Tim McCarver is the biggest jackass in sports television.
This isn’t a situation where all of a sudden a catcher who had a 21 year major league career turned into a blabbering know-it-all once he got behind the microphone.
McCarver has a history of running his mouth - endlessly - even in his days as a player. “Ask him what time it is, and he’ll tell you how a watch works,” Sports Illustrated writer Norman Chad once said.
But this is the July 4th…a day to celebrate.
So let’s celebrate Timmy Mac’s famous Independence Day flub. Fittingly, he did with style - on our nation’s 200th birthday in 1976. He hit a game winning grand slam while playing for Philadephia. So excited was McCarver, that he passed out teammate Garry Maddox on the basepaths and was ordered by the umps to return to first base. The slam was denied. The Phillies still beat the Pirates however, 10-5.
Just another example of him running past everyone else to get his two cents in and making sure everyone hears him.
Have a happy and safe 4th everyone. And if you’re shooting off the big stuff, hopefully it will drown out the sound of Mac’s big trap.
* Veterans Stadium Memories…I just had to create my own Scrum entry instead of merely replying to TA’s Veterans Stadium fashion rant. Look TA, even as a die-hard Pirates fan, I grew up with you, living much closer to Philadelphia. I did get to Three Rivers Stadium one time as a kid—but most Summers, if I wanted to see Major League Baseball in person, I had to suffer through watching my rivals, the Fightin’ Phillies. Tank tops? Yes, the Veterans Stadium hooligans did wear tank tops. I remember a game in the mid-70’s, probably around the Bicentennial. A fan in front of us (looking an awful lot like a blue collar Avery Shriver), was wearing a tank top with thin shoulder straps and faded flare leg jeans. The guy was about five feet nine, closing in on 300 pounds. The thatch of hair on this guys back was as thick as the hair on Mike Schmidt’s head. The tank top’s shoulder straps dug into the hair. The guy was buying enough beer to pay Danny Ozark’s salary—screaming at the Umps and carrying on for much of the game. His voice boomed like a megaphone. I was afraid that he would turn around and see my Pirates hat, but being the fan I was, I did keep the hat on. To me, that experience was quintessential Veterans Stadium, circa 1976. And heck, this was merely the Philadelphia BASEBALL fan base—Eagles fans were far worse!
My first baseball game was August 11, 1977 at Veterans Stadium. A 4:05 start. The Phillies beat the Montreal Expos 10-5. It was one of the great moments of my life. I was with my dad, and the Phillies won.
I was wearing a tank top, jeans and a Phillies cap that day. Many of the kids around me were wearing the same thing. It was the 70’s after all. Tank tops, T-shirts, cut-offs. Pet Rocks. All acceptable for kids. Adults dressed a bit more conservatively – maybe dress shorts, and golf shirt. Some even wore sports jackets with open collars. Adults still had an “in public” awareness. As the 70’s drew to a close, the fashion became more casual. What we wore to the park (or maybe I should say didn’t wear) was a lot looser. We started to see t-shirts with political slogans or catch phrases.
In the 80’s it was team t-shirts.
In the 90’s it was retro jerseys - which are still hot today.
Today…lots of us forget the shirts. What the hell? Save the $$ and just paint it on your bare chest. Think about it. You wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a tie and jacket to a ball game.
Have a look at the crowds over the years. It’s an eye-opener.
1903 World Series. Men and boys all had jackets. Many wore ties.
FDR heaves one (circa 1939). Everybody looking pretty dapper for a ball game.
President Truman throws out first pitch. Wash D.C., 1952. Most men wore ties, jackets, and hats. The ladies didn’t skimp either.
1955 World Series. The Amoros catch. Almost every man was wearing a tie and jacket.
Opening Day at Shea 1964. Casey Stengel and most others dressed to the nines.
Richard Nixon tosses out first pitch in 1969. Most men and women were still smartly dressed. The hippie-casual fashion was yet to make it’s way to the ballpark.
Jimmy Carter (1979 World Series) in Baltimore. The Secret Service was spiffed out – but for the first time, a more casual look (with a few ties and jackets mixed in) was the trend.
Don Mattingly and Wade Boggs (circa 1986). Mike Schmidt (circa 1981). Joe Rudi (circa 1976). Jim Rice (circa 1980). The late-great Thurman Munson (circa 1977). And all-time champ, Phil Garner (circa 1979). These were the kings of baseball’s porn-mustache brigade. There were others like Gene Tenace, Reggie Jackson, and Bill Buckner. But they all owe a tip of the cap (and an unzip of the fly) to the one and only king himself — porn legend, Harry Reems (circa 1972)
Why do we love the 70’s? Was it the music? Was it the gas prices? Was it the movies? Well, it certainly wasn’t Nixon.
When Harry Reems starred opposite Linda Lovelace in Deep Throat, it started a trend. Yes, all of a sudden, porn became more sophisticated. But more importanlty, the male star’s mustache was now a bonafide fashion statement. Everyone from Burt Reynolds to Ken Norton had one.
But no one wore them better than baseball players.
The Oakland A’s of the early 1970’s were challenged by then-owner Charles O. Finley to grow one. The bonus? $300.00…a lot to a ball player in those days. By 1973, nearly every player on the A’s had facial hair. The most famous was undoubtedly Rollie Fingers with his classic handlebar special. But to be fair, it wasn’t a true porn-stache.
Guys like Gene Tenace and Joe Rudi sported the Reems-esque classics. Soon after Finley’s great challenge, it seemed the door was wide open to all teams to let their hair down, and out — porn style (save the Reds, where it was banned).
The porn-stache lasted well into the 1980’s.
