Contributing to this week's edition of the Carny Sports Report is Billy Badlands, an employee of Bruno Brothers Traveling Amusements Company:
Billy has been asked to write about several of the recent head coaching developments in the NFL.
So I'm mindin my own business, doin what the hell it is I do. I got me this real ripe rube roped in nice and good. I mean he's wingin softballs around like he was ####lord Perry on a meth rampage and he hasn't knocked down not one milk bottle. He's already dropped 75 bucks tryin to win him a 5 dollar wall bass that sings "Way Down Yonder on the Chatahoochie" and I can see in his face he ain't gonna stop till he gets it. He's gettin ready to sign over the deed to his double wide for eleven more throws when this long haired shifty eyed squirelly son #### comes up to me and starts talkin about his blog.
Now I didn't know a blog from a booger sandwich, but judgin on the looks of this guy talkin to me, I reckoned it had somethin to do with traiterous pinko homosexual activity that I wouldn't want nothin to do with. But after he broke it down I figured it wasn't so bad and didn't have much of nothin to do with ####ness. It's pretty much just writin about sports and whatnot. He said he hadn't been havin time to write on his blog lately and asked me if I would write some stuff for him about coaches in the NFL and the hirin and firin of them coaches.
Now I don't have a butt load of time to watch sports like all you lazy desk job workin son ####es. The day to day of a carnival hand is hecticker then hell. On a GOOD day the heat lets me sleep till 7:30. Then I usually eat me a couple two day old funnel cakes for breakfast and spend a couple hours smokin before the gates open. Then I usually stay at my post for 13 straight hours. But I do manage to catch some sports from time to time. On my day off last week I sneaked away to watch GLOW live. GLOW stands for Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling for all you sophisticateds who think you too good to watch a couple fine #### ladies in thong one pieces beat each other about the head. And I got me a 12 inch B&W TV in my hitch with coat hanger rabbit ears for recepshion gathering that I got as a special raward from the boss for discoverin that Paco, the kid that mopped up puke in the Gravitron was an illegal. So I'll try and talk about what's goin on in sports as best as I can. And if you don't like it then I can really give a rats ####.
So first off it looks like everyone in Miami has their balls all twisted in a four square knot cause coach of the Dolphins Nick Saban decided to go coach in Alabama. First of all, what in the name of h-e-double hockey sticks happened to Dan Shula? He was coachin up a storm last I knew. Anyway, I guess this Nick Saban took off to Alabama and left all them Miami homosexuals wearin cut off shorts and sippin umbrella drinks with no coach to tell em whats what. All I can say is, how can you blame a man for wantin to go to Alabama? Let me tell ya, I had me some good #### times in 'Bama. Like one time I met me this sweet little mother of four at the West Alabama State Fair in Tuscaloosa, and had me a encounter behind the Tilt-A-Whirl you wouldn't believe. All I can say is she was double-jointed and it was like rompin with a Barbie doll. My buddy Earl said she looked more like a Stretch Armstrong but I don't give a good God dam about that. It was funner then hell and if I was Nick Saban I would be packin my bags for Alabama faster'n you could say "put them ankles behind your head Misty Sue."
Then I heard the Atlanta Falcons fired their coach Jim Mora Jr. because he went on radio sayin he wanted to take another job. Now I don't know this Jim Mora Jr. from Billy Badlands Jr. (I don't know him neither, despite the $32.70 in yearly child support), but he must be one simple minded son ####. Trust me theres particular jobs that require you have some sensitivity and tactfullness. Like for exxample when I first got my start with the carnival I was given the deleckit task of workin the weight gessin booth. Now if that ain't a job just drippin' with danger then you tell me what the hell is. I'm standin there when all of a sudden some rube comes struttin up with his girlfriend what looks like post 68 comeback special Elvis Presley and asks me to guess her weight. So I have to get my mind workin fast as hell to come up with the right answer, or I'm riskin getting a switchblade buried handle deep in my gonads. I have to look at her and say she's 110 pounds when I know her moustache weighs at least 40 on its own. Sometimes this carnival work ain't no picnic at all. But anyway, this Jim Mora, Jr. shoulda known better. He deserves to be lookin for work but I got some advice for him. Don't come sniffin around the Bruno Brothers Traveling Amusement outfit for gainfull employing. We got ourselves a hiring process here that weeds out shiftless traiterous weasels. All I can say is two words: Chinaman water torchure.
Last but not least, some Dennis Green guy got fired by the St. Louis Cardinals for no other reason then he pretty much sucked harder than my Aunt Lucy (don't get all pissified about that coment neither. shes my aunt twice removed, so it's ok). My answer to this one is who cares. It's bad enough that these Cardinals is so big for they britches that they play two damn sports, but they won the friggin World Series of baseball last year! How much is gonna be enough for you Cardinals? Thats like if I went out and tried to get a job dancin on the trapese in the circus after carnival season was over just cause I could. First of all I wouldn't never do that cause circus folk is a bunch of inbred motherless commie punks I took a blood oath to hate for the rest of my days, but second of all I wouldn't do that cause I don't need to show off all the damn time like a friggin wombat on a tricycle. My advice to the St. Louis Cardinals is to stick to damn baseball and stop tryin to be like that one kid on the playground who always wips out his #### just to show everyone he's got the biggest one.
By the way, I ALWAYS had the biggest one. My #### is a family hair loom.
That's it for me. I got more important things to do then sit around pushin buttons on one of these tiny little travelin computers. I just found out that my buddy Dale was cleanin out the prize storage trailer and came across a case of "Not My President" bumper stickers left over from the Clinton years. We gotta burn them things before they get in the wrong hands. If you're gonna be at the Hallard County fair next week stop by the milk bottle knock down and say howdy, especially if youre a 4 H girl. You my favorites.
**All contributors to the Carny Sports Report receive an ice cold sixer of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a gift certificate to Willy Joe's Crystal Meth Emporium.
It was like a scene from a bad movie, a very unpatriotic bad movie. Like perhaps Too Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar or Armageddon if it didn’t have Bruce Willis in it (he’s a real man, that Bruce Willis).
The US Open, that old-timey down-home tennis institution, played every year by a few sturdy American athletes and a bunch of foreigners, came to a conclusion with an American ready to dominate the final. And not just any American. This was Andy Roddick. The guy who turned Mandy Moore’s knees into jello. A bastion of Americanness.
But something was amiss. The celebrities were out in full force for the event (so I’m told, I really didn’t watch it), but something still just didn’t feel right. Tiger Woods, the most recognizable American athlete on the planet, was spotted by television cameras sitting in the crowd as a special guest of Roddick’s competition, Roger Federer, a self-proclaimed citizen of Switzerland. And Woods was cheering for Federer. Poor Roddick just couldn’t overcome that kind of treachery, and lost in four sets.
