I mean, honestly, what else do I have to say?
The man is already a legend.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
FGD Double Addendum
With the 19th pick of the 2008 NBA Draft, the Cleveland Cavaliers flat-out ignore all the players I mentioned below and select J.J. Hickson, a 6-9 power forward from North Carolina State.
While he may be a bit undersized to play the 4 in the NBA, Hickson's a great athlete, a good shooter and a powerful finisher, which is something LeBron needs. Some say he could have been a lottery pick if he had stayed another year in college. There appear to be questions about his work ethic, but unless your name is Ricky Davis, you don't slack off on a LeBron team. Period.
Hickson, only 19 years old, is a solid pick-up at this spot in the draft. Chad Ford even calls him a "sleeper."
Grade: B+
Now let's see if the Cavs pry a second-round pick from the Sonics, who have four of them.
While he may be a bit undersized to play the 4 in the NBA, Hickson's a great athlete, a good shooter and a powerful finisher, which is something LeBron needs. Some say he could have been a lottery pick if he had stayed another year in college. There appear to be questions about his work ethic, but unless your name is Ricky Davis, you don't slack off on a LeBron team. Period.
Hickson, only 19 years old, is a solid pick-up at this spot in the draft. Chad Ford even calls him a "sleeper."
Grade: B+
Now let's see if the Cavs pry a second-round pick from the Sonics, who have four of them.
FGD Addendum
Not 30 minutes after my Cavs draft post, it came to my attention that the Milwaukee Bucks were close to sending Bobby Simmons and Yi Jianlian to New Jersey for Richard Jefferson.
This could be huge for the Cavs. Why is this huge? Because the Cavs really want to pair Michael Redd with LeBron. We've wanted to for years. Now that the Bucks are rebuilding, they're looking to acquire new talent and unload some players with big contracts, most notably, Simmons and Redd. In addition to the 19th pick, one of the Cavs' most valuable trade pieces is Anderson Varejao, who is entering, for all intents and purposes, a contract year. He wants to go somewhere he can get minutes and prove his worth.
One of the potential destinations is Milwaukee. Since the Cavs matched Varejao's offer sheet last December, Varejao and his agent, Dan Fegan, have the right to approve or veto a trade for a period of one year after the offer sheet signing. Varejao could get what he wants in Milwaukee, but Fegan isn't thrilled about that option because he also represents another Bucks forward, someone who would be competing against Varejao for playing time. Which forward? Yi Jianlian.
If the Cavs add couple more assets...you do the math. Stay tuned.
This could be huge for the Cavs. Why is this huge? Because the Cavs really want to pair Michael Redd with LeBron. We've wanted to for years. Now that the Bucks are rebuilding, they're looking to acquire new talent and unload some players with big contracts, most notably, Simmons and Redd. In addition to the 19th pick, one of the Cavs' most valuable trade pieces is Anderson Varejao, who is entering, for all intents and purposes, a contract year. He wants to go somewhere he can get minutes and prove his worth.
One of the potential destinations is Milwaukee. Since the Cavs matched Varejao's offer sheet last December, Varejao and his agent, Dan Fegan, have the right to approve or veto a trade for a period of one year after the offer sheet signing. Varejao could get what he wants in Milwaukee, but Fegan isn't thrilled about that option because he also represents another Bucks forward, someone who would be competing against Varejao for playing time. Which forward? Yi Jianlian.
If the Cavs add couple more assets...you do the math. Stay tuned.
Ferry Genuine Draft
The 2008 NBA Draft is upon us, which has people all over the pro basketball map buzzing. For Chicago Miami
Since selecting that one dude from
In any case, the NBA Draft is one of the best ways to build your team, and while the No. 19 selection probably isn't going to land us a hall-of-famer, it can be used to fortify what's already a pretty good roster. The chips have fallen relatively in our favor, seeing as how three of our bigs are over 30 years of age and this class is ripe with potential replacements.
Before we get to that, however, the most popular rumors floating around the Cavs these days involve trading the pick and a couple players (cough cough Anderson Varejao, cough cough Wally Szczerbiak) elsewhere in hopes of landing a bona-fide all-star (cough cough Michael Redd). This is unlikely for a number of reasons - although it doesn't mean an acquisition of such magnitude won't be made later this year - so for right now, I'll just focus on the draft.
One trade that seems more realistic is the Cavs acquiring Golden State's pick at No. 14, all but assuring the selection of Kansas' Brandon Rush, an athletic swingman who can defend and hit shots. I wouldn't bet on this coming to fruition, but if the Cavs really want someone like Rush, Memphis' Chris Douglas-Roberts and Western Kentucky's Courtney Lee should still be on the board at No. 19.
