught just 17 -- the same number as he had tackles. But his three interceptions were his biggest stat.

In an era where you can't even get a player like John Abraham to limp onto the field to play half the game, Brown sacrificed stardom in exchange for W's -- and exemplified exactly why the Patriots are in the Super Bowl for the third time in four years.

Who will win Super Bowl XXXIX?

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Hammering Hackett one more time

2005-01-19T16:49:00.000-05:00

I woke to the news of Paul Hackett's resignation as offensive coordinator for the New York Jets. (Yes, I tend to sleep late.)

When is the parade? Are tickets on sale? Will it be in Manhattan or East Rutherford? Down the Canyon of Heroes? Please, Mayor Bloomberg, make the announcement quickly so I can schedule the day off from work.

How could the day go wrong now? I no longer cared that the cold water pipe in my apartment was frozen. Nor did I give much thought to the two soda cans that exploded in my car trunk last night because of the below-freezing temperatures and likely ruined my clean laundry I left in there.

If the snow started falling from the sky earlier than it did, I'd have run outside and made snow angels.

As us Italians are wont to do in moments of extreme emotional disturbance/elation, I cooked. Some ziti, some sauce, some meatballs, some bragiole, some saw-zeech (that's sausage for those not fluent in broken Italian).

Watching the water boil, my blood began to approach the 212-degree Fahrenheit level. It was a race to see which would steam first, the pot of water or my head.

Hackett RESIGNED. He was NOT FIRED. That's a bunch of hoo-hah! Sure, it's semantics and I should be ecstatic that "Mr. Draw Play on third-and-6" no longer has Chad Pennington's helmet on speed dial on Sunday afternoons, but I was seeking much more degradation for Paulie.

I was hoping for some public humiliation, perhaps a flogging. Or maybe make Hackett run draw plays by himself in Times Square during rush hour.

I feel like a Red Sox fan right now: I got what I wanted but still find a reason to complain and suffer internally.

By resigning, Hackett can be perceived as a sympathetic figure, a man who knew his time was up and bowed out gracefully. Basically, he did what Evander Holyfield should have done seven fights ago. He'll be forever mocked by Jets fans, but even Mike and the Mad Dog talked more about the Jack Johnson PBS special than they did about Hackett during the first few hours of their WFAN radio show. Has hammering Hackett fallen out of favor that quickly?

This guy was awful and he deserves his time in the spotlight of Hades. Jets fans are still twitching at his 5-yard pass plays on third-and-6, and his 2-yard quickouts on third-and-18. Just because the man is down does not mean we cannot kick him. It happens all the time in professional wrestling, which was less farcical than Hackett's continued employment.

The nicest thing that can be said about Hackett's four-year stint in New York was that he stuck to his guns the whole time. He came in loving the draw play. He went out loving the draw play. It's somewhat admirable, but not too much. My favorite thing about Hackett is this: As soon as he left USC as head coach in 2000, the Trojans won two national titles and produced two Heisman Trophy quarterbacks. Through this guerilla math, Pennington will win the MVP next season and the Jets will at least reach the Super Bowl.

I'm of the belief that Herm told Hackett he was going to be fired, but allowed him to resign and save face. I can't fault Herm for being a class act, but still, maybe Hackett deserved in a kick in the patoot on his way out of the office.

January 19, 2005: A proud moment in Jets history. It should definitely be listed in the "Memorable Moments" section of the Jets' 2005 media guide.

Special shout out: Props to Graphic design friend Rich for that gem at the top of this blog. See more of his work by clicking here.

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One way or another, it's up to players

2005-01-18T19:40:00.000-05:00

Forget all the rhetoric and back-and-forth about who is to blame and who needs to concede what. The NHL and the players union are run by the two biggest obstructors to peace on ice since Bob Probert and Tie Domi. Both sides are to blame. Blame is irrelevant. What matters is what can be done, and what must be done, to save the NHL.

There is one group of men who can forge a deal that will save the league. (Hint: It's not the guys who wear suits and ties and watch games from luxury boxes.)

Only the players have to power to end this whole sorry affair. Because they're the only ones who care.

Let's face it: The owners are rich, and probably will stay rich whether or not the NHL goes under like the Rangers on a playoff run. Gary Bettman will tell you how much he loves the game, how much it hurts him to not be playing hockey. But the fact is, Bettman doesn't play hockey. Probably never has. Hockey may provide him with a title and a lot of face time, but the fact is, he collects a paycheck no matter how long the NHL rinks stay empty. For most of the owners, it's the same way.

To the extent that their teams are successful and money is in their pockets, the owners are fans of the game. But money is decidedly flowing out of their pockets, right into those of the players. Which means they can and will wait as long as it takes to reverse that trend. And that tells you all you need to know about the extent of their interest in the great sport of the frozen pond.

The players, on the other hand, have a couple of incentives to get the league going as soon as possible. First, they have a livelihood to think about. Most are young, naive, not particularly well-educated, with young wives and families to think about. They play a game they love and are well-paid for doing so. Even with the possibility of alternate North American leagues or pro teams in Europe, they must realize that the type of money to be made off the prestige and popularity of the NHL is unmatched anywhere else in the world.

Second, the players are hockey players. Say what you will about the greedy, jaded athlete of the 21st Century -- when it comes down to it, these guys know they are living a dream come true. Today's NHLers grew up idolizing stars like Wayne Gretzky, Jari Kurri, and Patrick Roy... And now they are wrecking the chance to build on that legacy, all in the name of an ancillary million here or a few thousand there.

Even in the face of a stern, wagging finger from NHLPA head Bob Goodenow -- who if nothing else has been a remarkable champion for the NHL agent -- it's becoming clear that some of the game's stars won't stand by while their boyhood game is destroyed.

Brendan Shanahan organized a summit on rules changes that could improve the game. Jeremy Roenick spoke out about the need for a deal to get done soon. Trevor Linden spurred on a new round of labor talks which he hopes will bridge extensive gaps in the two sides' bargaining philosophies. And remember: It was the players who took the first step towards reconciliation, offering a 24 percent salary rollback in December.

No one is criticizing the union for bowing under the enormous pressure of the fans, the owners, and the skeptical players themselves; and no one should if and when they do crack. The players must come to the realization that it is they -- not the owners -- who have everything to lose by sitting out. The owners are not the ones uprooting their homes and leaving their families to play pro hockey in places like Italy and Norway for $1,000 a week. The owners will retain their millions, NHL or not.

The only question left is, How long before they come to their senses? How long before the players grasp the harm they are doing to their careers and the game they love by haggling over a few million dollars? How long can they shoestring it out working on farms and selling printer ink while the owners uncaringly flip through stacks of money?

Their resolve is admirable, but their sensibility is not. Eventually someone surely will realize the owners have no impetus to return the game to the ice unless a deal is in place that guarantees them an opportunity to advance their position on the Forbes 500 list. And when that happens, no amount of Goodenow posturing will prevent the avalanche of support the players will receive. In the end, the players have the opportunity to come out looking like the good guys. It's an opportunity they'd be foolish to pass up.

Weekend Update: Brien is Finkle, Finkle is Brien

2005-01-17T02:18:00.000-05:00

Doug Brien.

There, I said it. For the final time in my life, I used those two words in succession. From here onward, he'll be known simply as D.B. Deal with that as you wish. It's as bad a curse word as that former Philadelphia Eagles coach who guide the Jets off a cliff like he was playing chicken against a leather-jacket tough guy in some 1958 movie.

After a week off from the Weekend Update (judging by the 32 million e-mails I received last week, you were clearly unnerved by its absence), we're back with a vengeance. No themes this week, though. Just straight-up hardcore mockery and brutality, the bulk of which will be directed at the New York Jets. So let's get started:

* Dick Curl should call Flavor Flav for some help coaching the clock. Surely, Flav can give the "clock coach" a few pointers on how to tell time. Or, at the very least, Curl should be forced to wear the Flavor Flav alarm clock (yes, it exists) around his neck AND that big wristwatch worn by the Fresh Prince's mother in the video "Parents just don't understand" since he clearly doesn't know how to tell time.

* D.B. in Finkle. Finkle is D.B. Am I suggesting D.B. have a sex-change operation, become a police detective, kidnap Chad Pennington and try to sabotage the Super Bowl when the Jets make it there next year in some sort of bizarre real-life twist to "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective?" I am suggesting D.B. have a sex-change operation, become a police detective, kidnap Chad Pennington and try to sabotage the Super Bowl when the Jets make it there next year in some sort of bizarre real-life twist to "Ace Ventura: Pet Detective."

* Laces out, Toby!

* The Hackett Watch is on. Another three-point outing by his offense has us Jets fans wondering why we jumped the gun and recruited from USC so soon. We get Hackett, USC gets Norm Chow, Pete Carroll and two national championships.

* Well, at least we have eight more months before the next draw play.

* It's going to be a shame watching LaMont Jordan rush for more than 2,000 yards next season as a member of the Miami Dolphins, Oakland Raiders or Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

* Heath Miller is a unanimous All-American tight end from Virginia who declared himself eligible for this year's NFL draft. That is worth repeating. Heath Miller is a unanimous All-American tight end from Virginia who declared himself eligible for this year's NFL draft. That, too, is worth repeating, especially in the April days leading up to the draft.

* How does a person such as D.B. continually get jobs in the NFL when his success rate on field goals between 40-49 yards is 73 percent? That is not very good. I'm sorry but a 49-yard field goal or shorter has to be made. He gets financially compensated to perform the responsibilites outlined by the job description. It's always pitiful when someone can't do their job properly yet still collect a paycheck. Look around your office right now. Surely, you see at least three people in a similar situation. D.B. will get cut soon, if not by the Jets then likely by a subway rider or cab driver. In my high school, 73 was a failing grade. And we didn't get extra-credit chances at redemption like D.B. did.

* Gotta love Donnie Henderson. Let's just hope he stays with the Jets for a few more seasons.

* Chad Pennington, meet Dr. James Andrews. Dr. James Andrews, meet Chad Pennington.

* Perhaps a new offensive coordinator finally will figure out how to effectively utilize the speed of Santana Moss.

* Does anyone know if Joe Beningo is still alive?

* D.B. poisoned my Kool-aid.

And in other sports news:

* Peyton Manning took a dump on himself again. In the playoffs. In Foxboro. Against the Patriots. Against Bill Belichick. Perhaps some of that magic brother Eli has rubbed off on Peyton during a family dinner.

* Tom Brady = Joe Montana.

* We must root for Atlanta to beat the Eagles this coming Sunday. There are many reasons for this, not the least of which is I will be able to write: "After losing a fourth straight NFC championship game, the Philadelphia Eagles can only aspire to the greatness achieved by the Buffalo Bills, losers of four straight Super Bowls." Oh what a glorious paragraph that will be.

* The Knicks? Yeah, they still stink. And getting stinkier by the day.

* Minnesota's Mike Tice still remains the worst coach in the NFL not named Jim Haslett.

* The Yankees didn't sign anyone over the weekend. Such winter rarity begets noteworthiness.

* People care so little about the NHL, I'm wondering if anyone even remembers there is still a lockout going on.

* St. John's came very close to beating a talented Notre Dame team. In football, this is a huge feat, especially since St. John's no longer has a football team. Yet, in men's basketball, it's an even bigger feat.

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Let the Moon man shine!

2005-01-14T11:15:00.000-05:00

What did Randy Moss do that was so bad? He faked mooning fans in Green Bay, so why is American lashing out at him?

I believe the answer is one most people don't want to hear. That answer is race.

If Brett Favre scored a touchdown in such an emotionally charged game (instead of lamely throwing the ball away 5 yards in front of the line of scrimmage), and imitated mooning the crowd (in a town famous for the pants-all-the-way-down moon), would the NFL have stepped in and fined him $10,000? What about Brandon Stokely? Peyton Manning? Drew Bennett?

OK, maybe Bennett would be fined because only fantasy football players and people in Tennessee know who this guy is.

It's pretty funny, to me at least, that Moss has to fork over "straight cash, homey" (one of the best sound bites of the last 10 years). He showed less of his patoot than team cheerleaders, and heaven forbid the networks from using "Cleavage Cam" before and after commercial breaks. For the record, I'm not against "Cleavage Cam," but the parallel is amusing.

Media people have been bashing Moss for his actions as if he had a wardrobe malfunction. Moss has this reputation of NFL's bad boy, some of it he deserves - walking off the field during a game because he's frustrated qualifies as deserving.

On Monday's "Cold Pizza" on ESPN2, TV personality/newspaper columnist Skip Bayless was outraged by the Moss moon. He said it just one part of why he doesn't like Moss. Another part was "the hair." Yes, Moss rocked an awesome afro, one rivaled only by Dwayne from "What's Happening?" But when a white man says he doesn't like a black person because of his hair, I must wonder if this country will ever become unilaterally tolerant of its citizens.

ESPN's Mark Schlereth (yeah, I know) bashed Moss for disrespecting the game, himself, his team, the fans, blah blah blah. Take it easy there, slugger. He may have offended you, or maybe you've just decided to have an opinion, but I'm not offended. Nor were many people I know. It was funny. That's it. And when a man nicknamed "Stink," as Schlereth is, and he gets upset about a mooner, where the parallels are too funny to contemplate today.

Not to mention it's tradition for Packers fans to stick around after the game to moon the visiting team's bus as it leaves Lambeau Field. Those are real cheeks exposed to people. And frankly, if given a choice of exposed posterior flesh to see, Wisconsin slobs loaded on beer and brats wouldn't be my first, second or 38th choice.

Moss said he might expose something else this weekend against Philadelphia. I can't condone that "something else" but I have a better idea for the randy Randy. He should really moon Philly when he scores the first touchdown of the game. On his left cheek, he should draw a big T. On his right cheek, he should draw a big O. Yes, that's right. Scrawled across his patoot for the all the world to see would be T.O. What better way to show up Philly and its injured star receiver?

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Random thoughts on Randy

2005-01-11T16:40:00.000-05:00

I watched the second half of the All-star press conference doubleheader this afternoon. (I woke up at 12:30 today, thus costing me a chance at experiencing Omar Minaya starting 10 sentences and finishing a different 10 sentences in response to one question).

In viewing the 6-foot-10 mullet-less Randy Johnson speak, I began to think:

* What is Mike Mussina thinking when he hears Michael Kay and Suzyn Waldman say the Yankees finally have a No. 1 starter?

* Where is Johnson's wife? Usually at these press conferences, the wife has some primo real estate location on the dais.

* How many people can the Yankees possibly introduce before introducing the only person we want to hear speak? It began with Yankees public relations savant Rick Cerrone, who then brought up team president Randy Levine, who then brought up general manager Brian Cashman. This was ridiculous. I was waiting for the entire starting rotation from 1991 to come up and say a few words. (For those wondering, that gem of a staff was Wade Taylor, Jeff Johnson, Pascual Perez, Scott Sanderson, Dave Eiland.)

* Some Steinbrenner rules are good, such as the one that bans long hair. Though I'm all about expressing yourself as you wish, those nasty white-man gheri curls Johnson wore had to go.

* Damn, this guy is tall!

* It will be such a pleasure to watch games on YES this year, because that means I won't be listening to them on the radio, which means I won't be listening to Waldman calling the games on the radio. She's a very nice lady in person, but the voice, oh lord, the voice. She is the antithesis to Demi Moore's voice, perhaps the sexiest ever.

* Through my limited exposure to sportscaster Duke Castiglione, I'm of the opinion that he is the poor man's Jim Rome. I could be wrong, but I also could be right. I'll have to investigate further. Castiglione is the CBS reporter involved in the Randy Johnson-cameraman scandal. He pressed the situation a bit and declined to agree that Johnson tried to be nice about the whole thing afterward. Research shows that Castiglione hosts some sort of sports roundtable show on Sundays on CBS. I wonder if it's called "Castiglione is burning."

* Where is Derek Jeter?

* Seeing that Yankees sign as the backdrop always reminds me of a 1995 cover of Yankees Magazine where Don Mattingly announced his one-year sabbatical, which was in effect, his retirement. Always a sad, but proud moment in my fandom.

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The definitely-not-sarcastic list of why Carlos Beltran will fail

2005-01-11T09:07:00.000-05:00

Greetings, sports fans. I'm sure most of you are wondering what nuclear power plant is affecting my brain to make me diss the Mets' newest acquisition. But let me assure you, no brain cells were harmed in the making of this blog.

Like most Mets fans, my initial reaction to the news of Carlos Beltran's signing was satisfaction, followed by glee, joy, and a Namath-like desire to kiss everyone. Could you blame me? Beltran has speed, power, defense, and clutch-hitting... He's like a miniature Griffey, circa 1998. He's the most exciting player in Mets history; and the biggest free agent signing they've ever had.

But after listening to hours of wonderfully insightful sports talk radio calls from jilted Yankees fans and ultra-cynical Mets fans, I came to realize something: Boy was I wrong!

I should have known all along -- there are plenty of excellent reasons why Carlos Beltran will fail! Here's my list, with regards to the fans who helped set me straight:

1) The Yankees didn't want him. Well jeez, isn't that reason enough? If the Yankees don't want him, he must not be good, right? I mean, think of all the great players they've added in the past few years -- Javier Vazquez, Jason Giambi, Mike Mussina, Alex Rodriguez -- all champions... Or wait, umm....

2) Shea is not a hitters' park Of course, this is particularly applicable because Beltran is solely a power hitter. Sure he's got a career .284 average, steals 30-40 bases, and hits 30-40 doubles per year. But the only thing we fans care about home runs. So what if he doubles and triples the hell out of the ball? Triples are so BORING! Mets fans want more one-dimensional stars like Jeromy Burnitz, Dave Kingman, George Foster, and Mo Vaughn! Ahhh Mo Vaughn... now there was a star!

3) It's hard to play centerfield at Shea Stadium No one who watches the Mets could disagree with that assessment. With a cavernous outfield and deep power alleys, you could run for days and not get to some fly balls. Ask Mike Cameron. But really, what makes Shea so tough is the wind -- at least, that's what one WFAN caller said on Sunday night. And, you know... the more I think about it, the more I realize he's right. Because I don't think Carlos Beltran has ever dealt with the wind before. I'm pretty sure he's played all 885 of his Major League games inside a dome, right? Isn't that how he got his reputation as one of the best defensive centerfielders in the game?

4) He won't be able to handle the media The New York baseball media is as tough as they come, although maybe not as obsessive as Boston's and not as unforgiving as Philly's. And we all know the long list of MLB players whose careers have been failures because of their inability to handle the media: Let's see, there's Randy Johnson and Eddie Murray and Barry Bonds, and Steve Carlton... All bums!

5) Carlos Beltran hit .267 last year Nothing is a surer sign of a player who is washed up than when his average dips 40 points. I know that despite that he hit 38 home runs, 36 doubles, stole 42 bases, and drove in 104 runs. And I know he hit over .400 with 8 home runs in last year's playoffs. But let's get real: the playoffs don't matter! What matters is that the Yankees didn't want him! And Shea is not a hitters park! And my astrologer told me Saturn would not pass through Ursa Minor this year, which clearly means that the Mets drastically overpaid and Carlos Beltran will be a flop!

What? You don't buy that???

How will Carlos Beltran do as a Met? E-mail Mike Casey

Read Newsday's Carlos Beltran coverage. Click here.

Jets know their ABCs

2005-01-09T02:24:00.000-05:00

Minutes before kickoff to what would prove to be a blueprint New York Jets football game, Unemployed sitcom writer friend Jann remarked of the pleasure he receives from watching sporting events on ABC.

He claimed their production skills as the best in network television. He worked on the set of “Spin City” a few years back, so I trust his judgment.

But, clearly, a Jets fan chloroformed the usual production assistant in the ABC truck at the end of regulation and took his spot for overtime. After the Jets won in regulation then didn’t (Eric Barton threw a haymaker into Drew Brees’ head, perhaps trying to knock that dirt patch off Brees’ face, perhaps not), San Diego predictably put itself in position to win in overtime.

Nate Kaeding set up a 40-yard field goal. I noted that he looked like he was raised in a trailer on a toxic waste dump site (think “those two guys that John Candy and Eugene Levy go to visit in “Armed and Dangerous”).

Here comes the superb production skills. ABC flashes a graphic that read Kaeding was the first rookie in NFL history to attempt an overtime field goal in the postseason. Only, they used Doug Brien’s headshot. If you pressing your luck at this point, you just got whammied. Restaurant friend Rob noticed the mistake. It was an impressive observation from a man who watched clutches moments in a Jets game as if he were coaching third base in the eighth inning of a tie game. Even more impressive considering he spent the overtime switching between a brand new Jonathan Vilma jersey and the old-school Santana Moss jersey depending on who had the ball.

I noticed the Doug Brien mistake a second after Rob. I was still struggling internally with the sweet and soggy pork from some Chinese restaurant we ordered from. (Note: I was skeptical when the delivery guy showed up basically right after we hung up the phone.)

Quickly, Rob and I verbally assaulted Unemployed sitcom writer friend about the screw-up.

“If ever there was an omen, that was it,” Rob screamed, in his Vilma jersey.

The toxic waste baby/Chargers kicker shanked it. HE SHANKED IT!

The Jets are still in it. After having won the game, then not, then having lost it, then not, the Jets had the ball.

This was the quintessential Jets game. The next time someone says, “I want to be a Jets fan,” show them a copy of this game and say, “This is what you are getting yourself into. Can you handle the truth?”

Here comes Chad onto the field. Curtis for 4 yards. Santana for 18. Curtis for 3. McCareins for 11. LaMont around the left side for 19. LaMont right for 3, then up the middle for 2. Field goal, Brien. Jets win!

