A View From The Bench

2006-04-26T12:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Amazin’ Grace

2006-04-03T04:06:00.000-07:00

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 wish I knew how to quit you…

2006-02-10T04:18:00.000-08:00

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

Giant Disappointment

2006-01-13T11:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Much ado about nothing

2005-12-27T04:06:00.000-08:00

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

Blue Hell

2005-11-28T03:06:00.000-08:00

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

The Joy of Sox

2005-10-26T02:17:00.000-07:00

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

Giant Step Backwards

2005-10-05T23:30:00.000-07:00

Big Blue sells identity to cover construction costs

Can you put a value on the identity of a storied American sports franchise? Apparently, the going rate is half a stadium. Or so we learned last week when the Giants voluntarily demoted themselves from landlord to tenant. The days of Giants Stadium, in which the Jets have squatted for the past two decades, are numbered. In the works is a new Stadium, which the Giants and Jets will finance, build, and manage together.

“We will go forward with a tremendous amount of commitment and goodwill and we are going to work out all the issues. There is tremendous enthusiasm by both teams to pursue this thing as a team. We’re going to bring a tremendous amount of creative talent together, and we’re going to create a design that we’re going to be proud of, and want to live with for a long, long time.” –Giants Executive Vice President Steve Tisch

The Jets-Giants relationship has never been quite contentious enough. Perhaps it was due to the shared venue, or the Parcells connection, but the dynamic between the two always seemed to be more business partnership than blood feud. I suppose it never bothered me much. After all, it was the Jets, and one need look no further than the blue and red seats and the big sign reading, “Giants Stadium”, to remind us that this place belonged to our team.

The Jets were the ones hanging up green curtains and staying in a hotel for “home” games. The Giants didn’t have that problem, not after 1976 anyway, when the completion of Giants Stadium marked an end to a nomadic half century that included stops in the Polo Grounds, Yankee Stadium, Shea, even a brief exile to the Yale Bowl. It took fifty years and ultimately a move to a different state for the Giants to finally have a stadium of their own. For a sizable enough check, they were more than willing to hand it right back.

As if intentionally adopting the Jets home field handicap wasn’t bad enough, there is talk of a dome. "The current design is roof-ready, but the state will not pay one penny for it," Said acting Governor Richard Codey. Northeastern weather might have been good enough for 80 years of Giant Players, but apparently it’s a worthwhile sacrifice for the chance to lure a Super Bowl, allowing the nation’s sports fans and media the privilege of spending an early February weekend just a few exits from the world famous Paramus Park Mall. Let’s recap: Franchise identity compromised? Check. Home field advantage relinquished for at least 99 years? Check. Did we miss anything? Oh, wait, there’s still a shred of organizational integrity remaining, still a tiny bit of distinction attached to Giants Football. Perhaps you could rename the team the New York Giants of New Jersey?

In this blog, I often criticize the Mets for running their franchise with a debilitating sense of inferiority. Yet the same stubborn pettiness that puts the ball in Victor Zambrano’s hand every fifth day, removed the pinstripes from the home whites and continually insults the intelligence of their fan base, will also save the Mets from ever playing their home games in Yankee Stadium. I only wish some of the same animosity existed between my football team and their 20 year houseguests. The acting Governor proclaimed, “Today is a great day for New Jersey, a great day for the Giants and for the Jets, and a great day for sports fans everywhere.” I’m glad somebody thinks so.

Quotes and facts used in this post can be found at the following sites:
http://www.usatoday.com/sports/football/nfl/2005-09-29-jets-giants-stadium_x.htm
http://giants.com/news/eisen/story.asp?story_id=9368
http://www.newsday.com/sports/football/ny-spstadq4448282sep30,0,7115966.story?coll=ny-sports-headlines

Feel free to post a comment. I'd like some Jet fan perspective as well.

Piazza Party

2005-10-03T03:31:00.000-07:00

Raising the pint glass in honor of #31.

I wanted to be there today, just as I had been when he arrived in 1998, delivering an instant credibility and a buzz that had been absent from Flushing for nearly a decade. I wanted to be there as I had been on June 30, 2000, when his 3-run homer capped off a 10-run 8th inning rally to topple Atlanta. To this day, I have never seen a home run hit harder, and I will never forget the way Shea Stadium literally wobbled as he pumped his fist in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. I wanted to be there today as I had on April 27, 2004, when I watched from the left field bleachers at Dodger Stadium as his 351st home run tied Carlton Fisk’s career record for catchers, triggering a massive chorus of boos from his once fervent followers in Chavez Ravine. I wanted to be there today, just as I had been on the dreadful night of October 26, 2000, when his line drive to deep center found its way to the bottom of Bernie Williams’ glove, setting the stage for the longest and most tedious drive home to Connecticut I have ever known. I wanted to be there one more time to cheer for Mike Piazza.

All Piazza ever did was legitimize an organization while producing a hall of fame body of work. Between the 1998 season in which he was traded to New York, through 2001, he carried the Met lineup, averaging over 36 home runs, and over 110 runs batted in, while posting a .313 batting average. His offensive statistics are viewed as the benchmark for the position. In return, he was practically booed out of New York as he struggled to adjust following his arrival in 1998, his manhood was questioned when he displayed the sense to refrain from getting himself ejected from game 2 of the World Series, he was dogged by rumors of steroid use throughout his career, and finally, perhaps most reprehensibly, his sexual orientation was publicly called into question in 2002. Yet Piazza handled all of this with a measure of class and a quiet dignity seldom found in a sports landscape littered with image-conscious prima donnas and shameless self-promoters.

I wanted to be there, yet neither geography, nor the calendar, was on my side this day. (Sunday afternoons during the NFL season, are the only time an employee of a Las Vegas Sportsbook does anything that remotely resembles actual work.) So with a cross country flight and midseason vacation out of the question, I had to settle for a tape of the game and downloads of the ovations and the video tribute, a stirring three minute musical recap of eight years of unforgettable homers and bad haircuts. The day was about saying goodbye to a part of a ball club’s past, as well as part of our past as sports fans. I’m personally ready to spend the next ten years contending that Wright and Reyes comprise a better left side than whoever the hell plays short and third for that other New York team. Yet before doing so, I’m taking one last chance to celebrate all the great times I had following Piazza and the Mets the past eight years. As the inevitable end approached, both sides made their peace, the ovations, the chants of “one more year”, 47,718 fans coming out to a game between clubs long ago eliminated from the playoff picture. Piazza even broke the trademark scowl for a few moments. He later remarked, "I was very humbled by these fans, I just feel embraced. I just feel like part of the family." Thank you Mike, Godspeed. Oh, and by the way, we’re sorry about the gay stuff.

Facts and Quotes used in this post can be found at the following sites:
http://ultimatemets.com/profile.php?PlayerCode=0600
http://www.baseball-reference.com/p/piazzmi01.shtml
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/recap?gameId=251002121

The Dyess Man Cometh

2005-06-22T15:38:00.000-07:00

Met woes, the Finals, and WNBA action!

Joon Swoon
Three realities I have accepted regarding life in my twenties:

1. The good people at Master Card own my soul for the foreseeable future.
2. It’s time to leave the bar when you’re watching Sportscenter with the sound off and Linda Cohn starts to look good.
3. The Mets season ends in June.