However, my gut (along with several hundred draft insiders) tells me the Cavs will likely select a big man with the pick. In that case, here are several of the top candidates who might still be available:
The skinny: Koufos has been described as “the next Zydrunas Ilgauskas”, and that’s not a joke, as much as it may sound like one. Before a rash of injuries, Big Z was very athletic for a man his size (7-3, 250), and Koufos has similar athleticism, as well as Z’s reliable range as a jump-shooter. His passive defense has been knocked, as well as his so-so rebounding and occasional lack of confidence. But he’s young (19), he’s a northeast Ohioan (
The status: Not likely, because several late-lottery teams covet Koufos for the very same reasons.
Robin Lopez, Stanford, 7-0, 245
The skinny: While lesser regarded than his twin brother Brook, this 20-year-old Lopez is an excellent defender, and he’s the kind of tough shot-blocker the Cavaliers didn’t have until Ben Wallace arrived last February. Lopez is bigger and more athletic than Wallace, but he’s also about as dangerous offensively. And he can’t shoot free throws, which means he’ll fit right in with the Cavs.
The status: Several NBA GMs reportedly joked with ESPN insider Chad Ford that Lopez is nowhere near as good as he’s being projected, but while he won’t be the Robin to LeBron’s Batman, this Robin could still be a valuable addition.
Roy Hibbert,
The skinny: What he lacks in explosiveness and quickness, he makes up for with his passing and work ethic. Hibbert is great in the low post at both ends of the floor, but he’ll struggle mightily against big guys with perimeter games (David West, Kevin Garnett, Dirk Nowitzki, etc.). All that said, you can’t teach size, heart and experience, and Hibbert is as NBA-ready as they come these days.
The status: Early iterations of Ford’s mock draft had the Cavs selecting Hibbert, and he’ll most likely be available at No. 19. Questions abound, however, considering the Cavs want to get faster and Hibbert is a throwback center.
DeAndre
The skinny:
The status: As much as I want
Other potential selections include LSU’s Anthony Randolph, Kansas’ Darrell Arthur,
The draft pick is nice, but the Cavs will have to make the big splash through trade, especially with all the expiring contracts heading into next season. Still, given our recent draft drought, here’s hoping we take Jordan, or someone else who can help us continue to improve.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Creative Differences Public Service Announcement For the Men
Honestly, when the message is presented like this, how can you ignore it?
And also, just for fun, you have these guys, who've used their parents' tuition money wisely. You go, Cal Poly!
Now, back to your regularly scheduled day.
And also, just for fun, you have these guys, who've used their parents' tuition money wisely. You go, Cal Poly!
Now, back to your regularly scheduled day.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Creative Differences Takes a Trip: AFL Version
Football. Genesis of my delight from September through (I always hope) early February. Reason for drinking self into a coma every Sunday. In general, the greatest sport (except for playoff hockey and college hoops) in the world. Naturally, arena football must carry some of the same endearing qualities as its bigger, badder older brother, right? Even arena football in Cleveland--right?
Wrong, kind of.
When some family members invited me to see "Gladiators" I was confused. I was pretty sure American Gladiators wasn't switching its filming locations by the week, and I already have the extended edition movie here at the mansion. Finally, upon realizing that it was arena football I was going to be enjoying, and from the fifth row behind the end zone, no less, I started to get excited. So excited that I used some unnecessary commas in that last sentence.
Glory DaysAt this point I'm going to deviate from talking about the game in any way, shape or form. Cleveland won by 12 or 13 in an unusually low-scoring game to clinch a playoff spot. Whoopee. In other news I don't care about, Barack Obama is coming under fire for something or other. Whatever. Anyway, what really matters here, and what really interested me, was the fact that the AFL, which bills itself as the most fan-friendly pro sports league, seems to be quite willing to go to embarrassing lengths to prove it.
I'd say the atmosphere inside The Q was like a minor league baseball game mixed with a circus, but that would be insulting to circuses and minor league baseball teams everywhere. From the "fan attempts a field goal" to the "find the motorcycle helmet while blindfolded (though clearly looking down at the ground visible beneath the blindfold)", every stupid sideshow was represented. There were enough T-shirt tosses to make me consider beating up an old lady, just for giggles. The cheerleaders (sorry, Goddesses, as they're known) look like they just finished a show at Scores, and they have the dance moves of geriatric insurance salesmen.
Whee, action!Honestly, I'm still so much in sensory overload mode from what I saw that I can't really say anything else about the extracurriculars, except that they need some toning down, or go the full monty and get a ringmaster, liontamers with whips and a trapeze artist performing without a net after every score. It can be one or the other, but for my sake, and the sake of all people either over age 11 or with an IQ of more than 50, make up your minds, AFL. I can't take any more T shirt tossing before I start tossing something myself.