Nope!

Marty Schottenheimer called a timeout, or at least the referees claimed he did. So, the Jets won again, but they didn’t. A celebration would have to wait until Brien kicked it again. He hit it, against all Jet odds. 20-17, Jets win. San Diego loses.

We flip to ESPNEWS to wait for some Herm quotes. They show the highlights of the game first, then right underneath, the ticker reads: “Chargers’ Marty Schottenheimer voted 2004 AP NFL Coach of the Year.” Such irony.

That, my friend, is some impressive television production.

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Life imitates art, Vol. II

2005-01-04T14:03:00.000-05:00

In our first installment of how life imitates art, we saw the U.S. Olympic men's basketball team face a situation similar to Rocky Balboa fighting Ivan Drago in Russia in Rocky IV.

Our second installment comes from the West Coast, specifically Lo-Cal (some may know this region better as SoCal, but Lo-Cal and Hi-Cal are funnier.)

The Anaheim Angels no longer exist. Huh? How can the 2002 world champions go belly up in two years? Well, not exactly.

The franchise changed its name to the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. You're thinking two things right now: 1) Morons! and 2) "Yeah, Anaheim."

Such a name change is, as Anaheim city executive John Nicoletti said, "geographically confusing and absurd."

In the movie Swingers, Sue tried to claim Los Angeles as his hometown. The dialogue went like this:

Sue: "You don't know what it's like out here. I'm from L.A."
Trent: "Yeah, Anaheim."
Sue: "Whatever."

Can't you just see Derek Jeter telling people he's going to Los Angeles to play the Angels? Or any other American League player trying to be taken seriously saying that? It's too funny.

I'm going to weasel my way into Yankee Stadium the day before the first West Coast road trip just so I can ask Jeter, "So, Derek, you start in Seattle, then go to pitching-depleted Oakland. Who's the third series against?"

Jeter will respond: "Los Angeles."

I will respond: "Yeah, Anaheim."

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Weekend Update rings in the new year

2005-01-03T01:41:00.000-05:00

Well, we’re another year into history, and the Jets are still the Jets. With life’s success or demise in 2005 to be determined in the coming 361 days, it’s comforting to know our beloved Jets are the planet’s one constant.

They didn’t need to win to reach the playoffs, so they didn’t. But before you Jets fans put a picture of Paul Hackett on the office water fountain and pray for plumbing problems, consider this: The Jets are 10-6 and in the playoffs.

The Jets started 5-0, then went 5-6 and still made the postseason for the third time in four seasons under coach Herm. Final record at the end of the regular season: 10-6.

But if the Jets started 5-6, then went 5-0, Jets fans would be pillaging Modell’s and other sporting goods stores looking for AFC Wild Card qualifier T-shirts. Interestingly enough, the final record at the end of the regular season would be . . . ? Bingo, 10-6!

So forget how they got there. They started this season playing for the wild card (no one was going to wrestle the AFC East title from New England) and that’s what they got. Turn over that new leaf, Jets fans. Be happy.

With this is mind, we begin 2005’s first Weekend Update with some events of the last few days and their corresponding New Year’s resolutions:

* The Jets get the 26-21 lead, based solely on its defense, then give up the lead, based solely on its defense. They kick a field goal to tie it at 29 at the end of regulation. Oh wait, the field goal would have won the game had Herm Edwards not opted to go for two in the third quarterXX after getting the 26-21 lead. An extra point was all that was needed then. It would have given the Jets a 27-21 lead, and then a field goal at the end would have won it, 30-29. But nooooooooooooooooo! Then the Rams win in overtime.
Herm Edwards’ new year’s resolution: I will coach to win the game.
Paul Hackett’s new year’s resolution: I will stop calling draw plays every 46 seconds.
Terry Bradway’s new year’s resolution: I will fire Paul Hackett and leave him in San Diego if we lose the wild-card game.

* The Giants win the game! The Giants win the game! The Giants win the game! Tiki Barber ran it in with 16 seconds and no timeouts left to end the Giants’ eight-game losing skid. In the process, Barber became the single-season rushing king of the franchise and Eli Manning won his first NFL game. And it all happened on a draw play.
Tom Coughlin’s new year’s resolution: I will build an offensive line next season.
Eli Manning’s new year’s resolution: Peyton ain’t s-bomb!

* Knicks point guard Stephon Marbury rang in the new year by proclaiming himself the best point guard in the NBA. Props to Starbury for believing in himself. You can’t get mad at that moxie. He then went out and pulled a Marbury: scored 31 points, assisted on 8 other baskets, lost the game to Jason Kidd and the Nets. Classic Steph. He’s a great point guard, but until he leads his team to a postseason series victory, he’s not the best. He’s just good. Point guards are floor leaders and possess that knack for the clutch play in the clutch moment. See: Kidd, Stevie Nash.
Marbury’s new year’s resolution: I will continue to talk trash, back it up, lead my team nowhere, then demand a trade.
The Knicks' new year's resolution: We vow to float around the .500 mark for as long as possible.

* St. John’s men’s basketball stunned – STUNNED! – N.C. State . . . and everyone else in populated areas of the world. The Red Storm outclassed an ACC team ranked No. 17 in the nation, three days after the Wolfpack’s Julius Hodge vowed to “bring some of Rucker Park” to Madison Square Garden for this little Holiday Festival.
Red Storm’s new year’s resolution: We’ll try to win a few more games, but if not, at least we won a tournament.
Julius Hodge’s new year’s resolution: I will keep my mouth shut.

* St. John’s women’s basketball played a meaningful game, but lost to UConn, 60-32. The Red Storm were 11-0 before the game, the Huskies just 6-3. That they lost mattered to the Red Storm. That people cared about the outcome mattered even more.
Red Storm’s new year’s resolution: We will not shoot 1-for-29 during any stretch of a game anymore.
Geno Auriemma's new year's resolution: I will continue to give outrageous quotes to reporters such as calling one of my players' shot "the worst in the history of basketball."

* Florida State beat West Virginia, 30-18, to win the Cotton Bowl. FSU quarterback Chris Rix, arguably the worst quarterback in college football history, led a pair of touchdown drives in the second half to seal the win.
Chris Rix’s new year’s resolution: I will stop playing football immediately.
Bobby Bowden’s new year’s resolution: I will recruit a real quarterback one day.

* Texas won the Rose Bowl, 38-37, over Michigan on Dusty Mangum’s last-second 37-yard field goal. It was an amazing back-and-forth game. Even more amazingly, it was the first meeting between these schools in the history of football.
NCAA’s new year’s resolution: We will stop being stupid.

* Randy Johnson became a Yankee.
George Steinbrenner’s new year’s resolution: I will destroy the world before I conquer it.

* Buffalo lost its playoff spot to a bunch of Pittsburgh backups. Denver won a playoff spot against a bunch of Indianapolis backups. Minnesota backed into the playoffs. Seattle earned its spot.
Drew Bledsoe’s new year’s resolution: I won’t take the sack in the offseason.
NFL’s new year’s resolution: We’ll stop talking about the NFC.

* Maria Sharapova donated some money to the tsunami relief fund and kept playing tennis in the disaster-stricked region as part of a promotional tour for the WTA.
Mark La Monica's new year's resolution: I will not stalk Sharapova. Well, at least, I promise not to get arrested for stalking Sharapova.

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How the Jets will make the playoffs

2004-12-29T01:05:00.000-05:00

I have but two words to type that assures the Jets a playoff berth in this glorious 2004-05 season.

Care to guess? Be my guest, but you'll be wrong each time. Yet, I rather enjoy being entertained by inside-the-box thinkers, so I'll play along.

Nope, not Chad Pennington. Not Curtis Martin, either. Certainly not Anthony Becht. Maybe Wayne Chrebet? Nice, sentimental guess, but blatantly incorrect. In fact, no Jet plays into this equation.

The two words that guarantees the Jets a berth in the first round of the NFL playoffs require some progressive thinking. Brace yourselves. Here they come:

JAKE PLUMMER.

That's right, folks. Jake the Snake will bring the Jets to the promised land and prevent yet another collapse by a New York sports franchise this year.

Oh sure, when looked at individually, the words "Jake" and "Plummer" are relatively harmless. But when combined, it forms a lethally bad quarterback with an ever-growing ability to make the wrong play at the wrong time.

If you're wondering what I was drinking when I concocted this notion of a Denver quarterback carrying the Jets to the playoffs when they're not even playing in the same game, the answer is Brisk Iced Tea. Though I never could discern the origin of the ingredient that makes it taste so brisk (if it were iocane powder, I'd certainly know the origin), I'm fairly certain there are no hallucinogens in there.

Here is how it all plays out:

Jets at Rams, 1 p.m. EST: After beating the Eagles on Monday night, the Rams have something to play for in Week 17 at home -- a playoff berth. Marc Bulger is back at quarterback and Torry Holt will likely embarrass the Jets' secondary because they are young and well, they are the Jets. Pennington's arm is still sore and he's questioning his ability the way Cap Rooney did in "Any Given Sunday." Plus, Pennington appears to be growing a stubble mustache giving him that 1991 Levittown look. Not very becoming. And then there's the Paul Hackett Factor, which states that any game the Jets need to play well on offense and score points to win, Hackett will take a dump in his pants. He'll smell up the booth something awful in St. Louis, and Nelly will use his country grammar to mock the Jets at an impromptu halftime show.

Steelers at Bills, 1 p.m. EST: For Buffalo to make the playoffs, a win here is a must as is a Jets or Broncos loss. Pittsburgh has no business even showing up for the game having already clinched the No. 1 seed for the playoffs. Ben "Do you think your Wu-Tang sword can defeat me?" Roethlisberger hurt his ribs last week and would be foolish to play anything more than a series or two. The Bus will get some rest, as will most of the starters. This is Apollo Creed getting into the ring to fight Drago. Not pretty.

It's not looking too good for the Jets right about now. Beningo is on suicide watch at the WFAN studios, and it has nothing to do with his whack-ass partner Sid.

At about 4:01 p.m. EST Sunday, Jets fans will be scouring the Internet for playoff scenarios and live scoreboards in Denver. (Start at here to keep me employed, please.)

Colts at Broncos, 4 p.m EST: Lord . . . lord, lord, lord, lord, this one's a doozy. After the Jets lose and Bills win, every football eye in America will focus on Denver for the biggest game of the year. If the Broncos win, they make the playoffs as a wild card. The Colts already have the No. 3 seed and a home playoff game locked up. Peyton Manning already has the single-season touchdown record. Marvin Harrison already has his phattie contract. Indianapolis' defense stinks. Is there any legitimate reason for the Colts to try in this game, especially since it's in Denver where there figures to be cold weather followed by even colder weather. But here comes New York's hero. Jake Plummer, the king of the dumb play, is still quarterbacking our beloved Broncos, which means two interceptions in the fourth quarter that costs his team the game, the playoffs and any chance of scoring with the hottie at the post-game party.

If you don't believe, take a look at some the Plummer's numbers this season:
TD/Int ratio, first half: 18/10
TD/Int ratio, second half: 7/10
QB rating, first half: 94.0
QB rating, second half: 71.3
* 19 of his 25 touchdowns have come in his first 20 attempts during a game.
* 15 of his 20 interceptions have come against AFC teams
* He's enjoying his greatest December interception rate in the last four years (9 picks in 4 games)

What does all this mean? It's simple. My hunch is Manning will play the first quarter with the rest of the No. 1 starters. He'll throw two touchdowns, and Edgerrin James will run for another. A big 21-point first quarter will force Plummer to throw the ball,which works well for the Colts and even better for the Jets.

So remember Jets fans, when praying to that plastic Fireman Ed statue you keep in the living room, give thanks to Jake Plummer, the man who patented big-moment collapses. He may not have invented the famed "cover pick," but he sure did perfect it.

E-MAIL ME

Weekend Update honors Dan Marino

2004-12-27T02:03:00.000-05:00

After 20 years of unreachable comfort, Dan Marino succumbed to the magic of Peyton Manning. Marino’s 48-touchdown season of 1984 has now gone the way of VHS tapes: a fun discussion of the greatness of the 1980s, but still in second place when compared with today’s technology.

Manning threw his 49th touchdown pass on Sunday to help the Colts tie the Chargers and eventually win in overtime. Manning is the new gold standard for touchdown immortality . . . and he has one more game left this season.

In honor of the record holder that was, we here at Weekend Update deliver the top events from Christmas weekend using movie and show titles from Dan Marino’s acting career.

Bad Boys II
The Pacers played the Pistons on Christmas Day. Not even Santa Claus could have delivered such a juicy gift under our virtual sports tree. A bunch of coal-filled players, including the newly reinstated, played a clean, dull basketball game. Sad, but true. Oh, how that grinch David Stern stole Christmas.

Holy Man
Brett Favre did it again. In a dome, no less. He led the Packers on two scoring drives in the final minutes to beat the Vikings and win the NFC North Division. Surely, he’ll meet St. Peter at the gates of Heaven one day and there’ll be no discussion. Favre will just flash his E-ZPass and stroll into another sacred atmosphere.

Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
Maybe Ventura can help the Jets find their quarterback again. Last week, Chad Pennington turned into a chameleon and shunned the media, then lectured then the following day. This week, he turned into a dog against the wolves of New England. These Jets now must beat the Rams to make the playoffs. And Pennington has to lead them. Alllllllllll righty then! Perhaps the Jets can hire Ray Finkel or Lois Einhorn as a backup.

Little Nicky
Check out those gritty little Knicks. Another three calendar days went by and the Knicks still remain in first place. And they have no big men inside. That’s about as predictable as the box office success of Adam Sandler.

Inside the NFL
Nick Saban left the wonderful world of college football at Louisiana State to coach the Miami Dolphins, the former team of Mr. Marino. Even on the weekend when Marino became No. 2, he still found a way to make news. Oh wait, he quit as Miami’s top executive way back in the beginning of the year . . . after three weeks on the job.

The NFL Today
Ben “Do you think your Wu-Tang Sword can defeat me?” Roethlisberger got hurt, but still won . . . Eli Manning still stinks . . . The Raiders’ defense continues to decompose when on the field with the lead in the final minute of a game . . . Without Michael Vick, the Falcons are unbelievably not that good . . . Minnesota will never win the big game so long as Central Islip’s favorite son Mike Tice is the coach . . . Are the 49ers on the clock yet?

Honorable mentions
* Since Marino’s acting career is not nearly as prolific as his NFL career, we’re limited in our title selection. However, making no mention of Reggie White would be as tragic as his death at the age of 43. White was a ferocious defensive end who amassed 198 sacks in his NFL career, a record that stood until Bruce Smith got 200 and retired two years ago. I wish I grew up an Eagles or Packers fan because then I’d definitely still own that “Ministry of Defense” poster.

* Shaq vs. Kobe was an exciting game, one worthy of the hype surrounding it. Amazing how the NBA can get us to care about its league on a day when such delicacies as cream puffs, Christmas cookies, bragiole and Italian bread from Brooklyn are available at the ready.

Stuffing Athletes' Stockings

2004-12-24T04:28:00.000-05:00

Christmas came right on time this year. (Sorry, couldn't resist the spoof of the worst cliche in journalism history -- "Christmas came early this year for insert-team-or-player-here.")

As such, it's time for one of my favorite traditions that started way back a few hours ago. It's time to peek into the stockings of sports figures and see if Santa dropped some sweet candy or dumped a heap of coal in there.

So, gather 'round the Yule log and let's take a look:

Kobe Bryant: The entire coal mine.
No matter how much coal is in his stocking, he still won't be able to produce another $4 million ring for his wife. This guy has turned into a real fonzanoon. He cheated on his wife, then called out Karl Malone for allegedly hitting on said wife. He got all defensive about the sanctity of his marriage, then likely went on the road and pulled a Fredo.

Chad Pennington: Half coal, half candy.
His lecturing of reporters having the "privilege" to cover the Jets still perplexes me as much as the debate over who was the most valuable member of New Edition. As if an advanced degree is needed to cover a team without a championship in 35 years and has a history of stupidity. His little tirade made no sense, but he did have a great game against Seattle, so we must acknowledge such positivity what with it being the season of giving and all. Still, a dumper of a game on Sunday against the Patriots and Santa is swinging by Giants Stadium with a fresh heaping of coal.

Paul Depodesta and Javier Vazquez: His and his coal, enscripted with the Dodgers' logo.
Los Angeles GM Depodesta backed out of the three-team deal with the Yankees and Arizona for Randy Johnson. Vazquez torpedoed the deal, too, claiming he wouldn't report to L.A. for a physical. I haven't seen a sabotage like that since Mr. Fuji threw salt in Hulk Hogan's eyes in 1986.

Omar Minaya: Candy, candy, candy.
The man brought in Pedro Martinez and gave the Mets instant credibility. Though it's not enough, it's a good start and deserves some sugary sweets.

Tom Coughlin: The darkest coal imaginable.
The season-killer started with a whole box of Russell Stover's, but it quickly rotted when he pooped on the Giants' playoff hopes by switching to Eli Manning with a 5-4 record. Five straight losses for the rookie, 5-9 overall. Even in the NFC, which contrary to some reports is not above Division I-AA, the Giants can't make the playoffs. Nice job, Tommy Boy.

Jermaine O'Neal; Candy.
If only for the greatest sucker punch caught on camera and played on national television for six straight days. This Pacer will need dental work from all the candy he'll get stuffed into his stocking.

Barry Bonds: Coal.
Actually, give him some cream and clear, but just call it coal. He likely won't ask for clarification.

Jason Giambi: Candy.
Kudos to the disgraced Giambino for having the stones to admit what he did. Wow, I guess doctors were lying about roids reducing the size of your stones.

Herman Edwards: Chocolate-covered fortune cookies.
The little pieces of paper inside could have motivational sayings on them. "Hello? You play to run the draw?" Sorry, couldn't resist. Herm has his Jets on the edge of the playoffs for the third time in four seasons. How many Jets coaches can claim that? Plus, he brought in Donnie Henderson as defensive coordinator, the best thing to happen to the Jets since Mark Gastineau left the team.

Boston Red Sox: A box of NERDS.
What else can you give a bunch of idiots?

Ian Smart: Football-shaped candies.
The Touchdown Kid finally made it to the NFL. His first carry went for 25 yards for the Buccaneers. His first kickoff return went for 17 yards and he's now the No. 1 kickoff returner for Tampa Bay. Gotta love the kid from little ol' C.W. Post scrounging for two years in pursuit of his dream. Thanks for giving us another reason to realize sports are still a beautiful thing.

Phil Mickelson: Candy.
On the Sunday night of his victory in Augusta, this man slept in his bed with his hot wife and his brand new green jacket as Masters champion. His wife is fly, but the jacket earned more props.

Mark La Monica: Maria Sharapova.
Santa, can you hear me?

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The view from Vegas

2004-12-21T03:23:00.000-05:00

A five-day romp through Las Vegas typically provides enough insanity, surrealism and psychotic episodes.

But, upon my return to New York civilization Monday morning, I learned that Las Vegas may have just been the most down-to-earth, expect-the-expected place in America last week.

Scanning the newspapers from the past week, I saw that Vince Carter became a New Jersey Net, Randy Johnson is on the precipice of pinstripes, Eli Manning played very well against the Steelers, St. John's men's basketball won a game and Chad Pennington now hates the media.

What the f-bomb is going on? Maybe the more than 1,000 hands of blackjack among more accents than 1908 Ellis Island fried my brain more than I thought. Or maybe the spate of Long Island Iced Teas ("Hey, I drink regionally," I told the cocktail waitress at The Mirage) at the Baccarat Bar inside the Bellagio with Artist in Italy but not tonight friend Jenny warped more brain cells than the surgeon general's warning cared to let on.

Did I really read the headlines properly? Pennington, after his best game of the season, in a must-win situation, shunned the media. Then Monday afternoon, he went off again. (Note: I planned to watch the news conference on ESPN's Monday Quarterback but passed out on my couch shortly before 2 p.m. after a sleepless red-eye flight.)

What is going on in New York? Such madness should be reserved for sitting in the sports book and watching Detroit shank the extra point, shank the tie and shank your chance at a hefty payout on your four-team parlay. Such madness should be reserved for watching dealers routinely pull nine-card 21s against a pair of kings. Of course, these are just hypothetical samples.

Pennington has always been painted as the nice guy in town, the guy that represents what sports used to be. A family man who speaks of the team more than himself and answers every question in a respectful manner and never gets arrested for drugs, public urination or solicitation of whores.

That's why this all seemed so strange to read Monday morning. I put the papers away and went to bed. I was afraid to pick up the entertainment section for fear I'd read something that said rap music is becoming a talented genre like we haven't seen since 1992. The main news section could have said Iraqi elections will go smoothly and the Bernard Kerik scandal was all an elaborate ruse. I simply couldn't handle such a Bizarro World in my weakened condition.

Guess it's time to check flights, job openings and real estate deals in Vegas. Seems that's the calmest, sanest place.

E-MAIL ME

Be careful on this one, Mets

2004-12-16T08:17:00.000-05:00

If you read and hear the rumblings around talk radio and baseball message boards nowadays, the Mets are walking a very thin line with their fans after their recent signing of Pedro Martinez.

Martinez, known as much for his idiosyncrasies as his devastating curveball, has drawn plenty of negative press in New York over the last few years, and knowledgeable fans seem justified in wondering what impact Pedro's signing will have on team chemsitry and the clubhouse.