Not since Wesley Snipes donned a dress and extensions has America been so insulted.
On the surface this seemed to be nothing more than one man’s trite act of hatred for his own country, like spitting on the Liberty Bell or calling Thomas Jefferson “lard ####.” But this goes much deeper than that superficial analysis. The real truth is buried deeper, and I’m here to tell you, loyal readers, it is horrifying.
Tiger Woods is a Swiss spy.
It all makes perfect sense now. Oh those sneaky Switzerlanders! Those 150 years of neutrality were nothing more than an elaborate ruse! A devious plan to lull the world into a chocolate-induced coma before striking full-force at the infrastructure of international democracy. But a plan like that needs operatives. A plan like that needs top class spies who can get into the most secure places on the planet, dine with dignitaries, and sleep with hoards of Stanford coeds.
Enter golf phenom Tiger Woods.
Think about it. Tiger Woods marries, out of nowhere, a Swedish nanny. SWeden is very similar to SWitzerland in spelling, blondes per capita, and extreme political radicalism. Then he signs on to endorse Tag Heuer watches, which are made, conveniently enough, in Switzerland. Coincidence? You tell me watchful American readers.
Recently, unmanned paparazzi spy planes en route to snap topless photos of Heidi Klum and hopefully not Seal in Germany discovered a massive Swiss Intelligence compound tucked away in the Alps. Closer examination of the photos revealed the complex contains numerous facilities used in espionage, including elaborate topographical maps (complete with very accurate ridges for all U.S. mountain ranges), a sausage laboratory, and a driving range. A driving range!
That we have discovered Tiger’s loyalties at this point can only be seen as a fateful bit of luck. His original mission, as sent to him in a directive by Swiss Intelligence director Tobe Lerone, was to attend the US Open Final, wearing a Toby Keith T-shirt and cheering for Roddick like he was witnessing the best downhill luge race in history. This was intended to throw off any pesky American intelligence officials who were getting su####ious. But transmission of the message was interrupted, causing only a fraction of the mission statement to be transmitted to Tiger (or as he’s known in Swiss spy circles “Agent Chompers”). Using top-secret decoder rings, that portion of the transmission was intercepted. It said only “InFILtraTE yaNKEe mAtch OF TenNis BaLL.”
The logo on Tiger's hat is not a "T" and a "W." Squint your eyes and you'll notice it's a hand flipping America the bird.
We must act now to counter this cut-throat act of global espionage. If Tiger Woods is allowed to continue at this pace he will be able to outfit entire army units in highly disguising green jackets for combat. Can you imagine the horror? An entire army clad in green jackets and able to carry assault rifles, anti-aircraft weapons, toenail clippers and a toothpick in one convenient little pocket knife?
It’s time for Tiger Woods to take his place in the pantheon of American traitors next to the likes of Benedict Arnold, Leopold, Loeb, and Hasselhoff. You can play on our Ryder Cup teams and you can count your victories in Majors as American ones, but after that, watch your back. You are dead to us Tiger Woods. Or would you prefer to be called Agent Chompers?
It usually starts around March with proclamations of rabid optimism throughout greater New England.
The Boston Red Sox are gonna have a wicked good year. Conservatively, and I'm talking conservatively, I'd say somewhere around 120 wins, give or take five or six. Schilling and Beckett will finish in a tie for the Cy Young, and the Yankees will be dead in the water by mid-June.
If you're fortunate enough to know a Red Sox fan, (a real New England Sox fan, as in Dunkin' Donuts and Boston Baked Beans; the kind of guy that knows "Pudge" means Carlton and not Ivan) this is the type of good-natured banter that bombards you as winter recedes into its annual death throes. Like that local news weatherman who always manages to get it wrong, the Sox fan assures because he believes. And in the end you admire him for his stoic conviction, even though you end up caught in the rain with nothing to keep you dry but a pair of Ray-Bans and a beach towel.
I happen to be friends with one of these Sox fans, a native Bostonian who relocated to Southern California several years ago, bringing little more with him than visions of bottle blonde beach babes and an undying love for the Sox. My die-hard devotion to the Oakland A's has created a healthy rivalry between us, one that manifests itself in workday trash talk emails throughout the season. For the sake of anonymity, I'll refer to this friend of mine using the alias Willy Mo Doe.
From the euphoric enthusiasm of early Spring, to the catastrophic devastation of recent weeks, the ups-and-downs of the Red Sox season have been reflected in these emails. I wanted to write something eulogizing the Boston season. I wanted to do the nose dive poetic justice, but I can't possibly do so using my own humble words.
I can, however, use his words to great effect.
So here it is, the 2006 Boston Red Sox season, every plateau and valley viewed through the cut-and-paste statemets of a regular Boston dude who has lived and bled every moment of it. I haven't changed a thing. Enjoy the roller coaster ride:
1/30/06 Sox got our CF...Much better deal than Damon
3/6/06 David Wells told Theo today that he wants to stay! Yes! This is huge. Our starting five now looks like: 1. Schilling 2.Wake 3.Beckett 4.Wells 5.Clement. White Sox, A's, and us have the top 3 staffs in the league.
3/27/06 PS. Sox are going to destroy the A's this year! Season series 8-2 in favor of the Red Sox. Thomas will be on the DL by May and Milton Bradley will be in jail by September. Same story in the Theo era is make the playoffs, embarrass the A's along the way, and win it all or lose to the team that does. I LOOK FOR MORE OF THE SAME THIS YEAR.
4/6/06 Nice 2 out of 3 from NY is good all around but the story of last night was the Red Sox. Beckett 7 strong for the win and a Schillingesk fire and emotion on the mound that will be a huge rally point for the team. Our new closer the 95+mph 2nd year player Papelbon closing them out in the 9th to take 2 of 3 from TX. If Beckett says healthy watch out....A much improved D and bullpen and this could be our year again!!!... I can't wait for Sox v. A's.
4/21/06 I'm hearing that Clemens is leaning toward a return to the Red Sox! He will go into the HOF with a Sox cap and his next win will make him the franchise all time winner breaking his tie with Cy Young...More to come on this soon. 20 Million 1 year is fine with me. He was my hero growing up!
5/23/06 Good thing the Sox have nothing but "old broken down" guys in their rotation. I mean with their average age of their starters that must mean that they are "all done" and would never stand up to a young staff like the A's huh...so much for that argument. You're are way off one this one brodude. These guys are horses...I like the fact that you keep bringing up October because the Sox will be there, but the A's remain in doubt.
6/15/06 Also, Theo is just getting started dealing. Look for a blockbuster trade for stating pitching coming up and a few under the radar deals as well. See you in October!!!