Appendix: A quick rundown of all the special activities I can remember
--Multiple T-shirt tosses
--Throwing footballs into the stands after the home team scores
--Blindfolded "Find the helmet"
--Catch a ten-yard pass and sit on the barstool
--Kick a 30-yard field goal (was missed)
--Spin around then hop on one foot while on crutches across the field (no, I'm not making this up)
--Enough fireworks to rouse Helen Keller
--Countless routines by the
--Throw the ball into the uprights
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Faithfully Departed
Dearly beloved, we are gathered today to mourn the loss of two posters, men who have gone missing and must surely be dead. To the family, friends, acquaintances, fans, mooches, fuck buddies, hobos, and Chazz Reinholds who stand before us, let us fondly reflect on the faithfully departed, one Francois Leroux Speedskater and one Brother Love.
Francois Leroux Speedskater
Francois Leroux was a true "speed" skater, an amphetamine addict who couldn't bear to watch the Pirates gleefully cancel the success of the Steelers and Penguins year after year. He lovingly dubbed his Bucco adversaries "the Tony Twists", only his fists could never win this kind of battle.
Perhaps it was two recent job offerings that led to his untimely disappearance from the blog and assumed death. Jan Hrdina visited a few months ago, offering FLS a job in Sweden, to which FLS responded, "I'm never going anywhere with you again!" Shortly after, the Springfield Falcons offered this Penn State journalism graduate a job in their organization, but clearly, FLS would rather die than do anything for them.
Brother Love
As someone without an attachment to Cleveland or Pittsburgh, Brother Love must have gone mad not knowing his place in the blog. It was as if Babe Ruth had been a Yankee after 1973, as if the Phoenix Suns had signed Bryant Reeves. He must have thought it impossible to succeed under such circumstances. He must have seen it as the Rat Pack without Sinatra, the '90 Bulls without Michael Jordan, the Joel Schumacher Batman movies without homoeroticism.
This friendly, hard-drinking Irishman took with him an irrepressible spirit, an affinity for redheads, a tremendous singing voice and an undying hatred of Santa Claus. He, like FLS, will be missed.
Please, a moment of silence on their behalf.
I would be remiss to conclude this conclave without mentioning what Brother Love once mentioned to me, that if we were ever in the unfortunate circumstance of attending his funeral, he would want us to break the walls down partying in his memory.
With that in mind...let us respectfully seize nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.
Francois Leroux SpeedskaterFrancois Leroux was a true "speed" skater, an amphetamine addict who couldn't bear to watch the Pirates gleefully cancel the success of the Steelers and Penguins year after year. He lovingly dubbed his Bucco adversaries "the Tony Twists", only his fists could never win this kind of battle.
Perhaps it was two recent job offerings that led to his untimely disappearance from the blog and assumed death. Jan Hrdina visited a few months ago, offering FLS a job in Sweden, to which FLS responded, "I'm never going anywhere with you again!" Shortly after, the Springfield Falcons offered this Penn State journalism graduate a job in their organization, but clearly, FLS would rather die than do anything for them.
Brother LoveAs someone without an attachment to Cleveland or Pittsburgh, Brother Love must have gone mad not knowing his place in the blog. It was as if Babe Ruth had been a Yankee after 1973, as if the Phoenix Suns had signed Bryant Reeves. He must have thought it impossible to succeed under such circumstances. He must have seen it as the Rat Pack without Sinatra, the '90 Bulls without Michael Jordan, the Joel Schumacher Batman movies without homoeroticism.
This friendly, hard-drinking Irishman took with him an irrepressible spirit, an affinity for redheads, a tremendous singing voice and an undying hatred of Santa Claus. He, like FLS, will be missed.
Please, a moment of silence on their behalf.
I would be remiss to conclude this conclave without mentioning what Brother Love once mentioned to me, that if we were ever in the unfortunate circumstance of attending his funeral, he would want us to break the walls down partying in his memory.
With that in mind...let us respectfully seize nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
An hour of wolves and shattered shields
FYI: That's 32 titles now for the Celtics, Patriots, Bruins and Red SoxEvery year, there are four nights that leave me sullen, gloomy and borderline depressed. Without fail, they occur in early February, early June, mid-June, and late October. They’re the nights of the Super Bowl and the decisive games of the Stanley Cup Finals, NBA Finals and World Series. As a sports fan, I love watching the culmination of an entire season. As a
And you know what? It’s 100 percent jealousy. Plain and simple, it twists my gut to see other teams and fan bases hoist a trophy, especially when our wonderful Cleveland teams constantly find new ways to dump Lake Erie sludge into our hearts.
When the Celtics won the NBA title Tuesday night, I was happy for Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen, who’ve long been two of my favorite players, but I also trudged around listlessly the rest of the evening. When the Red Wings won the Stanley Cup, I saw the joy on the players’ faces, and I wondered what that’s like. When the Giants won the Super Bowl, I sunk even lower into myself, because I love the Browns more than any team in all of sports. When the Red Sox won the World Series, all I could do was shake my head.