As spring turns to summer in the valley of ashes, mediocre baseball gives way to outright futility. Sure, the names and faces change, but the end result is the same, baseball’s most consistent, overpriced perennial underachiever. The Mets' 3-9 stretch over these past two weeks has featured such riveting stories as the triumphant big league return of walking, "whatever-happened-to?" Brian Daubach, an event eagerly awaited by dozens of people. This wouldn’t be necessary had Doug Mientkiewicz not posted a .199 batting average between the beginning of May and Sunday’s loss at Seattle. (A contract year performance that validates his decision to try cash in on the 2004 World Series ball). His is just one bat in a Mets lineup that has recently made the likes of Ryan Franklin, Danny Haren, and Joe Blanton look like Clemens, Koufax, and Cy Young in their respective primes. However, all of this pales in comparison to Carlos Beltran’s dead-on Bobby Bonilla impersonation. Okay, I take that back, that was uncalled for. He’s playing injured, and should have probably been placed on the D.L. They can’t be this bad. Their bats can’t remain this quiet forever. Their pitchers can’t continue to allow every big two out hit for the rest of the season. Although I can probably stop setting aside funds to fly home for the World Series, I realize that things will most likely improve for a team built around two talented young infielders, Carlos Beltran, and a transcendent talent in Pedro Martinez. Yet, for the moment, as the Mets season continues the descent into the depths of the NL East cellar, the rage that consumed me after earlier defeats begins to fade and eventually I am beaten into the same listless indifference with which I watched most of the Knicks' 49 losses this past season.

The Final Insult
Speaking of the Knicks, am I the only one who must fight the urge to lose my lunch when faced with the realization that either Nazr Mohammed or Antonio McDyess will earn a championship ring on Thursday? Cadavers in orange and blue, each has served as a productive role player on a conference champion. Mohammed has averaged 6.7 rpg and 7.4 ppg in 23 minutes during the Spurs playoff run. McDyess has averaged 7.3 rpg and 10.2 ppg in 21.7 minutes during the finals for the Pistons. The oft-injured McDyess, who played just 18 games for the Knicks in roughly a season and a half, played in 77 games for Detroit this year, his .513 field goal percentage was the 13th highest in the league. More sickening still, is the fact that both men were traded for contracts as prohibitive and immobile as their own, ensuring that the Knicks, winners of just 33 games, will remain capped out for years to come. Before I get off the topic of vomit: It took the Detroit P.A. announcer to make me properly appreciate the contributions that nut-hugging shorts, the Phoenix Gorilla, and the extremely short-lived, male Knicks City Dancers have made to the great game of basketball throughout the years.

In alarming news,
I officially joined the ranks of WNBA gamblers this past weekend. Prior to this point, I presented people that inquired about WNBA bets at the sportsbook with a pamphlet on responsible gaming. Yet all that changed when my girls covered on Saturday night. I assure you it’s not as bad as it sounds, as my family was attending the contest between the visiting Detroit Shock and the egregiously named Connecticut Sun (-6.5), and wanted a little action. On a completely unrelated topic, RME Sports Investments has been 73% successful with WNBA free plays the past two weeks. See you at the intervention.

Statistics used for this post can be found at:
http://www.nba.com/playerfile/antonio_mcdyess/index.html?nav=page
http://www.nba.com/playerfile/nazr_mohammed/index.html
http://sports.yahoo.com/mlbpa/players/6138/splits

Same Old Mets

2005-05-25T02:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve tried to keep sight of the fact that this is a transition year for the Mets. At the close of last season, the club was run by Jim Duquette, and trapped beneath the massive contracts of fading stars. Although glimpses of their future could be seen through Jose Reyes and David Wright, the Mets were clearly mired in the dreaded "rebuilding mode" for several seasons to come. Then Omar Minaya came back from Montreal, bringing Pedro Martinez and Carlos Beltran with him. With the addition of a front line ace and an all-star center fielder, the timetable had been pushed ahead. Sure, Florida had improved upon a club that won the World Series just two years ago, and until further notice, the Braves own the Mets, and for that matter, the National League East, but with a couple of breaks, perhaps the transitional Mets could keep things interesting.

Agonizing. Soul Crushing. Humiliating. Just a few words that can adequately describe the last two innings of Sunday’s loss. For seven innings Pedro was masterful, it was as if he brought his defiant swagger down from Boston to share with his new team. I was minutes from commandeering the intercom in the sportsbook to lead a rousing chorus of, "WE-RE-NOT-OAK-LAND!". Then, Pedro was pulled prior to the eighth with a 3-1 lead. Storm clouds, both literal and figurative, came rolling in off of Flushing Bay. Reality promptly reasserted itself and the Mets reverted to the club that can’t field routine grounders, the club that can’t turn a double play, the club that can’t come up with the all important third strike, the club that had to dejectedly watch as the last great Yankee team celebrated the World Series on the Shea infield, the club that couldn’t even successfully plunk Clemens’ bulbous hillbilly ass after their star player was beaned in the head, or assaulted with a broken bat, the club that sports a pathetic .378 win percentage in intra-city games.

I understand that there will be plenty of bumps in the road as the Mets return to respectability. I also understand that fans of clubs in most other towns don’t get talent like Martinez or Beltran dropped in their lap every winter, but there are some days where it really sucks rooting for these guys. I know the Mets don’t care about me, but there are times when it’s possible to be embarrassed for people you don’t even know. (I feel this way every time I listen to Jim Rome try to sound hip while interviewing a cool black guy.) Sunday was one of these occasions. Such instances seem to present themselves whenever the Yankees come across the Triboro Bridge to remind us why our favorite team will always be the beta dog in the New York yard.

RMESPORTS.COM

Statistics quoted in this piece can be found at:
http://ultimatemets.com/wl.php

Mother's Day Musings

2005-05-08T01:16:00.000-07:00

Blogger versus Cancer
Mother’s day is upon us and I spent my Saturday morning running in the 5K Run For Life, for Breast Cancer. (We’re against it.) I’d like to send all my love out to my Mom, who used to drive me to hockey games across the state, only to watch me pick up a game misconduct on my first shift and spend the rest of the game on the pine, and my Grandma, who came upstairs on Wednesday afternoon to complain that the Mets were losing again, and making all the same mistakes they had made the night before. (Completely unaware that she had spent the past several hours watching Mets Rewind on MSG).

Yo Soy Rick James, Bitch!
In addition to being a staunch opponent of Cancer, I am also a collector of fine art. Leaving the paintings and sculptures to the pretentious, I concentrate on Bobbleheads, easily the finest of all forms of art. The most common shortcoming of the bobblehead doll is the fact that they rarely bare even a vague likeness to the players for which they are named. (My "now and then" Carter/Piazza bobblehead bears a closer resemblance to Cousin Larry from Perfect Strangers and a mysterious Latin guy) Anyway, with the new season upon us, I was looking to add one of the "New Mets" to the collection. I was leaning towards David Wright or Beltran, for no other reason than the eerie resemblance between Bobblehead Pedro and the late great Rick James. Ultimately, I couldn’t hold off, and after a lengthy wait with the item on backorder due to high demand, Bobblehead Pedro arrived on my doorstep last week. The damn thing is so ugly, I’m afraid to sleep with it in the same room. I’m debating leaving it outside my bedroom door, so that he might ward off evil spirits.

Seventh ring of boredom:
I will admit that I haven’t given the proper amount of attention the NBA Playoffs, concentrating most of my time at the Sportsbook focusing on the Mets and my fantasy baseball team, the Spearmint Rhinos. Given the quality of the two games this past Saturday, I feel justified in my decision. The words, "Game Seven", are supposed to be the two most exciting in all of sports, yet earlier this evening, we were treated to a pair of contests decided by a combined sixty seven points. The worst may be yet to come. With the Pacers and Pistons on tap for round two, I am on the edge of my seat in anticipation of the Homeland Security Department moving the National Alert Level back up to "orange". That said, I won’t be able to look away. (Pistons in five.)