6/27/06 Ortiz is the MVP of the AL this year. He is the Tom Brady of MLB. There is no one else I want at bat with the game on the line. 3 walk offs in the last 8 games! Papelbon is the Rookie of the year/AL All-star closer. And speaking of moves, the Sox have won 8 in a row and all this before Theo makes his midseason moves! Go Sox.
6/28/06 A very exciting day for Boston sports today. Beckett and the hottest team in baseball, the Sox winners of 10 in a row, vs. Pedro and the AAA National League Mets. Yesterday's game was good too. He got a huge ovation after they showed a highlight clip on the big screen. Today will be an Instant Classic.
6/29/06 The Sox on the other hand are Red Hot! 11 in a row!! Longest win streak since '95. Beckett is 10-3 and we have Schilling going today. We are destroying the NL right now and I love it!
7/3/06 (All-Star Break) Sox are well represented even though Schilling and Beckett, both 10 game winners, got snubbed because teams like the A's have to send their ace to meet the MLB 1 per team min. requirement.
7/24/06 Sox need 2 of 3 to split the season series and bring our trash talking to a draw, with you holding onto the hope the A's slip into the playoffs. I will say that tonight's game will set the tone for the rest of this series. If we get to Zito (who has been red hot) then the A's will be hard pressed not to get swept.
7/26/06 See you in Oct...if you're lucky...
7/27/06 Theo and his guys are far ahead of the curve. This is a very special time for us. For years we struggled with GM?s but the wonder boy makes me very happy we didn't give Billy Beane all that money and he stayed home.
8/4/06 Javy Lopez....what a pick up. He will fill in great for V-tek. Watch his bat heat up. That would be huge.
8/9/06 It's too early to hit the panic button. This is our toughest stretch overall due to the injuries but I remain confident that we will be able to overcome the injuries and get it together in enough time. IT'S ONLY AUG 9TH!!
8/11/06 We are at the low point of our season. Only place to go is up from here. Getting swept by the royals just shows how important our Captain is. The little things he does..........f-in s*cks
8/17/06 Ups and downs my friend. We needed that win last night and we got it (and so did the red hot A's) 5, I repeat 5 games with the Yankees this weekend so we will see a lot of good baseball, plus a good measure of what is left in the tank. This series is followed by 3 out here vs. LAA which I will be attending.
8/19/06 You mean Willy Nooooooooooooo...........If we have a bad weekend "we're done."
8/21/06 It's looking like the West is theirs especially after the Sox give me my final hurrah this week when they come to town to play the Angels. I'll be there at all 3 games
8/22/06 I'm protesting the Sox game today. I don't want to spend my hard earned money watching Kyle Snyder pitch for us, especially after this weekend. I'm waiving the white flag on the season. I have watched enough baseball to know that his year's team doesn't have enough healthy players to make a serious run. F- the wild card. I won't settle for anything less than the division and with the acquisition of Abreau and his .500 OBS the MFY's (mutha #### Yankees) will be hard to beat! It's unfortunate but it's how it goes sometimes.
And now the Sox are done and there is nothing. No outrageous predictions, no emails, no baseball talk. Our conversations have mysteriously shifted to cover the budding NFL Season. Now there is only the eerie quiet of a season once so full of promise, so laden with expecations, reduced to nothing more than a distant memory dribbling between the first baseman legs of fate.
*****Writer's Note: This post was actually written Friday afternoon, but because the writer is a #### of epic proportions, he forgot to post it and it was lost to his work computer all weekend. Please enjoy this entirely outdated and obsolete piece of sportswriting with that in mind.
I should be feeling fantastic today. It's casual Friday and I'm sitting at my desk without much work to do, an unobstructed window my portal to the Southern California afternoon sunshine. Labor Day weekend is looming, complete with a full compliment of quality College Football games. There might as well be friggin' leprechauns doing the Roger Rabbit all around me.
But if there were leprechauns doing the Roger Rabbit within leg's reach of me, rest assured I'd kick the #### out of every one of them. I'm in a foul mood. I'm exhausted. I'm barely functioning after only a few measly hours of sleep last night.
Why you ask? I decided to stay up until nearly 3:00 this morning to watch what will henceforth be known in the annals of American sports history as the Felafel Debacle. Greece 101 - USA 95.
Cue the basketball experts at all the publications and television networks. Cue Stephen A. Smith yelling at someone. Cue the excuses about the team not having enough time to practice together, not enough time to "gel." Get the FIBA rule book out and explain how the wider lane, different definition of goaltending, and restrictions on physical play serve as disadvantages for the American players and give international teams the edge. We'll be hearing all of that for weeks now as the basketball media looks for debate fodder in the basketball vacuum leading up to the opening of training camps.
We have a right, as American sports fans, to be a bit bitter these days. First the World Baseball Classic and now this. Our apple pie sporting institutions invaded by foreign hordes refusing to cower in in the face of our athletic superiority. Last night's loss was just another slap in the face, another slice of humble crow. We have a right to be embarrassed, and in turn, look for someone to blame. But we shouldn't look for scapegoats abroad. FIBA has nothing to do with it.
The reason our humble nation continues to stumble in international roundball competitions is as simple as the two foot jump-stop. It's no more complex than the three man weave.
It's all about fundamentals. At the risk of sounding like a crotchety old basketball purist (Bill Walton), I'd say you could reduce Team USA's pattern of international failure down to the disregard our developing players display for the simple things that make a team successful.
For those of you who braved the wee small hours of the morning to watch the game, think about what you witnessed. Can you recall a single moment in the game when a Greek player made an unnecessary behind the back pass or failed to make the extra perimeter pass to set up a teammate for an open shot? Can you think of a single instance when a member of the Greek team tried to dribble through their legs while surrounded by four defenders, losing the ball in the process? How many times did the superstars comprising Team USA commit these basic basketball faux-paus? I was too exhausted to count.
There were two particular aspects of the game that demonstrated the fundamentals gap in beautiful technicolor, the most obvious being the Americans' poor free throw shooting. While struggling to get the Greek lead into single digits in the second half, the American big three of Carmelo Anthony, LeBron James, and Dwayne Wade continuously failed to knock down precious free throws, while the Greeks were superior from the stripe. Last time I checked, the international free throw line is the same distance from the hoop as the NBA free throw line.
But most telling this morning (or was it last night? I'm so very tired), was the US team's complete inability to defend the pick and roll. Possession after possession, minute after minute, the Greek offensive story was the same: bring one of the big men to the top of key, and run the pick and roll with Houston-bound guard Vassilis Spanoulis. No trick plays. No elaborate motion offensive sets. Using a no-frills pick and roll philosophy the Greeks turned the second half into one continuous layup drill, getting to the hoop as easily as they pleased. A steady stream of gangly, awkward-looking players making some of the greatest athletes in the world looked like they were wearing cement shoes on the defensive end.