Of course today the trend is multiple tattoos, no stirups showing, and clean-shaven, even bald! JUST LIKE THE PORN STARS!!! Nothing has changed.
Along with working hard and playing hard, part of the Sportsman’s ideal is to relax hard…in a manner of speaking.The Sportsman often enjoys an ice cold Moretti or a snifter of brandy as he sits poolside watching golf puffing on a quality cigar — preferably a Havana Cohiba or Dominican Montecristo.
Lately however, he’s been taken with Al Capone cigars made from the finest Nicaraguan and Brazilian tobacco leaves by the Dannemann company in Germany. The Sportsman’s manservant Clifford shared with us some notes which the big man scribbled down. It’s the Sportsman expressing his views on something that’s been puzzling him.
I never met Capone. But I think I understood him.
He was a murderer, yet to this day we romanticize, glamorize, and celebrate his life in many ways, including naming cigars after him.I asked the gentleman at the cigar store if he had any Jeffrey Dahmer or Charles Manson cigarillos. He appeared stunned. “Well,” I said. “You have the Capones and he was a murderer. Don’t you have an entire humidor devoted exclusively to killers? A veritable Murderer’s Row?”He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
We view killers like we view everyone else. There are high profile killers we want to love like gangsters and hired assassins. These killers have a mystique, and for whatever reason are revered in some strange way.Then there are the low-lifes, weirdos, and oddballs…like Manson.Are they interesting? Yes – but certainly not worthy of a cigar like a more dignified cold-blooded thug like Capone. See the lovely scene from “The Untouchables” as Robert De Niro portaying Capone does his talking with a Louisville Slugger. Just something to ponder as you drink from your brimming goblet of Chateau de Bundy 1998.
The BallGirl Ad for Gatorade is causing a bit of a stir. The viral marketing instant classic is getting people everywhere debating whether the stunt was real. It was real in a sense the they hired a gymnast to perform the stunt. After that, everything else was manufactured by the ad agency.
Still, that’s why YouTube is such a sensation. Not only can you find almost anything you can think of…you can debate almost anything you can think of. You can share almost anything you can think of.
And if we thought about it before they did, we’d be the billionaires.
Yep, there they are. George Carlin’s SEVEN DIRTY WORDS. One of the Holy Grails of comedy and debate.
I think all but one of those words have appeared on this site in one way or another in many stories. Cunt, for whatever reason, is considered so vile, ney, “special,” that the administration here decided it should only be used on a very “special” occasion. To throw it around randomly would be to cheapen it. I’ll have to check our files, but I don’t think we’ve used it yet. Until today of course. Because now, it’s appropriate. It’s newsworthy. A giant has died.
The great George Carlin passed away yesterday of heart failure. We offer our sincerest condolences to his family.
Though Carlin was known for his seven dirty words (he added three others later: fart, turd, and twat) he was so much more than that. Of course as CNN, FOX, and every other major news source will look at his passing as the (ratings=money) opportunity to get “experts” on to debate obscenity and pornography, we’d prefer to just recognize the man and how much he’ll be missed and what he left to comedy.
Carlin truly changed things.
Where someone like Mort Sahl looked at society, politics especially, and waxed poetic – offering brilliant obsevations about the absuridities and injustices in life, Carlin took an axe to them. Metaphor wasn’t in his vocabulary. You never had to figure out what he was saying. It was clear. Granted, creatively and hilariously constructed, but clear.
To say he had an influence on us would be a gross understatement.
He influenced nearly every standup who followed him. Our platform is sports and of course he touched on that too with his classic Baseball vs. Football routine. But it was his rhythm, his passion, his honesty, his stunning observations that shook us out of our collective shoes and let us know it’s ok to say what everyone else in the room is thinking.
I’m thinking “Shit!! I’m really going to miss this motherfucker.”
I am a Phillies fan. Our sworn rivals are the New York Mets.
Needless to say I have no love lost with the team 100 miles up the Jersey Turnpike from the City of Brotherly Love. Still, I need to call things as I see them. Like injustices, when they come along.
Willie Randolph always seemed like a decent sort to me. As a kid I remember him playing second base for the Yankees championship teams of the late 1970s. When he became manager of the Mets, I just took it in stride — no real dislike for the man himself. I still couldn’t stand the Mets of course, but Willie didn’t concern me much either way. Seemed to me he had a fairly even temper and understood the game.
Now keep in mind of course, I’ll say it again, I still detest the Mets. And that’s why their handling of the firing of Willie Randolph confirms my suspicion that they’re a cursed team. They’re the Bad Luck Schleprock of the NL East. Their instincts are all wrong. Do they have talent? Absolutely. Who wouldn’t want to have David Wright or Jose Reyes or Johan Santana on their team? But there’s a darkness that hangs over this organization. It goes back to when Tom Seaver was dealt away. Before that, the Mets were (dare I say it?) even lovable. They walked in the shadow of the mighty Yankees. You could almost feel their pain, or at least relate to it. But once 1986 came along and all the chest-thumping, fist pumping arrogance that came with it, they’ve been unbearable. But there’s a price to pay for their arrogance and bad instincts. Their season ending collapse last year wasn’t just due to poor play, it was due to bad vibes. There are other NL East rivals who are thorns in the Phillies’ side. The Braves and Marlins come to mind. But I never sense these team have an inherent darkness that courses through their collective veins. The Mets do.
And they proved it by how they dumped Randolph – in the middle of the night on a west coast trip. Did he deserve to be let go? Well, I understand big expectations, and not fulfilling them. I also understand that’s magnified umpteen times in New York. Maybe it was time for Randolph to go. But the man deserved to be treated with more dignity and respect just on a human level. Or have Omar Minaya and the Wilpons forgotten about humanity? You’ll find the word in Webster’s dictionary in the H’s…where you’ll also find heart, help, and “handle” with care. Good luck Willie, you deserve better.