If that’s not enough, sports seem to have a way of saying “F-you” to Cleveland once or twice a year through other teams’ championships. The Giants and Red Wings are scot-free, but that Celtics team? Taken to the limit in the second round by the Cavs, who challenged them more than anyone else in the playoffs. That Red Sox team? Pushed to the brink by the Indians, who coughed up a hairball the size of
This isn’t about which city has it worst, either, because frankly, that’s not the point. (For a recent microcosm, however, consider this: Jason Michaels is batting .300 with 18 hits, three home runs and 20 RBIs in 30 games with the Pirates. Know why the Indians traded him to
I wish I could say I take Cubs-esque pride in that, but the truth is I don’t. I just don’t. When Bill Simmons titled his Red Sox opus “Now I Can Die in Peace”, that’s the closest I’ve ever come to identifying with a fan whose favorite team won a championship. As a soccer player in high school, my team won league and district titles my senior season, and I’m proud to say I was an all-league and all-district midfielder who helped lead the way. That gave me an appreciation for moments when likeable, hard-working athletes win titles, but as much as I gush about it now, there has to be a different kind of satisfaction that comes from watching your favorite team do it, right?
I guess I just don’t know. How could I? As a fan, the most awesome thing I’ve ever won is an Eastern Conference championship. I was almost crying in my apartment last summer as the Cavs took down heavily favored
It’s those kinds of glimmers that keep me coming back. I watch as many Browns, Cavs and Indians games as I can, I feel great on the nights they win, and I feel bad on the nights they lose. I pump money into the franchises through purchases of merchandise and tickets every year. I wear my teams on my sleeve, and while I’m also a big fan of
I also put time and effort into keeping myself healthy enough to see the day when
My rooting interests share that sentiment.
The New Texas Rangers
I'm an expert on losing. Watching 15 straight years of it will do that to you. You might think that after 1,324 losses in those 15 years, I'd get kind of numb, and wouldn't be able to differentiate one style of losing from another. Same thing with Jenna Jameson and sex, in theory.
Well, this year's Succos, who are only 3 games under .500, have managed to infuriate me in a new and creative way. For years, the primary problem with the team was an astounding lack of offense. To put it bluntly, there were no good power hitters, no good contact hitters, there weren't even guys that could at least look good striking out. The team would usually have a good pitcher or two, and would play (to my eye) half-decent defense, but they couldn't hit. Eventually, they stopped pitching and fielding passably and decided to suck uniformly around the board. Somewhat disappointing, yes, but it was entertaining in the way that a fiery car wreck involving a bus full of nuns and small children is entertaining.
This year, though, this year it's different and troubling. I don't like change, dammit, and I want my team to lose in predictably heart-breaking ways. It's easy to bitch about them when they don't score runs and lose games 6 to 1, 8 to 2, et cetera. However, this year's team is giving me pains in places I didn't know I could feel by scoring tons of runs (5th in all of baseball going into tonight's action) and yet not being able to crack the mystical (and stupefyingly important to Pirate fans) .500 barrier.
I came to the conclusion tonight that the Pirates are the new Texas Rangers. If this is what life is like being a Rangers fan, albeit with less guns, more mullets, and roughly the same percentage of heart disease among the fanbases, give me back my Pirates of old. I don't like having false hopes. I don't want to believe that my team's offense gives it a chance to win most every game, when I know deep down that my team's pitching staff would get knocked around by Little Sisters of the Poor. I literally can't fucking take watching another Pirates starter throw batting practice for a few innings, fall behind by 4 runs, only to see the Pirates tie it, and then proceed to hemorrhage six or seven more tallies to make the deficit insurmountable. Ian Snell and a few relievers did it tonight, squandering two separate leads on the way to a 16-5 loss that will surely go down in this season's history books as one of the most pathetic in recent memory.
Seriously, it's actually quite easy and often fun to root for a team that doesn't score many runs. You can go to a game thinking, "Maybe this'll be the night they put five or six up and maybe even hit a home run." Even if they don't, there's still a chance they'll string together a good inning or two and win by fluke, if nothing else. Not this year's Pirates. Now, patrons attending home games rightfully expect to see a homer or three and about 5 or 6 runs, and anything less is a disappointment. Luckily for them, the offense usually holds up their end of the bargain. The pitching, on the other hand, usually resembles a little league game, if the little leaguers were getting paid millions of dollars to fall behind in every count and then serve up flat fastballs that yours truly could probably yank out of the yard down the line.
So consider this my plea, Pirates. Please, from the bottom of my heart, I implore you to stop scoring runs. Go back to your no-hit, no-field, barely-pitch days. Take all batting lessons from Adam LaRoche, do something. But above all, stop scoring runs and trying to make me think you're a legitimate baseball team comprised of people that don't have a disability of some kind. It's a little disconcerting to look out on the field and see hitters making contact, and I don't think I like it one bit.