And Finally...
Improbably, a respected Vegas handicapper has been gracious enough to grant me a spot on their links page. RME Sports Investments offers fans and gamblers the opportunity to gain the handicapper’s edge, through their detailed sports workbooks, complete with schedules, statistics and trends they have tracked for the past three years. You don’t even need to gamble to utilize the services provided by RME Sports Investments. To be frank, they are doing me a huge favor here. Given the small volume of my readership, I don’t really deserve the link, so please take the time to visit and support RME Sports.

Shea Hello

2005-04-15T15:24:00.000-07:00

A few thoughts on the Mets home opener from way out in Section 28 of the Mezzanine. (Apologies for the tardiness of this entry, I couldn’t post it until I returned to Vegas).

Pedro’s Place
I have expressed my reservations with Pedro Martinez’ contract here in this blog. I realize that four guaranteed years for a pitcher on the wrong side of 30 with a long history or arm trouble was quite risky. I was also concerned with Pedro’s much publicized eccentricities, a personality regarded as a "free spirit" on a championship club is usually regarded as a distraction on a rebuilding one. Yet when the player introductions took place on Monday, there was little doubt as to who is the most popular Met. Perhaps it was because the crowd was particularly edgy after an abysmal start, or perhaps it was because Pedro's performance was one of the few bright spots of the season's opening week, whatever the reason, Martinez' ovation was louder and longer than any other player. Pedro would take center stage again after the fifth inning, when the rotating center field billboard, on which he was prominently featured, became stuck, eliminating the batter's eye and delaying the game 14 minutes. As the Shea operations staff frantically fumbled to fix a sign they has six months to repair, the jumbo tron captured Pedro in the dugout. Rather than a subtle nod or a tip of the cap, Pedro opted to mug for the camera and dance, much to the delight of the sellout crowd chanting his name.

I still believe the Martinez deal to be a precarious arrangement, but for the moment, Pedro and the Mets are a perfect fit, a flamboyant prima donna, driven from a championship club by his own ego, and an organization so deeply rooted in it’s own debilitating sense of inferiority, that it often seems they value headlines more than genuinely improving their club. Fans, New York fans in particular, given the choice between a workhorse and a showman, will always embrace the showman. He may not have pitched, or even removed his jacket, but the home opener turned out to be Pedro's show.

So you can imagine my surprise the next day when certain New York talk radio pundits criticized Martinez for not attending the festivities at Fenway in place of his own home opener. Pedro was part of something special in Boston, and I can understand taking the time to recognize the accomplishment. Part of me can even empathize with Los Angeles Dodger Derek Lowe's decision to don his old Red Sox uniform. That said, I’m glad Pedro was in Flushing Monday afternoon, and unlike Lowe, he was wearing the colors of the team and the fans for whom he is playing. After all, who wants to waste their adulation on somebody still pining for their ex?

Franc’s for the Memories
Back during the summer, I wrote a piece calling for a merciful ending to the fifteen-year marriage between John Franco and his hometown Mets. My friend Pete hails from Staten Island, home of John Franco. He respects Franco’s decision to move on to Houston, rather than hang it up after fifteen years in New York. Pete believes that there is a certain dignity to an old athlete, like an old wrestler, going out on his back. I have contended that Franco was on his back five years ago, and that any wisdom gathered from the experience of saggy-breasted old wrestlers is suspect, at best.

After the first inning, the P.A. announcer implored us to welcome back John Franco, at which point they unveiled a video tribute to the reliever so tacky, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or light a candle. Yet as Bad English’s, "When I See You Smile", blared over the P.A. system, part of me was relieved that Franco’s return to Shea was able to piggy back on the opening day sellout, as an actual "John Franco Night", probably wouldn’t have drawn flies. I applauded, out of respect to a man who was a very good pitcher for a very long time, just as I did when he came running in from the bullpen to try and end a Mets rally in the eighth, and I continued to applaud, as Franco promptly and predictably, allowed a crucial two run single to the only hitter to face him, Cliff Floyd.

Shine on you crazy diamond…
In case you didn’t read my last post (below), I touched on the Steroid Controversy in Baseball, the new face (and geri curl) of my Mets, and oh yes, I contended that the plight of Red Sox fans has been over-romanticized. My good friend Brian took issue with the piece. I was going to write a rebuttal, but felt Brian did a fine job of writing one for me. In the event you didn’t already agree with my take: that tales of the pathos of self-important Sox fans were one Jimmy Fallon movie past the point of being cute; or my opinion that Baseball is plagued by weepy, sentimental, long-winded fops, read his spirited, eloquent, 1,771 word reply to my two paragraphs on the topic. If you’d like to reply to Brian, you can email him, or you can just go speak with him directly, he’s out in a cornfield somewhere trying to build a baseball diamond.

DISCLAIMER:
I kick him around a little, but love Brian unconditionally. Read him at www.durand007.blogspot.com

RMESPORTS.COM

Grass on the field...

2005-04-04T23:39:00.000-07:00

Shaking off the rust with a few thoughts on the new baseball season.

D-Rays, Jays or O’s in ‘05, Please!
Opening day is upon us! With March Madness drawing to a close this evening, we had jettisoned the side-by-side T.V. setup in the living room, however, after a layoff of two full days, the second TV is back so that my roommate and I can each watch our respective teams this morning. Technically the season started last night. The Red Sox and Yankees played. I don’t know if you heard. Those teams really don’t get enough attention. As a lifelong Mets fan, my distaste for the Yankees is well documented, yet somewhere along the line, the Red Sox, despite their great fans and likable players, lost my sympathy, and stole a little bit of my Yankee animosity. In a sport where economics dictate that at least 10 of the clubs are, to borrow a term from the Wrestling Business, "enhancement talent", (Kansas City started Jose Lima on Opening Day), I guess I became a little disenchanted with the portrayal of the $125 million Red Sox as a cuddly underdog, after all, "If Ethiopia had the second greatest GNP, nobody would be starving." -Marks on Sports.

I don’t know the exact moment my epiphany occurred, but it was some point after rooting for the Red Sox became some sort of ministry project, and definitely after the time when the Red Sox fans started referring to themselves as a "nation", ("That sounds completely asinine when the Raider fans do it, but it sounds good on you guys!") For all their much publicized suffering, the Red Sox have posted just one losing campaign in the past ten. I understand it must have been rough for the Red Sox fans sharing parts of the Hartford area with the Yankee fans. (Try sharing NEW YORK with them.) Yes, they always finished behind the Yankees. (Plenty of other teams did, too, look it up.) As a fan, I still hope the Yankees defy logic and fail this season, but I’d much rather see them job to Oakland or Detroit or Cleveland, or any other team with a fan base that isn’t lucky enough to be constantly reminded how special they are every time it rains.

Vote for Pedro
With the Champs out of the way, I’ll shift focus to a team that can still be regarded as overpriced perennial underachievers, and share a few words on my Mets. It was shaping up to be a rough winter for me. The Giants stumbled to a 6-10 finish, I missed hockey dearly, the Knicks were going absolutely nowhere, and Elisha Cuthbert wasn’t returning for the fourth season of 24. Then Pedro Martinez signed with the Mets.

A couple years back, when I was living in California, I dated, for a very brief time, the worst standup comedienne in L.A., and quite possibly the world. Yet during the hours I spent listening to her talk about herself, I learned that she was best friends and former roommates with one of the Man Show Juggies. I knew there was no future with the standup, but perhaps I could hang around just long enough to meet her friend.