It takes quite a lot for a lifelong Knicks fan to root for the green and white. A lot. It’s not enough that they represent the East.And it’s not enough to root for them to spite the clueless and arrogant assclown Jim Dolan…or prompted by the self-loathing around which real Knicks supporters bond and commiserate.
I should also mention that I am and have long been a Doc Rivers fan. I didn’t carefully follow his travails in Orlando and I know he’s had some rough spots over the course of his tenure with the Celtics.I know all about the rotation and match-up issues, his reliance on assistant coach Tom Thibodeaufor his defensive schemes, etc. All that said, he was as likable and thoughtful a player as the Knicks ever had – though his run was relatively brief – and I always hoped the Knicks landed him as their coach.
But the thing that turned it was KG. The dude is simply a scowling, chest-pumping, expletive-spewing force of nature. We all complain about jaded athletes and the alternative universes they occupy…we complain about the lack of passion, as it never seems the fellas on the floor or on the field want it as badly as we do.With the seconds winding down, the camera pans the losing bench–the dominant expression is one of “damn, I can’t get out of here fast enough, I’ll see you in Cozumel.”
So when you see KG all fired up like he just found out there was a run on the bank holding all his millions, you’ve got to be impressed.Particularly when you realize his histrionics are the complete antithesis of all the fake, manufactured crap they use to make Kobe seem like a real human being – as opposed to what he really is: a carefully packaged product test-marketed to an inch of its natural shelf life.
But as gratifying as it was seeing KG finally get a ring, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one watching in slack-jawed horror as he romped and stomped about the TD Banknorth Garden floor, like he’d just bounded from a heavily fortified asylum. That Michele Tafoya interview at the end…man, that was plain scary. “I’m certified! I’m certified!” he shouted, the brim of his cap pulled low, making him look like a deranged homeless man claiming to anyone who’d listen that the CIA has wired his molars. I actually thought he was going to swoon and take out six crewmen and several random pedestrians milling about – I’ve never seen so fine a line between celebration and temporary insanity.
One thing is certain: KG is no longer one of the greatest players to never win a championship. But he is certainly – certifiably – the craziest great player to win a championship.
Congratulations KG, Doc, Ray and especially the great – yes, the great – Paul Pierce.
Better luck next year, Kobe. Maybe by then you’ll have hired a better team of image consultants to make your efforts at appearing a good team mate – not to mention family man, patriot and man of international intrigue – a bit morecredible.
(Also…a shout-out to pro’s pro PJ Brown, who turned out to be a lot more than a level head on and off the bench.)
MOSCOW, RUSSIA (Sportsman’s Daily Wire Service) Vladimir Petrov, like all of the 1980 Olympic hockey team representing the Soviet Union that year carry with them different memories of their historic defeat in Lake Placid, New York.
“When we returned to Mother Russia there was no fanfare,” Petrov lamented. “Then when I got home, Father, who was luxuriating in a modest bowl of mashed yeast, asked me to come over to him. “He told me how Russian winters are tough and that this one in particular might be exceptionally painful for us.”
Indeed that winter of 1980 was extremely difficult for the Petrov family. Vladimir’s mother, Bogdana took a job as a tunnel support in the Moscow subway system. The hours for her were extremely long, forcing Leonid Petrov to stay home and take care of Vladimir’s younger brothers and sisters.
“Dad was a fair man,” Vladimir said. “He only beat us when we deserved it – generally striking my brother Vasili and me repeatedly with his only copy of Modest Mussorgsky’s Songs and Dances of Death, which he enjoyed immensely before bedtime. We were then forced to stand outside in sub zero temperatures until we calmed down or hypothermia set in. Afterward, we were revived in the balmy fifty degree heat of our one room flat just in time for a brimming and nutritious bowl of celery broth.”
Today Vladimir Petrov often visits the grave of his father, even though he is still alive. “I go to the plot where he’ll eventually be interred,” added Vladimir. “I go there just to look things over. You see, we don’t have Father’s Day in Russia like you celebrate it in America. But I wanted to share a story on this special day in the United States. I’m sure Mike Eruzione’s probably got a better one.”
Return to Forever 2008 Summer Tour — L to R: Chick Corea, Lenny White, Al Di Meola. Seated: Stanley Clarke
Why are we sports fans? What draws us there? Sure, it gives us something root for, but isn’t it something else? Don’t we ultimately wish we were them? Not even for the money and adulation, but for the thrill of competing on the highest level — of performing on the world stage knowing “I am the best.” Before there was a Michael and a Wayne and a Tiger, there was Return to Forever. Who? I’ll say it again…Return to Forever — quite possibly the most awe-inspiring technical road show music has ever heard. These are four impossibly skilled musicians playing highly complex but totally accessable “rip and burn” music. They are the Michael and Wayne and Tiger of their instruments — only they first did it when the above mentioned were children. Return to Forever led by keyboard wizard Chick Corea is touring this summer around the world after twenty-five long years. And a good many dates (and tickets) remain available. RTF’s other three members are Stanley Clarke on bass, Al Di Meola on guitar, and Lenny White on Drums. To list their musical accomplishments here would take a week. (So, visit: www.return2forever.com)
Even if you’ve never paid much attention to jazz or fusion or jam bands or progressive rock…do yourself a favor and check these guys out. Your ears will thank you. It’s a sight (and sound) to behold. I saw them once, and I’ve never forgotten it. I will be at the July 30th Miami show.