But most seem willing to give Pedro a pass, based on his Hall-of-Fame numbers, his relatively young age (33) -- compared to Tom Glavine (38) and Mike Piazza (36) -- and the celebrity status he'll almost certainly bring to the club.

Will they be willing to do the same for Carlos Delgado, the power-hitting first baseman to whom the Mets are about to make a four-year offer?

Hard to say.

More so than the oft-abrasive Martinez, Delgado has drawn criticism from New Yorkers for his refusal to stand for the singing of "God Bless America" during the seventh-inning stretch of Major League games. The visibility of this protest would be exacerbated playing for a New York team, where the patriotic anthem is linked directly to the hearts of thousands affected by the September 11 tragedies.

As the Mets' pursuit of Delgado has intensified, fan reaction has been mixed. Some have said they respect and support Delgado's right to peaceful protest. Others say they would never support Delgado -- nor even the Mets franchise -- should he join the club and continue his demonstrations. Still others have said they would be willing to live with Delgado's political positions as long as he is a good citizen -- and equally important, a successful ballplayer.

It's a tricky topic. The laws of common sense and history, though, tell us that more likely than not, success on the field will be the biggest determining factor for Delgado's fan support. Fans have always supported winners, no matter how flawed or questionable their character. If Delgado can help the Mets win games, it's hard to believe the fans wouldn't support him.

But do the Mets really want to commit to someone who will come to New York with so much added pressure? How many home runs will Delgado have to hit to mollify his fans and detractors -- 30? 40? 50? 80??? How many games will the Mets have to win? How much extra charity work will he have to do to prove he's commited to the benevolence of his new city?

It's a lot to ask. For a team that is treading water in terms of fan support and has already this winter added one of the game's most egocentric personalities, it's a move that would only ramp up the tensions and expectations of its supporters. Expectations go higher, pressures grow larger. Pressures grow larger, tensions rise. When tension rises, some teams can buckle under.

Is Omar Minaya willing to put that kind of pressure on his impressionable youngsters and pacific veterans? Does he believe the Delgado experiment is a worthwhile risk if it puts the Mets back in the limelight?

We're going to find out a lot about the Mets and Mr. Minaya in the next few days. We'll find out just how committed -- or perhaps, obsessed -- they are with winning. Signing Delgado would be an indication, far beyond a reasonable doubt, that Minaya & Co. are willing to stop at nothing to make the Mets winners again. But is this group of players -- in particular Martinez and Delgado -- the right mix to lead the team back to the playoffs? If not, there could be some serious hell to pay at Shea Stadium this year.

Would you support Carlos Delgado if he signed with the Mets?

Vote in an e-poll

E-mail Mike Casey

Martinez the Met is a good idea

2004-12-14T02:14:00.000-05:00

Pedro's in pinstripes. OK, so those are going to be royal blue Mets pinstripes rather than navy blue Yankees pinstripes. But why quibble with such minutiae?

The Mets' signing of Pedro Martinez is an extremely good move by general manager Omar Minaya. Of course, Martinez is more flighty than one of his hanging curveballs to Hideki Matsui, so he could feasibly wake up Tuesday morning, scream "Aye, Papi, what have I done?", shave his head and go back to the Boston Red Sox.

Until that happens, I will proceed with my thoughts based on the reported notion that Pedro Martinez is about to become a New York Met.

Met fans are tortured souls, at least ever since 2000. They read of the Pedro signing and feel the groin kicks delivered by the signing and subsequent flopping of Roberto Alomar and Mo Vaughn.

Pedro, good enough to be referred to by his first name and have everyone know precisely who we speak of, is still a dominant pitcher. He may have stolen Darryl's hair from "Coming to America," but he automatically becomes the ace of the Mets' staff. It is patently ignorant to think otherwise.

You'll claim Pedro is just a six-inning pitcher nowadays. He averaged 6 2/3 innings per start in 2004. He averaged 9.41 strikeouts per nine innings and 1.17 base runners per inning. Simply stated, that is very good.

Again you'll claim Pedro is a six-inning pitcher nowadays. Guess what: the National League doesn't use a DH and is generally considered to be a weaker-hitting league aside from just the DH.

Then you'll say he gets hurt all the time and has a feeble shoulder. He made 33 starts in 2004, the same amount as Mets leaders Tom Glavine and Steve Trachsel.

Then you'll claim he's not what he was. This point is true but Pedro is still extremely effective. He won't hit 97 on the radar gun anymore but his changeup is very effective. Just ask the St. Louis Cardinals, that amazing offense which collected all of three -- THREE! -- hits and no runs in seven innings against Pedro in the World Series. You're right. He's not what he once was. In 1998, he would have only given up two hits.

Then you'll complain about 2008, when Pedro is earning a guaranteed $14 million or so and would be 37. Presumably, he would be much less effective then. I cannot dispute that. However, Mets fans should look at this through the other side of the glass. If Pedro has the Mets in contention in September -- or even August -- for the next two years, are you really going to be upset in that fourth year if he doesn't live up to his reputation? If you are, then you are not very intelligent and should probably stop reading immediately, sell your computer and hope the local car wash has an opening for a windshield washer.

If Pedro can win 16-18 games, a highly feasibly if, the Mets will be contending for a wild card, maybe even the division crown in the weak NL East. The rotation of Pedro, Glavine, Trachsel, Benson and Zambrano is very good. It puts the Mets in the top 5 of NL rotations, with Houston and the Cubs running 1-2, depending on Roger Clemens.

However, it is clear the Mets need more help than just Pedro. Another bat or two in the lineup and some bullpen assistance (enjoy Felix Heredia, he's fun) are needed to make the Mets an attractive preseason playoff pick.

Dennis Miller-esque rant alert! Dennis Miller-esque rant alert! Anyone who just makes blanket statements such as "Dump Piazza and Floyd" and other inane remarks doesn't understand baseball. They can only dream of Windexing other people's windshields for $1 per car. Teams just don't take on $15 million salaries for average players -- not even the Yankees. It's just not that easy to ship off Floyd and Piazza like that. They have little market value. It's like trying to sell your 1988 IBM computer with Windows 3.1, a 5 1/4-inch floppy drive and 1.2 megabyte hard drive for $500. We now return you to our scheduled writing.

Pedro is the first step to making the Mets a contender. He brings a face to the organization aside from Minaya. Besides, if a team is winning, who cares about the GM? Pedro will also put fans in the seats in July and August, maybe even October. He's a proven winner and has shown the capability to handle pressure.

Of course, Pedro could break his arm right after crossing the t in his last name when signing his Mets contract.

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Weekend Update: Heismans All Around

2004-12-13T03:07:00.000-05:00

Back in 1936, the first Heisman Trophy was handed out to Yale's Larry Kelley.

In recent years, the word Heisman has developed a new definition and we have, well, the actual trophy to thank for it. The Heisman Trophy depicts a player with a football cradled in his left arm while his right arm is extended outward as if trying to stiff arm an opponent.

Nowadays, when someone gets "The Heisman," it typically means life just stuck its big hand in your face and said "Get outta my way, little man." Think Jack Palance in City Slickers telling Billy Crystal, "I crap bigger than you," but much more painful.

A Heismaning usually occurs with males age 16-24 thinking they're all that while the females tell them otherwise. It's kind of like a NASCAR crash: really funny to watch, but deep down, you feel their pain.

But the Weekend Update is an equal-opportunity offender, so let's take a look at who got Heisman'd this weekend in Sports Land:

* Jeff Kent got Heisman'd as much for just being Jeff Kent as for his crying at a news conference announcing his newfound Dodgerdom. More importantly, when will Kent stop giving his razor blade the Heisman and shave that nasty mustache off his upper lip.

* Notre Dame delivered itself a Heismanic facial. Not so much with the hiring of Charlie Weis as its coach, but really because freshly fired coach Tyrone Willingham was freshly hired by Washington, who conveniently hosts Notre Dame on Sept. 24, 2005.

* Kobe Bryant should be hit in the head with O.J. Simpson's actual Heisman Trophy for complaining that Karl Malone hit on his wife. While I firmly believe in the sanctity of marriage, something like that doesn't need to be played out in the media. Come to think of it, Vanessa Bryant deserves a Heisman of her own for sticking with that admitted adulterer. Yes, Kobe is a great shooter, but there's no way he went 1-for-1 in cheating on his wife and getting caught. Heismans all around for these two.

* In a rare corporate Heismaning, Tom Coughlin threw away the season when he decided to make Eli Manning the Giants' starting QB in Week 11. The Giants were 5-4 and in the playoff hunt. They are now 5-8, and Chiropractor friend Eli, aka "Dr. Yer it is," would look better in the pocket than Eli Manning. Coughlin punted away this season and co-owner Wellington Mara should borrow Ron Dayne's Heisman Trophy and smack Coughlin in the grill with it.

* Baseball fans were Heisman'd this weekend as baseball people who promised big things from this weekend's winter meetings gave us nothing but a whole host of more nothing. Yuck, bronze doesn't taste good.
* Mike Jarvis won the Heisman-in-absentia award for convincing himself that a kid who was nicknamed "Showtime" in eighth grade -- EIGHTH F-BOMBING GRADE!!!!!!! -- would only blossom into Hollywood status at St. John's. Instead, he's an average point guard on an subpar team and he can't seem to play defense. He got burned by Hofstra's Loren Stokes, at last count, every time Stokes touched the ball. Another city kid getting by on playground hype. Sad, really. Thanks, Jarvis.

* Mike Tice, the pride of Central Islip, got Heisman'd by his offensive coordinator, Scott Linehan, who so elegantly called for Randy Moss to throw a pass rather than catch it. He threw an interception with around two minutes left and the Vikings lost to Seattle, 27-23. Linehan made Jets offensive coordinator Paul Hackett look intelligent. OK, maybe not intelligent, but certainly smarter than Linehan.

* In winning the actual Heisman Trophy on Saturday night, Matt Leinart doled out an unintential Heisman to USC teammate Reggie Bush and Oklahoma's Jason White and Adrian Peterson. How this plays out in practice between Bush and Leinart will be interesting. How this plays out when USC plays Oklahoma in the national championship on Jan. 4, 2005, will be even more interesting.

* The self-inflicted Heisman is always fun to watch, especially when it happens to Bostonians. Red Sox GM Theo Epstein smacked himself in the face with his own hand when he signed David Wells to pitch for his team. He will stink. If I were Yankees GM Brian Cashman, I'd mail Epstein a postcard of the Heisman Trophy and write, "Thanks."

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Crawling out of The Black Hole

2004-12-10T02:05:00.000-05:00

I called myself a Jets fan on Thursday, just minutes before noon. Declared is more accurate.

This was monumental. This was thought-provoking.

OK, background time: I am 29 years old and have been a Raiders fan for the last 21 of those years. My entrance into Raider fandom began when I saw Marcus Allen play in his rookie season. He had a great game on television and as an impressionable 8-year-old, I was, well, impressed.

So I pronounced myself a Raiders fan in 1983 and they wound up winning the Super Bowl. If I had such prognosticating skills, the interest I earn on my bank account would be more than double what I get paid to write this weekly column. My Raiders fandom continued through Howie Long, Bo Jackson, Coach Art Shell, Jay Schroeder, Todd Marinovich, Vince Evans, Marc Wilson, Dokie Williams, Coach Mike White, Ron Brown, Lester Hayes, Jeff George, Van McElroy, Jack Squirek and a host of other classics.

But I grew up in New York, which means I've been subjected to the run-run-pass Giants and the yeah-yeah-oh-no Jets on television since forever. I watched their games every Sunday for 20-plus years. Most of those Sunday afternoons were painful.

But three seasons ago, Chad Pennington cast his magic spell over the city of New York. He became the Winter Jeter. I, in turn, paid more interest to the results of those Jets games. I even bet $100 that the Jets would win more than 8.5 games in 2002.

So, in 2002, Restaurant friend Rob and I flew to Oakland for the Monday night game with the Jets. (Note: If you've never been to a Raiders home game, it's much scarier than prison, especially when 4-year-old girls walk past you with skull & bones necklaces and painted faces.) I cheered my Raiders' 26-20 victory, but on the plane to Vegas shortly thereafter, I lamented -- internally -- how the Jets needed to beat the Colts and Packers to finish 9-7 and win me $200. An unexamined bet is not worth betting.

The Jets miraculously won both games -- and the AFC East -- then went to Oakland to lose in the first round of the playoffs. The Raiders reached the Super Bowl that season, but in hindsight, I left my heart in Oakland that night in Network Associates Coliseum.

I've since watched every Jets game intently and purchased a Jets T-shirt, sweatshirt and wool hat. I even have an authentic Keyshawn Johnson No. 19 Jets jersey, though that was more through procurement than purchase.

Flash forward to Thursday morning: I'm sitting at my computer, having just placed an order on nflshop.com. I filled in all the shipping and billing fields, and the always exciting "No I don't want emails from your advertisers" check boxes. Here comes the "Johnny Moxon gut-check moment."

I was asked to select my favorite NFL team, presumably so nflshop.com could send me customized catalogs every three-and-a-half hours.

I paused. If I picked the Raiders, I'd be lying and doing such would cause more internal strife. Better to finally wash away my sins and cleanse my soul. Out damn spot!

But, if I picked the Jets, would I be turning my back on the team I grew up rooting for? This opened up an amazing amount of questions: Am I no better than a free agent? Can I really admit to switching teams at this late stage of life? What did the last 21 years mean to me, if I'm willing to throw it all away for Gang Green? Am I just a fan whore?

Do I call the Raiders and tell them what I'm about to do, or should I just keep it to myself like a woman who cheats on her boyfriend and then lets him find out on his own when he throws out her garbage and finds condom wrappers in the trash?

I picked the Jets. I waited about five minutes before clicking submit. I started to sweat, especially when I realized I was wearing a sleeveless Raiders T-shirt. Oh, this can't be good. Herm Edwards is calling to motivate me to click submit. Al Davis is knocking on my door. Michael Corleone is renouncing Satan's works as his orders for murder are carried out by his henchman. Am I about to do this?

YES I DID!

I'm a Jets fan nowadays. And this is not a bandwagon thing. You could reverse the records (Raiders are 4-8, Jets are 9-3) and I would still be writing this now. The Raiders will always have a piece of my heart, just like that ex-girlfriend you loved so well for so long, but I have to move on to greener pastures. That's Gang Greener. If the Jets somehow go into the dumper and miss the playoffs this season, I'll suffer with Jets fans, rather than laugh at Jets fans. It's a brave new world.

J-E-T-S, JETS! JETS! JETS!

Fan forum: Switching allegiance, is it allowed?

Mark's Mailbag

2004-12-07T17:59:00.000-05:00

It appears I touched more nerves on the Paul Hackett mock interview than Michael Jackson did at his Neverland Ranch.

As we begin the latest mailbag, I'm reminded of what Dirk Diggler once said: "I promise to keep rocking and rolling and to keep making better films. It seems we make these movies . . . and sometimes . . . they're considered filthy or something by some people . . . but I don't think that's true. These films we make can be better . . . they can help . . . they really can, I mean it. We can always do better -- and I'll keep trying if you keep trying so let's keep rocking and rolling."

On to the e-mails:

Thank you for actually writing an article (although made up) on Hackett. It amazes me that the media chooses to focus the blame on everyone else other than Paul Hackett. Why is that? It has always been my firm opinion that when the Jets win, it is in spite of Paul Hackett and his obvious play calling. It is against all logic that when Curtis averages less than 1 yard per carry on first downs in the second half that you would continue to call that play. As a Jet fan this is the most painful, gut wrenching, hair pulling, and flat out saddest thing to watch. If I was an opposing defense I would just set my sites on Curtis, and guess what, be right 78% of the time.
-- David M., Parts unknown.

Dave, Paul Hackett is the Teflon Don. His team scores 23 points in a two-week stretch and no one complains because Chad Pennington is hurt. Pennington comes back and the Jets erupt for 29 points. How this man escapes public flogging on a weekly basis astounds me. John Gotti had nothing on Hackett.

Mark,
Any word of where clock management coach Dick Curl was during the Jets' final drive against the Ravens?
-- Joe D., Delaware.

Joe, my sources tell me he was listening to Paul Hackett describe the intricacies of the draw play.

Great article--here's my hackett poem:

His defensive offense
Is offensive to me.
Put Hackett on a leaky boat
And send him to sea.
-- Richard S., Parts Unknown.

Well, Rich, at least it rhymes. But I wouldn't keep the voicemail for Russell Simmons to call and offer you a spot on the next season of Def Poets.

Thank God someone finally had the guts to say something!! OK, halfback option, one stupid play. But everyone seems to forget how terrible our offense was in the second half, and how terrible our offense has been every second half of every game. Finally someone recognized! Let's see what happens when Herm pulls a Fassel and starts calling the plays next week......Jets 49 Browns 7.
-- An Internet marauder, Parts unknown.

I love Herm, but he should never call the plays. I can just picture the huddle now: "OK, Chad. You're David. You got this sling and you're pretty good with it. Now go slay Goliath." Chad's response: "OK, coach, I just need the play you want me to run." Herm's response: "Oh, yeah, right. How about a draw play?"

This article on Paul Hackett and the imaginary interview was absolutely priceless. Glad someone else agrees that the man is an idiot savant hold the savant.
-- Steve S., Parts unknown.

Steve, I went to school with an idiot savant. They really are funny people. They're stupid and intelligent. I saved lots of money on underage drinking just by watching this guy talk. Priceless.

Your column on Paul Hackett was brilliant. I haven't laughed this hard since the Red Sox beat the Yankees in Game 7. Thanks for cheering me up.
-- Joel E., Parts unknown.

Wow, what a cheap shot. Funny as hell, but a cheap shot nonetheless.

I was peeing in my pants reading that!!! I live here in Miami and I bleed Jet green. But it's getting old already with the soap opera team we have. Herm & Hackett = No killer instict. If the Jets blow this season, both have to go. Donnie Henderson is awesome, I just wish we had some strong CB's.
-- An Internet marauder, Miami, Fla.

Let's see, if you live in Florida and you were peeing in your pants, I'm wondering how much of that was because of my mock interview and how much of it was straight-up bladder control issues. Isn't the median age in Florida around 79?

Mark,
I enjoyed your article about the Mets' hiring of Willie Randolph. One correction though, the NY logo on their caps was from the Giants, not the Yankees. I, being a very passionate and long suffering Mets fan, know their history fairly well.
-- Bruce E., Gilbert, Ariz.

That's a good point, Bruce. Thanks for outing me as an ignoramus. I'm comforted by the fact that you're a Mets fan and I'm not.

Mark,
That post on Owens was brilliant. It's amazing he gets flak for enjoying the game. Having said that, my blog follows a football (soccer) team and the crackdown on their celebrations have begun in earnest. Celebrations for a goal in football are legendary, making TO's football signing look like a handshake.

I don't know if my European readers would have much interest in American football and baseball, but if you'd like to exchange links I'd be honoured.
-- Nicholas A., Europe

Wow, Nicholas, the Web really is World Wide! It's likely that those European people have little interest in American football and baseball. Then again, you Europeans think Benny Hill is funny and Jerry Lewis is the inventor of comedy. And the shameless plug, well, I can't really fault you for that. You probably listened to Hot 97 one night and heard Funkmaster Flex screaming "Buy my CD! Buy my CD!" after 30 seconds.

Mark,
When the TY(tanic) era began at Notre Dame in 2002, it was obvious that Coach Willingham wasn't ready for all the public scrutiny and media barrage that goes with being the head football coach at Our Lady's school. His work during the week must have been admirable but on Saturdays, it was quite a different story ... the proverbial deer in the headlights on gameday. I wish Coach Willingham success in his world of college or professional football coaching.

But it was time to admit that 'consistent competitiveness' wasn't happening at ND (and, relinquishing the Division I-A Parochial Powerhouse label to a spirited Boston College Eagles program over the past three years hasn't been taken lightly in South Bend. Give it to BC, they have surpassed ND in recruiting while maintaining high academic standards).

Whatever happens at Notre Dame and whomever the coach may be, no one will possess the ability to recognize the talents of prospective student-athletes and re-create his game plan at halftime in order to allow his players to succeed on the field more than Lou Holtz.

All I want to see as a ND Subway Alumnus is this storied football program return to a competitive edge that will make its national and international followers proud.

By the way, I'm a native Long Island native who has followed the Fighting Irish since the early 1950's when they dug-in and made every game exciting-win or lose.
-- Bob D., Parts unknown.

Bob, I still think Ty can get the job done as a school that allows dumb kids into the program. Notre Dame's academics restrict its recruiting base even before the high school kids go to those all-star summer camps. The more I think about it, the more I realize Notre Dame is no longer Notre Dame. If the Irish want to be perennial title contenders, bring in the Prop 48 kids like they did for Lou Holtz (Tony Rice and Chris Zorich).

At this point, I hope the players learn a lesson. I'm tired of all these guys in sports making all this money and whining. Maybe if they start a new league, we would forget the NHL crybabies. Bottom line: the owners own the teams, not the players.
-- Fred B., Parts unknown.

Fred, the only way the owners and players get the hint is when fans completely boycott all sporting events for one day. That will never happen because the corporate people who buy the expensive seats don't give a crap about the sport. They just like the prestige of having good seats.

Let the e-mails flow

Weekend Update gets mushed

2004-12-06T01:09:00.000-05:00

The key script lines for the fifth installment of the critically acclaimed Weekend Update go like this:

"Eddie Mush was a degenerate gambler. He was also the biggest loser in the whole world. They called him Mush because everything he touched turned to mush. He would go to the racetrack and the teller would give him his tickets already ripped up."