Essentially, the greatest collection of basketball talent on the planet was beaten because they couldn't do things I was taught to do in basketball camps before I even had hair under my arms (college).
No disrespect intended to the Greek team, who were certainly impressive. The reigning European champions play a disciplined team game that is impressive to watch, even if it is rarely pretty. With only one (perhaps two) NBA-caliber players on their roster, the Greek team dominated the second half and played the game of their lives when that was exactly what they needed. But let's be honest. In the name of sweet Athena's ghost, there is no way we should have lost that game.
During the commercial breaks that were refreshingly infrequent during ESPN's coverage, Sony Pictures purchased a large portion of the thirty second advertising spots to promote the new film Crossover. The movie, which opened today to a critical ####-slapping, appears to be the riveting story o####roup of urban youths playing a rough and tumble brand of street ball that requires them to slam dunk over rows of Yamaha motorcycles and play in a massive chain-link cage, all the while subjecting themselves to the horror that is Wayne Brady, serious actor.
The previews for this affront to both film and sport got me thinking. I can't help but deduce that the recent struggles of the American national team and the rise of the street ball craze in this country can't be entirely mutually exclusive. Don't get me wrong, I like to see a basketball player dribble the ball off his opponent's face as much as the next guy. And I don't think Oscar Robertson or Bob Cousy could have tucked the ball under their jersey and sprinted down the court with the flair that the And 1 Mixtape players do. The street ball exhibition games are entertaining, and it's not difficult to understand why so many kids are enthralled with the brand of basketball that has given rise to players with names like Hot Sauce and The Professor.
But that's exactly what they are at the end of the day: exhibition games. As long as basketball is played with 13 people on the court (ten players per side and three referees), alley-oops off the shot clock are not going to fly. Somewhere along the basketball time line, probably midway between the four corners offense and Hot Sauce, American basketball passed the precarious point where fundamental skill and raw athletic showmanship met harmoniously. And now the international talent is good enough to expose that flaw in our domestic game.
Street ball alone is not to blame for the diminishing interest the young basketball fan seems to have for the more subtle aspects of the game. The American sporting public in general has become obsessed with the highlight play. The slam dunk, the homerun, and the one-handed catch are the types of plays that get the attention of obnoxious sports anchors. It's hard to justify yelling "Boom-Shaka-Laka," when a guy hits a 15-foot jumper, or "Siyanora Mr. Miyagi!" when he makes a perfect two-handed chest pass. That would be ridiculous. There are numerous factors that have contributed to the holes in American fundamentals, the street-ball phenomenon being only one of the more obvious contributors.
So where do we go from here? Well, I'm going home for the day, still bitter that I'll never get those hours of sweet sleep back. Team USA goes into the Bronze medal game in a matter of hours against an Argentinean group just as disciplined as the Greek team, but more talented and experienced in international competition.
And USA Basketball as an institution? I suppose that remains to be seen. Bringing in Coach K to instill a more disciplined approach was certainly a step in the right direction, but there's only so much he can do. It's starting to look like Wayne Brady will get an Oscar before American ballers dominate the international game the way they once did.
I'm a man who enjoys the simple things in life. A good silk jogging suit. Rhinestone glasses and intravenous viagra. But one of my absolute favorite things to do is dress down little weasels who think they know more about football than me. I'm Al Davis. That's right. Ask your great grandmothers who rolled through their towns taking names and they'll tell you it was me, Al Davis.
In my day when you thought a guy was senile you handled it with honor. You snuck him away in the middle of the night, gave him some electroshock therapy and a bit of the old Chinese Water Torture, and the next day he was back at his high stress job, scouring the FBI's most wanted list for new long snapping talent. But after a few of my offseason moves this year I have been hearing about a lot of yellow journalists and internet homosexuals calling me senile and attacking the Oakland Raiders. Let me tell you something. The Raiders are beyond reproach. The greatest franchise in the history of professional sports was created by God himself and given to mankind as an apology for the mosquito. Remember that next time you criticize me, Al Davis.
It all started when I brought back Art Shell as head coach. People said that he was the only one who would take the job, but that's not true. He was the only one who would accept being paid in vouchers for delicious hot wings at local Hooters restaurants. Art Shell is a real Raider. He's old school. He understands how to deal with players. When a player talks back to you the best thing to do is call his mother vile names. If that doesn't work you use violence. That's how you build a winner. The last time I fired Art Shell I made a big mistake. I went on to hire a series of coaches who wanted to earn a competitive wage. I learned my lesson. I may be omnipresent, but I'm still human.
Then people started flapping their gums when we made the decision to hire Tom Walsh as our offensive coordinator. Just because he had been out of football longer than Saturday Night Live has been on the air and was running a bed and breakfast when we called him they think the guy doesn't know football. Let me tell you something. I####uy can get splooge stains out of a California king-size comforter, trim a hedge into the shape of an elephant, and bake peach cobbler for 30 all in the same day, by God I think he can draw up some plays to get Randy Belitnikoff the ball. Sure, we've had to teach him some things about the "modern NFL." We've had to remind him that the goal posts are in the back of the end zone now, but that's beside the point. It reminds me of when I hired John Madden a few years ago. I had to discipline him repeatedly for eating on the sidelines. Every time I looked down there Madden was stuffing his face with turducken. One time I went into the locker room at halftime and he was roasting a pig in there. He'd stapled pork chops to the body and stuffed a Big Mac in its mouth instead of an apple. But we dealt with the situation like men. We dealt with it like Raiders. And now John Madden is a hall of famer, taking his place along great Raiders of the past like Abraham Lincoln, Jean-Paul Sartre, and the great Aztec ruler Cuitlahuac.
And last but not least, everyone's been busting my balls about signing Jeff George the other day. I had no intention of signing Jeff George. I was content to go into the season with our current quarterback roster of Jeff Hostetler, Dan Marino, Vince Leinart and Jean-Claude Van Damme. But then I heard a story that made me rethink my whole philosophy on our season. Two weeks ago Jeff George is sitting around his house in Georgia when his 19 year old Slovenian mail order bride asks him to open a jar of pickles that was being a real ####. This Jeff George tries to open the jar and shatters it in his hand. The man's right arm is so strong he shattered a whole jar of Vlasic dills like it was made of balsa wood. If that's not the mark o####reat quarterback then by God I don't know what is. He can throw the ball far people. And by far, I mean damn far.
So I say this to the Raider Nation, the most loyal, bloodthirsty, and sexually attractive group of fans in America. As your sovereign Lord and master, I command you never to doubt me. I was there when they built the pyramids. I was there at the moment Ken Stabler was conceived when his mother decided to tangle with a bolt of lightening. The glory days of the Raiders are returning. I just heard from a scout that there's a guy who was just arrested here in Oakland for nearly kicking a man's head clean off. If things go well, Sebastian Janikowski might be getting traded.