I bring this up only because the Pedro Martinez signing represented a similar strategy by the Mets. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that three years from now, Martinez will not be worth the money on the back end of his 50 million dollar contract, but the Pedro signing brought credibility to a second tier organization, much like the Piazza trade had six years earlier. It also put the Mets in the right position to move on to bigger and better things. Just three weeks later, Carlos Beltran was holding up a Mets jersey at a press conference in Flushing. I walked away from the standup comedienne courtship empty handed. The Mets landed the game’s premier center fielder. That’s why Omar Minaya runs the Mets and I work in the sports book. There’s still plenty of things wrong with the Mets; no bullpen, injury prone starting staff, no backup catcher for the aging Mike Piazza, an improved division in which they finished 25 games back last year, Eric Valent in the opening day lineup; but things could be worse. If I were a fan of Kansas City, Milwaukee, Tampa, or Pittsburgh, I’d already be waiting for football season.

Dirty Sanchez
Alex Sanchez has been the first player suspended for testing positive for steroids, which raises the troubling question, How badly would A-Sanch have sucked had he not been cheating? I don't see how this scandal is any worse than the drug problems of the 70's and early 80's, or how it even begins to approach the magnitude of any gambling scandals of the past. The aspect of the controversy that I have found the most personally annoying, is the barrage of Grandstanding Politicians and quasi-mystic-catch-with-my-Dad, windbags who begin all their sentences with, "when I was a boy", and incessantly remind us that men once played for the love of the game, even when it 115 degrees outside, and still snowing, because they were men.

I agree that steroids have no place in baseball today. I don’t think they belonged in Baseball during the 1990's, either, problem was, nobody ever got around to banning such substances. Yet today, years after the fact, they complain that modern ballplayers are stealing our precious records by excelling within the rules of an admittedly flawed system. Here's a quote I pulled from the March 14th USA Today regarding the subpoenas:

These people are not above the law," said Rep. Tom Davis, appearing on NBC's Meet the Press. "You know, they may fly in private planes and make millions of dollars and be on baseball cards, but a subpoena is exactly what it says it is."

Nothing like a sniveling political stooge using the stance of protecting the best interest of the people to thinly veil his shameless self promotional crusade. Davis, the Amherst College and Virginia Law Grad, the former Vice President and General Counsel of PRC, Inc., a high technology and professional services firm, chose to take the big bad rich guys down a peg with the preceding remarks. When Sammy Sosa walked onto the floor at congress on that Thursday morning, part of me was expecting Davis to tell him the mower was out back.

RME SPORTS.COM

Quotes and Statistics used in this post can be found at:
http://www.baseball-reference.com/teams/BOS/
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/players/profile?statsId=4875
http://www.usatoday.com/
http://tomdavis.house.gov/

Winter of My Discontent

2005-02-22T05:41:00.000-08:00

I’m going to miss Hockey. Yes, I’m the one, in case you were wondering, although somehow I doubt that you were. For unlike past work stoppages in other sports, which inspired widespread outrage, the cancellation of the NHL Season was met with almost universal indifference. I suppose the lockout was inevitable. For the past decade, the NHL had been financing their existence against their line of credit, and as the salaries consistently elevated beyond the means of this niche sport, the game headed toward the fateful day when it would crash full speed into the boards. The owners aren’t going to lose money anymore, the players aren’t going to accept a dramatic reduction in pay, the league will cease to exist as we know it, and very few people will actually care. Allow me, if you will, to interrupt the sound of crickets chirping long enough to reflect on some of the things I will miss about the game.

I will miss the playoffs. Yes, I admit Hockey, like Basketball, has a lengthy, arguably meaningless regular season which spreads 82 games over six months and succeeds only in eliminating the bottom 47% of the league from the championship picture. Yet I will always find time for the playoffs, even if my team isn’t involved. (As my Rangers haven’t been for 8 years). I will miss the playoff beards. I will miss the multiple overtime marathons that stretch into the night as both goalies stand on their heads, while Gary Thorn and Darren Pang yammer on about "conditioning", because they’ve been fresh out of material for hours. I will miss Game Seven, perhaps the two most exciting words in sports. Yes, Baseball and Basketball series have Game Sevens, and it’s hard to top the one-and-done finality of Playoff Football, but there is something inherently special about a long Hockey series, where a lucky bounce or a crossbar are often the only thing separating glory from a summer of frustration, where guys that have spent two weeks literally fighting each other, still line up and shake hands in the end.

I will miss Mark Messier, whose long and celebrated career has likely reached it’s end, or Jarome Iginla, a rare talent who, like a new-age Messier, proves that sometimes, the best player on your team is also the toughest. I will miss Hockey’s unique sense of physicality. Before they were attacking fans, Basketball players spent heated moments awkwardly flailing at one another. A pitcher throws a fastball at an unsuspecting batter from 60 feet away and he’s supposed to be some sort of cowboy. It’s hard to take the whole system of intimidation and retribution in these sports seriously when compared against a game where guys actually hit each other. I was at the Pond when the Red Wings came into town in April of 2002. Mike LeClerc of Anaheim laid a vicious shoulder-to-face check on Detroit Defenseman Jiri Slegr, knocking him to the ice. Seconds later, Darren McCarty dropped the gloves and proceeded to resoundingly beat LeClerc into submission with a series of hard lefts. Aggression yielded instant and brutal retaliation. Just part of the game.

There is more to the physical element of the game than mere thuggery, I might add. I remember Game 6 of the 2003 finals. Anaheim was trying to stave off elimination and force a Game 7 against New Jersey when the Devils’ Scott Stevens leveled Paul Kariya with one of his trademark quasi-dirty hits, moments after he passed the puck. (A hit similar to the one that knocked Eric Lindros out of action for the entire 2001 season). The Anaheim Captain lie motionless on his back for roughly a minute before being helped off the ice on wobbly legs. Yet Kariya regained consciousness, returned from the locker room and was back in the game within 5 minutes, promptly netting the goal that halted Jersey’s momentum and helped extend the series to a seventh game.

I will miss the Stanley Cup, the only trophy in North American team sports that actually matters. Before you get all offended, realize that the Super Bowl, World Series, and NBA Finals aren’t called the Lombardi Trophy Playoffs, Commissioner’s Trophy Series, and the Larry O’Brien Trophy Playoffs for a reason. (I watched the Daytona 500 this weekend at work and it looked like Jeff Gordon won my former Cub Scout Pack’s old Pinewood Derby Trophy.) I usually steer clear of trophy presentations after a championship game, just a tedious parade of guys in ugly hats and t-shirts reminding me how badly my teams suck, but I always make an exception for Lord Stanley’s Cup, and the opportunity to see somebody like Ray Bourque skate around with it after 22 years in the league. It is unquestionably the holy grail of sports trophies, bearing the names of every champion throughout the years. It has been filled with champagne and beer, it has been dropped, dented, damaged, and has appeared in virtually every high-end gentlemen’s club in North America. I was once lucky enough to have my photo taken with the Stanley Cup at Grand Central Station during All-Star Game week back in 1994. I was afraid to touch the Cup, partly because it was heavily guarded and we weren’t allowed, partly because I was convinced that upon touching it, I would melt like the Nazis at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

I realize that the NHL lockout isn’t a big deal to most sports fans, as the NHL has now been passed in popularity by NASCAR, The X-Games, Tennis, the PGA, the PBA, Arena Football, the WNBA, Poker, Bumper Pool and Horseshoes. Maybe you think that I take this all a little too seriously, and I am almost certain that I do. From the time I was 9 years old and came off the ice at Hockey Camp to find the Rangers getting suited up in our locker room, to the more recent years when I was sleepwalking through work because I had stayed up all night to skate in a men’s pickup, much of the joy and heartbreak I have experienced in my life was related either directly or indirectly to the game of Hockey. Damn them for taking it from me.

Information used in this post can be found at:
http://www.hockeyfights.com/teams/11/fightcard/reg02
http://sports.espn.go.com/nhl/recap?gameId=230607025

Recognize!