It comes from the movie "A Bronx Tale," a fine coming-of-age film with Robert DeNiro, Chazz Palminteri and assorted other Italian actors perpetuating stereotypes of Italians and gangsters.

Eddie Mush (seated on the right next to Frankie Coffeecakes) was all about bad luck, and his presence was felt pretty much every day this week as life basically took a dump on my head from Tuesday right up to, and for laughs, through Sunday night.

So, with no animosity (except for Brock Berlin), I bring to you the "Who got mushed?" look at the weekend:

Auburn
Let's see. The Auburn Tigers beat Tennessee to complete a perfect 12-0 season. This occurred in the SEC, widely considered the best conference in college football. Auburn cannot play for the national championship by virtue of its No. 3 ranking in the BCS rankings. Auburn got mushed.

Notre Dame
Perhaps the biggest mushing of the week, the year, the decade. Athletic Director Kevin White canned head coach Tyrone Willingham after three years. It is widely assumed by everyone other than Urban Meyer that Urban Meyer will take the job. He went to Florida. Notre Dame got mushed.

Jack Del Rio
He called a straight-up-the-gut run on third-and-3 from the Steelers' 16-yard line with 2:16 left. Rather than play to win, he delayed the mushing. Oh, Jacksonville kicked the field goal for the 16-14 lead, but left 1:50 on the clock. Predictably, Ben "Do you think your Wu-Tang sword can defeat me?" Roethlisberger marched his Steelers down the field for the decisive field goal. Predictably, this was done against a soft defense. The Jaguars got mushed. They should put Del Rio in the bathroom.

College basketball fans
I watched my No. 11 North Carolina Tar Heels wreck those No. 8 Kentucky Wildcats on Saturday afternoon. Oh wait, that's a giant lie because network executives opted not to show a great December matchup between the two winningest programs in Division I history. Instead, we were treated to Notre Dame vs. Michigan and that instant classic Maryland vs. George Mason. We got mushed.

Tom Coughlin
A fifth straight loss for the Giants has me wondering if Coughlin tried to park in Jim Fassel's spot on the street, who would GM Ernie Accorsi defend? The Giants allowed the Redskins to score more than 20 points for the first time all season. Eli Manning put up another dumper of a game, and the Giants got mushed.

Marion Jones
Eventual convicted felon Victor Conte went on national television and dropped bombs on how he helped Marion Jones take steroids and cheat for the 2000 Olympics. Whether or not you believe Conte, it didn't look good for Jones, who yes, you guessed it, got mushed. (It is worth noting that Conte has a mustache, and we all know you can't trust a guy with a mustache, especially one that doesn't even stretch entirely across the upper lip.)

Victor Conte
Eventual convicted felon Victor Conte went on national television and dropped bombs on how he helped Marion Jones take steroids and cheat for the 2000 Olympics. Whether or not you believe Conte, it didn't look good for Conte, who gave the prosecution plenty of material to stick in their legal needle and inject into Conte on cross-examination.

Jason Giambi
This mamaluke took a needle and stabbed himself in the stomach. Repeatedly. No amount of clear, cream, red beans, clomid or "flaxseed oil" can undo this self-injected mushing.

Mark La Monica
I defended Barry Bonds for the last four years. I got mushed.

Brock Berlin
This Miami Hurricane quarterback finally stopped living someone else's life. He showed why he was recruited by the Florida Gators -- he choked in the big game and can't deal with the lore of Miami. On the final possession, trailing Virginia Tech 16-10 with the ACC championship and a berth in the Sugar Bowl on the line, he had three of his four passes deflected at the line or by a defensive back. The other pass, well Berlin was kind enough to completely miss everyone in sight. Miami got mushed. But as us Hurricane fans in the North say, "Brock is God, but I'm an atheist."

The Knicks
It appears the New York Knickerbockers were in control of a game down in Charlotte, against the lowly expansion Bobcats (perhaps the best college team ever assembled, next to those Clippers teams of the early 1990s). Upon next glance at the television screen, the Knicks lost to the Bobcats, 107-101. A mushing on the road is still a mushing.

E-MAIL ME

Bonds could be clean . . . ?

2004-12-03T02:10:00.000-05:00

My most upsetting sports day since Nov. 7, 1991 -- the day Magic Johnson announced his retirement because of HIV -- began with a phone call.

"Still think Bonds didn't do steroids?" Lawyer friend Steve said.

I really wanted to say yes, but after Juicin Giambi and his brother Jerecream Giambi admitted to taking steroids to a San Francisco grand jury, it's kind of hard to think Bonds is innocent.

But I really want to. Believing Bonds is clean is my last grasp for youth. Believing Bonds is clean keeps me thinking about being 12 years old, playing Whiffle Ball and hitting the storm door with a baseball when Dad taught me how to pitch. (For those not familiar with my childhood home geography, that pitch would have been about 12 feet outside for a lefty, and about 8 feet behind a righty. NOTE: It wasn't a curveball.)

Believing Bonds is clean allows some room for innocent idealism, which is completely gone anyway. But a kid, 29 years old or not, can always dream of the beauty of being a kid.

Instead, I get to deal with legal cheating.

I was prepared to burn my Jason Giambi T-shirt (for the record, it was purchased for me, not by me -- prepositions are very important in this situation), take pictures of it and post them here. However, when I got home from work, I remembered I threw that trashbucket's shirt out a few months ago after two long workouts in which I took a few sips of detectable water from a very non-designer water fountain.

So there will be no burning of Giambi shirts, unless one of my loyal readers wants to mail me one. I'll gladly burn it, take pictures and properly document your donation. (E-mail me and we can discuss this.)

And if anyone can help me take back the night of May 17, 2002 when I cheered in the Gaslight Lounge as Giambi earned his pinstripes with a grand slam in the 14th inning to beat the Twins 13-12 at the Stadium, I'd appreciate it. I'll send you some "red beans" and rice.

In the meantime, I will remain awake as long as possible until I can legitimately rationalize Bonds being clean. This could take a while. Thankfully, I'm off Friday and Saturday, so I have some time.

In Friday's edition of the San Francisco Chronicle, it was reported that Bonds told the grand jury he took the cream and the clear but did so unknowingly. Interesting. Could be believable. That seems to fall in line with the federal charges against BALCO president Victor Conte, indicted for distributing undetectable steroids to elite athletes. Hmmm? Undetectable is in the same Pac Bell ballpark as unknowingly.

Hey, maybe I'll get some sleep tonight.

Next up on the docket: Greg Anderson, Bonds' trainer, has documents showing payments and calendars and they have Bonds' name on them. Bonds claims to never have seen them until that day in court last December. Again, could be entirely possible that Anderson knew exactly what he was giving Bonds and was documenting things for CYA purposes (that's Cover Your Patoot, but the patoot starts with an 'a' and ends in 's' and has another consonant that rhymes with 's' in between). Could be? Could be!

I'll be asleep before the Leno reruns end.

Bonds and Anderson have been friends for a very long time. Bonds makes millions, Anderson does not. Bonds hires Anderson as his trainer a few years ago. Anderson wants to be accepted by Bonds and other ballplayers. ( I mean, really, what do weight trainers have going for themselves in life aside from Zubaz pants and cutoff B.U.M. equipment sweatshirts? It's not like they all can be Rick Derris.) Anderson gets these designer steroids and won't tell Bonds what they are because he's afraid of losing his meal ticket. It's possible.

Bonds was an amazing baseball player well before he hit those 73 home runs in 2001. He always had talent. Isn't it feasible that he finally figured out a strike zone? These steroids that people speak of in the same sentence as Bonds, do they make him not swing at pitches that are out of the strike zone? Do they make him single through a right side of the infield that looks like Normandy Beach when he bats? Do they really make him hit home runs? It's not like he never had a 40-homer season before that year? OK, maybe steroids can take a guy from 40 to something higher, but it's not as if Bonds was averaging seven home runs a season.

I'm just saying it's entirely possible.

Bring on Jack McCoy. Let's go Ben Stone. I'll take you both out. I'm raising reasonable doubt. I feel like Jerry Gallo, oh wait, Jerry Callo, hold up, Vincent LaGuardia Gambini.

But wait a second, Barry Bonds does have a really big f-bombing head nowadays.

Damn!

I could be up until next Thursday.

E-mail me

Giambi's domino effect

2004-12-02T11:42:00.000-05:00

Gasp! You mean.... YOU LIED TO US??? Say it ain't so, Giambino, say it ain't so!

...Well, it's so. And anyone who thinks it isn't needs to have his head examined. Jason Giambi took steroids. So did his talent-deprived brother. It says so in black and white in a transcript of a grand jury hearing obtained by the San Francisco Chronicle and reported today.

The findings directly contradict several separate public denials by Giambi that he took performance-enhancing drugs. They also serve as an affirmation of those who have long suspected (and accused) baseball's top sluggers of cheating in an attempt to gain a competitive edge.

If the house of cards was quivering before, it's collapsing now. Giambi will find that out soon enough, as the crush of these revelations bears down on him with devastating force. An MVP career will be exposed and assassinated in the court of public opinion -- and after Giambi's lies to fans and reporters, who could blame them?

More upheaval will follow. Speculation against Barry Bonds, Gary Sheffield, and others implicated in the BALCO case will intensify. Against all logic, more denials will be issued... Then another grand jury transcript will surface, and another career will be destroyed.

As betrayed as fans are likely to feel over Giambi's admissions, the anger is tempered by the warning signs that hinted he was crooked long before today's news. We laughed knowingly when the Giambino showed up to spring training last year about a refrigerator lighter, then claimed to have lost only "four pounds" due to a "new workout regimen." We saw it coming as the BALCO probe grew deeper and when Sheffield blabbed to Sports Illustrated a day before the ALDS that he had used something called "the cream," a supposedly undetectable performance-enchancer. We're angry today, but in reality, we've been preparing for it for months.

So perhaps what's most striking about this whole case is how sad this all is. It's sad and dispicable that Giambi lied to the fans, the fans who buy the tickets and the jerseys and the t-shirts that pay the $17-million salary per year he has earned by striking out and sitting on the bench the last two years. It's sad the damage this will do to Baseball, which cannot be completely absolved due to its laughable drug-testing policy. It's sad that Giambi and his cohorts actually believed they could get away with the charade. And it's sad the damage Giambi and his brother did to themselves. That Giambino and mini-G were were willing to entrust their lives and their multi-million-dollar careers to a group of men who cared for little else than the $10,000 they were paid for grab bags of drugs is the saddest and most discomforting aspect of this whole case.

Among the drugs the Giambis admitted to taking is Clomid, a female fertility drug which can exacerbate tumors on the pituitary gland. They also tested positive for Deca Durabolin, a steroid which causes shrinking of testes and has been linked to prostate cancer. They may also have taken Depo-Testosterone, which causes an enlarging of the breasts and baldness in men.

As your stomach turns, think about this: The Giambis also admitted to following a calendar by which they took three different pills (idenitfied by color: "white," "yellow" and "orange") about which they knew ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ELSE. Jeremy's explanation for it all? "I didn't think the guy would send me something that was, you know, Drano or something, you know, I mean, I hope he wouldn't."

Horrifying.

It's times like these I'm glad I'm not a professional baseball columnist, charged with actually trying to make sense of all this witlessness. All I can say is that it ain't pretty, and it's only going to get worse. Who will be the next to fall? It's only a matter of time before we find out.

E-mail Mike Casey at michael.casey@newsday.com.

Is Notre Dame still Notre Dame?

2004-12-01T01:38:00.000-05:00

Notre Dame.

An imposing phrase when constructed as such. Our Lady, the translated version, does little to invoke football prestige, unless your CYO team used Our Lady in its title somehow.

But, Notre Dame. Wow, it packs a whallop.

Or does it? Does Notre Dame still carry the same weight as in the 1980s and decades prior? I don't know the answer, but I'm leaning toward the no side of the pendulum.

People pontificate about the Notre Dame head football coach being the greatest, most glamorous, most prestigious and toughest job in the country. I'm not so sure that's true anymore. The toughest part I believe, though. High academic standards, the alumni pressure, the eyes of the world on you every week.

I can't deny the prestige and worldwide appeal of the Fighting Irish, either. And there's a prevailing concept that the Heisman Trophy goes through Notre Dame. USC grad Carson Palmer is a student in that school of thought, and current USC quarterback Matt Leinart has applied for admission with his five-touchdown performance that ultimately put the kabosh on Ty Willingham's coaching tenure at Notre Dame.

But how much of it is people not altering their thoughts under the new sports landscape. Notre Dame has its own television contract with NBC, but with ESPN, ESPN2, ABC, FSN, CBS, ABC, NCAA and any other alphabetic combination you care to generate, I've seen Miami and Boise State play just as much as Notre Dame this season. And I live on Long Island, not exactly the hotbed of college football.

Notre Dame can't attract the same caliber of athlete as the Miamis, the Florida States, the USCs or the Michigans. That's not a bad thing, that's not a good thing. It's just a true thing. And it ultimately contributed to Willingham's firing, the first in a very long time at Notre Dame.

Is Notre Dame clutching at straws trying to return to the glory of its past in a new sports world? I hope not, because seeing the Fighting Irish in the national championship game would be amazing. It would be a solid "Stick it up your patoot, BCS people!" and I'm all in favor of underdogs sticking it to the big dogs whenever possible.

Those golden helmets shining on national television in late November, 100,000 people cheering in South Bend, cold weather outside, warmth inside, Musberger (somehow) announcing (on NBC even though his contract is with ABC), a berth in the national championship on the line against USC. It could be a magical moment.

Or, it could be Auburn or Oklahoma or Miami or Florida State or Ohio State or Michigan or Texas against Auburn or Oklahoma or Miami or Florida State or Ohio State or Michigan or Texas. Would it be that much different?

Help me sort it out

Weekend Upside

2004-11-29T03:07:00.000-05:00

On Thanksgiving night, Hubie Brown retired from coaching the Memphis Grizzlies of the NBA. Some will remember him as the 71-year-old coach who came out of retirement when Jerry West came a-calling. Others will remember him as the former coach of the Knicks and the former coach of the Nets.

I will remember him as the man who infected the world with the "upside" during his NBA Draft analysis and his NBA broadcasting. He may not have invented the word, but he perfected it. He could hit you with the "huge upside" in the blink of an eye, then catch you off-guard with the "tremendous upside." What versatility!

So, in honor of Hubie Brown, we bring you Volume IV of the Weekend Update, with the upside of each event.

* - Quincy Carter got whacked in the head, Brooks Bollinger ably held down the fort for a few series, Carter returned to the game, threw the decisive touchdown pass to Santana Moss, the Jets beat Arizona 13-3 and moved to a head-twitching 8-3 on the season. Another ugly win. Another win!
Upside: One week closer to the Return of the King. Hurry Chad!

* - Philly's Eagles flew up the Jersey turnpike, then made Eli Manning look like he wanted to crawl up in a ball and cry underneath the bench. Two games in, and he has the worst record of any rookie quarterback this season. Geez, even Craig Krenzel won a game.
Upside: The Mannings are human. Let the next controversy begin. Bring back Kurt Warner. Better yet, bring in Jesse Palmer.

* - Brian Randall supplanted Don Strock as the career leader in passing yardage at Virginia Tech.
Upside: Not exactly the biggest news up here in New York, but anytime the words "Don" and "Strock" appear on the sports landscape, it's worth noting.

* - St. John's imposed sanctions on its men's basketball program after it was determined that Abe Keita received $300 per month from a former assistant coach. The Red Storm shorted themselves one scholarship in each of the next two recruiting cycles, plus a postseason ban this season.
Upside: We're spared the one-and-done run in the Big East tournament.
Tremendous upside: Mike Jarvis is no longer the coach.

* - The Knicks won a game against the Toronto Raptors, improved to 6-6 and took sole possession of first place in the Atlantic Division.
Upside: We now have a reason to watch Knicks games in December.

* - Ben Roethlisberger improved to 9-0 as a starter for those pesky Pittsburgh Steelers.
Upside: His record remains pristine for another week. Three more such performances and the Jets' defense get the chance to shred him in half.

* - Bengals 58, Browns 48.
Upside: Suddenly, college football scores don't look so outrageous.

* - Nebraska's 35-year streak of bowl eligibility came to a crashing halt.
Upside: Another American institution crumbled. Surely, we can blame same of this on the Bush administration.
Huge upside: Ex-Raiders coach Bill Callahan looks even worse as a college coach, but that means more repeats of his "We're the dumbest football team in America" quote last year with Oakland.

* - Peyton Manning threw six touchdowns and moved within seven audibles of tying Dan Marino's NFL record of 48 touchdown passes in one season.
Upside: Marvin Harrison finally showed us his upside with a tremendous three-touchdown performance, allowing my fantasy football team -- the Fryburg Antonellis -- to avenge a Week 1 beatdown.

* - NHL players began receiving stipends from the union.
Upside: That means there's still no professional hockey being played on television here in America.

* - Anna Kournikova and Serena Williams lost an exhibition tennis match.
Upside: Anna.

E-mail me

Miracle on Ice?

2004-11-24T03:02:00.000-05:00

Tuesday night, 12:21 a.m. Hmmm, let's see what the movie stations have to offer. (OK, technically, it was already Wednesday morning, but I don't believe the next day starts until you wake up).

Ah, HBO's Pornucopia series is on. But, wait there's only three minutes left. Not worth it. Oh, lookee here, Starz West is serving up two hours of Herb Brooks. So I sat down and watched "Miracle."

It was fantastic. Scared that I might be softening my stance on my hatred of hockey, I did the only thing that made sense. I threw back a shot of rum. Then I realized hockey players are all alcoholics, so now I was really confused.

How could I like a hockey movie when I thoroughly despise the thug sport (it's worse than Rappin' Ron Artest)? Is the NHL lockout making me secretly miss those eight minutes of hockey I watch each season?

Up until this tumultuous Tuesday night, my three favorite hockey moments were, in order:
1) The episode of Beverly Hills 90210 when Brandon Walsh is at hockey practice and loses a race around the rink to a female figure skater who later fell in love with Brandon Walsh for an afternoon or two because he bought her a burrito.
2) Rich Pilon coming off the top rope with a high-cross body to level Dale Hunter seconds after he leveled Pierre Turgeon.
3) The kid who goes into the batting cage after Adam Sandler in "Happy Gilmore."

My world is in disarray right now. North looks south. Apples are oranges. New Jersey has redeeming qualities.

Lord, help a troubled soul.

Why did I enjoy this hockey movie? The rationalizing began immediately.
* Kurt Russell's wig was pretty funny.
* Kurt Russell's accent going in and out like Andy Garcia in "The Godfather Part 3" was even funnier.
* Kurt Russell's clothes left me with a strained spleen from laughing so hard.
* "Pav on Whoever-ov" is a tremendous movie quote.
* Every now and then, Kurt Russell becomes Gene Hackman. Watching the transformation to and from is compelling.
* I don't like Russians not named Sharapova.
* Well, at least Mike Eruzione is Italian.
* It was just Hollywood pulling out the cheap emotional tricks and I let them do it to me.

O Canada, please let there be some truth to these irrational rationalizations. It was just one quick shot. I'm clearly not under any influence.

What in the name of Uwe Krupp am I doing even writing about this f-bombing sport? Especially so close to the holiday season? Am I trying to excise myself off people's Christmas lists?

I'm tempted to call the library at Newsday right now (3 a.m.) and demand them to pull out the newspaper clippings from that monumental day in 1980 so I can read the accounts on microfiche.

I am afraid to go to sleep because I might wake up with long, straggly hair and two teeth missing. Oh crap, I already have the long, straggly hair. Looks like Stylist friend Claudette is getting a phone call Wednesday morning.

Thank God "Miracle" was on Starz West and not regular Starz because there's no telling what I'll do if I watch the movie again tonight. I might go online and buy skates, then drive to my parents' house and dig up my 1985 Brian Trottier edition Mylec stick and start flicking pucks all over the neighborhood.

Please, Gary Bettman, DO NOT end the lockout on Wednesday. I'm having a moment of weakness and I just might buy tickets to a game if you start your league again soon.

For the love of Pete, please let there be a good basketball game on television Wednesday morning. I'll even settle for the seventh-place consolation game of the Maui Shootout.

E-MAIL ME

Weekend Update, starring Ron Artest

2004-11-22T03:24:00.000-05:00

Many people deserve the blame for the latest episode involving Rappin' Ron Artest.

But there's one person in this world who is loving all the attention Artest received this weekend. And no, it's not me, but if I see the video of Jermaine O'Neal cold-cocking that fan in the home Pistons jersey, who is as stupid as he is rotund, I will crack three ribs from laughing so hard. As it is, I'm listed as questionable for next week.

Lloyd Carr is a huuuuuuuuuge fan of Rappin' Ron Artest. Carr had the unfortunate pleasure of taking his Michigan Wolverines to Columbus, Ohio, so they could lose to Ohio State in one of the two best rivalries in college football on Saturday. Carr also had the fortunate pleasure of coaching in Michigan, the same state that houses the trainwreck of a city known as Detroit, which staged the greatest/worst fight in professional sports history.

Rappin' Ron Artest definitely deflected some of the crapola that Carr would have received for losing to Ohio State. The Detriot News and Free Press gave the bigger play on its Sunday front page to Artest.

There's another person happy with Rappin' Ron Artest. And yes, this time it is me. He gave me a perfect theme for Vol. 3 of the growing-by-the-week-in-popularity Weekend Update. So, I shall recap this weekend's events and then ask "What would Rappin' Ron Artest do?" in this situation. Look over your shoulder before reading. You never know when you might walk into a Stephen Jackson haymaker.

