Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Utah comes to the town to take on the Gladiators in a showdown between 5-8 teams. The Gladiators have been reeling, dropping three straight contests. Conversely, Utah has won two in a row since the acquisition of Veteran QB Andy Kelly, they come to town fresh off of Friday's stunning upset of league champion Colorado. Saturday night’s game still has playoff implications. It brings me great pain to pick against the hometown team, but I’m going with Utah to keep their postseason hopes alive.
At 3-10, L.A. has dropped 5 straight and finds themselves in the path of surging San Jose, winners of four in a row, and tied for the division lead. L.A. handed San Jose a 75-61 defeat back in march. With a playoff birth on the line, San Jose finds revenge this week. I’m taking the sabrecats.
The Rattlers come in off a disappointing loss to lowly Grand Rapids. Things don’t get any easier this week as they head into Dallas to face what may very well be the league’s best team. The Desperadoes are fresh off a come from behind victory at Georgia last week, and can clinch their first Eastern Division title in 3 years with a W. I’m taking Dallas.
At 3-10, L.A. has dropped 5 straight and finds themselves in the path of surging San Jose, winners of four in a row, and tied for the division lead. L.A. handed San Jose a 75-61 defeat back in march. With a playoff birth on the line, San Jose finds revenge this week. I’m taking the sabrecats.
The Rattlers come in off a disappointing loss to lowly Grand Rapids. Things don’t get any easier this week as they head into Dallas to face what may very well be the league’s best team. The Desperadoes are fresh off a come from behind victory at Georgia last week, and can clinch their first Eastern Division title in 3 years with a W. I’m taking Dallas.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Amazin’ Grace
Some thoughts on Holy Days of Obligation
I don’t know what time it is right now. I’m not quite sure how the time zone thing works in the air, floating somewhere over middle-America, lost in an indeterminable abyss between night and dawn. What I do know is that it’s dark outside the plane and when we land in New York, I will be on about an hour and a half of sleep. Somehow, I think I’ll make it. It’s Opening Day, and I run on adrenaline. Rivaled only by Thanksgiving, (because of my life-defining annual hometown pickup football game), the Mets Home Opener is the High Holy Day on my liturgical calendar. This is my Easter Sunday, my Yom Kippur. While often falling short as a student, employee, friend, boyfriend, son, brother, Catholic and man, I have never been anything short of an exemplary Mets fan.
As a fan on Opening Day, I believe that Pedro’s not injured, Billy Wagner is good for 12-15 more wins in the standings, Carlos Delgado was the missing bat in the lineup, Xavier Nady is a 25 homer/90 RBI guy that just never got enough playing time in San Diego, Jose Reyes will develop the plate discipline that will transform him from one of baseball’s more exciting players into one of it’s best, David Wright is primed for the first of his many MVP seasons, and Carlos Beltran shall rebound in such a manner that his decision to sign with the Mets will be remembered as the defining moment in New York City baseball for the next decade.
Objectively, I realize it might rain today. The Mets might fail this year. In fact, the words, “disappointing” and “Mets season” seem to flow in the same sentence a little too well. Pedro Martinez’ terminal toe ailment could spell doom for their suspect rotation. The annual crop of expensive off-season additions might very well remind us why Shea rightfully earned a reputation as the place where so many established careers have gone to die. Atlanta could continue their decade and a half stranglehold on the east as their farm system continues to produce some of the game’s best young talent, or Philadelphia could ascend to prominence on the bats of Howard and Utley and the arms of a deep and talented pitching staff.
Yet none of those doubts will matter this afternoon when I climb to the upper deck of a packed house to cram into an uncomfortable red plastic seat. Nor will it matter when the starting lineup is announced for the first time, or when Jesse Orosco delivers the ceremonial first pitch to Gary Carter. When the Mets take the field at 1:10 today, they will do so in first place, the magic number at 162. It is at that moment each year that I find an escape, a joy, a grace, that transcends the secular.
I don’t know what time it is right now. I’m not quite sure how the time zone thing works in the air, floating somewhere over middle-America, lost in an indeterminable abyss between night and dawn. What I do know is that it’s dark outside the plane and when we land in New York, I will be on about an hour and a half of sleep. Somehow, I think I’ll make it. It’s Opening Day, and I run on adrenaline. Rivaled only by Thanksgiving, (because of my life-defining annual hometown pickup football game), the Mets Home Opener is the High Holy Day on my liturgical calendar. This is my Easter Sunday, my Yom Kippur. While often falling short as a student, employee, friend, boyfriend, son, brother, Catholic and man, I have never been anything short of an exemplary Mets fan.