2005-02-19T15:21:00.000-08:00

My roommate has a subscription to ESPN the Magazine. Amare Stoudamire and Nelly grace the latest cover. It reads, "How Hip-Hop Amped Up The NBA". I would have settled for, "How shoot first guards ruined American Basketball", or "Manu Ginobili was unavailable for the cover because he was busy polishing his gold medal", or perhaps even, "How the NBA All-Star game got slaughtered in the ratings by the Left Turn 500". Perhaps the "worldwide leader" could take a break from their busy schedule of analysts shouting at each other and shows about poker long enough to address the game. Not to go all Andy Rooney on you, but have you ever noticed that ESPN the Magazine tries a little too hard to be Vibe? Either that, or some sort of Alternative Lifestyle periodical. (It’s hard to tell which demo they are targeting with all the covers featuring chiseled, shirtless, young black men looking intensely into the camera.) Way to represent, Dog.

Bush League Blues

2005-02-06T05:52:00.000-08:00

I’m working through this year’s Super Bowl. It’s not as bad as you might think, as I work at the Race and Sports Book of one of the major hotels on the Vegas Strip. Through this entire season, I have spent my days explaining the concept of money lines and vigorish to throngs of first time bettors and drunk tourists. Once the games kick off and the betting stops, the job allows me to sit back and watch any game I want on our monitors behind the counter. Comfortable chairs, free lunch, and satellite feed of every sporting event from coast to coast. The best perk of the job is being able to watch every Knicks Game, which, as you might imagine, is also the single worst aspect of the job.

Sunday will be frantic both before the kickoff and during the post game payoff, yet I should be able to watch virtually the entire Super Bowl, which leaves me with just one dilemma, I can’t justify rooting for either team. Allow me to explain, as a Giants fan, I will never be able to root for the Philadelphia Eagles. Yes, Pat’s makes a fine Cheese Steak, and, Philly, your city is far and away my favorite place to pee between New York and Washington, but I’m not rooting for you in the Super Bowl. It just isn’t happening. It’s nothing personal, the same rules apply for Washington or Dallas.

My problem with the Patriots is not so much with the players, rather it is with the owner, his betrayal of my home state, and that betrayal serving as the turning point where his middling franchise would turn the corner toward greatness. Back in 1998, amid great fanfare, Bob Kraft stood with the Governor to announce his Patriots were moving to Hartford, into a 380 million stadium to be built by the taxpayers. It was only then that Massachusetts became serious about retaining the team in the dilapidated stadium halfway to Providence. Six months later, Kraft backed out of the deal, two days before the deadline where he would have been financially liable.

Bob Kraft’s Patriots were like a beautiful girl that inexplicably fell into our lap after a spat with her ingrate boyfriend. Yet all the while, we were too overjoyed to realize that she was using us, just stringing us along until the dirtbag ex up north stepped up and bought her a nice piece of jewelry. The day that happened, the bitch split town and left us at the altar. Apologists contend that the Pats never belonged in Connecticut. Be that as it may, a relationship problem doesn’t give one license to go home with the first slumpbuster fate throws their way.

Sometimes karma has a way of righting these situations. The Governor at the time, John Rowland, ended up resigning amid scandal, and in December, pled guilty to corruption charges that will likely land him behind bars. Yet Kraft has eluded Karma, twice hoisting the Lombardi Trophy. He will likely have done so a third time by the time you read this, just as you will probably have seen the shots of him celebrating up there in the owners suite, the announcers gushing over the job this "class act" has done in resurrecting a moribund franchise, building a dynasty, and building Gillette Stadium, it’s trademark tin lighthouse, pointed like a giant middle finger towards the peons to the south.

Connecticut did alright, I suppose. The simultaneous Men’s and Women’s National Basketball Championships were nice, and I hear Rentschler Field is a fine venue to watch a Big East Football Game, but getting over on the Toledos and the Murray States of the world isn’t quite like scoring one off of New York or Boston. Admitting that I’m satisfied with these accomplishments would just confirm what Bob Kraft knew all along, that I’m a bush league yokel.

Just as Bob Kraft exploited Connecticut for financial gain, I will use his Patriots to fatten my own wallet. The brunt of my money is on the Pats (-7), and a 2 leg teaser with the Pats (pick) and the over (41). I have also placed a series of small bets on point spread propositions that will pay off nicely in the event the Pats can win in a blowout. I hope it happens, as I could use the money, although I would be infinitely happier if Bob Kraft got herpes.

Information for this article found at the following sites:

http://www.uspoliticstoday.com/newsletter.php?nid=5071
http://www.boston.com/news/packages/patriots/stories/121399a.htm
http://www.pbn.com/stories/printdetails.php?id=112171

Vintage Whine

2005-02-04T02:12:00.000-08:00

Ignoring the Super Bowl Hype just long enough to complain...

Brian’s Song:
My friend Brian called on Saturday to complain that he wasn’t able to secure Red Sox tickets the day they went on sale due to the extremely high demand. Tough break, B. The Bristol Propaganda Machine spends years portraying the process of rooting for your particular gang of millionaires, as if it were some sort of ministry project. Your team wins the World Series, and just can’t stop selling out games. Check back next week when Brian complains that the Patriots Super Bowl Champion Locker Room Hats are ugly.

Ballplayers, Not Warriors:
Just thought that I would share a quick note with you about the recent Nike Ad-Campaign which airs continuously throughout any sporting event. You couldn’t have missed it if you tried. It’s about 30 seconds of menacing takes of a handful of athletes, Albert Pujols, Brian Urlacher, and Tori Hunter, among them, glowering at the screen. By the end of the Ad, each athlete has donned a particular helmet, Urlacher’s head is wrapped in Barb Wire, Hunter’s mask resembles a Venus fly trap. The commercial closes with the message, Nike Pro...For Warriors.

I sent this message to Nike:

I have to take issue with your latest advertising campaign, "Nike Pro: For Warriors." Given the current situation in Iraq and Afghanistan, Nike should know better than to insult us by perpetuating bogus associations between war and professional sports. Pat Tillman was a Warrior. The guys in your commercials play a game for a living.

The folks at Nike issued this reply:

Response (Kim) - 01/31/2005 08:28 AM
Dear Jeff,
We welcome constructive comments concerning our advertising and appreciate that you took the time to contact us. We will forward your comments to our Advertising Department for their consideration. Consumer observations do have a vital impact on our market research and marketing techniques.
Sincerely,
Kim
Nike

I should have been able to let this one go, but what can I say, I just couldn’t. I will refrain from reviving the tired argument that sports don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, because they do. Sports, like movies, music, or theater, create a necessary diversion from the pain of real life, where real warriors are sent home in flag-draped caskets every day. Blurring the line between fantasy and the most horrific aspect of reality is always a mistake. I hope she really read my comment. Somehow, I doubt it.

Destiny vs. Dynasty

2005-01-23T01:45:00.000-08:00

This week, I visited my friend Pete in L.A. Pete works at the Cheesecake Factory while he tries to line up auditions. After 4 months in town, he had his first audition scheduled for this past Thursday. The problem was, he was scheduled to work a lunch shift that day. He faced a dilemma: call in sick, and risk getting canned, or play it conservatively, show up at work, and forego the audition. Pete didn’t move 3,000 miles to wait tables. He took a gamble and did what he needed to do to make the audition. Maybe he gets fired, but he’s taking a risk to get things done. Herman Edwards, on the other hand, would have shown up at the Cheesecake Factory Thursday afternoon.