Let's begin:

* Phil Dawson missed two easy field goals, allowing the Jets to come back for the 10-7 road win. This after hitting 27 of the first 27 field goals he attempted this season. But it's about time the state of Ohio did something beneficial for New Yorkers, what with that whole power outage thing two summers ago and that brain-cell outage on Election Day.
What would Rappin' Ron Artest do? He and O'Neal would jump out of the stands, run up to Dawson and kick him through the uprights for a 38-yard field goal. In keeping with his New York roots, Artest would then go Jimmy Dix and launch a football into the Jets' booth, taking out Paul Hackett. And really, who would blame Artest for that one?

* Eli Manning made his first NFL start. He could have won the game in the final minutes. He didn't. Good to know one NFL Manning is still human.
What would Rappin' Ron Artest do? He'd hire Kurt Warner to help promote records for his label. Warner doesn't have much to do anymore and he could help Artest, who last week wanted a month off to promote Allure's new R&B album. Then, he'd punch Manning if for no other reason than he walked in front of Artest.

* Jermaine Wiggins goes Hulk Hogan and drops the big elbow on the football after scoring a touchdown early in Minnesota's 22-19 win over Detroit. Let's not forget Minnesotans did elect Jesse "The Body" Ventura its governor a few years back.
What would Rappin' Ron Artest do? He'd line up Wiggins for a straight right to the jaw. But professional wrestling is fake, so the punch would not be on every news station in the Western hemisphere and Artest would still play for the Indiana Pacers . . . until his next brush with stupidity. Wiggins would likely catch Artest off-guard with a sunset flip, hook the tights and get the quick win in the classi "Loser Leaves Town" match.

* Money is getting tossed at Pedro Martinez like he was a blue-chip college football recruit. A lunch with George Steinbrenner is worth an extra 365 days and $13 million to Boston. The Boss may turn this into a strange bidding war between himself and the machine behind the bullpen that prints his money. Will the ink hold out, or will George just buy a new machine?
What would Rappin' Ron Artest do? He'd convince Steinbrenner to lower the cost of beer at Yankee Stadium. With Artest roaming the stands for home games, fans will go broke even faster throwing their $7.50 beers at him. The move is celebrated by the media, who hail Steinbrenner as the best benevolent dictator since Jim Fassel.

* St. John's won its season opener for coach Norm Roberts. Granted it was against Wagner, but any win for the Red Storm this season will be viewed as a tremendous accomplishment. History Channel has already begun the documentary.
What would Rappin' Ron Artest do? He'd yell at his teammates, watch his coach get fired, then lead his team to the brink of a Final Four only to collapse in the clutch. Oh wait, he already did that for St. John's.

* UNC upset the UConn women in basketball on Sunday afternoon, giving the Huskies their earliest loss since the 1995-96 season. Such dominance deserves praise.
What would Rappin' Ron Artest do? He'd punch Geno Auriemma right in the grill because such early lack of focus is not the way to win a championship, which is something Artest told us precisely 812 times from his car during an ESPN interview last week. However, Auriemma, being the tough Philly guy that he is -- oh yeah, and he's a guido (cultured, but a guido nonetheless) -- catches Artest's hand and squeezes. Auriemma's hair never moves an inch as he reduces the bones in Artest's ring finger to ashes. Auriemma then rips open his $200 Armani shirt, exposes the $38 wife-beater and drops the People's Elbow on Artest. "This is something David Stern and your mama should have done a long time ago," Auriemma screams. Auriemma throws down, pummeling Artest for six minutes. But wait, what's this? It's . . . it's . . . it's Jamaal Tinsley. And it looks like he's carrying a . . . a . . is that a? . . . yes, Tinsley has a dustpan. And here comes Jermaine O'Neal and Stephen Jackson to rescue their fallen teammate. It's pandemonium. Haymakers all over the place. Only Barry Tompkins can announce such a chaotic fight. Here comes Ben Wallace. O'Neal throws a left hook, but it's absorbed by Wallace's afro. The fans are throwing chairs. What's this? It's Andrew Golota with seven straight punches below the belt to Jackson. Spike Lee, in his LJ jersey, has his hands around Reggie Miller's neck. Miller is breathing without a problem, but appears upset that Lee hasn't made a good movie since 1988. Just as Larry Brown gets a noogie from Ric Flair and an eye gouge from Magnum T.A., a figure appears at midcourt. He raises his right hand toward the sky and order is restored. The Pacers are escorted to jail. Auriemma sits down at the foul line with a plate of rigatoni and a fresh gel job. Three hours later, NBA commissioner David Stern released a statement. It was one sentence: "I am God."

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T.O., an American Hero

2004-11-19T02:58:00.000-05:00

So, America hates Terrell Owens, which is fourth on the Inherently Funny scale, ranking just behind the tried and true categories of chimps, midgets and farting. (Go ahead, let one rip at the Thanksgiving dinner table and see how long it takes Uncle Bruno to stop laughing.)

America hates T.O., unbelievably hilarious when you realize T.O. is America's poster child for, oddly enough, America. He's the end product of the finely crafted mythological reality known as the American Dream.

He was born in Alexander City, Ala., -- estimated population 14,832 -- and rose to fame across the land by choosing an occupation and excelling in it. That's some Thomas Jefferson right there for ya. Given life and the freedom to do whatever he wanted to do, he is pursuing happiness in a manner he sees fitting. (Turn on "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan voice now.) U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! (Turn off "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan voice now.)

And he just so happens to have beautiful women de-toweling in front of him, looking for a little T.O. time. Another tremendous by-product of fame bestowed upon the Philadelphia Eagles wide receiver.

Quick recap:

T.O. makes mad loot.

T.O. has 80,000 people cheering him every weekend.

T.O. makes the world stop when he scores a touchdown so they can see what he does to celebrate.

T.O. is the best at what he does and proves it every weekend.

T.O. has beautiful women lining up to take a number to stand in line to wait to get into the same nightclub as T.O.

Oh wait, we never hear about T.O. in nightclubs and other places that suborn indiscretions by athletes. T.O. never gets a DWI, much less a DUI.

T.O. doesn't go Michael Irvin and get caught with whores, drugs and stabbed teammates in apartments or training-camp complexes. T.O. does not go Jason Kidd and beat his wife. T.O. doesn't go Eugene Robinson (or Daryl Strawberry or St. John's men's basketball) and proposition hookers (undercover agents or otherwise). T.O. also doesn't go Ray Lewis and get involved in double-murder cases and later plea to obstructing justice.

He just imitates Ray Lewis' signature dance when he scores a touchdown against Ray Lewis and his Baltimore Ravens defense. He pulls a Sharpie out of his sock, autographs a ball and sends it into the stands. He dances with the cheerleaders, using their pompoms and celebrating the pageantry of the sport.

And, by the way, he's a model citizen who prepares for his job in a professional manner. And yes, he likes to have some fun at his job. He should be canonized, not demonized, especially in today's world where some journalism establishments run a weekly police blotter in the sports page.

Who among us does not want to have some fun in the workplace? T.O. is fortunate to have one of those jobs where fun is allowed, even if NFL commissioner Paul Tagliabue passes a kidney stone every time T.O. catches a pass in the open field.

So rename some streets in Philly for its new favorite son. Vine Street could easily be Terrell Owens Blvd. Pat's Cheesesteaks could change its name to T.O.'s tasty cheesesteaks.. Old City? T.O. City!

It's the American way. T.O. is living the dream. Don't hate on him. Be jealous, but don't hate.

Besides, our great grandchildren will be spending money with T.O.'s face on it. Close your eyes and dream. That's why America is America.

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No love for Sammy

2004-11-17T10:14:00.000-05:00

Sammy, we need to talk.

Try to understand. It's nothing personal against you, Dominican Daddy. It's just that, well... we aren't right for each other. You see, we've been hurt before.

We haven't been on speaking terms with Mo Vaughn and Steve Philips for a while now, after the way they wrecked our 2000 World Series team. Tom Glavine is in the dog house, too. And Cliff Floyd. Don't even mention Robbie Alomar. Lately, we've been investing a lot of time and energy in guys like you, and we've been rewarded with three straight sub-.500 seasons. Love hurts.

So when another aging, oft-injured, big-money player promising us the moon and stars comes a-knocking on our door, you'll have to forgive us if we look the other way. You see, we're Mets fans. We've learned to expect the worst. Besides, bringing you into our lives wouldn't be fair to you when we've really got our eyes on someone else.

His name is Carlos. He's young, talented, charming. Gold Glove fielder, power-hitter, base-stealer. He's really quite perfect. We're trying not to let ourselves believe he could really be ours, but we're hoping. And as long as we've got him in our heads, we can't be loving and faithful towards you.

Sammy, now is not the time for us. There may have once been a time where we were good for each other, but that time is past. Wouldn't you be much better off with someone else, anyway? I mean, you've still got some spark. Explore your options, see what's out there, you never know.

In the meantime, tell the Cubs to stop calling. We aren't interested. Let's just move on and pretend this whole affair never happened.

E-mail Mike Casey: michael.casey@newsday.com
Stay updated on the latest Mets news: www.newsday.com/sports/baseball/mets

He really can't Hackett

2004-11-16T01:21:00.000-05:00

I interviewed Paul Hackett on Monday afternoon. OK, so that's a big lie, but only because Hackett has ducked the media for two straight days.

This guy finds testosterone for 30 seconds on a Sunday, it backfires and then he goes into hiding like a 75-year-old man's sex drive after the Viagra wears off. There's nothing worse than a man who can't face criticism. That's worse than a B-level celebrity thinking he or she is really A-list and refusing to acknowledge the B-level status.

Our legal system gives defendants the right to face their accusers. Hackett opts out of that, even though the paycheck he gets on a regular basis borders on depraved indifference to human life.

Hackett may think he's safe from the media, but no one is safe from the Keyboard Quarterbacks. We're equal opportunity offenders, and by the stroke of good fortune, it's Hackett's turn.

So here's my imaginary conversation with Mr. Hackett:

Mark La Monica: "I gotta know, please. Why the f-bomb did you call that halfback pass?"
Paul Hackett: "Well, I figured our second-string running back who hasn't thrown a pass in a game in forever could fake out the best defense in the NFL, a defense, mind you, that has two players that are the best in the league at their position."

ML: "Why not just a simple draw play? You call them in every other situation."
PH: "I actually was debating any of seven draw plays at that time, but I figured Quincy Carter had completed every pass until then, so why not see if someone else could make a throw. I figured the Ravens' secondary was vulnerable to the pass. I even had a play ready for Bollinger but Herm thought that would be rubbing it in."

ML: "But you love the draw play. It's your bread-and-butter play."
PH: "The draw is only effective on third-and-5 or more when everyone in the stadium and around the NFL knows it's coming."

ML: "The logic is stupefying. I'm twitching."
PH: "See, I told you, I really am a smart football mind."

ML: "Oh yeah, well, how do you account for Carson Palmer having a miserable career at USC until you leave, and then he wins the Heisman Trophy?"
PH: "I taught him everything he knows."

ML: "You're killing me. Please wait a moment as I remove my spleen without anesthesia or medical instrument"
PH: "Let me show you my new draw play."

ML: "Dear God, no. Next question. Why did you call running plays on your last 9 nine first downs of the second half and overtime?"
PH: "I was trying to establish a distinct pattern so that, four weeks from now, our opponent will see that film and think we'll run again. That's when I bring out my new trick play -- a reverse, fullback draw!"

ML: "I think I just murdered my cat."
PH: "Can he block?"

ML: "Quincy Carter played well in Chad Pennington's absence, right up until the last minute. What happened?"
PH: "He was expecting a draw play to be radioed into his headset. When he didn't get it, he got flustered. He didn't expect to get a call to throw to his tight ends because he knows they can't catch but I don't."

ML: "When was the last time Chris Baker or Anthony Becht caught a wide-open pass for a first down?"
PH: "When was the last time we called a play for them?"
ML: "At least three times on Sunday. Watching Baker try to catch a football is like watching guys on the docks throw fish at each other."
PH: "Oh, yeah, those plays. They were check-offs out of a draw play."
ML: "Naturally."

ML: "Why did you curl up into a little ball in the second half with your play calling?"
PH: "I was waiting for this question. The answer is simple: I'm terrible at my job. I don't know how to call a game, yet I think I'm a genius and everyone else seems to agree. It's like passing the All-American basketball player because he can hit from 25 feet but you know he can't read. That's basically how I've kept my job. I don't deserve my paycheck."
ML: "Paul, I'm stunned. Where did that introspective, honest opinion of yourself come from?"
PH: "Psych! Wanna see my new draw play?"
ML: "I just poked out my right eye with a spork. Goodbye!"

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Weekend Update, ODB style

2004-11-15T05:04:00.000-05:00

We pour a little out for homey Ol’ Dirty Bastard, the grungiest member of the Wu-Tang Clan who died Saturday night at a recording studio in Manhattan. He was two days shy of a 36th birthday.

Volume II of the Weekend Update is in honor of ODB, aka Dirt McGirt, aka Big Baby Jesus, aka Russell Jones.

Through lyrics and song titles from the Ol’ Dirty Bastard and his Wu-Tang Clan brethren, I offer my shout-outs to the more intriguing events of the weekend:

“Old Dirt Dog, no liar, keep your fantasy hot like fire.”
For Quincy Carter, who said he could play well and did just that. After Jets fans have three heart attacks from the anger of not being able to get within choking distance of Paul Hackett, they will realize that the Q-man can help the Jets win some games without Chad Pennington.

“Shame on a -----, who tried to run game on a -----.”
For Nebraska head coach Bill Callahan, who ordered an intentional incomplete pass to stop the clock with 1 second left, just so his Cornhuskers could kick a field goal and prevent a 30-0 shutout against No. 2 Oklahoma.

“Shame on a -----, who tried to run game on a -----.” (remix)
For Oklahoma head coach Bob Stoops, who called a pass play on fourth-and-8 at the Nebraska 17-yard line with 40 seconds left and his Sooners maintaining a 30-0 lead.

“Then we got the Ol’ Dirty Bastard ‘cause there ain’t no father to his style.”
For Paul Hackett, who again proved there has never been a more awful offensive coordinator in NFL history. This platinum idiot calls a halfback pass with less than two minutes left in the first half and the Jets in field-goal range with a 14-0 lead. That’s when you become a red state. Take the free three points and kill the clock. But, nooooooo, not Hackett. Ed Reed, the intricate figure in last week’s Weekend Update made the interception, ran it back and the Ravens eventually scored a touchdown to steal all the momentum and eventually win in overtime, 20-17.

“Hey, Dirty, Baby I got your money, don’t you worry.”
Carlos Beltran is reportedly seeking a 10-year, $200-million contract. It’s just a matter of time until George reaches into his pocket, makes the deal, then makes us reach into our pockets for $8 pretzels and $2 ketchup packets for our $9 hot dogs.

“Ooh, baby, I like it raw.”
For ex-heavyweight champion Evander Holyfield, who enjoys getting beaten mercilessly every time he steps in the ring nowadays. The only “Real Deal” left is the guarantee that he will lose regardless of opponent. Put Holyfield in the ring against the Venus de Milo statue and I’m putting my money on de Milo knocking him out before the 8th round.

“Can it be that it was all so simple then?”
For Kurt Warner, the 1999 and 2001 NFL MVP with the St. Louis Rams, who was sacked six times while attempting to quarterback the New York Giants on Sunday. That's 24 sacks in his last four games.

“Do you think your Wu-Tang sword can defeat me?”
For Ben Roethlisberger, the Steelers’ rookie quarterback who improved his record to 7-0 with another solid outing and a 24-10 thumping of the Cleveland Browns.

“Protect ya neck.”
Joey Porter brought his haymakers to Cleveland and began throwing punches prior to start of the game. Browns players, in self defense of course, punched back. Lips were bloodied. That’s just plain stupid. When entering a fight on the football field, make sure the helmet is on first.

“Shimmy shimmy ya, shimmy yeah, shimmy yay, gimme the mike and I’m take you away.”
For Ron Artest, who begged his Indiana Pacers coach for a month off to heal his aching body (the season is two f-bombing weeks old, by the way), and, oh yeah, promote his label’s album featuring a little bit of Ron Artest and a lot of the group Allure. It is now we bless technology for creating free music sharing sites.

“Cash rules everything around me, C.R.E.A.M., get the money, dollar dollar bill y’all.”
For Scott Boras, simply because baseball has entered its annual phase of giving Scott Boras’ clients outrageous sums of money. Some call it free agency. Those who know better call it “Boras wants a new pool, four new cars, three new villas in Portugal and an office at Shea Stadium to conduct business” season.

“In yo’ face like a can of mace.”
From Brett Favre to Daunte Culpepper. It seems Culpepper thought he could throw two touchdowns in a 1:33 span against Favre’s defense in Favre’s house and leave Favre more than one minute on the clock. Well, Mary’s almost-husband (no, not Woogie) went 2-for-3 for 32 yards on the final drive and Ryan Longwell kicked the winning field goal as time expired. Favre 34, Culpepper 31.

“I don’t have a problem with you ------- me, but I have a little problem with you not ------ me.”
To Maria Sharapova, the lovely, leggy Russian tennis player who so beautifully beat Anastasia Myskina in the semifinals of the WTA Championship. I keep checking my Russian Mail-order Bride catalog for Sharapova, but all they ever have in there is the Nikolai Volkoff life-size replica who sings the Soviet national anthem and Cara Mia on demand. The Iron Sheik is not included. Very disturbing.

E-MAIL ME | Vote: Best of the Wu-Tang Clan

Isles off to fast start

2004-11-11T19:54:00.000-05:00

Buoyed by a quick start by Alexei Yashin, a rejuvenated Mark Parrish and a recent win over Tampa Bay, the Islanders are off to one of their hottest starts in franchise history. At least in a fantasy world.

You see, the good folks at G4 tech TV are simulating the entire season on their web site. They even have a weekly highlight show hosted by Luc Robitaille. The Islanders are 7-2-3-0 and are sitting in second place behind the Flyers. Yashin has 6 goals already, as do Parish and Czerkawski. DiPietro has looked solid in net too.

As for the Rangers, well they stink. But you knew that. Mike Dunham and Kevin Weekes are taking turns being pummeled in net and the Blue Shirts are off to a 2-9-1-0 start. It seems as if the lockout may be good for them. The only teams worse than the Rangers are the Coyotes, Capitals and Hurricanes.

So rather than watching in horror as the NHL self-destructs, I can watch live game updates on the web and just picture Peca not clearing the puck, DP leaving the crease dangerously and chanting Mike Must Go! At least we are winning.

Rapping with Ron

2004-11-11T02:45:00.000-05:00

Just when I thought Latrell Sprewell set the bar at an unattainable height with his "I gotta feed my family" gem when discussing his $14 million contract, along comes Queensbridge's finest.

Ron Artest now leads the NBA in idiotic moves. This is no small feat, either. With a cast of characters that can make the Kids in the Hall look like high-fallutant lawyers in an Ivy League secret society, the NBA has found its new leader in Ron Artest.

This guy asked his Indiana Pacers coach Rick Carlisle for time off to rest. It appears he was too tired from promoting his soon-to-be-released rap album.

I know what you're thinking. What label would sign a man who went 4-for-10 from the field and committed five turnovers, single-handedly costing St. John's a berth in the Final Four in 1999? Amazing, isn't it?

I cannot begin to discuss the insanity of Ron Artest (in this situation or in any other one he comes up with) because journalism ethics prevent me from f-bombing cursing like a sailor at the brothel on a weekend pass. But I can say that Ron Artest has a mustache, so he can't be trusted. (see The Mustache Maxim)

Sports, especially selfish basketball players getting paid like a corrupt politician in Colombia, are all about stats. So, let's look at where Artest ranks among the NBA ballers turned hip-hop ballers:

Worst Basketball-players-turned-rappers:

1, tie) Cedric Ceballos

1, tie) Dana Barros

1, tie) Allen Iverson

1, tie) Kobe Bryant

1, tie) Ron Artest

1, tie) Jason Kidd

1, tie) Dennis Scott

1, tie) Chris Mills

1, tie) Bryan Shaw

1, tie) Gary Payton

11) Shaquille O'Neal

Note: The first five names I knew. The next five I spent 38 minutes researching online (and I have a cable modem). I may have more problems than Artest.

And just for fun:

Best Rappers-turned-basketball-players:
1) Master P
2) Ice Cube (the one-handed driving hook-layup he hit in the "It was a good day" video is more undefendable than Kareem's skyhook)
3) Silkk the Shocker
4) Mark Wahlberg (kid can shoot from outside, just watch "The Italian Job")
5) Shaquille O'Neal (his verse on Fu-Schnickens' "What's up Doc? (Can we Rock?)" was good enough to put the Big Aristotle on both lists)
6) Lil' Bow Wow (ever see "Like Mike?")

Artest's album hits stores Nov. 23. What's the musical equivalent of straight-to-video movies? Ah, yes, it's Ron Artest.

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Terrell, just shut up already

2004-11-08T21:28:00.000-05:00

It seems like everyone these days is enlightening us with an opinion on Terrell Owens. He's a flamboyant superstar! He's a spoiled primadonna! He's a spokesman for a generation! He's a homophobe! ... Oh the contradictions!