As a fan on Opening Day, I believe that Pedro’s not injured, Billy Wagner is good for 12-15 more wins in the standings, Carlos Delgado was the missing bat in the lineup, Xavier Nady is a 25 homer/90 RBI guy that just never got enough playing time in San Diego, Jose Reyes will develop the plate discipline that will transform him from one of baseball’s more exciting players into one of it’s best, David Wright is primed for the first of his many MVP seasons, and Carlos Beltran shall rebound in such a manner that his decision to sign with the Mets will be remembered as the defining moment in New York City baseball for the next decade.
Objectively, I realize it might rain today. The Mets might fail this year. In fact, the words, “disappointing” and “Mets season” seem to flow in the same sentence a little too well. Pedro Martinez’ terminal toe ailment could spell doom for their suspect rotation. The annual crop of expensive off-season additions might very well remind us why Shea rightfully earned a reputation as the place where so many established careers have gone to die. Atlanta could continue their decade and a half stranglehold on the east as their farm system continues to produce some of the game’s best young talent, or Philadelphia could ascend to prominence on the bats of Howard and Utley and the arms of a deep and talented pitching staff.
Yet none of those doubts will matter this afternoon when I climb to the upper deck of a packed house to cram into an uncomfortable red plastic seat. Nor will it matter when the starting lineup is announced for the first time, or when Jesse Orosco delivers the ceremonial first pitch to Gary Carter. When the Mets take the field at 1:10 today, they will do so in first place, the magic number at 162. It is at that moment each year that I find an escape, a joy, a grace, that transcends the secular.
Friday, February 10, 2006
I wish I knew how to quit you…
Note: I recently had a discussion where it was pointed out that I don’t really say anything about myself in the blog. Today I will change gears a bit, writing about my 2005 Football Gambling season. I realize not everybody lives in Vegas or bets on football regularly, so there are some explanations of some of the basics in here. If you already know about such things, just skip over it. I’ve included a link to my season records. The bankroll is now represented in “units”, but the proportional size of the wagers is accurate, as is everything else in there, enjoy. Peace-J
The countless hours spent studying statistics and mapping trends, the wasted mornings watching “Coachspeak” on the NFL Network, the lost weekends spent watching my bankroll evaporate before the glow of a dozen big screen TVs. Two months into football season and my efforts had yielded an abysmal 26-32-3 mark. It was October thirtieth, and I was ready to add, “Football Handicapping” to the long list of tasks at which I suck prodigiously.
Then November came, and I was on fire, winning 9 of 12 and 18 of 24 over the rest of the regular season. This is what I had envisioned all along, reward for my toil in the form of a spectacular tear, the sort that would soon allow me to retire from the Race and Sportsbook, buy a web address, and make my living peddling my wisdom to the less gifted public for a premium price, as the silky smooth mastermind behind “Jackie Parlay’s Gambling Forum”, or “Sonny Pointspread’s Insider Pipeline”.
It didn’t quite end up that way, but that late season surge managed to save my seemingly doomed 2005 campaign. In an effort to not reveal too much information about myself, I will not use dollar amounts. Rather, I will explain the math in units. For the sake of simple math, let us say that I began my season with two hundred units, with my average play between ten and twenty units, with the understanding that I would retire for the season when the bankroll hit zero. The vast majority of point spread football wagers pay off at odds of 10 to 11, meaning for every eleven units one bets, he recoups his initial investment (11) plus his winnings (10), in the event his team wins. So when a bettor wins a bet, he adds just 10 units to his bankroll, while a loss removes 11, ensuring that a win percentage of 52.38% is necessary just to break even. (Legitimate handicapping professionals hope to achieve between 55 and 60 percent consistently.)
The season was not without its failures, foremost among them, the college game. With roughly thirty eight games on the board most weeks, there are always plenty of opportunities. That said, I just couldn’t do the homework necessary to research that many games, let alone develop an opinion strong enough pick winners among the crowd. Despite the tight lines in the NFL, at least I had read up on all 12-14 games on a given week before making a play. Stumbling out of the gate to a 9-11-1 mark in collegiate plays, I hung it up to concentrate on the pros. Full of myself in the midst of my late season NFL surge, I came off the bench for the Rose Bowl to foolishly back the Trojans, finishing -33 units for the season in college football.