If Jordan flying through the air or shooting with his eyes closed and Tiger sinking a forty footer to win a Major or Gretzky dominating a hockey game with his wizardry gave you goose bumps, these four will do the exact same thing — only the stage is music. And it’s something you’ll be able to tell your grandkids about. “I was alive to see the Mozarts of my time.”
And though athletes lose their skills and are almost always gone after age forty — these guys are just getting good. That’s when real musicans mature. Their chops don’t go away. They’ve learned what they didn’t know as young men, yet still have every youthful skill to accomplish what’s in their mind and soul and take you along with them to the stratosphere. Perhaps we’ll call the place Forever, where every audience member can Return to.
The Triple Crown was lost, again.It makes me wonder a couple of things. Is the fix in? Is it the choice of some elite few who control the sport, or is it really just impossible to win it?Were Secretariat, Seattle Slew and Affirmed just that great?I’m not a huge horse racing fan – I admit.I’m only really interested in the big three - just like I’m only really interested in the big four in Tennis and in Golf.
Of course there’s a second triple crown…the one in baseball.And that hasn’t been won since 1967.Carl Yasztremski was the last to pull that off.The Year before that, Frank Robinson won it for the Orioles after coming over from the Reds.
It seems baseball players and horses just can’t close the deal anymore.It really makes you appreciate how difficult it is to truly dominate any sport, not just for one year as in a Triple Crown, but over a career.See: Jordan, Nicklaus, Gretzky, Woods, etc.
It would have been nice if Big Brown had pulled it off.It had a lot of cosmic things going for it…2008 – thirty years since the last one – an Olympic year, an election year, a leap year. But alas, not THE year.
How many times have you seen an athlete, on the floor, writhing in pain, gingerly helped off the court (or field) and lead ever-so-delicately into the (presumably) locker room…and you’re thinking the guy’s done.Look, I stumble over a pair of misplaced socks and chances are I’m taking myself out of that day’s rotation – which in my case means I’m not taking the kid to school, or taking the pails to the curb.
When Paul Pierce and Kendrick Perkins collided with 6:49 left in the third and Pierce’s right knee buckled as he collapsed, I’m figuring the dude’s spending the rest of the night on ML Carr duty — waving a towel and using his remaining strength to keep Doc from sending in Sam Cassell (or, short of that, using the towel to keep him tied to the bench – I mean, damn, how many unconscious heaves does it take for Cassell to be taken out and put on ice?)
“I thought I tore something,” Pierce said after the game. Pierce remained earthbound for several minutes before he was slapped into a wheelchair and wheeled into the locker room. Then, as history will now record, Piece emerged Willis-like from the tunnel, as fans roared.
Which brings me to my point: what the hell goes on in the inner sanctum that puts guys back out on the floor, guys who only moments ago looked a shade more hearty than conventional roadkill? We’ll assume that in this day and age, nothing untoward is being injected or ingested – no athlete or organization will risk further injury for a temporary fix, even if we’re talking NBA finals.Whatever it is – deep tissue massage, hot rocks, crystals, rhythmic chanting, burnt offerings – I not only want to know…I want some.
As we ponder the imponderable, let me leave off with the lyrics of an appropriate Tom Waits ditty, “What’s He Building?”(from 1999’s Mule Variations) – highly recommended to anyone contemplating any of life’s unfathomable mysteries:
What’s he building in there?
What the hell is he building
In there?
He has subscriptions to those
Magazines… He never
Waves when he goes by
He’s hiding something from
The rest of us… He’s all
To himself… I think I know
Why… He took down the
Tire swing from the Peppertree
He has no children of his
Own you see… He has no dog
And he has no friends and
His lawn is dying… and
What about all those packages
He sends. What’s he building in there?
With that hook light
On the stairs. What’s he building
In there… I’ll tell you one thing
He’s not building a playhouse for
The children what’s he building
In there?
Now what’s that sound from under the door?
He’s pounding nails into a
Hardwood floor… and I
Swear to god I heard someone
Moaning low… and I keep
Seeing the blue light of a
T.V. show…
He has a router
And a table saw… and you
Won’t believe what Mr. Sticha saw
There’s poison underneath the sink
Of course… But there’s also
Enough formaldehyde to choke
A horse… What’s he building
In there. What the hell is he
Building in there? I heard he
Has an ex-wife in some place
Called Mayors Income, Tennessee And he used to have a
consulting business in Indonesia…
but what is he building in there?
What the hell is building in there?
He has no friends
But he gets a lot of mail
I’ll bet he spent a little
Time in jail…
I heard he was up on the
Roof last night
Signaling with a flashlight
And what’s that tune he’s
Always whistling…
What’s he building in there?
What’s he building in there?
Time for a bit of dream analysis. Last night, I had a nightmare. I get them particularly heavy and weird after I’ve eaten large doses of garlic, which I did last evening.
It went a little something like this:
I laid big bucks on Big Brown to win the Belmont on Saturday and take the first Triple Crown in thirty years. As I tuned in to watch, I noticed flyweight jockey Kent Desormeaux wasn’t on BB’s back. Instead the horse was being ridden by injured Boston slugger David Ortiz…all 6′4″, 250 pounds of him. As the horses flew out of the gate, Big Brown was in a slow trot with the rotund Red Sox DH whoopin’ it up like it was a freakin’ rodeo. Needless to say, Big Brown didn’t win the Triple Crown, and I owed my bookie a mint.
What’s strange about this whole thing is that I know I should never eat a large doses of garlic, but still did last night…hence the bizarre dream. Don’t ask me why this happens, but it does. I know a few others who claim to have “garlic dreams.”
Also, outside of the occasional office pool, I don’t really gamble, let alone have a bookie.