So who is Terrell Owens? Well I'm not going to tell you I know for certain, since I've never met him, and if I did, I wouldn't ask him to describe himslf, because I'm sure his answer would involved fifteen references to the Lord, nine "I'm a team player" comments, seven improper adjectives and four occurrences of double talk. Actually, the only reason I feel a need to chime in on the matter is because the answer is unbelievably simple:

Terrell Owens is the most immature idiot in pro sports.

Others have tried to attribute his quirks to an overly ebullent personality, a stark desire to win, an unfair media, and I believe, on one occasion, al-Qaida. Friends, it's not all that complicated. Owens is dumb. And unlike some of his fellow pro athletes, he's not getting any less dumber (pardon the colloquialism).

Take Jeremy Shockey, Owens' homophobe brother-in-arms. Well, we all thought Jeremy was pretty cuckoo for insinuating that a certain Cowboys coach with a fishy nickname was a fan of Boys on the Side, but since then he's been able to keep his insightful social commentary to a hush. Sure, he still whines about his playing time like a two-year-old without a teething ring, but just yesterday I saw him do the most incredible thing.

With the Giants trailing 28-14 at the end of a very long, very poorly played game against the Chicago Bears, Shockey caught a touchdown pass. And then, without hesitation, without celebration, he flipped the ball to the official and jogged off the field. I nearly fainted.

Where was the flexing and the posing and the strutting? I checked the number. Yep, it was 80. Well, well, I thought, it appears Jeremy is finally learning the value of sportsmanship over a cutesy highlight on SportsCenter. But not our Terrell...

Terrell knows the cameras are on him. He likes that the cameras are on him. He eats it up. He absolutely thrives off it. As ESPN.com writer Skip Bayless recently pointed out, Owens is a master of self-promotion. His ear-to-ear grins and touchdown celebrations have an undeniable appeal. But to say that Owens intends to be so controversial, to act so stupidly so shamelessly, gives T.O. way too much credit. Because as much his Sharpie-wielding, pompom-shaking, sign defacing stunts have made him into a celebrity, they've also turned him into a anomalous circus sideshow.

What people should be talking about his how many touchdowns he's scored this season, and how he's the greatest receiver since Jerry Rice. Instead, they talk about everything else. Instead of Terrell Owens, Hall of Fame receiver, he's become Terrell Owens, lightning rod for controversy and spokesmodel for immaturity. He's 31 years old, and he still doesn't understand there's a difference between superstardom and celebrity... Sigh...

Sadly, as long as he continues justify his obnoxious behavior with virtuoso on-field performances, he'll largely be shielded from criticism. If the Eagles finally win the big one, he'll be celebrated as the man who helped put Philly over the top. People will forget about his ignorance and his self-interest because everyone loves a winner.

But history plays a game too, and right now Owens is on the wrong team. While men like Rice will be remembered principally for their accomplishments, Owens seems destined to be remembered as a curious character, a self-serving egomaniac, and oh yeah, a pretty decent ballplayer. If Pete Rose coaches that team, it looks like he's found his wide receiver.

E-mail Mike Casey.

Weekend Update, Vol. I

2004-11-08T02:31:00.000-05:00

We begin the inaugural Weekend Update with a shout-out to Gwyneth Paltrow. Why, you ask, do we praise the sometimes-blonde-sometimes-not waify actress in a sports blog?

Three reasons:

1) Certain scenes in “Shakespeare in Love” were beautifully, uh, acted.
2) Her uncanny ability to ride family coattails to individual stardom
3) If not for her movie “Sliding Doors,” Ed Reed’s 106-yard interception return Sunday night for the Ravens would be just another 106-yard interception return Sunday night for the Ravens.

“Sliding Doors” looks at how Paltrow life goes after not making a subway train and explores how her life would have been had she made that ride.

What would have happened if Ed Reed didn’t scoop a tipped pass from Cleveland’s Jeff Garcia one inch before it hit the ground with less than a minute left, his Ravens already leading 20-13, and run it back an NFL-record 106 yards for the touchdown and 27-13 victory?

I would not have covered the 7.5-point spread in the office pool and would not have guaranteed myself third place.

I would not have covered the 7-point spread in, uh, another “pool.” It would have been a push, which is worse than watching most Paltrow movies.

My fantasy football team, the Fryburg Antonellis (unofficially renamed the Fryburg Fibulas due to eight season-ending injuries for my players) had one more point. This is crucial because I’m going up against Peyton Manning, Dallas Clark, The Idiot Kicker and Marcus Robinson on Monday night. Sure, I have Marvin Harrison and a 40-point lead, which means Reggie Wayne will catch three touchdowns and Manning will run for two more and beat me by two points.

The Reed Runback put another team in my league ahead of my division’s leader. However, the division leader has Daunte Culpepper left and the other team was stupid and started Duce Staley when Bill Cowher decided not to.

But there’s still hope.

So, with Reed making the play he called on radio “A miracle in the making,” I’m up $50 bucks, have a chance to eek out a fantasy football win and perhaps move a game closer to first place in the division.

For the record, Kenny Wheaton of the Toronto Argonauts had a 116-yard interception return for a touchdown in a CFL playoff game, but the exchange rate makes it only 94 American yards.

Some other happenings from the weekend:

* (Turn on Joe Beningo voice now) You just knew that when Herm Edwards won the coin toss and elected to kick, they were going to lose the game. (Turn off Joe Beningo voice, unless of course you prefer it to your own voice. Either way, keep reading.)

* Lawyer friend Steve, a Jets fan by trade, got engaged to Jamie the Eagles fan this weekend. Here’s hoping the Jets and Eagles don’t play in the same Super Bowl for at least the next 50 years. Herm Edwards said he was unsure of which side to sit on at the ceremony.

* The U’s Brock Berlin could very well be the worst quarterback in the state of Florida. Impressive when you realize Jay Fielder, A.J. Feely, Chris Rix and Jeb Bush are all in Florida.

* The Knicks treated their faithful to a crapola home opener. Fans were heard outside the Garden saying, “That was worse than a Spike Lee movie.” Ouch. The body of evidence to support fans’ theories is outstanding. I’d rather slam my unit in the glove compartment of my car than watch “Summer of Sam.”

* The huevos rancheros belonging to Texas A & M head football coach Dennis Franchione are beyond comprehension. Against the No. 2 Oklahoma Sooners, Franchione calls a fake punt AND a fake field goal in the same f-bombing game. Both go for touchdowns. Huevos!

* Willie Randolph began his tenure as Mets manager. Ticket prices are expected to drop since operating costs at Shea will go down now that “Windmill Willie” is powering the team.

* Pat LaFontaine completed an Ironman Triathlon in Florida. 13 hours, 6 minutes, 49 seconds. 0 concussions. Some things travel beyond the realm of comprehension.

* Hockey still on strike! America rejoices. Liquor stores in NHL cities file for bankruptcy.

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Dry ice

2004-11-05T13:21:00.000-05:00

I enjoy a good basketball game as much as the next person. But seriously, is this NHL thing ever gonna get figured out?

Today is the 50th day of the lockout; 146 games have already been missed, not counting the All-Star Game and every contest in the next 45 days, which have all been cancelled too. The NHL and its players association have not met since September, a couple of days before the lockout went into effect. More than 200 NHLers are scattered across Europe and North America, trying to earn a living by playing for local professional clubs or minor-league teams. Commissioner Gary Bettman said recently the season is "likely to slip away" and NHLPA boss Bob Goodenow affirmed that the "all the guys are on board" in their staunch opposition to a salary cap. Somehow all of this is not making me very confident.

I'm starting to feel like I have a better chance of seeing my alma mater Loyola-Maryland Greyhounds celebrating a men's basketball title on the grey tarps at Reitz Arena than I will of seeing NHL hockey this season. (For those of you not familiar with the program, our record the last two seasons is 5-51.) I'm pressing along in my NHL 2005 season for PS2. Seven games into the season, I'm 1-5-0-1. And I still think I've got a better chance of winning a Stanley Cup this year than any NHLer.

What will June be like without a grizzled, bearded man listing along the ice toting a big silver cup and flashing a toothless, ear-to-ear grin? How will I get through April without 16 teams, 16 wins, octopii, sudden death, Buccigross and Melrose? No Sam and J.D.? No Howie and Joe Mich? No Doc, nor Chico, nor Pang & Steve Levy? I'm starting to feel ill...

No matter how the rhetoric czars in the NHL's PR department try to explain it, the league needs to realize that the average fan doesn't understand or care why a salary cap is important. They just want cheap tickets and an exciting product on the ice. And similarly, the players need to understand that the average fan doesn't give a damn about your financial problems when you've been living in a mansion in Oyster Bay for the last six years. No amount of explanations or excuses or apologies can atone for my having to spend January watching sporting events like the "Huminatarian Bowl" or the "Gaylord Hotels Music City Bowl." I'd rather be humming the National Hockey Night theme song and knocking hockey balls around my house.

Unfortunately, no one seems all that interested in reaching a bargain or appeasing my appetite for pucks. A few NHL players have spoken out in question of the impasse, but Goodenow has quickly reached out to hush any malcontention. We are left to believe that both sides are at a complete standstill, completely unable and unwilling to work together. And at the expense of those who pay their salaries, the players and owners have got me pretty convinced.

So while we wait for an end to the obstinance, we'll get by on other distractions: the Knicks, Jets, Giants, St. John's, World Series of Poker, Rutgers, or the -- *gulp*, dare I say it? -- Nets! I hope the players are enjoying their extended vacations. I hope the owners have a little extra change in their coffers come Christmastime. In the meantime, I'll be warming up to Trevor Ariza and Jamal Crawford, trying to catch the occasional Rangers classic, and suffering the intolerable silence of an NHL fan who is alone in his misery.

E-mail Mike.

Newsday's Mark Herrmann chats with Pat LaFontaine.

Give 'Windmill' a Chance

2004-11-05T01:00:00.000-05:00

The hiring of Willie Randolph as manager of the New York Mets renews my faith that idiots are alive and well in America.

This has nothing to do with Omar Minaya, Fred Wilpon, Jeff Wilpon, Randolph or anyone else in the Mets’ organization and everything to do with the people calling radio shows and posting on Internet message boards and chat rooms.

These schmucks on wheels believe that Randolph won’t be a good manager because he’s a Yankee. And just when I was ready to give credit to America for not being dumber than Nicole Richie on late-night talk shows, they come out from under the couch to drop such insightful gems as, “I’m disgusted. I don’t want a Yankee running my team.”

Well, morons:
A) It’s not your team.
B) He’s not exactly replacing Connie Mack or Miller Huggins.
C) He understands how to win, which is unheard of in Mets country.
D) When the Mets are .500 in August and perhaps playing one or two meaningful games in September (very early September), you’ll be praising Willie as the savior.
E) The Mets copy everything from the Yankees, from their pinstriped uniforms to the logo on their hats to the city they play in.

Wait, there’s more:
F) If the Mets’ franchise is so bad (and it is), then why not take from the best? It worked for Robin Hood.
G) Art Howe couldn’t handle the New York media and he was ripped for not being a New Yorker
H) Joe Torre was blasted the day he got hired and looked what happened the past nine years.

You can criticize the hiring for Randolph having no managerial experience, or for the fact that he’s not Bobby Valentine or Jim Leyland. But he’s an established name in New York and is hungry to prove that he deserved any of the 12 jobs he interviewed for previously.

In the end, Randolph needs players to be considered a successful manager. Torre was average at best until he came to the Yankees and had some talent to work. Mike Piazza is on the decline and Randolph must fire up the front office to pursue big free agents such as Carlos Beltran.

The Yankee pedigree can only help the Mets in the short-term. Wise front-office moves and better on-the-field talent will carry the rest.

Rip the Mets if you wish for the hiring, but do it for the right reasons.

If the Mets make a run at the playoffs in 2005 or 2006, would you really care that Randolph once played for the Yankees? Remember, he once played for the Mets, too.

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These (don't) go to 11

2004-11-03T23:03:00.000-05:00

Meet the 2004-05 New York Knicks, a talented but flawed bunch.

Although New York has assembled what many consider to be the favorite to win the reconfigured Atlantic division, the Knicks proved Wednesday night why they're still a step or two short of making a serious title run.

The Knicks had the guts and the wherewithal. What they didn't have, to borrow from Spinal Tap, was "the extra push over the cliff." When the T-Wolves kicked the energy up to 11, the Knicks were stuck on 10. New York couldn't find its fifth gear -- or simply hasn't formed one yet. Until that happens, it will be tough to compete with the best teams in the NBA.

With that in mind, let's take a look at a player-by-player recap of the team's performance in the loss to Minnesota:

Stephon Marbury: Stephon was his usual self, dishing off several nice passes and finishing the game with 10 assists and 27 points. But the former Lincoln High star never got into a serious groove offensively and couldn't make tought shots down the stretch. He also missed two free throws late in the third quarter that would have given New York the lead.

Jamal Crawford: Came out firing early and showed his explosive offensive potential. Crawford made some nice plays defensively, but his shot selection was erratic and he occasionally took the Knicks out of their offense with wild lay-ups and quick jump shots. If he settles down he should be an excellent pick-up for GM Isiah Thomas.

Tim Thomas: Awful start for the Knicks' starting swingman. Thomas played just 23 minutes and went 3-13 from the field. He looked out of control and out of sync on offense and lost a lot of playing time to rookie Trevor Ariza in the second half.

Kurt Thomas: Kurt had his hands full guarding league MVP Kevin Garnett and did about as well as one could expect. His defense was solid -- although at times irrelevant when KG got hot -- and he made a couple of his long-range jump shots. Came up with 15 rebounds to help limit Minnesota's second opportunities. But was invisible offensively for most of the game and couldn't contribute down the stretch.

Nazr Mohammed: Nazr had a quiet game, playing 29 minutes and notching 5 points and 7 boards. He did not have a blocked shot and did not run the floor especially well. Did nothing to dispel the notion that the Knicks might have trouble at center this year.

Trevor Ariza: Isiah hit the jackpot with Marbury, the daily double with Crawford and may have landed a trifecta with Trevor Ariza. This raw, talented second-round draft pick saw plenty of crunch-time minutes in the second half and played reasonably well. He created problems defensively for Minnesota and gave the Knicks some needed energy. However, he needs to learn to harness his energy, or he'll end up drawing a lot of offensive fouls and taking a lot of wild shots. Overall, the future is bright for the rookie.

Michael Sweetney: Last year's first round pick contributed as well, playing 18 minutes and scoring 10 points off the bench. He also grabbed 6 hard-earned rebounds and showed a physical and atheltic maturity that should make him a fixture in New York's rotation throughout the year. Looked comfortable playing big minutes late in the fourth quarter, although he still has some learning to do.

Penny Hardaway: Penny struggled to make an impact, going 1-5 and scoring just 3 points. His calm on the court may be his best asset to the Knicks, but he's also going to have to make some clutch shots and play tough defense, too.

Jerome Williams: The Junkyard Dog looked good defensively and under the boards but couldn't help much on the offensive end. If teammates can remeber to keep the ball out of his hands, the Knicks should get their money's worth with this guy.

Vin Baker: Baker was combative in his six minutes and looked for his shots on offense. If he gets hot during games throughout the season, look for coach Lenny Wilkens to favor him over the offensively-challenged Williams. His lack of mobility appears to be his biggest liability for the run 'n' gun Knicks.

Moochie Norris: Still not sure why Moochie is a Knick. When you have to get rid of Frank Williams, I guess Norris is the next best option. Williams may be the most sorely-missed player this year, as Moochie just doesn't have the talent to keep Stephon Marbury on the bench for the rest he needs.

Shandon Anderson: Well... uh.... he gave some good high fives. I'm still not sure why the Knicks stopped using him. He would have been useful on defense over a cold Penny Hardaway tonight. But I guess if Isiah doesn't mind letting him sit on the bench collecting his pay checks, I don't mind either.

Election Day Voter's Guide

2004-11-01T01:31:00.000-05:00

Even if you’ve been caught up in Bostonian revelry the past few days, or are completely focused on the Jets’ Monday night game againt Miami, surely you realize that Tuesday is Election Day.

CNN, MSNBC, CNBC and every other telecommunicative acronym says this is the most important election in our country’s history, so it must be true. (George Washington could only afford basic service, so he refused to go on those other pay-cable shows.)

I would never cast my political views on other people because Agnostic Fundamentalism isn’t my style. But I do agree that this election is bigger than Nino Brown, so I came up with a way to reach the sports fan.

Here is the inaugural Mark La Monica’s Voter Guide, based on the candidates appearing on New York’s ballot:

George W. Bush (Republican)
He bought the Texas Rangers in 1989, then sold his interests in the team in 1994. The baseball strike canceled the postseason. Also in 1994. Not until 1996 did the Rangers finally make the playoffs, two years after Bush left. Texas reached the playoffs in three of the four full seasons following Bush’s departure. He traded Sammy Sosa and two others for perpetual DH Harold Baines and Fred Manrique. That’s right. Fred f-bombing Manrique. That should eliminate the Texas vote, if they (and their shotguns) aren’t loaded, but it could make Illinois a red state. Curious sidenote: whatever happened to Fred Manrique. Fred, if you’re reading this, give me a shout out. I also wonder if Bush’s Cabinet members are on steroids and he, using his baseball experience, decided to look the other way.

John Kerry (Democrat)
Maybe he likes the Red Sox, maybe he doesn’t. But he’s a huge fan of Manny Ortiz. Aye, Papi! One could argue that he did what MVP voters wanted to do, which is merge Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz into one über-hitter. One could also argue he’s a sports idiot. Both seem viable. But he did set a campaign record for being photographed playing the most amount of sports. (Note: The hunting photo doesn’t count because guns don’t play sports, people play sports.) And he never helped destroy a franchise by trading Sosa, nor was he part of a group that allowed the cancellation of its sport’s playoffs. He likely never even voted to put Bud Selig in charge of anything, nor vote to remove Fay Vincent from his charge as commissioner of baseball. If Bush had showed such conviction with his Cabinet selections, maybe much of the country’s problems wouldn’t be as bad. Hmmm?

Kerry’s cause was boosted by the Green Bay Packers beating the Redskins in Washington. Since 1936, the outcome of Washington’s final home game before a presidential election has determined the next president. If Washington wins, the incumbent does too. If the visitor wins, it’s a brave new world. However, trusting this theory this year seems difficult. Not because of the candidates, but because trusting Brett Favre this year isn’t as easy.

Ralph Nader (Independent)
I’m all for consumer advocacy, but this guy looks waaaaay too much like the guy who played Sonny Red in “Donnie Brasco.” And we all know what happened to Sonny Red. He had poor underlings who couldn’t gather for enough intelligence to tell him he was about to get whacked.

Roger Calero (Socialist Workers)
Once arrested for selling weed to a cop, so he’ll likely earn the NBA’s votes. He’s also a raging Communist, and given their inability to produce non-drug-enhanced Olympians, the NBA may withdraw its support. Plus, he was born in Nicaragua, making it constitutionally illegal for him to serve as president of the U.S. of A.

Michael Badnarik (Libertarian)
If only he had actor Stephen Bauer walking down the streets of America in a wife-beater sweating up a storm and chanting “Liberte! Liberte!,” he might have had a chance to earn a few votes outside of his family and those he went to college with. Come to think of it, I wonder if he went to college. Hang on, let’s see what Google says . . . a ha! He’s a Hoosier. He was there during Bobby Knight’s perfect 32-0 season of 1975-76, but was powerless to stop the made-for-ESPN movie “Season on the Brink,” so I must immediately question his ability to lead a nation.

David Cobb (Green)
No relation to Ty Cobb, which may or may not hurt his chances. Of course, no one outside of his family and Ralph Nader knows who the f-bomb this guy, so that may hurt his chances, too.

Michael Anthony Peroutka (Constitution)
This political genius resigned from his position with the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services when he realized none of his projects were constitutionally permissible. That’s some Fred Wilpon stuff right there, i.e. Art Howe “lighting up the room.” Who exactly was in that room and why were they sitting in the dark?

Hope this helps you make up your mind. Come to think of it, I hope you use none of this to make your decision, but maybe it made you laugh a little and got you to start thinking about the election.

To quote my favorite Diddy, “Vote or die!”

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Cursing the curse

2004-10-28T01:58:00.000-04:00

I was all set to put forth to my reading public the Health Club Rules of Decency today, but it seems what I witnessed Wednesday night is more timely, though equally groundbreaking.

The mammothness of watching the Boston Red Sox crown themselves the best team in the world, and to have the bylaws of the sport of baseball bestow such a title on them at the same time, is too sexy a topic to let go by unmolested.

Hundreds of sportswriters, several of which were better than me (Jim Murray and Red Smith come to mind), never had the chance to offer to the world their thoughts on Red Sockian mastery. I’ll be cursed for 86 years if I don’t remark on this historical occasion. Not being able to curse about this curse will be difficult.

I watched from the back of the newsroom, a pair of Bostonian fans to my distant right, another closer to my left, with a few Yankee haters sprinkled in between. They felt the way I did in my wanna-be welfare apartment in college when the Yankees won in 1996. That was my first title as a real fan (I was 3 years old in 1978, so I have no recollection of anything other than by big wheels -- I had the Superman model.)

However, Yankee fans around the world are a disgusted group. That disgust will last through the offseason, or at least until the Yankees sign Pedro Martinez in December. They’ll come out of the woodwork with inane excuses and insane trade/free-agent ideas. It’s all misplaced aggression. Psychiatrists and psychologists will all have bountiful holidays this season with all the money they’ll rake in from new customers.

In my attempt at benevolence (and future political aspirations), I offer Yankee fans a better (and cheaper) way to work through your Bostonian-inflicted pain: blame the Mets.