Several dropped passes and a few blown calls bailed me out from what may have been my largest mistake, failing to realize that the Super Bowl is merely another game. Sure it’s the last game and single biggest event of the year, but an experienced bettor knows you can win or lose just as much on a Sun Belt Conference Showdown between Arkansas State and Florida International, as you can on the Super Bowl. Watching the Colts sprint to a 13-0 start this season, I foresaw a lopsided coronation against an overwhelmed NFC victim that would likely find themselves a 13 or 14 point dog come game day.
In December, this notion inspired an ill advised 44 unit bet on the proposition AFC -10 vs. NFC in a Super Bowl that was still six weeks away. When the dust settled following the Conference title games, I found myself stuck with a ticket that was giving up at least 6.5 extra points to Seattle. (Who opened as a 3.5 point underdog). With my judgment possibly clouded by my previous folly, I loaded up on Pittsburgh on the money line (meaning to win outright, no spread), to bail myself out, laying 90 units for the chance to win 50. If the Steelers won Super Bowl XL, I was off the hook for my prop bet, in the unlikely event they won by more than ten, I won both bets and brought home 90 units to the bankroll, a Seattle upset would have nullified a three month tear in just over three hours, taking with it virtually all of the bankroll accumulated during that time. Despite displaying admittedly woeful money management in wagering on the Super Bowl, there is a romance, dare I say some measure of nobility, in letting a little too much ride on the big game, after all, it was Kipling who wrote,
"If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss"
Then again, Kipling wrote lots of stupid things. Bottom line is my bankroll increased 83.7 percent from that first afternoon of September when Oregon opened the season by covering in Houston. Despite an embarrassing showing in the college game, my 56.7 win % in the Pros ensured respectability, while the uncanny knack for losing the small plays and winning the big ones (8 of my 10 largest plays) brought about a far greater return than can be expected from an overall win percentage of 53.76%. Living and working in Las Vegas, I am well aware that casinos are only razed to make way for bigger casinos, so I consider myself lucky, and although thankful for my rather modest winnings, I am already awaiting next season, the one when I finally win enough to retire and start that webpage.
Quotes and statistics used in this post can be found at the following site:
http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/kipling-if.html
http://www.crystalsandssportsbook.com/sports-betting-tips.htm
The countless hours spent studying statistics and mapping trends, the wasted mornings watching “Coachspeak” on the NFL Network, the lost weekends spent watching my bankroll evaporate before the glow of a dozen big screen TVs. Two months into football season and my efforts had yielded an abysmal 26-32-3 mark. It was October thirtieth, and I was ready to add, “Football Handicapping” to the long list of tasks at which I suck prodigiously.
Then November came, and I was on fire, winning 9 of 12 and 18 of 24 over the rest of the regular season. This is what I had envisioned all along, reward for my toil in the form of a spectacular tear, the sort that would soon allow me to retire from the Race and Sportsbook, buy a web address, and make my living peddling my wisdom to the less gifted public for a premium price, as the silky smooth mastermind behind “Jackie Parlay’s Gambling Forum”, or “Sonny Pointspread’s Insider Pipeline”.
It didn’t quite end up that way, but that late season surge managed to save my seemingly doomed 2005 campaign. In an effort to not reveal too much information about myself, I will not use dollar amounts. Rather, I will explain the math in units. For the sake of simple math, let us say that I began my season with two hundred units, with my average play between ten and twenty units, with the understanding that I would retire for the season when the bankroll hit zero. The vast majority of point spread football wagers pay off at odds of 10 to 11, meaning for every eleven units one bets, he recoups his initial investment (11) plus his winnings (10), in the event his team wins. So when a bettor wins a bet, he adds just 10 units to his bankroll, while a loss removes 11, ensuring that a win percentage of 52.38% is necessary just to break even. (Legitimate handicapping professionals hope to achieve between 55 and 60 percent consistently.)
The season was not without its failures, foremost among them, the college game. With roughly thirty eight games on the board most weeks, there are always plenty of opportunities. That said, I just couldn’t do the homework necessary to research that many games, let alone develop an opinion strong enough pick winners among the crowd. Despite the tight lines in the NFL, at least I had read up on all 12-14 games on a given week before making a play. Stumbling out of the gate to a 9-11-1 mark in collegiate plays, I hung it up to concentrate on the pros. Full of myself in the midst of my late season NFL surge, I came off the bench for the Rose Bowl to foolishly back the Trojans, finishing -33 units for the season in college football.