It didn't strike me at all the first few times I saw it. Just another NBA-themed movie promotion aiming to coax a few more sunburned summer bodies into ten-dollar theatre seats. I suppose we've all become a bit numb to David Stern's marketing machine. It is, after all, part of the league's promotional strategy to produce a 30-second pat-on-the-back advert every time one of its 500 or so millionaire players reads Dr. Seuss to a classroom of underprivileged kids. But on a championship June evening, one commercial among the sea of Madison Avenue sludge made a lasting impression on me.
The concept was simple: rapid-fire images of Shaquille O'Neal dunking the ball and grabbing rebounds intercut with clips from the upcoming Superman flick. The logo on the Caped Crusader's chest merging with the faded tattoo on the Diesel's arm. Special effects and highlights. Movie heroism and sporting heroism. The Big Icy Hot selling us the next summer blockbuster.
But these weren't clips of O'Neal ripping down the basket as a lean young star in Orlando, or extending his giant right paw three feet above the rim to throw down a Kobe lob against the Blazers in the Western Conference Finals. This was the current incarnation of the Diesel: still larger than life, but heavy and slow, no longer the go-to guy on his own team. Booming sound effects and exploding graphics couldn't make Shaquille that player again. Not even for 30 seconds.
And instead of Christopher Reeve and Gene Hackman playing comic book chess with the future of humanity, Kevin Spacey and some chiseled cheekbone kid I've never heard of stood in their place. The movie sequences looked computer-graphic slick, big budget modern, and the important details seemed familiar. But in the end it just didn't feel quite the same.
It was the same as watching Shaq labor through this year's NBA Finals. There were momentary flashes during the series when we got to see the dominant player we once knew, but it was never sustained and didn't feel right. While Dwyane Wade was busy establishing himself as the new face of professional basketball with a one-man show for the ages, the player who had carried that mantle since the retirement of Michael Jordan was left lurking in the shadows, rarely even given the opportunity to touch the ball down the stretch of the most important games of the season.
O'Neal's diminished performance can't be written off as the result of technicalities like free throw problems. When the Lakers beat the Indiana Pacers in the 2000 NBA Finals, Shaq had a miserable time from the line, shooting just over 38% for the series. But he still managed to average 38 points while carrying the Lakers to victory and winning Finals MVP. The "hack-a-Shaq" strategy was devised during his most dominant Laker years, and the big fella never let it temper the tenacity of his play.
Shaquille would probably like us to believe that his deteriorating numbers are merely the result of his deference to the emerging genius of Dwyane Wade. While Shaq has an undeniable superstar serving as his right hand man these days, he was never comfortable sharing the spotlight with Kobe Bryant, who, for all his faults, has the ability to be every bit as spectacular in a seven game series as Wade was. The lasting impression of his relationship with Kobe will always be tainted by the rancorous way his stay in Los Angeles ended. But the big man's baritone Wade is the best in the World rhetoric after game six sounded su####iously like the Kobe is the best player in the World rhetoric Shaq used on occasion during the happier times in La-La land. If O'Neal still had the same ability to dominate, it's a fair assumption that he wouldn't be nearly as content taking a back seat to the emerging Wade.
Simply put, and as difficult as it is to admit, Shaq's physical abilities have deteriorated to the point that he is hardly recognizable when compared to clips from just a few seasons ago. It's obvious to anyone who watches the games objectively. He no longer utilizes the turnaround finesse jumpers and rhythmically sweeping footwork that combined with his unmatched strength to set him apart from every other power player in the league. The big man ballet O'Neal danced in the lane every night was as much a hallmark of his game as the two handed monster dunk that comprised his shoe logo. Now virtually anything he throws up outside seven feet from the basket fails to get higher than the rim. He's still deadly within arm's length of the hoop, but the changing defensive rules in the NBA have allowed teams to more effectively deny him the deep catches he now requires to score.
While the reviews for the newest incarnation of Superman have yet to make their way to newsstands, the reviews for the new and far from improved Shaquille O'Neal came in Tuesday night, and they were universally positive. How could anyone, even the most rabid Lakers fan, not be thrilled to see the big guy up on the championship podium again, beaming that million dollar smile from ear to ear? The fact that he didn't carry this Heat team to a title won't matter twenty years from now when Shaq's career is discussed in retrospect. Shaquille O'Neal is back where he belongs, in the NBA winner's circle, and it ultimately matters little that he had to play second-fiddle to make it there again. His performance may not have been dominating, but when the NBA's final history is written, his legacy will be.
I have dreaded seeing the Superman series remade, but maybe I should give this new Man of Steel a chance. I mean, if you had told me several years ago that Shaquille O'Neal would score nine points in the clinching game of the NBA Finals, and his team would come out on top, I wouldn't have believed it. Two great American brands, linked by an upper arm tattoo and now by a silly commercial, have changed before our eyes. The Big Aristotle has gotten older and slower, while the Caped Crusader has gotten younger and flashier. Those of us who haven't been lucky enough to catch a sneak preview of the Hollywood remake can't yet attest to whether it is good enough to carry the brand name. But as the NBA Finals came to a close Wednesday night with all the blinding lights of victory shining on Dwyane Wade and his supporting cast, we all got a glimpse of an aged Shaquille O'Neal, his wife at his side, reminding us that while newer isn't always better, sometimes it's more than good enough.
San Diego, California - APP (Associated Pretend Press)
In what insiders are describing as a surprising, yet justifiable, roster move, Fox Sports waived promising young sportswriting prospect joshhoskins55 today, mere weeks after naming him a finalist for the prestigious Next Great Sportswriter award.
The decision sent shock waves through the Hoskins community, where Josh had been regarded as a favorite since posting his first blog article in May to a virtually non-existent audience. His mother, Lori, was contacted by APP for comment, but her response was laced with profanity too heinous to be read by decent, hardworking Americans. His beautiful girlfriend, Kristen, who the APP regards as way too good for him anyway, did have this to say:
"I think Josh deserved to win this contest because he is the best writer ever! I have been trying to get him to mention me in his blog for a long time now. Maybe this decision by Fox will prove to him that he should have written about me a long time ago. Maybe now that he's been knocked back down to Earth he'll take out the trash without me having to ask him all the time."
Hoskins rose from obscurity to prominence on the basis of articles on topics as varied as geeky ex-baseball players and baseless claims that Mel Kiper, Jr. is a robot in disguise. When asked for comment regarding Josh's dismissal, Mel Kiper, Jr., stood behind the decision.