Well, this year's Succos, who are only 3 games under .500, have managed to infuriate me in a new and creative way. For years, the primary problem with the team was an astounding lack of offense. To put it bluntly, there were no good power hitters, no good contact hitters, there weren't even guys that could at least look good striking out. The team would usually have a good pitcher or two, and would play (to my eye) half-decent defense, but they couldn't hit. Eventually, they stopped pitching and fielding passably and decided to suck uniformly around the board. Somewhat disappointing, yes, but it was entertaining in the way that a fiery car wreck involving a bus full of nuns and small children is entertaining.
This year, though, this year it's different and troubling. I don't like change, dammit, and I want my team to lose in predictably heart-breaking ways. It's easy to bitch about them when they don't score runs and lose games 6 to 1, 8 to 2, et cetera. However, this year's team is giving me pains in places I didn't know I could feel by scoring tons of runs (5th in all of baseball going into tonight's action) and yet not being able to crack the mystical (and stupefyingly important to Pirate fans) .500 barrier.
I came to the conclusion tonight that the Pirates are the new Texas Rangers. If this is what life is like being a Rangers fan, albeit with less guns, more mullets, and roughly the same percentage of heart disease among the fanbases, give me back my Pirates of old. I don't like having false hopes. I don't want to believe that my team's offense gives it a chance to win most every game, when I know deep down that my team's pitching staff would get knocked around by Little Sisters of the Poor. I literally can't fucking take watching another Pirates starter throw batting practice for a few innings, fall behind by 4 runs, only to see the Pirates tie it, and then proceed to hemorrhage six or seven more tallies to make the deficit insurmountable. Ian Snell and a few relievers did it tonight, squandering two separate leads on the way to a 16-5 loss that will surely go down in this season's history books as one of the most pathetic in recent memory.
Seriously, it's actually quite easy and often fun to root for a team that doesn't score many runs. You can go to a game thinking, "Maybe this'll be the night they put five or six up and maybe even hit a home run." Even if they don't, there's still a chance they'll string together a good inning or two and win by fluke, if nothing else. Not this year's Pirates. Now, patrons attending home games rightfully expect to see a homer or three and about 5 or 6 runs, and anything less is a disappointment. Luckily for them, the offense usually holds up their end of the bargain. The pitching, on the other hand, usually resembles a little league game, if the little leaguers were getting paid millions of dollars to fall behind in every count and then serve up flat fastballs that yours truly could probably yank out of the yard down the line.
So consider this my plea, Pirates. Please, from the bottom of my heart, I implore you to stop scoring runs. Go back to your no-hit, no-field, barely-pitch days. Take all batting lessons from Adam LaRoche, do something. But above all, stop scoring runs and trying to make me think you're a legitimate baseball team comprised of people that don't have a disability of some kind. It's a little disconcerting to look out on the field and see hitters making contact, and I don't think I like it one bit.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Almost famous
I'm not a big golf guy. I admit it. Golf is a thinking man's game, and I appreciate that as long as there's a good bit of action. But not when it's something like golf, which seems to have a ready-set-walk mentality.
Golf, however, is my Dad's game of choice, and while I was home for Father's Day this past weekend, Dad and I spent some quality time watching the U.S. Open together. He knows a lot about the game, knowledge he passes on to me so if nothing else, I can sound links-savvy in front of my friends.
For reasons alluded to by FLS in another post, the U.S. Open is my favorite major because of its steadfast commitment to barfing on the players' blouses. I take great pleasure in watching the world's most prolific golfers struggle to make ridiculous 10-over cuts. Torrey Pines may not have the rap sheet of, say, Bethpage Black, but it's a difficult course nonetheless.
And yet, the 2008 U.S. Open was about more than watching golf on a lazy weekend, more than making rich athletes look silly, more than helping me sound like I know I'm talking about. With one exciting Sunday finish and one exhilarating Monday playoff, it became a showcase for the two best breeds of athlete.
Tiger Woods is a transcendent talent who's won major after major in an effort to choke the parity out of golf for good. Eldrick is a tireless perfectionist, a cold-blooded killer who could look at the color of your tennis shoes and, if they were different from his, use it as motivation to beat the living hell out of you. People looking for the "next Michael Jordan" have been looking in the wrong sport. In terms of clutch play, work ethic and sheer will to dominate all opponents, the next Michael Jordan is currently playing golf.
Rocco Mediate is none of that. He's never won a major. He's never signed a $40 million endorsement deal. He's not particularly athletic (at least in a physical sense). No, Rocco's the guy trading friendly barbs with tournament galleries, the guy who could talk you to death at the bar while paying for most of the rounds. He plays for love of the game, and while accusing Tiger of not "loving" golf would be absolutely ludicrous, they certainly love it in different ways.