Several dropped passes and a few blown calls bailed me out from what may have been my largest mistake, failing to realize that the Super Bowl is merely another game. Sure it’s the last game and single biggest event of the year, but an experienced bettor knows you can win or lose just as much on a Sun Belt Conference Showdown between Arkansas State and Florida International, as you can on the Super Bowl. Watching the Colts sprint to a 13-0 start this season, I foresaw a lopsided coronation against an overwhelmed NFC victim that would likely find themselves a 13 or 14 point dog come game day.
In December, this notion inspired an ill advised 44 unit bet on the proposition AFC -10 vs. NFC in a Super Bowl that was still six weeks away. When the dust settled following the Conference title games, I found myself stuck with a ticket that was giving up at least 6.5 extra points to Seattle. (Who opened as a 3.5 point underdog). With my judgment possibly clouded by my previous folly, I loaded up on Pittsburgh on the money line (meaning to win outright, no spread), to bail myself out, laying 90 units for the chance to win 50. If the Steelers won Super Bowl XL, I was off the hook for my prop bet, in the unlikely event they won by more than ten, I won both bets and brought home 90 units to the bankroll, a Seattle upset would have nullified a three month tear in just over three hours, taking with it virtually all of the bankroll accumulated during that time. Despite displaying admittedly woeful money management in wagering on the Super Bowl, there is a romance, dare I say some measure of nobility, in letting a little too much ride on the big game, after all, it was Kipling who wrote,
"If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss"
Then again, Kipling wrote lots of stupid things. Bottom line is my bankroll increased 83.7 percent from that first afternoon of September when Oregon opened the season by covering in Houston. Despite an embarrassing showing in the college game, my 56.7 win % in the Pros ensured respectability, while the uncanny knack for losing the small plays and winning the big ones (8 of my 10 largest plays) brought about a far greater return than can be expected from an overall win percentage of 53.76%. Living and working in Las Vegas, I am well aware that casinos are only razed to make way for bigger casinos, so I consider myself lucky, and although thankful for my rather modest winnings, I am already awaiting next season, the one when I finally win enough to retire and start that webpage.
Quotes and statistics used in this post can be found at the following site:
http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/mod/kipling-if.html
http://www.crystalsandssportsbook.com/sports-betting-tips.htm
Friday, January 13, 2006
Giant Disappointment
A few thoughts following the Carolina disaster.
Just the other day, my roommate and I were among the onlookers atop the garage of the Boulder Station here in Las Vegas, to watch the implosion of an old hotel called The Castaways. It was once a vibrant part of people’s lives, and a source of happiness to thousands of guests and workers. The Castaways inability to rise above the challenge of its competitors would bring about an end to the happy times. Just after seven, a series of explosions pierced the quiet morning, and The Castaways simply vanished. It had stood for over fifty years, and it was gone in exactly eighteen seconds. It put up just slightly more of a fight than the Giants did last Sunday.
A winning football season has a way of changing certain aspects of your day to day life, you find yourself shelling out $2 a day to read the local coverage in the West Coast edition of the New York Post, upon leaving the house, you are forced with the difficult decision, “Should I wear the regular sideline cap, or is it cold enough to wear the knit cap”, over the course of five months, you look forward to Sundays with a sense of anticipation and excitement absent during the losing seasons, in fact, you begin to wonder how you ever got by during those lean years. Then, in just under three hours, it’s over.
Objectively speaking, I’d have to say following a 6-10 campaign, I’d sign for an 11-5, Division Winning playoff season, and I am indeed, thankful for the efforts and accomplishments of the 2005 edition of the New York Football Giants. Yet I know, that from one season to the next, nothing in football is to be taken for granted, and just a few breaks here and there separate a special season like this one from a joyless fall spent watching your team merely out of a sense of loyalty and ritual.
Opportunities are few and far between, and in these days following the Giants elimination, I am mourning more than a 23-0 drubbing in which the Giants were thoroughly outclassed on their own field by a seemingly comparable Carolina squad. I am also mourning the lost opportunity. Most of all, I mourn the loss of the aforementioned feelings of excitement and anticipation, fully aware that they might not be back next autumn. There are no guarantees. Just ask the people at The Castaways.