What is true is that David Ortiz is injured, and the Red Sox are considering signing Barry Bonds, another sports figure with BB for initials.
In my dream, Big Brown needed to get David Ortiz off his back. In reality, Barry Bonds won’t get off ours.
*A New Kind of Lawsuit? Maybe it’s because I’m married to a lawyer…but it just occurred to me, there’s an untapped field of litigation (at least untapped to the best of my knowledge, which might not be saying a lot, but is saying something…I think). Anyway, it’s my opinion that competitors who place behind medal winners (medal winners who are later disqualified due to doping) should have the right to sue the winners. I believe it’s high time somebody tests this theory. To put it another way, if you win a silver or bronze medal in the Olympics, your ability to make millions of dollars on endorsement deals is compromised in comparison to the gold medal winner. If the gold medal winner is a cheater, it’s like saying they took money from non-cheaters who came in second or third. Tonya Lawrence is a Jamaican runner who finished with the bronze in the 2000 Olympics (100 meter dash). Marion Jones won the gold—and the silver medalist, like Jones, also happened to fail to follow proper drug testing procedures before the 2004 Games (this, according to the Wall Street Journal’s 5-21-08 edition). Now, Ms. Lawrence is a new Mom and I assume no longer competing. Even if the IOC names her the gold medal winner because the two who finished in front of her were cheaters, she’ll never recover the potential sponsorships or advertising spokesperson revenue she would have enjoyed had she rightfully been decared the gold medal winner at the time the race happened. Meanwhile, Marion Jones “regrets” the cheating, but that isn’t putting any moolah in Lawrence’s pocket. I think Lawrence should hire a good lawyer and sue the pants off the alleged cheaters who finished ahead of her. That’s my angle. It’s a whole new field of litigation for hungry lawyers to feast on.
Most sports fans have heard of the Sports Illustrated curse – if you haven’t, it goes like this: An athlete appearing on the cover of the famous mag results in a downturn in performance, or worse.
But if the the trend at the Sportsman’s Daily continues, every athlete in the world will be hoping for some TSD cover time. Tallying up the last few months, pro stars like Carmelo Anthony, Barry Zito, Danica Patrick, and Johnny Damon have seen a significant uptick in their fortunes. And yesterday, when we took a good natured jab at Phils slugger Ryan Howard’s early season woes, he went out last night and collected two hits, scored two runs, knocked in a run, made a defensive gem, and raised his batting average ten points.
It’s not coincidence anymore folks. So, to all the guys who are mired in horrific slumps, or losing streaks, hear the clarion call — read TSD, wear your “The Sportsman changed my life” t-thirts underneath your uniform, and pray we bust your balls. Your big payoff is at hand.
* Tribute to the Phillies by a Pirates Fan…since TA waxed nostalgic about the good ole days of the Pirates-Phillies rivalry (he might say Phillies-Pirates, but I say Pirates-Phillies)—anyway, since he made the first volley, even as a Pirates fan, I have a couple nice things to say about those ’70’s Phillies: First, I was reminded by reading recently how great Steve Carlton was. In his first season with the Phillies (after the fateful Cardinals trade for Rick Wise), he won 27 games for a team whose win total was in the 50’s. That in itself is amazing. Also, during the last month or so of the season, he batted around .300—about 100 points better than a September minor league call-up by the name of Michael Jack Schmidt. Of course, Mr. Schmidt went on to better Steve Carlton in the slugging department—he let Carlton go about the business of winning 20 games every friggin’ year, many of those against my Buccos. What an era. Finally, those Phillies featured maybe the all-time greatest baseball name ever, a catcher—-Barry Foote.
What a dick! Baseball bad boy Roger Clemens will soon add this puppy to his trophy case. The Bronze Dick has been won by such baseball dignitaries as Denny McLain and Al Campanis. Barry Bonds is the only two-time winner, who put one of his trophies up for auction on eBid.
HOUSTON, TX (Sportsman’s Daily Wire Service) Seven time Cy Young Award winning pitcher Roger Clemens has received the coveted Bronze Dick Award.The award, known by many as the Chubby, is given annually to the Major League player who best exemplifies the dickish qualities of arrogance, denial, and megalomaniacal behavior. “I’m so honored,” said Clemens holding back tears, “I know just where I’m going to stick this.”
It was announced Monday that Clemens had a ten year affair with country singer Mindy McCready.The relationship apparently started in 1991 when McCready was fifteen.Clemens admits to knowing McCready, but says the relationship was not sexual.
Either way, Clemens once again, has a lot of explaining to do.
“This guy is in full blown denial,” said television pop-psychologist Dr. Phil McGraw. “Although maybe ‘blown’ isn’t the most appropriate of terms in this matter. Roger seems to be living a double life without acknowledging the other. Not exactly the sports world’s model citizen, but a blue-chip candidate for CIA work.”
McCready told a small group of reporters in Nashville she’s thrilled for Clemens. “I heard about Roger winning the Chubby and I’m elated,” said the gold record winning singer. “He works so hard at what he does, whatever that might be these days. He really comes off as a total dick, and it’s obviously paid off.”
“If you read between the lines in Ms. McCready’s statement she said ‘total’ dick,” added McGraw. “That’s significant. Some run-of-the-mill, part time dick isn’t going to win a Chubby. According to the Bronze Dick people I spoke with, you’re not even considered if you’re categorized anything below a ‘real’ dick. A ‘complete’ dick is very close to a ‘total’ dick. I, for example have been called a ‘giant’ dick, but only in certain situations. I doubt I’ll win the award anytime soon.”
As a Philadelphia sports fan, I understand frustration. I can even understand the booing — even if it’s not deserved. You could chalk up the booing to a huge inferiority complex.