"I think Josh deserved to finish fourth," Kiper said in some type of sophisticated digital code that took the APP eleven hours and a secret decoder ring to break, "his time in the forty at the combine was slower than Sebastian Janikowski's back in 2000, and I find him slightly creepier than Janikowski. That's saying a lot considering Janikowski carries around GHB daily and I'm a robot. Oh ####, did I just say I'm a robot? I meant to say that I'm a highly entertaining NFL Draft analyst."
It seemed several weeks ago that Hoskins was one of the front runners to finish the season as Fox Sports' next contributor. He finished the first round of the finals in the lead, after receiving high praise from the judges. But several disappointing showings in recent weeks put his status as the next great next great sportswriter in question. Some readers believed it was only a matter of time before Hoskins was stripped of the prestigious Wendy's ####y Chicken logo brandished on the blogs of participating writers. For Hoskins, the absence of that corporate insignia next to his name was a sobering experience.
"One minute I'm wolfing down ####y chicken sandwiches and suffering from brutal chocolate Frosty-induced brain freeze, and the next minute I'm nothing. No ####y chicken. No NGS. Just the lingering effects of indigestion and failure for a blogger who just got blogged in the blog. This sucks man."
Hoskins' agent Randy Raphael, nicknamed "the Fur Coat" because of his matted carpet of salt and pepper chest hair, was also dejected at the news of his client's dismissal.
"Josh is by far my most talented client, and that's saying a lot, 'cuz I represent a midget sword-swallower who actually gets the sword to come out his rear end. You should see it. It's wicked awesome. That takes talent, but this Josh has supreme ability. I mean the guy writes like his fingers are ten rabid chinchillas. He's got it man. But enough about that, would you be interested in hiring an Ecuadorian bear wrestler for your next bachelor party or bah mitzvah? How about a guy with ten rabid chinchilla fingers? Does that interest you? He's free all week for appointments."
What happens with Hoskins' career from this point remains to be seen. While some find him to be a burgeoning genius, others find him to be nothing more than a self-indulgent douchebag. He is now on the waiver wire. If he is not claimed within 15 days, he becomes a free agent and can be hired by any publication. His vast knowledge of bird calls would make him an intriguing option for the staff of Bird Calls Quarterly, while his complete lack of social grace or charm would make him an ideal candidate to write for Maxim. What does appear certain at this point is that Hoskins' affiliation with Fox has been terminated as quickly as it began.
"I have taken down the Sean Hannity picture hanging above my bed and returned the limited edition lithograph of Dogs Playing Poker that was there before," Hoskins said through muffled sobs. "You haven't heard the last of Joshua David Hoskins! Not by a long shot. Unless of course, I'm never able to get a writing job and I die penniless and alone. Then you have heard the last of Joshua David Hoskins!"
When Udonis Haslem left the court for good on Sunday night, hunched over and clutching his aching left shoulder, things could not have been much worse for the Miami Heat.
Down 15 points to the Mavericks in game two of the NBA Finals, Miami appeared old and overmatched for the second consecutive game. The potential loss of their best defender, and one of only two contributing players younger than 29, compounded the frustration radiating from the aging Miami bench.
But after several days of speculation Haslem returned last night, turning in his best effort of the series thus far and helping Miami secure a dramatic game three victory. Willis Reed he certainly wasn’t, but on a night when Dwyane Wade’s brilliant 42-point showing generated the sexy sporting headlines, it was the quiet effort of a hobbled Haslem that personified Miami's performance.
Haslem, the Florida native who spent his formative years rooting for the Heat, played 34 minutes in game three, roughly five minutes above his postseason average. He managed to pull down eight impressive offensive rebounds, 11 total boards, and added eight points and three steals, including a vital theft of Dallas point guard Jason Terry in a one point game with just over a minute remaining.
Udonis is known around the league as a hustle player. Undrafted out of college, he has relied on a solid work ethic and relentless energy to make a name for himself in the NBA. But his effort was more driven than usual last night, more desperate. Every couple of minutes he could be found flinging his body around the court, diving for any loose ball within his reach, ignoring the grimace-inducing pain shooting through his shoulder each time he hit the floor.
It was the kind of commitment that Pat Riley desperately needed from his Heat players, who, in his own words, played most of the game as though they were “stuck in mud.” Luckily for Riley, Haslem’s effort, combined with Dwyane Wade’s unflinching will to win, were enough to get the Heat a season-salvaging result.
Not bad for a player who couldn’t lift his left arm above his head without intense pain.
Haslem’s contributions to the Heat’s cause on Tuesday went well beyond mere inspiration, though. While his energy certainly provided his teammates and the Fruit of the Loom white sea of fans in American Airlines Arena with a huge emotional lift, it was his defending of Dirk Nowitzki in the game's crucial moments that had as much to do with the Heat’s win as Dwyane Wade’s offensive explosion.
In game two of the series, which saw Haslem sit out virtually the entire second half, Nowitzki shot eight of ten from the field on his way to a 26-point, 16-rebound night. Tuesday, with an active Haslem pestering the gangly German for most of his 34 minutes on the floor, Nowitzki needed twice as many shots to get 30 points, while shooting less than 50 percent from the field, and gathering just seven rebounds for the entire contest.
Coach Riley must have believed that despite his physical limitations Haslem would provide the Heat with an invaluable spark at the end of the game. With his team trailing by their largest margin of the evening, twelve points, and with just eight-and-a-half minutes remaining, Riley sent Haslem, along with Shaquille O’Neal and Jason Williams, back into the game after an unusually short rest. It was a desperate ploy aimed at reversing a Dallas run that was threatening to put the game, and the series, well beyond Miami’s reach.
While Shaq and Williams were virtually invisible during the game’s dying moments, over the last eight-and-a-half minutes of the fourth quarter Haslem managed to stifle Nowitzki. While Miami whittled away at the Dallas lead, Nowitzki was limited to five points on only one field goal, turning the ball over twice and unable to grab a single rebound after Haslem returned to the floor.
If that alone wasn’t impressive enough, Haslem coolly dropped two free throws with just over a minute remaining to put the Heat ahead 94-93, and erase what would prove to be Dallas’ final lead of the evening. With all the fuss surrounding Shaq’s two made free-throws with 1:47 left in the fourth, Haslem’s vital shots with a bum shoulder almost a minute later seem every bit as important in retrospect.
It’s the type of contribution that doesn’t typically translate in a box score or a four-minute Sportscenter highlight, but makes an indelible impression on players and coaches in both locker rooms.
The question now is: What impact will Haslem’s performance have on his teammates?
In a game the Heat absolutely had to win, Haslem did everything possible to keep the series going, playing harder than any Miami player not named Dwyane, until the rest of his teammates finally decided to match him sometime around the middle of the fourth quarter. Despite their rousing win last night, the Heat players should be doing some soul searching today. What does it mean to a team when a 26-year-old player with just three years of NBA experience and a damaged shoulder out-works virtually every player they put on the floor?