Perhaps I will never understand what moved Edwards to play for a 43-yard field goal on a windy day with a kicker who had choked just moments earlier, but unlike Steelers Center Jeff Hartings, who declared, "God Gave us another chance", I will refrain from crediting a higher power. Divine intervention aside, after some truly uninspired play calling and some inept kicking, the Steelers are still alive. Based on their performance last Saturday, they don’t deserve to be playing this week, but sometimes sports don’t make much sense. Rookie quarterbacks aren’t supposed to win 15 straight games. 16-1 teams aren’t supposed to be underdogs at home in a championship game. It’s been an improbable run for Big Ben and the Pittsburgh side, a run I have wagered will end this afternoon.

The Patriots victory over the Colts last week was akin the bully kicking sand in the face of the wimp then stealing his girlfriend, sixty minutes of domination in which the ballyhooed challengers never once made us believe they really had a shot. The Pats have now reached the strata of the Yankee clubs of the late ‘90's. We tried to talk ourselves into the Colts the way we once looked toward the San Diego Padres or Atlanta Braves as bonafide contenders, only to watch each comer serve as cannon fodder to the champs in one-sided coronations. A strong case could be made that the Steelers can beat the Patriots. They boast one of the leagues strongest defenses, statistically best against the rush and third overall against the pass. They also defeated the champs by 14 points on Halloween, and boast the league’s best record at 16-1.

That said, Corey Dillon will be a part of the rushing attack this time around, and I am certain he will improve upon the 5 yards New England gained on the ground with Kevin Faulk and Cedric Cobbs in October. In that contest, the Steelers jumped to a 21-3 first quarter lead, and I am curious to see how the game would have unfolded, and Tom Brady would have performed, without that improbable string of big plays which created the insurmountable lead. The Steelers have had a phenomenal season and have earned the right to play for the Conference Title at home, just as they have earned the right to be offended that the odds makers have declared them underdogs in their own building. Be that as it may, today in Pittsburgh, the great team beats the great story.

Quote and statistics used in this post can be found at:
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/recap?gameId=250115023
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/statistics?stat=teamrush&sort=ypg&pos=def&league=afc&season=2&year=2004
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/boxscore?gameId=241031023

And then there were four...

2005-01-16T03:55:00.000-08:00

‘Jagt-ass

"I think they're ripe for the picking, We're going to come back Sunday night going to the AFC title game." -Mike Vanderjagt

Last time I checked, Mike Vanderjagt was a place kicker, and while he was worrying about the couple times a game he scurries out onto the field, his Indianapolis Colts were busy running, throwing, catching, blocking, tackling, and all of the other vital tasks performed by actual football players. Perhaps Mike Vanderjagt should just shut up and leave the football talk to the professionals. There’s an old gambling rule that you always bet on a streak to continue, rather than end. This could very well be Manning’s, "spring of ‘91", the moment where Michael Jordan finally slay the defending champ Pistons and in doing so, ascended from a mere world class talent to the rank of Champion. Although it is entirely possible that Peyton and company come up big today in Foxboro, I’m betting against it. In making this pick, I am eschewing such factors as weather, easily the most overrated factor in football. Romanticized tales of ice bowls and tuck rules aside, the better team still wins regardless of nature. This season, Green Bay lost a December home game against Jacksonville and a playoff game against Minnesota. Chicago lost a game in negative wind chill against the dome-dwelling Texans. San Diego thoroughly dominated Cleveland in the snow. (I lost money on all of these games, by the way.) I will also discard dog-eared "heart of a champion" cliches. New England wins today because over the course of sixteen games, they were a better team then the Colts. (14-2 vs. 12-4, 1-0 vs. Indy.) They play well at home (8-0), and have put together a rather impressive win streak against the visitors from Indianapolis (6-0). Peyton Manning will have his moment, it just won’t be today.

Bad Moon Risin’

Green Bay, a self-proclaimed, "Drinking Town With A Football Problem", has a longstanding tradition of mooning the opposing team bus. So when Randy Moss of the rival Minnesota Vikings, rendered a crushing blow to the hometown Packers with his second touchdown on Sunday, he turned to the stands, gestured as if he were dropping his pants, waved his derriere toward the fans, and then proceeded to rub his rear against the goal posts. Classy, huh? I’m not going to bother defending Randy Moss’ long history of behavior issues, however I will say that I’m surprised at the widespread outrage over the incident. Fox, who can never seem to get enough of Terrell Owens’ contrived antics each week, didn’t show a single replay of the celebration during the game. Joe Buck proclaimed, "That is a disgusting act by Randy Moss." Fox spokesman Lou D’Ermillo later stated, "It was inappropriate to replay it in the context of the game." (Exactly the moral stance you’d expect from the folks who brought us, "Temptation Island" and "The Littlest Groom.") ESPN took a break from airing trailers for ,"Tilt", just long enough to climb up on the soapbox. Chris Berman charged, "Randy disgraced Lambeau Field with this and he disgraced himself." There is a certain delicious irony to hearing Chris Berman denounce somebody for reducing themselves to self parody.

We didn’t see the same sort of uproar when Jake Plummer raised the middle finger to his hometown fans three weeks ago, nor do we see nearly as much attention paid to all those instances where Moss hands the ball to a disabled fan. Perhaps I’m overly sympathetic, as I was once disqualified from the "Mr. Sacred Heart University" pageant, for mooning a judge. (I paid no fines) Like Moss, I wasn’t actually mooning, (I was wearing beige tights). I’ve also mooned my share of team buses over the years, so if the San Francisco Giants ever decide to return the gesture, I understand.

Quotes used in this post can be found at:
http://www.startribune.com/stories/503/5178993-2.html
http://www.boston.com/sports/football/patriots/articles/2005/01/13/swift_kick_sidetracks_routines/

January Thaw

2005-01-06T03:41:00.000-08:00

Shaking off several months of rust with a brief rundown of the first week of 2005.

BCmesS

I will abbreviate the argument for a college football playoff for a couple reasons, first of all, the story has been covered, thoroughly beaten into the ground, played out a just little more than William Hung, (but still less played out than stories of the inspirational perseverance of Red Sox fans). Second, the case for a playoff is a truism. The season ended with three undefeated teams, with a champion selected arbitrarily. Declaring the need for a playoff is simply stating the obvious. Take the six conference champions, two at large teams who had put together exceptional seasons, play a three round playoff. I don’t need to draw you a diagram. As for the Orange Bowl, just a hideous excuse for a Football Game. It did however have a Super Bowl feel. Four hours long, one team looked completely dominant, their opponent had a "deer in headlights" look, which resulted in a blowout, producing a Super Bowl-esque 55-19 score. It even featured a 45 minute halftime, capped off by Jessica Simpson's less attractive, marginally talented (and I’m being generous) sister getting booed off the stage after lip synching another one of her songs. This inspired me to ask those around me, "Are they booing her? Maybe they're saying, "SOOOONERS". Then, as if they could here me, they started booing louder. I think it's a positive sign for American culture. 72,000 fans in Miami decided that the useless sibling of a poor man’s Britney, doesn’t get to be famous. Maybe we can generate the same sort of animosity towards the BCS.