Just the other day, my roommate and I were among the onlookers atop the garage of the Boulder Station here in Las Vegas, to watch the implosion of an old hotel called The Castaways. It was once a vibrant part of people’s lives, and a source of happiness to thousands of guests and workers. The Castaways inability to rise above the challenge of its competitors would bring about an end to the happy times. Just after seven, a series of explosions pierced the quiet morning, and The Castaways simply vanished. It had stood for over fifty years, and it was gone in exactly eighteen seconds. It put up just slightly more of a fight than the Giants did last Sunday.
A winning football season has a way of changing certain aspects of your day to day life, you find yourself shelling out $2 a day to read the local coverage in the West Coast edition of the New York Post, upon leaving the house, you are forced with the difficult decision, “Should I wear the regular sideline cap, or is it cold enough to wear the knit cap”, over the course of five months, you look forward to Sundays with a sense of anticipation and excitement absent during the losing seasons, in fact, you begin to wonder how you ever got by during those lean years. Then, in just under three hours, it’s over.
Objectively speaking, I’d have to say following a 6-10 campaign, I’d sign for an 11-5, Division Winning playoff season, and I am indeed, thankful for the efforts and accomplishments of the 2005 edition of the New York Football Giants. Yet I know, that from one season to the next, nothing in football is to be taken for granted, and just a few breaks here and there separate a special season like this one from a joyless fall spent watching your team merely out of a sense of loyalty and ritual.
Opportunities are few and far between, and in these days following the Giants elimination, I am mourning more than a 23-0 drubbing in which the Giants were thoroughly outclassed on their own field by a seemingly comparable Carolina squad. I am also mourning the lost opportunity. Most of all, I mourn the loss of the aforementioned feelings of excitement and anticipation, fully aware that they might not be back next autumn. There are no guarantees. Just ask the people at The Castaways.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Much ado about nothing
Reflections on the “end” of Monday Night Football
I can’t help but wish that I had lived in a time when Monday Night Football was actually an event, a time before cable, when the Monday Night Game was one of just three televised programs, a time before football highlights were readily available through the internet, ESPN’s NFL Primetime, and the NFL Network’s far superior, Chris Berman-less, Point After, a time when Howard Cosell’s halftime recap was the lone source of football highlights, when America stopped and people gathered together to collectively pay homage our gridiron heroes.
Oh, wait, I don’t. I enjoy cable, and the internet. I enjoy the NFL Network. I enjoy having an educated opinion on every game played each week. I enjoy watching eight or nine games simultaneously, I love the fact that I live out west and have still seen virtually every Giants game since I arrived over four years ago. So I’d like to change my wish, so that I might possess the perspective to feel that this was a somehow a bigger deal, to understand exactly why the “final” broadcast of Monday Night Football, is nearly as important as everyone at ABC insists.
First of all, Monday Night Football isn’t going off the air, it is merely moving to a different channel, ABC’s corporate cousin and basic cable staple ESPN. It has been said that there are 20 million Americans that do not get ESPN. (Games will be simulcast on a local channel in the event the game features a local team.) There are roughly three hundred million people in America. Something tells me that the six and a half percent of the nation that stands to be shut out next season have priorities other than football and aren’t the sideline cap-wearing, jersey-buying, target audience the NFL covets, just a hunch.
In my time, the Monday Night Game was merely one of fourteen played each week, often of little or no more importance than the preceding thirteen, thanks to preseason scheduling that made clunkers as probable as classics, not to mention a playoff baseball-inspired, 9:07 p.m. Eastern start time ensuring the game consistently stretched well past midnight. Perhaps I am a spoiled child of the Sportscenter era, or perhaps football and football fans have just evolved to the point where we can no longer get as fired up as we once did to watch the 3-10 Packers and 4-9 Ravens in a late-night battle for draft position.
As they signed off for the final time on ABC, Hank Williams Jr. relieved Don Meredith in singing, “Turn out the lights, the party’s over”, improvising at the end, closing with, “Mondays will never be the same again”. If that is actually the case, then they haven’t been the same for a long time, since before Monday Night Football outlived much of its own self-proclaimed cultural relevance.