Rocco's got nothing to lose, and he played like it all weekend. Tiger's never lost a 54-hole lead at a major tournament, but that stat was on life support for much of the back nine Sunday and the entire playoff Monday. Like great clutch players do, Tiger shrugged off a knee injury and a one-stroke deficit on the 18th hole both days to come out on top, but watching someone as carefree as Rocco Mediate go toe-to-toe with someone as careful as Tiger Woods is something that can hook even a lukewarm golf viewer.
I wish I could have watched the final round with my Dad, because not only is he the reason I watch golf, he also instilled some of those Rocco and Tiger qualities in me. I'm not sure if that's what this post is ultimately about, but as Rocco and Tiger showed us, sometimes it's nice to not be so sure of the ending.
Golf, however, is my Dad's game of choice, and while I was home for Father's Day this past weekend, Dad and I spent some quality time watching the U.S. Open together. He knows a lot about the game, knowledge he passes on to me so if nothing else, I can sound links-savvy in front of my friends.
For reasons alluded to by FLS in another post, the U.S. Open is my favorite major because of its steadfast commitment to barfing on the players' blouses. I take great pleasure in watching the world's most prolific golfers struggle to make ridiculous 10-over cuts. Torrey Pines may not have the rap sheet of, say, Bethpage Black, but it's a difficult course nonetheless.
And yet, the 2008 U.S. Open was about more than watching golf on a lazy weekend, more than making rich athletes look silly, more than helping me sound like I know I'm talking about. With one exciting Sunday finish and one exhilarating Monday playoff, it became a showcase for the two best breeds of athlete.
Tiger Woods is a transcendent talent who's won major after major in an effort to choke the parity out of golf for good. Eldrick is a tireless perfectionist, a cold-blooded killer who could look at the color of your tennis shoes and, if they were different from his, use it as motivation to beat the living hell out of you. People looking for the "next Michael Jordan" have been looking in the wrong sport. In terms of clutch play, work ethic and sheer will to dominate all opponents, the next Michael Jordan is currently playing golf.
Rocco Mediate is none of that. He's never won a major. He's never signed a $40 million endorsement deal. He's not particularly athletic (at least in a physical sense). No, Rocco's the guy trading friendly barbs with tournament galleries, the guy who could talk you to death at the bar while paying for most of the rounds. He plays for love of the game, and while accusing Tiger of not "loving" golf would be absolutely ludicrous, they certainly love it in different ways.
Rocco's got nothing to lose, and he played like it all weekend. Tiger's never lost a 54-hole lead at a major tournament, but that stat was on life support for much of the back nine Sunday and the entire playoff Monday. Like great clutch players do, Tiger shrugged off a knee injury and a one-stroke deficit on the 18th hole both days to come out on top, but watching someone as carefree as Rocco Mediate go toe-to-toe with someone as careful as Tiger Woods is something that can hook even a lukewarm golf viewer.
I wish I could have watched the final round with my Dad, because not only is he the reason I watch golf, he also instilled some of those Rocco and Tiger qualities in me. I'm not sure if that's what this post is ultimately about, but as Rocco and Tiger showed us, sometimes it's nice to not be so sure of the ending.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Rocco Mediate as Jack Fleck
Just remember, Fleck won.
People would have you believe Rocco's got no chance, but I say otherwise.
Go Rocco--do it for Greensburg.
People would have you believe Rocco's got no chance, but I say otherwise.
Go Rocco--do it for Greensburg.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Handicapping (HAHA, GET IT???) The U.S. Open
The U.S. Open is my favorite golf tournament. Last year, I gladly sat in hot, humid, generally miserable conditions for hours on end, then stood on my tiptoes around the 18th green for about 20 minutes, all in the interest of saying that I saw Tiger miss his last putt to tie Angel Cabrera. And I'd do it again in less than a heartbeat.
I love the U.S. Open because it perfectly represents all things that golf is to the common man: Unfathomably frustrating, challenging, daunting, and if one is equal parts lucky and good, rewarding. I love the U.S. Open for the same reason that I despise the Masters--tradition. Whereas the Masters leaves all viewers covered in green spooge from start to finish, what with Jim Nantz and crew whispering in hushed tones about how amazing the aura is at Augusta National, all the while ignoring the exclusive (very) white elephant in the room, the U.S. Open's only tradition is beating the shit out of people who are quite used to doing the same thing to most golf courses. Admit it, it's nice to see professional golfers, people that would very likely shoot scores in the mid 50s at your home track get torn to shreds and reduced to whining incessantly about the unfairness of the setup. I know I find myself sympathizing with a bunch of millionaires that get paid to do something most people over the age of 20 would kill to do one day a week.
Contrast this with the "Old Boys Club" atmosphere of the Masters and it shouldn't be difficult to see why our national championship is the one golf event worth watching and glorifying to a ridiculous extent. It takes no prisoners, gives no quarter, and asks for none in return. It isn't sympathetic, sentimental, forgiving, or traditional. It isn't played on the same ultra-exclusive club each year, and in fact is being played on a muni for the second time in five years. If that isn't the final piece of evidence needed to convince the unwashed masses that this is THE golf tournament to watch, I don't know what is.