Carlos Courtship
I write this, fully aware that the George Steinbrenner might find an extra 120 million or so in the cushions of his sofa and add Carlos Beltran to the roster. In fact, I can’t envision living in a world where he would allow the Mets to grab headlines for reasons other than the acquisition of a second tier declining star. Entertaining the notion that the Yankees might actually rely upon a lower offer, I have a feeling Beltran stays in Houston. The Astros are a better team, year in year out, than the Mets. Plus, there isn't any Texas State income Tax, so the Houston deal will be equivalent to the larger deal the Mets will offer, despite the disparity in numbers. He's a great player, but not quite Vlad Guerrerro, who was worth the money Fred Wilpon was too cheap to shell out a year ago. Beltran is cashing in on one of the more memorable post seasons in history, where nobody could get him out and he carried his team on his back for two weeks. For the rest of his career, he's been a lifetime .284 hitter. I think he was always a little too celebrated because he played in obscurity in Kansas City. Since so few people had seen him play, he developed this almost mythical reputation, one not exactly supported by the numbers:
BELTRAN GUERRERO
G 885 1160
AB 3467 4375
R 616 765
H 985 1421
2B 173 265
3B 52 36
HR 146 273
RBI 569 828
SB 192 138
CS 23 74
BB 371 433
SO 641 558
BA .284 .325
OBP .353 .390
SLG .490 .589

Finally:

Pimp of the Year honors to my roommate Todd for setting us up on Gucci Row for the UNLV game against national powerhouse Fort Lewis. While the Rebels struggled mightily to outlast the Divison 2 visitors from Durango in their final warmup before Utah and the Mountain West Conference schedule, there were certainly no complaints about the view. (Click the link below to see the photo)

http://www.geocities.com/y2jeffhoose/unlv.html

International Incident

2004-08-29T06:32:00.000-07:00

I didn’t really want to write this one, for a couple of reasons, first of all, it’s been examined from every possible angle, from the relevant, to the absurd, and then some. It’s hard to say anything that hasn’t been said hundreds of times. Second, until that final buzzer sounded yesterday, I didn’t want to believe that the "best" basketball team America had to offer, was no better than the third best in the world.

This is a national embarrassment, plain and simple. I won’t discount the development of the game internationally, as it is simply impossible to deny. So much so, that it would be arrogant and condescending to the rest of the world to suggest that they should ever go back to playing our college students. That cat’s already out of the bag, particularly now that we have proven inferior on the greatest international stage. How can you possibly justify using an amateur national team when your most recent international showing undermines the credibility of the entire NBA.

Yet, before I hold up a cigarette lighter and blast, "Winds of Change", I’m choosing to throw around a little bit of blame, because this shouldn’t have happened, not yet, anyway. I’m going to spare you the myriad of excuses that have been thrown about regarding the trapezoid shaped lane or shorter three point shot, since the United States had lost exactly two games in 68 years under international rules. I will admit that the fundamentally sound system of play of the international squads is better suited to the Olympic game. I will also admit that the American game has degenerated into 48 minutes of one-on-one isolation plays and poor shooting. Still, had the selection committee taken this into account, and committed to fielding a team of competent outside shooters, perhaps we wouldn’t have had to watch Argentina’s flag raised over our own.

I’m also going to pass up the easy shot at spoiled, pampered millionaires underperforming at the games, as it wasn’t even limited to Basketball. Andy Roddick and Venus Williams are two more millionaire athletes that didn’t deliver at these games. Neither has received the widespread blame and abuse thrust upon our basketball team. That’s because neither deserve it, nor do our basketball players. They took the time away from their summer to come halfway across the world and represent their nation. They failed, and they have to deal with that.

I will however, take a shot at the spoiled pampered millionaires that weren’t around for the games. Angered and disappointed as I may be, I have respect for the twelve guys that accepted the invitation, guys that understand what the foreign players understand, that there is still something inherently special about playing for one’s country, Allen Iverson addressed this today:

"Anybody that grew up in the U.S. and is able to be a basketball player in the NBA, you understand what that country has done for you and your family," Iverson said. "It gave you an opportunity to support your family and be recognized as a household name. I mean, it's just an honor to be able to do something like that, and I would advise anybody that's selected to a team like this to take that honor and cherish it."

Too bad, Kevin Garnett, Kobe Bryant, Elton Brand, Vince Carter, Ray Allen, Shaquille O’Neal, Mike Bibby, or Tracy McGrady didn’t feel this way. (They all declined their invitations for various reasons.) Stephon Marbury may have missed a lot of jump shots these past two weeks, but at least he had the foresight to not be on trial for rape this summer.

Discussing sports with some Englishmen a few weeks back, they poked fun at how we have a "World Series" that excludes the rest of the world (except part of Canada), and a Super Bowl to crown a "World Champion", in a world that includes just 31 American cities. There was plenty of validity to what they said. However, I don’t deny that there is a certain value to this spirit of American cockiness, the same overbearing pride that put a man on the moon, invented the Pink Cadillac, and fielded the 1992 Dream Team, compels us to believe that our best team, in the sports we invented, are, and always will be, the undisputed best in the world. Yet when that final buzzer sounded yesterday, the NBA had lost a little bit of it’s legitimacy. It was thrust into a similar position of the National Hockey League of the 1970's and 80's, when the Stanley Cup Champions, the so called, "best", could still be beaten by the Red Army team on their North American Tours.

My own jingoistic tendencies aside, I value the perspective of European fans. After all, in Europe, soccer is still the most popular sport, and although there is a Champions League, the champion of the German Bundesliga exists separately from the champion of the English Premiership or the Spanish Primera Liga. Their sport transcends language and borders, for it belongs to the world. Basketball is now the fastest growing sport on the planet, and with it’s development internationally, comes the realization that we will have to fight for, and occasionally lose, domination of a game that now belongs to the world. This was bound to happen. I just think it happened too soon.

Quote used in this post can be found at:
http://msn.foxsports.com/story/2822434

Unhappy Recap

2004-08-05T00:59:00.001-07:00

I was at work when my cell phone rang twice in the span of fifteen minutes. The first call from my mother, the second, from my father. Considering that they know my schedule, it is rare that both would call me in succession, and during the day. In fact, the last time such a thing happened, my grandmother was headed to the hospital. Knowing that something important might have happened back east, I slipped away to check my voice mail. Each message was to inform me that Bob Murphy was gone.

A member of the broadcaster’s wing of the Baseball Hall of Fame, Bob Murphy delivered Mets baseball to us for 42 of his 50 years announcing in the majors, "painting the word picture" for some of history’s worst baseball teams, and a couple of the best. For myself, and for millions of others spread over half a century, his voice was the background music to life. As the craft of broadcasting a ball game degenerated into an orgy of superlatives and annoying catch phrases, Bob Murphy kept doing the best job in the business with a simple heartland decency vocalized in his intentionally-suppressed Oklahoma drawl. Sure, he had a tendency to botch a home run call, and years of smoking caused him to sound as if he were drowning on his own phlegm, but unpleasant as that might have been, Murph would never dare subject us to anything as sickening as listening to a contrived explanation of the uniform and "interlocking NY", atop the cap. Even his, trademark, "We’ll be back with the happy recap", the closest thing Murph had to a catch phrase, seemed less like a forced tag line, and more like the spontaneous result of his tireless optimism.

I try to steer clear of the nauseatingly sappy, Kevin Costner-catch-with-my-Dad qualities of Baseball, yet I will admit that there is a timelessness to the game, a quality that will allow it to survive through the ages, it was, (and still is) carried through the voices of men like Ernie Harwell, Harry Caray, Curt Gowdy, Vin Scully here in L.A., and Bob Murphy. Much has changed in the world since 1962. Bob Murphy was among the very few constants, transcending both time and the myriad of changes in both the world and the game while he was behind the mike. Professional baseball might be run by soulless billionaires and played by distant celebrities, but as long as there is a place in the game for somebody like Murph, baseball will endure.

Bob Murphy called his last game on September 25 of 2003. Before retreating to the booth for one final time, he said a few words to the fans in attendance who had come to honor him,

"Let me tell you how much I love you, let me tell you how great you have been, I’m gonna miss you, believe me, I will, I’ll start missing you the minute I walk off this field, It has been such a marvelous, marvelous time. On behalf of my wife Joy, we both say thanks to you fo being so good to us, for allowing us to be a part of your life, and for enjoying baseball with us. Thank you very much, goodnight and God Bless."