Think about how much easier it would be to swallow the bitter pill in 2004 if the Mets didn’t rally to beat the Red Sox in 1986. If Mookie Wilson could have just hit a pop-up instead of a “tough” grounder to Buckner (he doesn’t deserve publication of his first name), Boston would be reveling in its first World Series victory since . . . 1986. That would be 18 years of inferiority, which is precisely how long the Yankees went before winning in 1996.

18 or 86? Which hurts a Yankee fan less?

See, the problem begins in Flushing (wow, how many times have we said that in our lifetimes). So don’t curse the Red Sox. They did something extraordinary and deserve their moment. Embrace what they did, then hate on the Mets for making 2004 even more extraordinary.

And cheer up, Yankee fans. Your owner has a lot more money than anyone else.

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Gad-Zooks! You're fired, but not yet

2004-10-26T02:30:00.000-04:00

It was just a blip on the New York sports radar Monday morning, but it caused a stir in Florida and got me thinking.

Ron Zook was fired as head football coach at the University of Florida. Most of us in New York couldn't care less about this, unless of course:
a) We're displaced Floridians
b) We're displaced SEC football people
c) We care about the exciting sport of college football
d) We have friends in Lexington, Ky., or other assorted SEC towns with bad SEC football teams and quick access to e-mail
e) We gamble heavily
f) some combination of the above

However, the manner in which he was forced to start updating his resume (and burning every gametape from the past three seasons) is becoming a disturbing trend in sports. He was fired from his job and "allowed" to stay on to finish the remainder of the season. While this may not rival the Richie Phillips "We're all resigning" MLB umpire snafu from a few seasons ago (still the greatest labor move ever), it could be the stupidest thing in NCAA history, and that's no easy Top 25 list to crack.

Zook became the third major sports coach to get fired and still keep his job. Jim Fassel got canned with two weeks left for allowing his 2003 Giants, a Super Bowl contender in the preseason, to take a dump on the season. Stupidity finally caught up to Art Howe late in the Mets' 2004 season and he got booted out of Flushing but then was asked by management to be a pal and stick around for the final few weeks.

In a mad, mad world where the runner-up to a music contest still gets a record deal and every kid in Little League gets a trophy (even that rightfielder with the .023 average on a 1-15 team), losing a job and keeping it in the same conversation seems a little odd.

This is equivalent to getting fired by Donald Trump on "The Apprentice," then being allowed to still compete in the next three episodes. This is extending the 1994 NBA Finals to an eighth game because John Starks didn't shoot too well in Game 7 for the Knicks. This is Lindsay Lohan's new video not making the Top 10 on MTV's TRL, but still showing it anyway because she's hot. (Full disclosure: I voted for her video the other day. Hey, she's from Long Island.)

Zook was doing such a horrendous job at the University of Florida that the bosses at the University of Florida said FU, but could you please stick around for a few more weeks just to help out.

That's Lottodog in "8 Mile," telling B. Rabbit at the end of a rap battle, "I'll end this $--- with a [f-bomb] you, but have a nice day."

Why do these coaches think it's appropriate to hang around a place they're not wanted? It's almost as bad as watching old athletes not knowing when to quit, but definitely worse than B-level celebrities who refuse to acknowledge their "USA Up All Night" status.

It's not about finishing what you started, or saving face, or any of that glory of the game yang they peddle to reporters and fans. It's about doing a bad job and getting called out on it.

Close your eyes and imagine this scene. OK, wait a minute, keep your eyes open so you can read this. So, just imagine your boss sends you an e-mail to come chat in the office on payday. The boss then tells you that your next paycheck will come from the unemployment office. Do you then say, "OK, but can I still work here for a few weeks even though you just fired me and obviously think I'm not effective enough to keep working here?"

Not me. If my boss did that, I'd pack up my desk, reformat my hard drive, "misplace" the phone receiver, then go out blaze-of-glory style by dropping the kids off at the pool where the pool is the hood of the boss' car. (Note to boss: Just kidding, really. Just a fun little joke. C'mon, you know you laughed.)

And if the boss asked me, moments after removing me from the world of employment, to stick around a few more days to help out, I'd go Stone Cold. That's right, I'd drop a stunner on the boss, whip out a steel chair and start swinging, then crack open a Coors Light (in a can, of course) and scream "That's the bottom line" over and over again.

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Embracing Bostonian history

2004-10-21T04:49:00.000-04:00

I partied with one Red Sox fan and a bunch of Yankee haters in the hours of revelry following the greatest collapse in the history of baseball, sports and possibly the world.

The dismantling of the Berlin Wall? The fall of Communism in the USSR? The withdrawal of troops from Vietnam? They can't hold a candle to the Yankees becoming the first team to squander a 3-0 lead in baseball postseason history. Actually, squander is too soft a word. They choked. They blew it. They crapped out after betting max on the pass line. They left their hearts in the clubhouse . . . in Boston.

Respect must be given to the Bostonian "Idiots" for their accomplishment. It was an amazing comeback and one that deserves admiration from even the most "diehard" Yankee fans and even the "biggest Yankee fans" ever. If not, then your fan pass should be revoked. The Red Sox are the government. The Yankees are Henry Hill. And yes, they folded under questioning. It's an undeniable fact.

Despite my peacemaking with the situation, it felt a little strange as the lone Yankee fan surrounded by demonic Yankee haters living their dream. But it was somewhat refreshing. There's no more pressure on the Yankees anymore. No more curse to play in fear of. No more, "Oh my God, imagine if we lost" yang to listen to from idiot Yankee fans. (Note: There are three intelligent Yankee fans left in the world, and I believe I am one of them.)

To see the man we call Bus, a true Red Sockian, shed his patriarchal title of sultan of the Vortex of Negativity and adopt a Mr. Positive attitude was heartwarming. He looked like a proud man who just became a grandfather for the first time.

Derisive chants of "Twooooo-thousand" and "John-ny Da-mon" filled the bar at unchoreographed moments. Then, Eddie Mac, the chieftain of the Vortex of Negativity, gave a toast he's been waiting at least 34 years to share with America: "When the banner of Evil is finally burned, great men will rejoice."

The party lasted until one light remained on inside the Great Saloon of Bostonian Revelry . . . in Farmingdale. Even being a Yankee fan, there was no other place I'd rather be on this night. Euphoria for a region that is a four-hour drive away, with good people who waited a lifetime to share this moment with anyone who would listen.

This was history the likes of which people will never see again and Yankee fans will never understand. The closest thing I can compare it to is Charlie Hayes catching Mark Lemke's foul ball to clinch the 1996 World Series. Anyone Yankee fan under 35 worth his pinstripes must consider that night the most Utopian of October nights. Any Yankee fan under 35 who disagrees wasn't a Yankee fan until 1997 and they should just stop reading this immediately and search the Internet for the latest bandwagon. Rumor has it there is plenty of room with the New York Giants, so do a quick search and see how much the best seats are being scalped for.

Yankee fans, we will live to play another day. But the world will go, your paychecks will still be deposited directly into your bank accounts, your children will still love you, your credit card statements and student loan payment coupons will still be delivered by e- or snail mail, your car will still need an oil change every 3,000 miles, your cell phone will still get reception, your boss will still instruct you to do something that you believe is completely ridiculous, you'll still have low-carb diets, I can't believe it's not butter lite and ATM fees at banks other than your own.

So embrace being a part of history, and for a moment, no matter how brief, allow someone else to experience the joys of October. Live vicariously through someone else for the next two weeks. Besides, Steinbrenner will bring in Pedro and Derek Lowe next year, so get used to rooting for them.

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Laissez Faire

2004-10-20T16:30:00.000-04:00

Restaurant friend Rob checked in with this mid-afternoon e-mail report:

"mark bellhorn just had lunch in the restaurant....... he looked shook......"

The restaurant in question is Marseilles, a lovely casual fine dining French joint in Manhattan's Theatre District. I immediately called for more details into this explosive situation of a Red Sock daring to eat food prepared by New Yorkers outside the team hotel in the hours leading up to Game 7.

"He ain't making any plays today, don't worry. Mysterious food illness," Rob said.

Settle down Board of Health and neurotic readers, he was joking, because as Rob said, "I don't want to win like that."

He's such a good-natured fan, at least on the business side of things. He's hands off when it comes to torturing Red Sox-turned-customers. Damn laissez-faire government! Me, I would have spit in his food then undercooked it, followed by a drugging of his beverages. But maybe that's why I'm not in the food business.

Onto the second part of Rob's report: "he looked shook." A weary Bellhorn is a good Bellhorn for New Yorkers. Even if he only has about 4 hits this entire postseason, one of those was a three-run homer in Game 6, the hit that forced this perilous Game 7. (Normally, I'd root for a guy who wears a double-flapped helmet, but he's a Red Sock with Cub tendencies, and these are the playoffs).

Here's hoping Bellhorn ordered a French dish with heavy cream sauce!

esruc eht esrever

2004-10-20T09:13:00.000-04:00

I didn’t feel this way last week. The Yankees jumped out to a quick three game lead and it was over before I could even begin to root against them. The tide has changed.

Call me a bandwagon fan, but let’s reverse this curse tonight!

I have no allegiance to the Red Sox; as a matter of fact I don’t particularly like any of these guys. Martinez is a punk, Francona is just riding Schilling’s coat tails and they all need a hair cut. But the feeling I have this morning is one of hope.

My name is Jonathan and I am a Mets fan.

As a child I marched across the grass at Shea Stadium with a banner that read “My two favorite teams are the Mets and anyone playing the Yankees.” I slept with a cup full of grass and dirt from the Shea outfield on my nightstand. I couldn’t sleep for weeks after the 2000 series.

The past few seasons have been lost ones for me as a fan. Even I didn’t get excited when they were ½ game out at the All-Star break. I knew better. I stopped paying attention. I forgot for a few months that I hate the Yankees.

I woke up last night. Watching A-Rod complain to the ump was beautiful. Watching Jeter pout in the dugout filled my heart with warmth.

The phrase ‘historic collapse’ is something that I look forward to talking about with every Yankee fan I know. As an Islander fan I was destroyed when I could no longer cheer 1940. This could replace that.

If Boston wins tonight I will stop rooting for them and begin rooting for a new curse.

The curse of the Rocket.

A Bronx tale

2004-10-20T03:01:00.000-04:00

Torn between rooting for the Yankees super-fan style in Game 7 tonight and hoping to see a historic collapse and the idiot Yankee fans (yes, they exist) moronically complaining about losing in a city that has produced more baseball playoff excitement in the past 10 years than other cities get in a lifetime across all sports, I turned to my spiritual guru to guide me through these tumultuous hours.

Perhaps Sonny, the no-last-name-having wiseguy played by Chazz Palminteri, can help with this Bronx tale. So I rented a gray, double-breasted suit and a white tie, opened up a bottle of white wine, made a dish of linguini, slicked the hair back and summoned the goodfella spirits for a late-night quid pro quo with Sonny, the man who had five fingers but only used three. Here’s how it went:

Me: As a Yankee fan, should I care if they become the first team in baseball postseason history to blow a 3-0 series lead?
Sonny: Nobody cares.

Me: But Derek Jeter looked so downtrodded after losing Game 6?
Sonny: Well, let’s see if Derek Jeter pays your rent.

Me: Jeter, A-Rod, Sheff, Rivera, Matsui, Mussina. These guys are great. How can I not root for them? They put the wind in the Yankees’ sails.
Sonny: Kid, you only get three great ones.

Me: OK, I’ll take Pettitte in Game 5 of 1996 World Series, Jeter in Game 3 of the 2001 ALDS against Oakland and Aaron Boone in Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS. What about you, Sonny? Who are your three great ones?
Sonny: Me, I had my three when I was 16. What are you gonna do?

Me: But they try so hard all the time.
Sonny: The working man is a sucker.

Me: My friends say I should root for Boston.
Sonny: Your friends are j------s.

Me: What about this Babe Ruth curse thing? Is he really floating about the Stadium watching the game?
Sonny: It’s about availability. Those who like the Babe are happy because he’s close by. Those who want to hurt the Yankees think twice because they know he’s close by.

Me: How do you think Game 7 will play out?
Sonny: These Red Sox will walk into the Stadium, Steinbrenner will lock the gates so now they can’t leave, then the Yankees will go to work with the bats. Before the Red Sox drag their bloodied bodies onto the bus after the game, Torre will run up to them, look Francona in the face and say, “Remember me, I’m the one that did this to you.”

Me: Thanks, Sonny. You’re always right.

LET’S GO YANKS!

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Yankees fans: Spoiled brats

2004-10-19T23:38:00.000-04:00

Enough already!

Yankees fans, we are tired of your act -- your spoiled rotten, childish, embarrassing act. For years you've flooded the airwaves with desperate cries for superfluous superstars. You've routinely bashed one of the great managers in postseason history. You've acted like winning the World Series is a your God-given right, not your once-or-twice-in-a-lifetime a privilege.

Now this.

You ruined a perfectly good baseball game -- good in contrast to Saturday night's mind-numbing 19-8 snorefest -- with your idiotic behavior. You defied the meaning of sportsmanship and humiliated yourselves, your team and your city.

There's an expression John Sterling, Michael Kay and the rest of the Yankee proletariate like to use: "The Yankee Way." It's supposed to represent a higher standard, as if World Series rings buy you class or perspective. After last night's game, the only thing The Yankee Way represents is a panicked fan culture that has alienated itself in many ways with its moronic behavior.

As I watched debris cascade onto the Yankee Stadium field last night and Alex Rodriguez made his absurd denials, I couldn't help but think to myself, These are not the Yankees fans of old. I thought of the fans I remembered from 1996. They were a fresh-faced group of diehards who'd been longing for a champion since 1981. They were like the '96 team itself. Scrappy. Homegrown. Bursting with energy and enthusiasm. But last night's audience seemed nervous, frustrated, confused. They were an anxious, obnoxious bunch impatiently waiting for their $200 million bats to wake up, numbed to the pure excitement of playoff baseball by years of storebought victory.

So when a few calls didn't go their way, they reacted the way spoiled children do: They threw a temper tantrum. It was a sad way for a proud team to go down, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for the fans who know that winning does not entitle you to more winning. The ones who managed to keep their baseballs and popcorn in their laps.

When I think of the '96 Yanks I'll always remember Charlie Hayes' clinching catch and Wade Boggs' jubiliant trot around the Stadium. But if the Yanks choke away this 3-0 lead, my lasting memory may just be A-Rod's swat, and the NYPD ringing the Stadium walls.

The Mustache Maxim

2004-10-19T02:24:00.000-04:00

The real idiots here are those who continue to refuse to intentionally walk David Ortiz. But that’s not what this is about because there is a bigger idiot than anyone in a Red Sox uniform right now: Tom Gordon.

Never trust a guy with a mustache. That’s what they always say, and by “they” I mean myself, Lawyer friend Tim, Lawyer friend Steve and whoever repeats that sentence when we say it to them.

In case you don’t believe me, we’ll take a tour through history to help support the theory. But, first, a breakdown of Gordon’s ALCS performance:

Game 1: 0.2 IP, 2 ER

Game 2: 0.2 IP, 0 ER

Game 3: 1 IP, 0 ER

Game 4: 2 IP, 0 ER

Game 5: 0.2 IP, 2 ER

Totals: 5 IP, 4 ER, 7 H, 2 BB, 3 K, 7.20 ERA

That’s a pathetic ERA for a supposed dominant set-up man. Kudos to Fox broadcasting (did I really just write that?) for giving us so many close-up shots of Gordon during this series. They gave us a chance to examine the Gordon ’stache. It’s a perfect strip of hair across his upper lip. There is no curve to it, no shape, no character. It’s an f-bombing unibrow disguised as a mustache. It’s got D.S. written all over it.

A brief pause to define the mustache in the Mustache Maxim: beards and goatees do not count, nor do character mustaches such as ones with handlebars or ones that extend down to the chin like a goatee without the accompanying chin patch.

Gordon has a run-of-the-mill mustache, which means he cannot be trusted in a big spot. And seeing how we’re in the playoffs, every spot is big. Shave the ’stache and maybe he could save a game for the Yankees instead of imploding on the mound like was still wearing a Boston jersey.

Which brings us to another theory working here: “Once a Red Sock, always a Red Sock.” In conjunction with the Mustache Maxim, this is deadly. It’s like oil and vinegar, Simon & Garfunkel, cats & dogs, J. Lo and Ben Affleck. It may be too much for any one team to overcome, even a team that includes the impervious Derek Jeter and the half-asleep Joe Torre.

Now for some historical significance to the Mustache Maxim. A brief look at famous people who chose to allow hair to grow on their upper lip and nowhere else on their face:

Adolf Hitler: A compelling historical figure, but a real $*&@^#* (insert curse word or words of choice here).

Burt Reynolds: His entire acting career centered around his mustache, and for every “Cannonball Run” and “Boogie Nights,” there’s a “Smokey & the Bandit III” and a “Rent-a-cop.”

Eddie Murphy: "Beverly Hills Cop" and "Delirious" were awesome movies, but did you ever see “The Adventures of Pluto Nash?” Exactly. You can never be sure of an Eddie Murphy movie anymore. Sad, given his Long Island roots.

Tom Selleck: Had early success with the mustache Magnum, P.I., but wised up as the ’90s kicked in and shaved it for his role on Friends.

Ravishing Rick Rude: He was a professional wrestler, which means his life was based on deception.

Dr. Phil: Any self-respecting man knows better than to continue paying attention when their ladies quote Dr. Phil. He knows less about men than men do.

Alex Trebek: He pretends to be the most intelligent man in America, but it’s all a ruse. He has the answers on the Jeopardy cards in front of him. He probably cheated his way through high school.

Lando Calrissian: He f-bombing sold out Han Solo in “The Empire Strikes Back.”

Frank Lopez: The hassa tried to have Tony Montana killed in “Scarface.” Montana was his employee, then he tries to rub him out? Not to be trusted. Why? It’s the ’stache.

Don Corleone: Hey, I loved “The Godfather,” but he was a murdering, loansharking, bootlegging criminal. And he had one of those thin-lined mustaches. When searching for shadiest guy in the room, always begin with the thin-stached people. They walk in the shade, even on a sunny day in the desert with no clouds.

There are many more, but you get the point. Tom Gordon cannot be trusted to get a key out for the Yankees. Remove the mustache and that could change. Maybe A-Rod can shell out a few bucks for a Mach 3 razor and some cream.

(Note: There are three exceptions to the rule – Cliff Claven from “Cheers,” Viper from “Top Gun,” and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)

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Random ALCS Thoughts II

2004-10-18T02:55:00.000-04:00

* Stated simply, Paul Quantrill is not a very good pitcher. Stated Keyboard Quarterback-ly, Paul Quantrill is this year's Donnie Moore.

* Tony Clark looks very similar to ex-NBA/Court TV star Jayson Williams. After watching Clark bobble that groundball, I found myself wishing Clark had Williams' aim to go along with the comparable height and DNA strands.

* John Olerud needs a nickname. I suggest "Johnny Ola" from The Godfather II, provided he plays again. If not, I suggest "John Ole-dud."

* An insane Game 4 led me searching for clarity. The search led me to Joe Beningo on the FAN ranting about the Jets. The juxtaposition of sanity, Beningo and the FAN is a humorous concept, much like the phrase "reputable massage parlor." Strangely, it worked -- the FAN, that is. I can't speak to the healing powers of a massage parlor. Uh, I mean, I can't write about that.

* Regardless of the 3-0 lead in the series heading into the game, I can never get upset when Mariano Rivera blows a save. The guy is the best ever, and when a team beats Rivera, you know they earned the win.

* Why do the Yankees still pitch to David Ortiz? Why do the Red Sox still pitch to Hideki Matsui?

* Sure Ortiz beat the Yankees in Game 4, but his tossing of the helmet 20 feet before touching home plate was pretty funny.

* Stuart Scott should be banished to ESPN 38, or perhaps random Patriot League football radio broadcast. Sorry to digress, but his presence on SportsCenter Sunday night/Monday morning prevented me from watching the Game 4 highlights.

* Will Daddy use the spoon, the foot, the belt or the back of the hand when he brings the pain to Pedro tonight in Game 5?

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I'll make this short and sweet

2004-10-17T13:09:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting in my apartment, surrounded by my bagless stick Shark vaccuum, my clorox Grip-it ready mop, a broom and other various cleaning supplies. Why?

Because I'm ready for the sweep! Get these Bostonian Red Sockers out of the playoffs.

Perhaps I could use that whisk broom Kevin Millar has attached to his face to help wipe up the mess that is Boston.

A Decade of Magic

2004-10-16T01:20:00.000-04:00

An off-day followed by a rainout? How does one kill 48 hours of no baseball in October? Well, one could spend the off-day thinking about one's favorite Yankee playoff moments of the past 10 seasons. One could then spend the rainout sweating out the over in the TCU-UAB game (it was 61, and TCU got a touchdown and two-point conversion with less than two minutes to play to lose, 41-25) while ranking those favorite Yankee playoff moments of the past 10 seasons.

The list:

10) Game 1, 1998 World Series, Part I: Tony Gwynn crushed a home run in the fifth inning off David Wells. Granted, Gwynn was a Padre at the time, but he was always one of my favorite baseball players, so I was happy to experience the moment.

9) Game 1, 1998 World Series, Part II:Tino Martinez used his keen sense of the strike zone to hold off on a 2-and-2 pitch from Mark Langston that was low, and by low, I mean it was right at the knee and should have been strike three. Martinez hit a grand slam on the next pitch. I almost jumped through the roof in excitement. However, hours earlier, I nearly choked to death on a piece of chicken. If not for Canadian chiropractor friend Zamboni, I would not be blogging this lovely late Friday night/early Saturday morning.