That’s a question that players like Jason Williams and Antoine Walker should be asking themselves today. The energy and dedication of Udonis Haslem should be an infectious influence in the Heat locker room. If the Heat don’t embrace the Haslem attitude for 48 minutes over the course of the remaining games of this series, and decide to wait until the midway through the fourth quarter to play with desperate intensity, they don’t deserve an NBA Championship, and that beautiful golden trophy will almost certainly retain residence in the Lone Star State for another year.
I'll never forget my first time. It was romantic, in an awkward, coming-of-age kind of way. My parents were out running errands and I had the house to myself, only a platonic friend there to experience the newness with me. I’ll always remember the embarrassed, fumbling hesitancy, then the premature celebration, followed directly by humiliated crying.
Yes, watching my favorite team play in the NBA Finals for the first time was strangely magical.
Fans in Dallas and Miami find themselves staring down their respective teams' first trip to the NBA Finals. They’re wide-eyed newcomers to all of this. I know how they feel, groping through the pubescent darkness of the sporting unknown, only a dimly oozing lava lamp and a skipping Boyz II Men CD to guide them.
I have been lucky enough to watch the Lakers play in five NBA Finals since my horrified adolescent eyes witnessed them being swept by the Pistons in 1989. I'm only in my mid-twenties, but my affinity for one of basketball's most successful franchises has made me a grizzled Finals veteran. I've experienced it all. My boys have swept and been swept. They've choked the life out of their opposition and just plain choked. From Magic to Madsen, Kareem (Abdul-Jabbar) to Kareem (Rush), I've witnessed every pulse-quickening, hair-pulling moment of it.
With that in mind I'd like to provide the average Heat and Mavericks fan with my own NBA Finals primer, just to give them an idea of some of the experiences that lie ahead. I know they've been through a lot already. The playoffs started back in April with games on NBA TV, for the love of David Stern. But that was child’s play. You are about to subject your body and mind to one of the most rigorous tests known to the modern sports fan, the NBA Finals. Good luck and God speed brave souls.
Your Production at Work Will Slow to a Gheorghe Muresan Pace
Begin faking the wheezing cough right away. Complain of a developing sore throat to any coworker within earshot. Lay the groundwork now for the excuse you’ll need later. When that report isn’t finished by the deadline, or the flame-broiler isn’t as clean as the manager demanded, you’re going to need a better excuse than, “I was preoccupied with trying to figure out how we’ll be able to beat that damn matchup zone tonight.”
You Will Want to Strangle the Other Team’s PA Announcer
Thank the Chicago Bulls for this one. At some point during the 90’s someone in the Windy City decided it would be a good idea to turn pre-game introductions into a KISS concert. Every other NBA team has followed suit, with the phenomenon reaching its zenith in the 2004 Finals in Detroit, when I timed pre-game introductions at just short of nine hours. Seriously, the PA guy in Detroit takes an hour and a half just to call out Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Buh Ben Ben Ben Ben W W W W W W W Wall Wallace’s name. If ABC televises the starting lineup announcements, be prepared for an exhausting pyrotechnics bonanza that will stretch your patience further than Stephen A. Smith ever has. But it’ll only bother you when your team plays on the road. Excessive introductions in the hometown arena will get you friggin’ totally amped.
The Referees Will Screw Your Team Out of at Least One Win
Or so you’ll believe. Seeing the same referees every game with this much on the line will send you spiraling into Michael Moore conspiracy theory mode. You’ll pick apart the box scores and compare how many free throws each team shot in the fourth quarter. You’ll scream, “let them play!” when your team is on defense and “call a foul!” when they have the ball, but it won’t matter in the end. Just save yourself the aggravation and write one game off to horrible officiating before the first whistle is blown.
**This advice is especially relevant for Mavs fans because, as Mark Cuban will attest, the referees around the NBA have it out for you. In fact, before the champagne-soaked Western Conference Champions T-shirt had been peeled away from his fleshy man-boobs, Cuban was already compiling video evidence proving the referees are favoring Miami in this series.
An Opposing Fan Will Hold a Homemade Sign That Will Make You Want to Fly Cross-Country and Beat Him
The most infuriating signs usually involve horribly ridiculous anagrams formed from the name of the network broadcasting the series, or a popular player or coach. You will recognize the worst of them right away, but they will probably carry slogans such as:
MiAmi HeatSimplyA lways
Basketball THe Very
Champions GreAtest atEnergetic
BasQuetballRight
Yasmine Bleeth?
These signs are asinine and make no sense whatsoever, but don’t give in to temptation and fly halfway across the country to hunt down some kid who made a ridiculous sign in his garage with poster board and a magic marker. First of all, plane tickets are expensive these days. We’re at the beginning of summer vacation season, and you’ll be getting them last minute. Besides, you may be forced to sit through an entire Adam Sandler movie on the flight. It’s just not worth it. Put your trust in Natural Selection. The idiotic sign makers will get their comeuppance in the form of a schoolyard bully, or rabid wild boar, soon enough.
Your Girlfriend (Or Boyfriend) Just Won’t Understand
I once had a girlfriend who made the mistake of mockingly laughing “Ha Ha” as the other team celebrated an NBA Finals victory over the Lakers. Needless to say I realized quite quickly she wasn’t “the one.” Fortunately this event took place early in our relationship, as I don’t believe “disparaging remarks in reference to the Los Angeles Lakers” would have constituted grounds for divorce. Explain to your significant other ahead of time the magnitude of the event, and let her (or him) know that such disrespect cannot be tolerated. If she (or he) loves you, she (or he) will give you some breathing room. Promise to take her (or him) to the next Reese Witherspoon movie as soon as the series ends. That should smooth things over just right.
Your CWPM (Curse Words Per Minute) Rate Will Skyrocket the Next Two Weeks
You may be a preacher by day. You may counsel orphans and volunteer in a soup kitchen during your spare time. But as soon as game one tips off you will find yourself overcome with the desire to curse like Andrew Dice Clay getting a bikini wax. Just remember that it’s not you talking, it’s the pressure. When you start screaming at the television about some heinous act involving an opposing player and an invertebrate member of the animal kingdom, don’t beat yourself up over it. This is the NBA Finals. The god you believe in will understand. I believe the good book states, “Thou shalt not be smitten for transgressions against your fellow man during the NBA Finals.” Maybe I’m paraphrasing a bit, but you get the idea. Let the expletives fly!
Finally, if the Other Team’s Star Players Begin Appearing on Letterman and Leno……
…..well, there’s always next year (Unless you’re a Heat fan. Sorry, this is your only chance).