What I will NEVER get is how and why a small minority of Philadelphia Phillies fans cheered when Mets shortstop Jose Reyes almost broke his neck on a head first slide into second base last night. Look, I can’t stand the Mets too. And Reyes comes off as cocky and arrogant. But you’re talking about a man’s life, let alone career. Granted, it was evident early on that Reyes wasn’t paralyzed as he hit his head on Chase Utley’s knee, but he was seriously hurt. Manager Willie Randolph and the Mets team trainer ran out to tend to Reyes, as these idiot fans cheered the possible life-threatening injury to Reyes — the same way they did when Michael Irvin was left motionless in an Eagles-Cowboys game a few years back.
At what point in your tiny brain do you say to yourself, “Oh Yeah, here’s a good idea. Let’s whoop it up and drink wine as this human being might possibly be dying.” WTF?
I understand the booing. I may not agree with it. But it’s your right to boo. But to cheer a person possibly being paralyzed? Uh, check please.
Maybe it’s too early. Maybe just a couple of years in the making isn’t enough. But last year’s Mets collapse and Phillies surge has heightened the general hatred the teams and fans share for each other.
Will it ever match the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry? No. But something is definitely brewing between the Mets and Phils and it gets uglier with each game. They’re two Northeast teams. The fans are similar in that they really live and die with their teams.
I am a Phillies fan.
If you were a Phillies fan growing up in the 70’s, it meant you hated the Pirates, the cross state rivals. You of course respected Pops Stargell. But the rest of those bozos like Dave Parker and Omar Moreno and John Candelaria, you just wanted to bury. Phillies-Pirates meant basebrawl. Now, sometimes I wonder if the Pirates even play anymore. I look at them as any other team now. There’s zero dislike for them now. Bud Selig and his ridiculous decision to move the Bucs to the NL Central took care of that — as well as the Pirates minor league payroll.
Back in the Phillies late 70’s heyday, the Mets and Cubs were teams you actually felt sorry for. Wow, how times have changed.
I loath the freakin’ Mets. Although I wouldn’t mind having David Wright on our side. I caught him on Letterman the other night, and this kid is about as personable and humble a player as you’ll find anywhere — not to mention, the ladies love him. I sure as hell didn’t get those good looks when they were passing them out. Lucky bastard.
Anyway, it starts all over again tonight with a marquee pitching matchup in Philly. Santana vs. Hamels. Could be a classic in the making. Could be the next chapter that amps up the fastest growing rivalry in sports. It’s hard to believe, but the Phillies actually matter right now. Nationally I mean. Just plain baseball fans are looking in on the goings on between the Mets — and the Phillies. The Phillies? Yep, the Phillies. And I’m loving every minute of it.
There is one thing Mets and Phillies fans can agree on. We want this rivalry to build. And we want it to last…for a long, long time.
Mike Schmidt was my boyhood idol. Coming off of two straight seasons of leading the majors in homers, could he threepeat for the 1976 season? The answer became evident on April 17 at Chicago’s Wrigley Field.
Schmidt was just one of the guys going into that day on an steadily improving Phillies team. Along with Larry Bowa, Greg Luzinski, Dick Allen, Dave Cash, and Steve Carlton, he was one of my favorites, but not my hero…yet.
But in an extra-inning, football score affair that only Wrigley Field seems to be able to produce, the Phillies won the war 18-16 in 10 innings. And Michael Jack Schmidt drilled four home runs…four consecutive home runs. In one game. Only few have accomplished the feat. Nobody’s hit five in one game.
That day, a twelve year old boy watching along with the 28,287 fans at the game and countless thousands watching at home (I saw it on Channel 17, WPHL by the way) saw Schmidt being kissed by the baseball gods. And for me, that was the day a hero was born. How could anybody top that performance? It’s been matched, but never topped.
Schmidt would of course go on to win a third consecutive homerun crown in 1976 and win five others in his Hall of Fame career (second only to Babe Ruth for homer titles). It should be pointed out that Barry Bonds only won two.
I can’t be certain, but most people probably can’t pinpoint the precise moment their hero is born. Three hours and forty-one minutes. That’s how long the game took to be played that day. And as the last out was being recorded…at that specific moment in time, on that Saturday afternoon, I knew who my hero was, and would be till the day he walked away from the game.
The meeting of Council of the Sportsman’s Den took place at said Den on Tuesday, 4-15-08 at 9pm. Present were Thomas Alexander, Alban Berg, Charles Epstein, Allister Fistings, J. Kent Forsythe, Pepino Vaginale, Chester Lassiter, Taylor Rutherford, and Angelo Vecchio.
Andre Morrelenbaum was absent due to the birth of his Great Dane’s litter.
The subject for tonight’s meeting: Sportsman’s University.
There are no surviving minutes from the last meeting as I spilled a bottle of cognac on them. But we all seem to recall a motion being made to charter an institution of higher learning based on TSD’s philosophy.
The excitement swirling around the possible creation of Sportsman’s University was palpable as the drinking stopped for at least ten minutes. “We’re not quite at the groundbreaking stage yet,” said Captain of Industry and Dartmouth alum J. Kent Forsythe. “But we are confident that an institution of higher learning can be based and built on the manifesto the Sportsman’s Daily launched so many years ago - an urbane bravado punctuated with dazzling wit, charm and the dashing good looks of our timeless mascot, the Sportsman himself. Mix in a few pitchers of martinis, sportscars, and young, educated, full-breasted women and I think you know how popular this school will become.”
The idea for Sportsman’s University was concocted in the east wing of the Sportsman’s Den where toastmaster Allister Fistings, and senior members of TSD’s staff regulary engage in drinking games, high brow debauchery, and low brow brainstorming sessions.