8) Game 2, 1997 ALDS:: I sat four rows from the field, and two boxes to Rudy Giuliani's left. Ushers served us food and drink. The tickets were free. Oh yeah, Raines, Jeter and O'Neill hit back-to-back-to-back home runs to beat the Indians, 8-6.

7) Game 4, 1996 ALCS: Darryl Strawberry hit a pair of home runs to help beat the Orioles. I was blessed, thanks to Prince fan friend Scurvy, with the chance to watch the sweetest home run swing of my generation in person at Camden Yards. Prior to Straw's second home run, an inebriated Marylander screamed, "Damn coke head. He doesn't deserve to be in the game." Insulted as I was about this person's closed-mindedness and inability to give people a second chance on life, I stood up in my Yankee road jersey, Yankee hat and Yankee turtleneck, and yelled into a crowd of crazy inebriated Marylanders, "I hope he's coked up now, you dumb redneck hick!" as Strawberry rounded the bases. I was a proud New Yorker. Dumb, but proud. A step closer to an early death, but proud.

6) Game 5, 2000 World Series: Lawyer friend Steve came through with tickets to the game. Sure, I had to go to Flushing Toilet Stadium to watch the Yankees play, but a chance to see Mets fans wallow in misery is always worth a ride on the LIRR. There's a buzz in the air outside The Dump (er, Shea) as the Yankees lead the series, 3-1. Jimmy Kimmel walked by me before the game. At the time, his career was all about upset specials on Fox Sunday. I yelled out, "Hey, look, it's Jimmy Kimmel. Jimmy, who's gonna win the Raiders game this weekend?" No response. Always a shame when B-level stars think they're one notch higher and refuse to embrace their B-level celebrity. Jeter homered in the first. Mets fans began to cry. I began perpetuate the stereotype that Yankees fans generally are obnoxious. Piazza flew out to Bernie Williams and the Mets lost the World Series. On the train ride home, I listened to sober Mets fan talk about how they will sign A-Rod in the offseason. I smiled for 37 hours straight, based solely on that conversation.

5) Game 5, 2001 ALDS: Watching the Oakland A's collapse is as time-honored an October tradition as watching the Yankees win. Two games after Jeter's famous flip play, and a few hours after his dive into the stands, I partied in the upper deck with Restaurant friend Rob and Consultant friend Jason as the Yankees capped a tremendous three-game rally over the Oakland A-minuses. Sinatra played seven times over before I could even think about leaving the Stadium.

5a) Game 5, 1997 ALDS:I know the Yankees lost this game and the series, but the sight of Paul O'Neill clinging to second base after he legged out a double in the ninth inning of a one-run game should be a defining moment in any Yankee fan's life. It teaches us one important lesson: Never give up, no matter who follows you in the order. Too bad Bernie Williams didn't learn that lesson earlier. Maybe then he wouldn't have swung at the first pitch and popped it up.

4) Game 2, 1995 ALDS: Jimmy Leyritz's first taste of playoff heroism. I was DJing that night in Dino's, a high-fallutant watering hole in Collegetown at Cornell in the upstate mecca that is Ithaca, N.Y. I was a 20-year-old junior, so I could only drink soda and virgin daquiris that night. As if my body could really process alchohol that night. I couldn't even mix and scratch the records that night. My hands were twitching like Pookie in those first few nights of rehab in "New Jack City." Confession time: In the 10th inning, I put on a mix-tape that I had made a few weeks earlier and then faked the mixes during the game. For those who were in that bar that night, I'd apologize but I doubt you noticed.

3) Game 5, 1996 World Series: Paul O'Neill, who would later become my favorite Yankee after the one-year moratorium upon Don Mattingly's sabbatical/retirement, used his one good leg to flag down Luis Polonia's shot to right-centerfield in Atlanta. Still the greatest playoff catch I've seen by a guy not named Jeter.

2) Game 7, 2003 ALCS:Lawyer friend Steve was also Lynbrook housemate Steve during this game. I sat dejected on his shady lime-green couch as the Red Sox mounted what appeared to be an insurmountable lead. Jorge Posada doubled in the eighth and everything changed. By the 11th inning, I was jumping into walls, waking our downstairs neighbor, punching Steve in excitement and calling Boston friend Andy and screaming "Nomaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" and assorted other curse words into his voicemail. Come to think of it, he never did return that phone call. Uh oh, I wonder if he still has the same phone number . . . .

1) Game No. 162, 1995 regular season: OK, so this technically isn't a playoff game, but the sight of Bernie Williams catching the fly ball in centerfield that sent Donnie Baseball to the playoffs for the first time in his amazing career. (Note: I know he'll never make the Hall, but the guy was my hero so I don't mind my bias in calling his career "amazing.") The camera then cut to Donnie, who fell to one knee and put his left fist to the turf at Toronto's SkyDome. I cried. I stood up and clapped for about 15 minutes like a proud parent at his kid's third-grade spring recital and good hygiene. My girlfriend at the time thought I was being stupid. She was right. Stupid was not walking out right there, never to return, which is precisely what I did not do. Damn, I was stupid.

Others receiving votes:
1) Game 5, 1996 ALCS: Andy Pettitte field sacrifice bunt and gets force out at third base.
2) Game 1, 1999 ALCS: Artist-in-Italy friend Jenny, who was then Artist-in-Syracuse friend Jenny, temporarily tattooing herself with a Yankee logo to help ward off evil Red Sockian spirits.
3) Game 5, 1995 ALDS: Set in motion the last nine years of playoff excitement.
4) Game 6, 1996 World Series: Poor little Mark Lemke.
5) Game 5, 2001 World Series: A second straight night of game-winning home runs off Byung-Hyun Kim.

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Random ALCS Thoughts

2004-10-14T02:37:00.000-04:00

* How would Game 2 have been chronicled if not for Pedro's "call them my daddies" quote three weeks ago? Likely, "Who's your daddy?" would have remained behind closed doors, where it's most effective.

* I wish the sports editor of bostonherald.com returned my e-mail. I would have enjoyed being part of one of those city-to-city bets, like when the mayors of each city place a friendly wager involving geographically specific commodities.

* Oh how I yearned this evening for a current Yankee named Cane or Kane or anything similar in sound or spelling. I could have written the headline "Big Daddy Kane" or a reasonable facsimile thereof to honor to Prince of Darkness and old-school rap legend. What the heck, it is the 30th anniversary of hip-hop.

* Jack Nicholson, Conan O'Brien, Lorne Michaels and Penny Marshall were photographed together at the Stadium in what appeared to be exceptional seats. How is this possible? None of them are on Fox. Somewhere, Rupert Murdoch is pummeling a network executive for not filling up those seats with the women of "Boston Public."

* Tom Gordon is doing nothing to help disprove the "Never trust a guy with a mustache" theory. (For the record, Tom Skerritt's Viper in "Top Gun" is the only exception to this rule),

* How long after the ALCS until the suckers who bought all the "daddy" paraphernalia wish they had their money back?

* I watched both games on mute, so I'm pretty sure I didn't miss anything meaningful being said by Tim McCarver.

* The Red Sox lose to the Yankees in the Bronx, Pedro fails again, Schilling could be done for the series, Rivera dominates again, the NHL misses out on opening night because of its lockout, and the Jets don't lose a game. Is there a more Utopian sports night . . . that doesn't involve Jennie Finch or Maria Sharapova?

* It must really be painful growing up a Bostonian baseball fan. No wonder they like hockey so much up there.

* I miss ubiquitous, gratuitous J. Lo shots during the games. Oh well. I know a few Internet sites that can help with that.

* Sometimes I wish Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake would run out to centerfield, slap a sleeper hold on Johnny Damon, then shave his head, just like the old days of 1992 WWF.

* When does the brawl start?

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Withstanding the whammy

2004-10-13T12:07:00.000-04:00

In the early hours of Tuesday afternoon, Mama La Monica seemed irked by Schilling’s comments about shutting up 55,000 people at Yankee Stadium.

Mama La Monica is a very lovely lady, but when it comes to talking trash about her Yankees, trouble is to be had.

So when her Yankees smacked Schilling all around the South Bronx, South South Bronx, Mama La Monica picked up the phone in her family room and called my phone at my desk at work.

“Newsday, this is Mark.”

“55,000 people don’t sound too quiet right now,” Mama La Monica screams into
the phone (and no, she hadn’t been drinking).

Though we admire the ability to live in the present, three innings does not a Yankees-Red Sox ALCS game make. This would be Whammy No. 1. At this point, I begin to fathom how the Yankees will blow the lead. I figure Manny Ramirez and David Ortiz would hit back-to-back homers in three separate innings to tie it at 6. Johnny Damon would then single, steal second and third on one pitch, then score on a Tom Gordon balk for the 7-6 lead in the eighth.

None of that occurred, as the Yankees managed to withstand the first whammy of the October evening.

I am directly responsible for Whammy No. 2, and while it helped yield me a financial windfall (the over was 8 ½), I still felt bad when I was doing it. But, journalistically speaking, it was the right thing to do.

I wrote a headline on the Newsday.com home page that read “Moose perfect through four, Yanks lead 6-0.

My passport to the Bronx should have been revoked three seconds after I clicked the save button, regardless of whether or not my job is to provide live updates on the game to the Web site. I could just as easily have written “Yanks mash Schilling, take early 6-0 lead,” but I didn’t. Secretly, I wanted to see if Mussina had the intestinal fortitude to withstand the whammy. Secretly, I wanted the over.

And I wasn’t going to quit until I got it.

“Moose perfect through five, Yanks lead 7-0.”

“Moose perfect through six, Yanks lead 8-0.”

The headlines screamed across the top of the page.

“Moose perfect through 6 1/3, Yanks lead 8-0.”

Next thing I know, the Red Sox are mounting a comeback. I turn my head (I wasn’t asked to cough), turn back and it’s 8-7 Yankees and Mariano is coming in from the pen.

I consider calling Mama La Monica and thanking her for the whammy, but I am just as guilty as her. Plus, Mariano is Mariano, so the situation seems whammy proof.

Mariano gets the out in the eighth, Bernie extends the lead to 10-7, life is good for the moment. Still three more outs to go.

C’mon, big bucks, big bucks, no whammies, no whammies.

A pair of one-out singles by Varitek and Cabrera raise the whammy alert to orange. Mariano, the greatest reliever in postseason history, gets a comebacker, doesn’t throw the ball into centerfield and Jeter turns the double play to end the game.

The Bronx is a No Whammy Zone.

The ALCS of a Lifetime

2004-10-12T03:08:00.000-04:00

Since listening to the "experts" is pointless, and I can't afford a lengthy phone call to the Psychic Friends Network, I turn to substance abuse for help is understanding what I will witness in these next nine baseball days. One American pasttime deserves another.

The bottle of Bacardi was finished earlier in the week, (and yes, I'm aware that Tuesday is but a few hours old), so it appears Ny-Quil is the next best thing.

Besides, no mind-altering substances can compare to Yankees-Red Sox, in October, in New York, in Boston, in the midst of an 86-year one-sided beatdown.

So I offer this analytical view of what will be known to the average person as the 2004 ALCS and to New Yorkers and Beantowners as either "Another Boston beatdown" or "The day the world stood still so God could smile on Boston," depending on your team of choice.

Game 1: Red Sox win, 5-3.
Mike Mussina assumes his title as best pitcher who stinks in a big spot. Curt Schilling pitches like the ace he is. Mariano Rivera's triumphant return to the Stadium electrifies 57,000-plus people in the Bronx as he pitches the ninth to keep the game close. But, Keith Foulke strikes out Jorge Posada with runners on first and third to end the game. Ben Affleck rejoices. John Kerry gains 6 points in the poll. New York hangs its head. It's the Year of the Red Sock.

Game 2: Yanks win, 11-8.
Lieber stinks up the joint like he was Kenny Rogers in 1996. Pedro is effective for six innings. In the seventh inning, what is believed to be the first occurrence of a GM on the mound, Theo Epstein does what no one else in Boston can. He pulls Pedro. Yanks rally for six runs in the seventh and another two in the eighth to finish off the big rally. Epstein is battered with hardcover copies of "Moneyball" as he leaves the Stadium. Most throwers of these books are Boston fans. Lots of cursing ensues.

Game 3: Yanks win, 7-2.
Kevin Brown throws a gem. Bronson Arroyo is kidnapped by Yankee fans after the game and his cornrows are removed at Faneuil Hall. In a unrelated abuse of athletes, several Bostonians chase Wade Boggs around Boston Common and steal his pants.

Game 4: Red Sox win, 13-4.
Javier Vazquez starts for the Yankees. How much more do you really need to know?

Game 5: Red Sox win, 2-1.
Mussina and Schilling square off in a postseason epic. YES producers create the first-ever Yankeeography about a game 28 minutes after the ninth inning ends. It airs that night, beating ESPN Instant Classic by three days. The highlight of this defensive game comes when Derek Jeter runs through Luis Sojo's stop sign and Manny Ramirez throws him out at the plate. America wonders how Mr. Clutch could do such a thing in October. Somewhere, Mariah Carey smiles. Somewhere else, Jordana Brewster smiles. Somewhere else, a former Miss Universe smiles. In a moment of Bostonian euphora, Ben Affleck calls J. Lo and the torrid love affair begins again. Marc Anthony is seen at a check-cashing place in New York later that night, asking people "Which club do Aura and Mystique work at?"

Game 6: Yanks win, 14-13.
One ingenious fan sneaks into Yankee Stadium a few hours early and puts cardboard signage underneath every seat. In the third inning, Stadium announcer Bob Sheppard asks fans to reach under their seats and hold up the signs. In giant letters that extend to all three decks and wrap around the Stadium from the right-field foul pole to the left-field foul pole, it reads WE'RE YOUR DADDIES!!!. Pedro drills Jeter in the back with the next pitch. Here comes the brawl.
Jeter charges Pedro. A-Rod runs into the dugout, puts on a catcher's mask, runs back onto the field and dropkicks Varitek in the back. Gabe Kapler rips off his jersey, oils up, flexes in the on-deck circle and challenges America to an "I quit" match for the Intercontinental belt. Don Zimmer comes from out of nowhere, but Ted Danson, wearing his Sam Malone uniform bashes Zimmer as if his bar tab was bigger than Norm's and he was taking it out on his posterior. John Rocker, disguised as a beer vendor, sheds his Volume Services hat and runs in from right field with his satin Braves jacket in hand. "What's he doing here?" says Tim McCarver on air.

Pandemonium breaks out. Joe Buck snaps and clocks McCarver with a steel chair. "Mean" Gene Okerlund takes over the play-by-play as years of pent-up frustration flow from Buck's right hands to McCarver's beaten, bloodied carcas. Buck's hands are full of blood and pancake foundation makeup. Nomaaaaaaaah Garciaparra slides in to do color commentary. Guiliani finds John Kerry and demonstrates how the police officers of his former mayoral land used to violently abuse the citizens of New York. Other New Yorkers lose their resolve and pound Giuliani's kid until he wet his pants.

Order is eventually restored. Loaiza gets rocked for seven runs in two innings but Enrique Wilson hits a two-run single to tie it at 13 in the eighth off Alan Embree, who is in his fifth inning of relief because everyone else was ejected. Jeter steals home with two outs in the ninth to win it. It's a strange day all around. Fans are escorted out of the Stadium one-by-one. No one is safe.

Game 7: Yanks win, 8-6 (10 innings).
Brown can't get it done. Vazquez was already shipped to St. Louis to prepare for his Game 3 start, so it's up to El Duque to save the world again. He goes two innings but his right shoulder is still dead. So, he throws another two innings left-handed, baffling the Boston lineup with 11-mph sliders and 32-mph curveballs. El Duque uses so many arm angles, Posada has to remove his catcher's mitt to call signals. Ramirez and Ortiz hit back-to-back homers in the top of the 10th off Mariano to take a 6-4 lead. Bostonians prepare to ransack their own city in excitement. Foulke comes in to pitch the tent. Cairo walks, Lofton singles, Jeter steps to the plate. Boston's riot police goes home. They know it's over. Jeter doubles in two runs to tie the score at 6. A-Rod walks. Francona comes to the mound. Foulke punches his lights out. Francona is dragged off the field. Sheffield hits a fielder's choice, advancing both runners. Matsui strikes out. Bernie comes to bat. Contemplating retirement, evidenced by his play in the series so far rather than by what he's saying to reporters, Bernie comes throw with a ground-rule double for the 8-6 win. The Bronx rejoices. Pedro shaves his head and buries his locks at the base of Babe Ruth's monument. Francona is hung in effigy in Boston, in real life in the visiting clubhouse in the Bronx by Millar and Trot Nixon.

The Boston organization is disbanded, fans relocate to remote parts of the world, Schilling retires, Pedro joins the Yankees' roster for the World Series.

Wow, this Ny-Quil is one hell of a substance.

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Twin Killings

2004-10-09T23:56:00.000-04:00

The Twins should be banned from baseball. Contraction simply isn't good enough. They should be condemned to a life without baseball and a life filled with John Tesh and Yanni CDs played on endless loop from now until it snows at the equator.

Though I fully plan on resuming my Yankee fandom once the ALCS starts (since I have no choice but to do the work that accompanies such a series, I might as well root for my team to win; besides, another ALCS against the Red Sox is far more exciting than a World Series), for now I will bash the Twins for not doing what they were supposed to do, which is knock off the Yankees in the ALDS and make my occupational life a little bit easier this October.

With the blowing of leads in 50 percent of the games in the ALDS, the Twins have subjected New Yorkers, Tri-Staters and those watching on satellite around the world to the following list of travesties that could have been prevented without involving the Centers for Disease Control, the FCC and all-around non-sensical judgment:

1) A barrage of idiotic man-on-the-street interviews where fans' voices drop three octaves, intelligent quotients plummet like the NASDAQ when Alan Greenspan wakes up cranky, and everyone seems to become Nostradamus. Likely, these are the same people who call radio stations and say the Yankees should trade Miguel Cairo and CJ Nitkowski for Barry Bonds and think the Giants would do that.

2) A barrage of idiotic man-on-the-street interviews that wind up being man-from-the-bar interviews.

3) A virtual cornucopia of unbiased television "journalists" who conduct slice-of-life interviews for news stations wearing a Yankee hat. As if that makes the impact of what's being said so much stronger.

4) The perennial "I've always been a Yankee fan," as if the time continuum starts on Oct. 10 and continues until the season ends.

5) More shots of Ben Lopez, excuse me Ben Garner, oopsies, Ben Affleck at Fenway Park in his Red Sox hat. Like his presence in the ballpark makes a difference to the viewers or ratings. Like he paid for those seats.

6) More Stephen King, more bad "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon" jokes.

7) More Michael Kay, more John Sterling and more Charley Steiner. That never starts off as a good idea.

8) Shameless plugs of good actors in bad FOX shows.

9) More heartache for Bostonians, which could lead to a blood donor shortage on the entire Eastern seaboard.

10) More meaningless insights and master-of-the-obvious comments from Tim "I jumped the shark about 13 years ago" McCarver.

11) 32 unnecessary pages of newsprint in New York, per day, devoted to ridiculous stories about a Boston cop's sister who married a New York City Department of Sanitation worker whose father is a Yankee fan and mother is a Red Sox fan.

12) "Great for baseball" quotes from Bud Selig.

Thank you Minnesota. Thank you for being worthless and heartless. But then again, what else can we expect from a state that votes Jesse "The Body" Ventura into its highest office?

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Cue the Dark Vader music...

2004-10-08T21:56:00.000-04:00

It's official, I've gone over to the dark side. The minute David Ortiz's home run left the ballpark, I signed up for the Yankee bandwagon.

Don't worry, folks. It's only temporary. Very, very, very temporary. Like two-games-long temporary.

That's how long I'm hoping it will take the Yankees to oust the game, but clearly undermanned Minnesota Twins. It's got nothing to do with a dislike for the Twins, nor a disdain for the sympathetic darlings of baseball in Boston. I haven't been snorting or sniffing anything and I'm not a madman.

I'm just a baseball romantic with a soft spot for history... And I'm a glutton for punishment.

I foolishly rooted for the Yankees to beat Seattle in the 2000 ALCS, so that we could have the first Subway Series in 44 years. A tortured Mets fan, I truly believed my miracle men could pull off the greatest wonder of all: Beating the dynastic, turn-of-the-century Yanks in a World Series for the ages. Alas, I was misguided, and I sat slumped in the left field mezzanine as the Bronx Bullies celebrated their 26th World Series on Shea Stadium turf.

Four years later, I haven't learned my lesson. I find myself again pulling for the Evil Empire, with no clear reward on the other side of the darkness but a chance to see baseball history. I envision a Yankees-Red Sox ALCS like the one that teased, tortured, and tantalized us for seven scintillating games last October. I picture beanballs, brushbacks, heart-breaking losses, astounding comebacks, Rivera and Schilling dueling to the finish in Game 7. As a baseball fan, I find it so hard to resist that.

So if you don't catch me around the Island muttering "effing Yankees" for the next few days, you'll know why. I've traded in my light saber and white cape for James Earl Jones and the keys to the Death Star. (You've gotta admit, it's a powerful machine.)

But as soon as Jeter circles the bases with the winning run in Game 4, I'll be back to my usual self. I'll pull for history; only this time, I'll hope it's the Red Sox who make it, at the Yankees' considerable expense.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go take a shower. A long one.