Quotes and figures used in this post can be found at the following sites:
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=2040130
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=2271784
http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/rankorder/2119rank.html
I can’t help but wish that I had lived in a time when Monday Night Football was actually an event, a time before cable, when the Monday Night Game was one of just three televised programs, a time before football highlights were readily available through the internet, ESPN’s NFL Primetime, and the NFL Network’s far superior, Chris Berman-less, Point After, a time when Howard Cosell’s halftime recap was the lone source of football highlights, when America stopped and people gathered together to collectively pay homage our gridiron heroes.
Oh, wait, I don’t. I enjoy cable, and the internet. I enjoy the NFL Network. I enjoy having an educated opinion on every game played each week. I enjoy watching eight or nine games simultaneously, I love the fact that I live out west and have still seen virtually every Giants game since I arrived over four years ago. So I’d like to change my wish, so that I might possess the perspective to feel that this was a somehow a bigger deal, to understand exactly why the “final” broadcast of Monday Night Football, is nearly as important as everyone at ABC insists.
First of all, Monday Night Football isn’t going off the air, it is merely moving to a different channel, ABC’s corporate cousin and basic cable staple ESPN. It has been said that there are 20 million Americans that do not get ESPN. (Games will be simulcast on a local channel in the event the game features a local team.) There are roughly three hundred million people in America. Something tells me that the six and a half percent of the nation that stands to be shut out next season have priorities other than football and aren’t the sideline cap-wearing, jersey-buying, target audience the NFL covets, just a hunch.
In my time, the Monday Night Game was merely one of fourteen played each week, often of little or no more importance than the preceding thirteen, thanks to preseason scheduling that made clunkers as probable as classics, not to mention a playoff baseball-inspired, 9:07 p.m. Eastern start time ensuring the game consistently stretched well past midnight. Perhaps I am a spoiled child of the Sportscenter era, or perhaps football and football fans have just evolved to the point where we can no longer get as fired up as we once did to watch the 3-10 Packers and 4-9 Ravens in a late-night battle for draft position.
As they signed off for the final time on ABC, Hank Williams Jr. relieved Don Meredith in singing, “Turn out the lights, the party’s over”, improvising at the end, closing with, “Mondays will never be the same again”. If that is actually the case, then they haven’t been the same for a long time, since before Monday Night Football outlived much of its own self-proclaimed cultural relevance.
Quotes and figures used in this post can be found at the following sites:
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=2040130
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=2271784
http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/rankorder/2119rank.html
Monday, November 28, 2005
Blue Hell
Struggling to express a rational thought just hours after the “Jay Feely Game”.
By the second quarter, I grew suspicious of whether there was truly movement before all those snaps, of if the officials were now simply picking on the Giants Offensive Line, much the way a vindictive teacher sadistically singles out the slow kid in class. It was the most penalties committed by a Giants side in fifty-six years. A hundred and fourteen yards worth, sixteen penalties, eleven false starts, five of which belonged to Left Tackle Luke Petitgout, while three came courtesy of Left Guard David Diehl.
It was everything I despise about the current state of the NFL, rolled into a single, sickening contest, a three-hour, fifty one minute barrage of penalty flags and booth reviews, culminating in a crushing outcome ultimately determined by the suddenly inept foot of a seemingly competent place kicker. A Giants victory over the 8-2 Seahawks would have wrested the inside track to home field throughout the NFC playoffs, as well as a legitimate shot at an early February trip to Detroit. (Not bad for a team Vegas projected to win no more than six games this season.) Despite the record penalties, Shawn Alexander, an 8 point deficit late in the 4th quarter, and the deafening noise of a frenzied Seattle crowd, victory was but a field goal away. Victory was thrice booted short of the goal posts.
The fan in me would have told Jay Feely to find his own ride home to Jersey. The armchair quarterback in me questions the decision to send the already visibly dejected kicker out for a third stab at failure. While admittedly petty, second guessing is among the privileges of being a sports fan. In fact, it might be the best part, one of the rare instances where we actually have it better than the athletes. For while I will simply fume and complain over the loss this week, Jay Feely had to face both the media and his teammates moments after his personal implosion compromised their entire season, simply stating, “I'm sorry I let you down.” It will be Jay Feely who must try and remember how to kick a field goal by Sunday, this time with the season on the line, before 78,000 angry fans.
When the end finally came with 2:49 remaining in overtime, the prospect of home field advantage had given way to the grim reality that another loss next Sunday versus Dallas; and the Giants may very well find themselves out of the playoff picture, cast into the wild-card jumble that includes also-rans like Atlanta, Tampa Bay, Carolina and Minnesota. It didn't need to come to this. Contenders make the kicks in big spots.