Thank you Murph, rest in peace.

Ghost of Juan Samuel?

2004-07-31T13:38:00.000-07:00

I’m too young to have lived through the Mets dealing away Nolan Ryan, so for myself, and a lot of other Met fans in their 20's and 30's, "Lenny Dykstra and Roger McDowell for Juan Samuel" is the standard by which bad Mets trades are measured. On June 18th of 1989, a stagnant Mets club, struggling in vain to regain their place atop the National League East, swapped away the popular center fielder, quirky, albeit effective reliever, and some other guy named Tom Edens, for second baseman-turned-outfielder Juan Samuel. In just over half a season with the Mets, Samuel batted .228, driving in 28 runs. Samuel, already unpopular with the fans for replacing Dykstra, didn’t make any friends by publicly revealing his distaste for New York City. (I suppose it’s no Philadelphia.) Samuel was traded away after the season for the immortal Mike Marshall and Alejandro Pena.

Conversely, Dykstra went on to lead the league in both hits and on base percentage the following season. He led the league in walks, hits, times on base, and runs in 1993. Over his seven full years in Philadelphia, Dykstra would be named to three All-Star teams and twice finish in the top 10 in the vote for MVP. The Dykstra trade of 1989 set the stage for some long summers in Queens over the next decade. My favorite Met of all-time, Mookie Wilson, was dealt away six weeks later. Gary Carter was released after the season, and Keith Hernandez signed on for a brief and forgettable stint with Cleveland shortly thereafter. The Mets, in an effort to move on, failed to replace the heart of their team, but succeeded in becoming a regular Letterman joke throughout the 90's.

I bring this up because I’m almost sure that the Mets made an equally dubious deal yesterday afternoon when they traded away Ty Wigginton for Kris Benson. Wigginton was one of my favorite Mets for many of the same reasons as Dykstra: they both played hard. I know it sounds like a cliche, because virtually everybody needs to play hard to be successful enough to become a professional, but Wigginton has that same quality as Dykstra, that intangible that suggests to everybody watching, that this is a guy playing beyond his God-given talent level. For some reason, I like it when professional athletes humor us by acting like they care as much as we do.

He doesn’t have the physical tools of some of the game’s great players, but he had managed to become the steadiest hitter in the Mets lineup. While other guys with his raw talent are well into the Atlantic League stage of their careers, Wigginton is hitting his stride in the show, hitting game winning homers to sweep the Yankees, and playing his way toward millions of dollars. This season, he is earning 316,000 dollars, which is indeed a handsome reward for playing a game for a living, but is rather insignificant when compared to the 17 million the Mets are paying Mo Vaughn to stay at home.

Beyond the intensity, the fact that both men are from Southern California, and both could be described as "weird looking", the numbers draw some strong parallels between Dykstra and Wigginton. Although Dykstra had considerably more service time then Wigginton when dealt away from the Mets, they were both 26 years of age on the day of their respective trades. Dykstra’s career batting average with the Mets was .278. He had hit 30 home runs, his on base percentage was .350, and his slugging percentage was .413. Although he has played only 288 games to Dykstra’s 544 prior to his trade, Ty Wigginton already has 29 home runs, with a .440 slugging percentage. Despite the fact that his .270 career batting average is eight points lower than Dykstra’s, he is hitting .285 in just his second full season, combine this with his decline in strikeouts, (this season he has struck out 48 times, which puts him on pace to finish well below his 124 strikeouts last season), and a strong case could be made that his batting average, as well as his .327 on base percentage will rise to a number similar to that of Dykstra.

Frankly, I’m a little surprised the Mets are buyers, rather than sellers this season. Seven games out, and four under .500, I find it more sensible to try and ship off a veteran on the wrong side of 35 rather than Wigginton and the prospects that were traded in the subsequent deal for Victor Zambrano. Perhaps Kris Benson will not be as bad as Juan Samuel. Despite the fact that he is widely regarded as a talented starter, I am always wary of a guy who will be 30 years old and still has a losing record for his career. I’m also not too sure about a man named Kristin, a fine name for my sister, but an unusual choice for a gentleman. The biggest winner in this deal is Kris Benson’s agent, who will now land what should be an extravagant deal from the Mets, who are now almost certain to overpay in order to save face. Whether Ty Wigginton will ever have the breakout season that transformed Lenny Dykstra from scrappy platoon player to All Star, remains to be seen, but I feel strongly that he is capable of such a feat. Even if he never turns into as good a ballplayer as Dykstra, if he ever gets a book deal, I’m sure it will be a better read than, "Nails".

The statistics used for this post can be found at the following sites:
http://www.ultimatemets.com/profile.php?PlayerCode=0376
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/teams/salaries?team=nym
http://snap.stats.com/premium/sfa/stats/playerstats.asp?id=6930
http://www.baseball-reference.com/d/dykstle01.shtml

Mercy Killing

2004-07-30T01:37:00.000-07:00

When I was five years old, we got a Golden Retriever. I grew up with that dog. There were a lot of good times throughout the years, but dogs get old, and then sick. Eventually, he could no longer walk. By the time we had finally gathered up the nerve to put him down, it was too late, he was already gone. He had been with us for fifteen years, but when he was suffering, and it was finally time to say goodbye, we couldn’t grant him an end to his misery, a dignified departure from our lives.

When I was ten, the Mets acquired John Franco in a trade with the Cincinnati Reds. The deal was a bit of a head scratcher, as they were trading away their own, younger, hard throwing closer, Randy Myers, for the Brooklyn-born lefty, but Franco, who grew up a Mets fan, immediately established himself as a team leader and a fan favorite in Queens, saving 63 games in his first two seasons with the club. Although never the dominant closer in the game, Franco was always one of the games better relievers. At a position where players have a very limited shelf life, Franco was durable. No lefty had ever saved 300 games in a career, Franco has 424 career saves. John Franco also knew how to adapt, reinventing himself as a changeup pitcher once his fastball had slowed in the mid-1990's. Somehow, he managed to save 161 games between 1994 and 1998, despite throwing anything that remotely resembled a quality pitch. He saved a lot of games for some awful Mets clubs in the 90's, and although he was crafty, Franco could get lit up from time to time. His career save percentage is just under 81%, which is not exactly automatic. (Mariano Rivera and Troy Percival have percentages near 87% and 86%, respectively). So when an injury sidelined Franco in the 1999 season, many fans welcomed the emergence of Armando Benitez as the team’s new closer. Franco was relegated to setup duty, yet continued to contribute, even earning the win in relief in the series-clinching, Game 4 of the 1999 NLDS, the first playoff appearance of his 16 year career.

I turned twenty five years old this week and John Franco is still pitching for the Mets, or trying to, anyway. He’s racked up just two wins against seven losses this season, with a 5.73 earned run average. He’s given up 24 earned runs and 37 hits in 37 and 2/3 innings. He’s been throwing batting practice out there. After 15 years, it’s time to say goodbye. As the Mets continue their fade from the NL East Race, moves need to be made with the future in mind. It’s time for the Mets to do for Franco what we failed to do for our dog: end the suffering. Let him go work as the pitching coach for the Brooklyn Cyclones, or make him a "roving instructor" in the organization, or bury him under that tomato garden he planted in the bullpen, it doesn’t really matter, as long as he no longer pitches for the Mets. I know any such appointment is often an insult to an old athlete, but it’s an insult for everyone involved to keep sending Franco out there to get booed off the mound. <BACK TO HOOSE COUNTRY

Statistics acquired from:
http://snap.stats.com/premium/sfa/stats/playerstats.asp?id=3308