All of this brings me to Rick Reilly. Reilly is a man that embodies everything the Open doesn't. He's sentimental*, sympathetic*, forgiving*, etc. especially if expressing these emotions consistently enough will earn him a new fat contract that'd make any hockey player blush. He also loves to champion the underdog, as he did in his Open preview, where he espoused the virtues of rooting for Phil Mickelson. Yes, Phil Mickelson, the plucky underdog, winner of 3 Majors (Including 2 Masters victories--fucker), possessor of a number 2 world ranking, husband to an extremely hot wife, maker of more money than you or I (well, okay, maybe just you) will ever see, and all around excellent golfer.
*Unless your name is Barry Bonds
Yeah, lot of sympathy for him
Reilly wants us to believe that since Phil hits the ball all over the yard and makes great escapes for par, he is somehow more worthy of your rooting interest than Tiger. No and no. Most polls show that people don't give two shits about the PGA Tour when Tiger isn't playing (trust me, it's a really high number, but I'm not going to look it up, I'm too lazy), and reallly, I don't find it fun to root for a guy who can get up and down "from an ice cream cart" as Reilly states. You know what I call a guy that gets up and down from everywhere on the course, dropping 30-footers and making impossible shots? Fucking lucky. And annoying. There's nothing prettier to me than watching Woods blast the ball off the tee (even though it might land forty yards left or right of the fairway), get the fucker on the green, and either sink a birdie or make an easy two-putt. It's simple, effective golf, and it's fucking awesome because he's the only one that can do it and he makes it look so easy. That's why his 2000 Open victory was so fucking impressive. If you're 15 shots clear of the field, you are a man I can root for.
Mickelson and Reilly embody all the qualities of lesser tournaments--they're sappy, seemingly nice (okay, maybe not), and have an "aw shucks" attitude about them. Fuck that. Woods is a destroyer, an unholy conqueror of worlds, a force of fucking nature. Rooting for Woods is like rooting for the tornado against trailer park, the Great White shark against the sea lion, the crocodile against the unsuspecting tourist. He's also exactly the person you should be rooting for this week. He is all of the things that a U.S. Open should be; equal parts vicious, unrelenting, intimidating, and daunting. The U.S. Open doesn't reward the guy that can make par from the ice cream cart--Phil already learned that at Winged Foot.
I implore you, readers, take my advice. Don't root for the lovable loser, the perpetual best man, never the groom (at least here), root for the fucking stone cold killer, the guy that would gladly play you at your local club for 20 bucks and rip your heart out without moving a facial muscle. Root for the guy coming off knee surgery, because a grizzly bear with a bad knee can still kill a bunch of idiot campers. If you can get yourself to do this, you'll be rooting for the winner.
Tiger by 8, in a "Fuck you" victory.
I love the U.S. Open because it perfectly represents all things that golf is to the common man: Unfathomably frustrating, challenging, daunting, and if one is equal parts lucky and good, rewarding. I love the U.S. Open for the same reason that I despise the Masters--tradition. Whereas the Masters leaves all viewers covered in green spooge from start to finish, what with Jim Nantz and crew whispering in hushed tones about how amazing the aura is at Augusta National, all the while ignoring the exclusive (very) white elephant in the room, the U.S. Open's only tradition is beating the shit out of people who are quite used to doing the same thing to most golf courses. Admit it, it's nice to see professional golfers, people that would very likely shoot scores in the mid 50s at your home track get torn to shreds and reduced to whining incessantly about the unfairness of the setup. I know I find myself sympathizing with a bunch of millionaires that get paid to do something most people over the age of 20 would kill to do one day a week.
Contrast this with the "Old Boys Club" atmosphere of the Masters and it shouldn't be difficult to see why our national championship is the one golf event worth watching and glorifying to a ridiculous extent. It takes no prisoners, gives no quarter, and asks for none in return. It isn't sympathetic, sentimental, forgiving, or traditional. It isn't played on the same ultra-exclusive club each year, and in fact is being played on a muni for the second time in five years. If that isn't the final piece of evidence needed to convince the unwashed masses that this is THE golf tournament to watch, I don't know what is.
All of this brings me to Rick Reilly. Reilly is a man that embodies everything the Open doesn't. He's sentimental*, sympathetic*, forgiving*, etc. especially if expressing these emotions consistently enough will earn him a new fat contract that'd make any hockey player blush. He also loves to champion the underdog, as he did in his Open preview, where he espoused the virtues of rooting for Phil Mickelson. Yes, Phil Mickelson, the plucky underdog, winner of 3 Majors (Including 2 Masters victories--fucker), possessor of a number 2 world ranking, husband to an extremely hot wife, maker of more money than you or I (well, okay, maybe just you) will ever see, and all around excellent golfer.