Quotes and Statistics used in this post can be found at:
http://cbs.sportsline.com/nfl/gamecenter/recap/NFL_20051127_NYG@SEA
http://www.nfl.com/gamecenter/gamebook/NFL_20051127_NYG@SEA
http://www.covers.com/articles/articles.aspx?theArt=47246&tid=47
By the second quarter, I grew suspicious of whether there was truly movement before all those snaps, of if the officials were now simply picking on the Giants Offensive Line, much the way a vindictive teacher sadistically singles out the slow kid in class. It was the most penalties committed by a Giants side in fifty-six years. A hundred and fourteen yards worth, sixteen penalties, eleven false starts, five of which belonged to Left Tackle Luke Petitgout, while three came courtesy of Left Guard David Diehl.
It was everything I despise about the current state of the NFL, rolled into a single, sickening contest, a three-hour, fifty one minute barrage of penalty flags and booth reviews, culminating in a crushing outcome ultimately determined by the suddenly inept foot of a seemingly competent place kicker. A Giants victory over the 8-2 Seahawks would have wrested the inside track to home field throughout the NFC playoffs, as well as a legitimate shot at an early February trip to Detroit. (Not bad for a team Vegas projected to win no more than six games this season.) Despite the record penalties, Shawn Alexander, an 8 point deficit late in the 4th quarter, and the deafening noise of a frenzied Seattle crowd, victory was but a field goal away. Victory was thrice booted short of the goal posts.
The fan in me would have told Jay Feely to find his own ride home to Jersey. The armchair quarterback in me questions the decision to send the already visibly dejected kicker out for a third stab at failure. While admittedly petty, second guessing is among the privileges of being a sports fan. In fact, it might be the best part, one of the rare instances where we actually have it better than the athletes. For while I will simply fume and complain over the loss this week, Jay Feely had to face both the media and his teammates moments after his personal implosion compromised their entire season, simply stating, “I'm sorry I let you down.” It will be Jay Feely who must try and remember how to kick a field goal by Sunday, this time with the season on the line, before 78,000 angry fans.
When the end finally came with 2:49 remaining in overtime, the prospect of home field advantage had given way to the grim reality that another loss next Sunday versus Dallas; and the Giants may very well find themselves out of the playoff picture, cast into the wild-card jumble that includes also-rans like Atlanta, Tampa Bay, Carolina and Minnesota. It didn't need to come to this. Contenders make the kicks in big spots.
Quotes and Statistics used in this post can be found at:
http://cbs.sportsline.com/nfl/gamecenter/recap/NFL_20051127_NYG@SEA
http://www.nfl.com/gamecenter/gamebook/NFL_20051127_NYG@SEA
http://www.covers.com/articles/articles.aspx?theArt=47246&tid=47
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
The Joy of Sox
A few thoughts on the World Series
One Chicago fan stumbles out of any number of the world’s finest sports bars to watch his team play in an American Sports Cathedral. The other faithfully watches his club from a nondescript concrete monolith towering above the blighted streets of a neighborhood best viewed from a rapidly moving car on the Dan Ryan Expressway. Which fan is the real die hard?
Baseball Sentimentality, while abundant, is fickle. Why do old Brooklyn windbags yammer on about how egg cremes tasted sweeter at Ebbets Field? Why don’t the Polo Grounds and the New York Baseball Giants elicit the same degree of nostalgia? Why have we spent years reminding Cubs and Red Sox fans how important they are every five minutes? Why aren’t there any ridiculous ghost stories to accompany San Francisco’s fifty one year title drought or painful near misses? How come there isn’t a plentitude of books or documentaries about why suffering defines Cleveland as a community?
I suppose I’m a bit of a Chisox sympathizer. Perhaps it was their role as the “other team” in their city, or the ugly ballpark, or the fact they never fully celebrated the dog-eared, “failure as a commodity” angle, handling their near-century of ineptitude with Southside grit rather than self loathing and schmaltzy romanticism. Since the Black Sox Scandal of 1919, the most substantial contributions the White Sox have made to Baseball have been ugly uniforms and crowd control incidents. Now, they are just one win from presenting the game with its new Champion.