Sportsman’s Den Vice President Taylor Rutherford of Palm Beach, Florida and Kensington, Pennsylvania announced he will open up his checkbook and donate a sizable sum to the proposed school once he gets the twenty-two year old Milton twins to stop enthusiastically licking his pecker.
The motion for the school was seconded by Pepino Vaginale. It would have been thirded, but the balance of the members were watching the Milton twins lick Taylor Rutherford’s pecker.
No other business was discussed and the meeting was adjourned at 2:45 A.M.
* CHE’s idea is great—Buckner letting the “first error of the season” through his legs at Shea in lieu of a ceremonial first pitch would have been the ultimate comic relief and a good luck charm for the Mets. Problem is, even AFTER winning two World Series since 1986, Bostonians would have put a contract on the guy’s life. A few years ago, Buckner and Mookie Wilson both signed some copies of the infamous photo when the ball rolled down the first base line into right field—the fans were furious that Buckner was “making light” of the ‘86 Series loss. Never mind that by signing the prints, he was merely earning money to finance his needed move to Idaho to get away from the Red Sox crazies. Hmmm…maybe Buckner can redeem himself in Beantown’s eyes by beating up Eli Manning.
As a Mets fan, and a fan of the Mets teams of the early-to-mid 80s in particular, I tend to look at the whole issue of Buckner throwing out a first ball and the “long-deferred reconciliation” thing from another perspective: why didn’t the Mets brass, in all these years, see fit to honor Bill Buckner with a day at Shea? Instead of throwing out a pitch, he ceremoniously lets one through the wickets, the Shea faithful go nuts and for being a good sport he’s clasped to their breasts forever… granted, being clasped to someone’s breast sounds uncomfortable, though the long term benefits to Buckner’s psyche (and to Mets management for orchestrating such a fine between innings interlude of comic relief) are incalculable.
This just in: long-time Mets pr guru Jay Horowitz is considering the idea. Buckner’s people, however, have expressed reservations — they don’t want to turn it into a “circus,” though apparently for an offer “north of $50K” Buckner will not only stage a re-enactment, he’ll pick up after the elephants.
* The inspiration: I’ve had some personal crisies (how the heck is that spelled anyway?) of late and haven’t had too much time to blog. But I’ve also had a lack of inspiration on topics too…that is, until reading TA’s Red Sox/Buckner post below. Well said, very well said. How big of the city of Boston to “forgive” this guy’s error from 20+ years ago. After all, it was a very important baseball game and hey, he played a part in the team LOSING. Of course, so did the Manager (late game defensive replacements for Buckner all year long, except the deciding game of the World Series). Also, looking at that Series as a whole, as ESPN did, there were other parties far more guilty than Buckner that actually contributed more to the Red Sox failure to win it that year. The relief pitching was horrendous, the Field Manager’s decisions quite questionable too. Of course, the super intelligent and analytical Red Sox fans could only remember the ball through Buckner’s legs—that was the moment etched in their minds. It’s the whole “one big play” silliness that intellectually challenged sports fans are usually guilty of. Sort of like Cowboys fans blaming tight end Jackie Smith’s drop of a touchdown pass in one of their Super Bowl losses to the Steelers. It was one play among a batch of missed plays that doomed them, but it’s how that Super Bowl is remembered and sadly, how some people remember Jackie Smith, a truly excellent tight end for many years. Same with the Red Sox loss to the Mets. Billy Buck was a solid pro for two decades—the guy had one of the sweetest base hit swings I’ve ever seen and he played on shattered ankles and gutted it out day in and day out. He was definitely a factor in the Red Sox even making it to the World Series and yes, he booted the ball that could have given them the win. For that mistake, he was punished with freakin’ death threats. How nice, how classy. Buckner was too good to participate in the opening pitch ceremonies the other day.
Billy Buckner came home — sort of. The author of over 2,700 Major League hits and a very solid .289 lifetime batting average, Buckner is of course remembered for one thing. I’m not even going to go into that here, because if you don’t know what he’s famous for…well, ’nuff said.
So, with two World Series championships under their belts, Red Sox fans can finally forget the ghosts of 1986. It’s easier for them to “allow” Billy Buck back onto the hallowed grounds of Fenway. Buckner threw out the first pitch at Fenway on opening day three days ago. And as Buckner made his almost interminable trek from the outfield to the mound amid cheers, I have to say I was genuinely happy for him. I was happy for the man, the human being who had to endure two decades of real, honest to goodness hatred.
How touching.
How touching that Red Sox fans, now at the very height of their franchise’s long history, have found it in their warm and tender hearts to forgive and forget. Sure, all the death threats, loathing, death threats, finger pointing, death threats, and death threats are all forgotten now, right? How positively classy.
This guy had to move to friggin’ Idaho to get away from the abuse. I don’t see how anyone could fault him if he wanted to flip off the 37,000 strong before making the ceremonial first toss.
Of course he didn’t.
He waved, smiled, and even wiped away a tear, and ultimately was far and away the bigger man in all of this. He played the game with integrity for twenty-two seasons — seasons certainly worthy of Hall of Fame consideration — serious consideration. Twenty two seasons. Exactly the amount of years it’s been since his “moment frozen in time” occurred. And he came home - sort of, to know he’s welcome again in one big dysfunctional family.
The Red Sox organization extended the olive branch. But who can take away Buckner’s twenty-two years of suffering?