Through speeding train windows the landscape dissolves into flashing images that zip from left to right or right to left, depending on where you sit. Traveling from Fremont to Hayward, and then on to San Leandro, the skyline squats noticeably lower. New-model cars deteriorate into salvage. It’s a public transit stop-action-animation journey into a different Bay Area, worlds away from faux-hippie tourist traps and photo-op lookout points. You are now entering Too Short’s territory. Welcome to the East Bay. Welcome to the home of the Oakland Athletics.
All angular gray concrete, the stadium I still refer to as the Oakland Coliseum (formerly Network Associates Coliseum; currently McAfee Coliseum; ultimately to be known as Your Name Here Coliseum) would likely be an eyesore in just about any neighborhood. Unfortunately the 40-year-old structure complements its surroundings all too well. The stadium is flanked on one end by the antiquated, and ingeniously titled, Oakland Arena. On the other side lies a drying, stagnant riverbed choked with refuse. Crumbling neighborhoods stretch out in every direction. Sirens wail in the distance. There are no restaurants or nightlife nearby, no atmosphere or excitement. Only a staggered mass of A’s fans methodically making their way from the parking lot to the entrance gates, attempting to ignore the economic and social depression bearing down on them from all sides.
When I attended the opening game of the A’s/Devil Rays series in early May it had been almost six years since I had last visited the Oakland Coliseum. Time has a way of softening our brutal impressions of people and places, and the years had coerced me into a more affectionate recollection of the place. Loyalty to the green and gold had transformed the beast into a homely but harmless little toddler that only a mother, or an A’s fan, could love. I convinced myself that what it lacked in amenities and location, it made up for with guile and character. As I approached the ticket window before that game against the D-Rays, all the realities of the Oakland Coliseum oozed over me like the sludge lining that nearby riverbed.
To put it bluntly, Oakland Coliseum has become a pit. One of the most beautiful stadiums in American sports during the initial years of its existence, the stadium has been battered nearly to rubble by local economic depression and the return of the Raiders. The stadium was originally open above center field, and on a relatively smog-free day fans took in picturesque views of the rolling foothills mere miles away.
But renovations in 1996, intended to make it more football-friendly, enclosed the stadium completely, leaving fans no alternative but to stare at the offensive Everest of seats that now towers above the rest of the park. Sarcastically referred to by fans as “Mount Davis,” after Al Davis, the maniacal owner of the Raiders who helped instrument the structural changes, this heinous addition has turned the Coliseum into a slugger-stifling pitchers’ park, and gone a long way toward giving the stadium all the ambiance of a proctologist’s office.
Before
After
But the place should bleed ambiance. History should radiate from its corridors and concourses. Since the A’s moved to the Coliseum in 1968 the likes of Reggie Jackson, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers, Vida Blue, Dennis Eckersley, and Mark McGwire have cultivated their legend on its field. The old building has hosted an All-Star Game, witnessed five 100-win seasons, five no-hitters, thirteen American League Western Division winners, six American League pennant winners, and four World Series Champions. Ricky Henderson surpassed Lou Brock with a head first slide into its third base dust, and Jose Canseco put the finishing touches on the first 40/40 season in baseball history with a hook slide into second.
I should have had those glorious moments rattling through my memory as I maneuvered toward my seat. I didn’t. All I could think about was the wafting cloud of poverty hanging in the air around us.
What to do with the A’s has been a hot topic of conversation in the Bay Area for several years now. Desperate to escape the slumping revenue and urban decay that have become synonymous with the city of Oakland, the team initially sought to relocate to one of the booming boroughs of the Silicon Valley.
Santa Clara was prominently mentioned early on as a potential location, but the San Francisco Giants legally claim the Silicon Valley as their turf, which ruled out the possibility of the A’s moving there. Rumors circulated that the previous owners were considering moving the team out of California completely, with baseball-hungry markets like Las Vegas and San Antonio reportedly salivating at the opportunity to lure the A’s eastward.
But a new ownership team stepped in last year and brought the organizational philosophy full circle. Plans are slowly moving forward to create a 35,000 seat, baseball-only facility as part of a sports and entertainment complex that would stream jobs and revenue back into the Oakland economy. It’s a strategy that could provide tremendous humanitarian benefits. In a city with a murder rate three and a half times the national average, and roughly one of every five residents living in poverty, professional baseball, and all of its requisite economic and social benefits, is desperately needed in Oakland.
A cushy stadium in suburban Santa Clara or under the humming Vegas neon would have been the easy way to go. The Oakland A’s now appear committed to sticking it out in the East Bay, serving as the cornerstone of an effort to revitalize the community that has supported them since their arrival in moving trucks from Kansas City four decades ago.
The A’s lost that early May battle with the lowly Devil Rays in front of a measly 12,000 spectators, and I felt the sting of their performance as I boarded the train for the exodus from Oakland. But baseball vanished from my thoughts when the wheels below me creaked into motion. The scenery on the way home was cloaked in breezy Bay Area darkness, giving my mind space to wander. I imagined the same deteriorating cityscape in reverse, low slung hovels sprouting into skyscrapers, flat tires filling with oxygen, graffiti magically whitewashed into oblivion. Then I imagined that I was once again going north, face-first into the aching city of Oakland, revived by the simple concept of baseball enveloped in a shiny new package of hope and renewal.
We were kids inhabiting a planet that spun on a Louisville Slugger axis, and the cards were our reward for good drugstore behavior. My cousin Jeff and I followed our mothers silently down makeup and soap aisles awaiting our dollar pack of Topps baseball cards, complete with that glorious stick of balsa wood gum that crumbled in our mouths and required every liquid ounce of saliva we could muster just to get to a chewable consistency. Thirty minutes of torturous eight-year-old composure got us all that remuneration.
Ken Phelps was tucked into one of those wax-paper-wrapped packs. I remember the exact moment Jeff and I discovered him. We were flipping through our newest bundles of cards in the living room of my grandparents’ house one afternoon, our excitement tempered by the trouble we would find ourselves in if we woke my napping grandfather. From a stack of action photos of anonymous bench sitters Phelps appeared to us, equal parts Charlie Chaplin and Rick Moranis; a wacky imposter in a baseball uniform. He dared us to interrupt the geriatric silence in the house and we accepted the challenge, rolling on the carpet, wallowing in the kind of laughter that can only engulf a child.
From that moment Ken Phelps became our symbol of the absurd. He was the band geek of baseball. He was the right fielder on our Little League team who stood with his back to the plate, gnawing on his glove and staring at passing trains while a batted ball rolled between his legs unnoticed. He was the kid in our Boy Scout troop who whipped up a soufflé just to get a ridiculous cooking merit badge. Ken Phelps was the embodiment of everything uncool, and that worthless card became the butt of the greatest of all our childhood inside jokes.