The White Sox run this fall has featured both the conventional elements of championship baseball, (lights out starting pitching, a deep and solid bullpen, timely hitting and the ability to move along base runners), as well as the sometimes unexplainable occurrences that seem to befall teams of destiny, (Orlando Hernandez pitching his team out of a no-out, bases loaded jam to sweep the Defending Champs at Fenway, Scott Podsednik’s improbable walk-off homer of Byung-Hyun Lidge, the 14th inning heroics of Geoff Blum, multiple instances of dubious umpiring, immediately followed by a clutch double or grand slam home run.) There haven’t been any stories about a goat, or a single piece about what a "wacky bunch of idiots" the White Sox may be, just an extended run of inspired baseball.
I’d figured I’d write about this because you probably didn’t see it. Tuesday night’s 14-inning Marathon, the longest in the history of the fall classic, ended at 1:20 a.m., Central time. Even if you are a vampire, I doubt you were watching, as the ratings for the series are the lowest since single game viewing was first recorded in 1969. Fortunately, we’re baseball fans and not network execs. The White Sox and Astros have put forth three closely-contested, riveting contests, the last two decided in the final at bat. Perhaps someone would have seen it, had Major League Baseball, Fox and ESPN not spent the last decade insisting that nothing of relevance happens west of the Hudson, (or south of Wrigleyville).
Facts used in this post can be found at the following pages:
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/recap?gameId=251012104
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/recap?gameId=251025118
http://www.latimes.com/business/custom/cotown/cl-et-tvratings26oct26,0,4863844.htmlstory?coll=la-utilities-business-cotown
One Chicago fan stumbles out of any number of the world’s finest sports bars to watch his team play in an American Sports Cathedral. The other faithfully watches his club from a nondescript concrete monolith towering above the blighted streets of a neighborhood best viewed from a rapidly moving car on the Dan Ryan Expressway. Which fan is the real die hard?
Baseball Sentimentality, while abundant, is fickle. Why do old Brooklyn windbags yammer on about how egg cremes tasted sweeter at Ebbets Field? Why don’t the Polo Grounds and the New York Baseball Giants elicit the same degree of nostalgia? Why have we spent years reminding Cubs and Red Sox fans how important they are every five minutes? Why aren’t there any ridiculous ghost stories to accompany San Francisco’s fifty one year title drought or painful near misses? How come there isn’t a plentitude of books or documentaries about why suffering defines Cleveland as a community?
I suppose I’m a bit of a Chisox sympathizer. Perhaps it was their role as the “other team” in their city, or the ugly ballpark, or the fact they never fully celebrated the dog-eared, “failure as a commodity” angle, handling their near-century of ineptitude with Southside grit rather than self loathing and schmaltzy romanticism. Since the Black Sox Scandal of 1919, the most substantial contributions the White Sox have made to Baseball have been ugly uniforms and crowd control incidents. Now, they are just one win from presenting the game with its new Champion.
The White Sox run this fall has featured both the conventional elements of championship baseball, (lights out starting pitching, a deep and solid bullpen, timely hitting and the ability to move along base runners), as well as the sometimes unexplainable occurrences that seem to befall teams of destiny, (Orlando Hernandez pitching his team out of a no-out, bases loaded jam to sweep the Defending Champs at Fenway, Scott Podsednik’s improbable walk-off homer of Byung-Hyun Lidge, the 14th inning heroics of Geoff Blum, multiple instances of dubious umpiring, immediately followed by a clutch double or grand slam home run.) There haven’t been any stories about a goat, or a single piece about what a "wacky bunch of idiots" the White Sox may be, just an extended run of inspired baseball.
I’d figured I’d write about this because you probably didn’t see it. Tuesday night’s 14-inning Marathon, the longest in the history of the fall classic, ended at 1:20 a.m., Central time. Even if you are a vampire, I doubt you were watching, as the ratings for the series are the lowest since single game viewing was first recorded in 1969. Fortunately, we’re baseball fans and not network execs. The White Sox and Astros have put forth three closely-contested, riveting contests, the last two decided in the final at bat. Perhaps someone would have seen it, had Major League Baseball, Fox and ESPN not spent the last decade insisting that nothing of relevance happens west of the Hudson, (or south of Wrigleyville).
Facts used in this post can be found at the following pages:
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/recap?gameId=251012104
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/recap?gameId=251025118
http://www.latimes.com/business/custom/cotown/cl-et-tvratings26oct26,0,4863844.htmlstory?coll=la-utilities-business-cotown