Nothing funny here of course. Not your typical TSD rant. Just an observation, and one small self promotion. TSD lampoons sports because fans, whether they cheer for the Red Sox, Yankees, Cowboys, Steelers, Maple Leafs, Knicks, or West Ham United, probably need to lighten up. Or else, in the future we may see some other really talented athlete who just happened to make a mistake at the wrong time, have to leave town on the next plane to Australia, Costa Rica…
SEATTLE — Already reeling from the news that the Seattle Supersonics will try to make good on their threat to move to Oklahoma City, Seattleites were stunned to learn of an ultimatum from another sports-related organization today.
Monster truck rally organizers have announced that they, too, will leave Seattle if the city does not build a dedicated stadium where they can hold tractor pulls, demolition derbies and fuel funny car races.
Organizers made their comments during a sparsely attended morning news conference that was held LIVE! LIVE! LIVE! outside QWEST FIELD near where they said THE MUD USED TO FLY when monster truck rallies were held on SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAY! at the Kingdome, which previously occupied the spot. The storied dome was destroyed in 2006 and crusher car events have been in short supply ever since.
Although they are calling for the construction of a multi-million dollar stadium with an abundance of bleacher seating and lots of hay bales, the sport’s organizers are aware taxpayers aren’t in the mood to publicly the finance such a project. As a result, they have proposed an alternative financing package calling for a two-cent sales tax on lattes, all organic fruit and tofu-based products sold within Seattle city limits.
Members of a group dedicated to saving the events, Keep Rallies Alive in King County for Economic Rehabilitation (KRAKCER) claim the loss of the events would be a major economic blow to the area.
“After all, people from the southern suburbs come up to Pioneer Square every weekend just to spend tens of dollars,” KRAKCER President Jeffery Davis said.
Nice job with the April Fools joke on Tuesday. You got me. I have been had, and I guess Charles was too. The planning, the acting, the hail of bullets in the parking lot, all expertly played. But with all due respect, World B. Free (one of my boyhood idols) taking sides against me, was a bit much. And fanning the sweet aroma of a skillfully grilled lamb chop in my direction was really crossing the line.
But as you know, when you least expect it, paybacks come. They come in many shapes and sizes.
Today was a victory for the NFL players, mainly the backups and special team’s players. The NFL announced Tuesday that it would begin selling advertising rights for the body parts of each player. Terrell Owens’ mouth will be sponsored by Energizer, because it keeps going and going. DeAngelo Hall’s legs will be sponsored by Coke, and Chad Johnson’s entire body will be sponsored by Advil to help you get rid of headaches you may get while watching or listening to Chad Johnson. There is a rumor circulating that a part of Tom Brady’s body will be sponsored by Trojan, but there is a debate over which part.
All injuries will be sponsored by various products like Budweiser, Allstate and the EHSL (English Hop Scotch League). However because the proceeds of this arraignment would only be split between the players who are sponsored and the league, many backups threatened to strike. “We play the game to, yet we don’t see any green for it?” said an irate Donald Johnson, a 3rd string Center with the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Louie Fatone, the long snapping backup of the Houston Texans said, “This is a disgrace, we may not be in the highlight reels but were just as important as anyone. I am just as big to this game as Peyton Manning, and now he’s gonna get even more money for having a right arm, hey I got a right arm, where’s my check!”
The NFL’s claim was that because these players weren’t important to the overall success of a team that they should not get that big of a cut. The two sides met an agreement today that made everyone happy. According to the deal all players will receive a share of the revenue for injuries. Players who do not start will receive money, but that money can only go to a retirement fund that will be set up for the players, or sent to a pharmaceutical company in
Florida where the players can get performance enhancing drugs. When asked about the decision Jason Taylor said “I’m happy they reached an agreement, not having my back up would really have costs the dolphins wins this year!” Carson Palmer also weighed in, “This is good, and I couldn’t make it in this league without my 3rd string quarterback. Without him I would have to hold my own helmet during the game, over a 16 game season I’d get worn down.”
While this will lower the profit of each owner from 2 Billion a season to 1,990,000,000 many owners feel it’s a worthy sacrifice to make. As Miami Dolphins owner Wayne Huizenga said to me when I spoke to him “Who are you, what are you doing in my house, security!” Obviously the stresses from the weekly affairs have taken its toll on everyone. Many of the back up players will celebrate the victory with a protein shake, extra steroids, and hitting the gym. All I can say is thank heavens this deal was done; now I don’t have to worry if Tom Brady or Peyton Manning get hurt, because their backups will be pumped up and ready to go!
Gentlemen, it’s my sad duty to inform you that you’ve been on the receiving end of a masterful — if I say so myself — hoax that was a month in the making. Everyone played their parts to perfection: from Ric “Word” Testaverde to Allison to Joey B to the rent-a-cops to the stuntmen who rapelled up the north side of the building. And particular kudos to Angelo, who was in on it from the beginning — you, sir, have a promising future as a character actor, should you decide to pursue it (albeit as the strangled snitch in straight-to-DVD prison dramas). Only Tom and Charles were unwitting victims, as it was our plan from the very outset to see their response to an artfully choreographed palace coup that robbed them of everything: their website, their offices, their dignity, their self-esteem. Truth be told, had we known Tom would over-react and commandeer the server room and that Charles would fold like a cheap piece of origami, we would have thought better of it. Let’s face it, neither was exactly an exemplar of grace under pressure…in fact, it was a complete embarrassment, though we hope TSD’s faithful can bring themselves to forgive and forget.
To anyone who followed the “stand-off” from the beginning and were taken in, well…you’ll know better next time.
I for one enjoyed this. I’m a bit sorry for the pain it caused, but if I know Tom and Charles, they’ll find a way of getting me back. Which is why I’ve filed a pre-emptive restraining order — so guys, I’d advise you against any “big” ideas.
Tomorrow we’ll return you to your regularly scheduled programming. It’s been a blast. See you around.