*Unless your name is Barry Bonds
Yeah, lot of sympathy for him
Reilly wants us to believe that since Phil hits the ball all over the yard and makes great escapes for par, he is somehow more worthy of your rooting interest than Tiger. No and no. Most polls show that people don't give two shits about the PGA Tour when Tiger isn't playing (trust me, it's a really high number, but I'm not going to look it up, I'm too lazy), and reallly, I don't find it fun to root for a guy who can get up and down "from an ice cream cart" as Reilly states. You know what I call a guy that gets up and down from everywhere on the course, dropping 30-footers and making impossible shots? Fucking lucky. And annoying. There's nothing prettier to me than watching Woods blast the ball off the tee (even though it might land forty yards left or right of the fairway), get the fucker on the green, and either sink a birdie or make an easy two-putt. It's simple, effective golf, and it's fucking awesome because he's the only one that can do it and he makes it look so easy. That's why his 2000 Open victory was so fucking impressive. If you're 15 shots clear of the field, you are a man I can root for.
Mickelson and Reilly embody all the qualities of lesser tournaments--they're sappy, seemingly nice (okay, maybe not), and have an "aw shucks" attitude about them. Fuck that. Woods is a destroyer, an unholy conqueror of worlds, a force of fucking nature. Rooting for Woods is like rooting for the tornado against trailer park, the Great White shark against the sea lion, the crocodile against the unsuspecting tourist. He's also exactly the person you should be rooting for this week. He is all of the things that a U.S. Open should be; equal parts vicious, unrelenting, intimidating, and daunting. The U.S. Open doesn't reward the guy that can make par from the ice cream cart--Phil already learned that at Winged Foot.
I implore you, readers, take my advice. Don't root for the lovable loser, the perpetual best man, never the groom (at least here), root for the fucking stone cold killer, the guy that would gladly play you at your local club for 20 bucks and rip your heart out without moving a facial muscle. Root for the guy coming off knee surgery, because a grizzly bear with a bad knee can still kill a bunch of idiot campers. If you can get yourself to do this, you'll be rooting for the winner.
Tiger by 8, in a "Fuck you" victory.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Euro 2008 Dictionary
Because I promised this blog some international flavor - and because the sheltered rednecks who read my paper don't care about soccer - I happily present this, an American's guide to the 2008 European Championship.
Held every four years and lasting roughly a month, the European Championship is a lot like the World Cup, except it involves only European nations and distracts us from the four or five more important continents. Euro 2008 is the 13th edition of the tournament, and the first since 1984 to not feature England, which somehow finished third in a pool of countries who, excluding Russia, couldn't fill Wembley Stadium with their combined populations.
So now that the Limeys are out, I don't really have any strong rooting interests, which means I want to see competitive games and beautiful football. These are the teams that will hopefully deliver on that promise.
- Austria [AW-stree-uh]
noun
1. A squad that automatically qualified as co-host, but might belong in the field anyway
2. California's pick to win the tournament
- Croatia [kroh-EY-shuh]
verb
1. To kick ass qualifying for major competitions, then suck ass playing in them
- Czech Republic [CHEK ree-PUHB-lik]
verb
1. To put aside domestic chaos and quickly become a soccer power again
2. To nuke the United States' World Cup progress
- France [frants]
adjective
1. Careening between skillful domination and severe underachievement from tournament to tournament
2. Using one's head to score goals or score bookings
See also: schizophrenia
- Germany [JUR-muh-nee]
noun
1. Consistent importance on the world soccer stage
2. A better record in World Cups than World Wars
- Greece [grees]
noun
1. Defending European champions from 2004
2. The art of sneaking up on people at international soccer and basketball tournaments
- Italy [IT-l-ee]
verb
1. To stay on Brazil's heels as the most prolific World Cup performers
2. To flop
See also: World Cup giants, Manu Ginobili
Held every four years and lasting roughly a month, the European Championship is a lot like the World Cup, except it involves only European nations and distracts us from the four or five more important continents. Euro 2008 is the 13th edition of the tournament, and the first since 1984 to not feature England, which somehow finished third in a pool of countries who, excluding Russia, couldn't fill Wembley Stadium with their combined populations.
So now that the Limeys are out, I don't really have any strong rooting interests, which means I want to see competitive games and beautiful football. These are the teams that will hopefully deliver on that promise.
- Austria [AW-stree-uh]
noun
1. A squad that automatically qualified as co-host, but might belong in the field anyway
2. California's pick to win the tournament
- Croatia [kroh-EY-shuh]
verb
1. To kick ass qualifying for major competitions, then suck ass playing in them
- Czech Republic [CHEK ree-PUHB-lik]
verb
1. To put aside domestic chaos and quickly become a soccer power again
2. To nuke the United States' World Cup progress
- France [frants]
adjective
1. Careening between skillful domination and severe underachievement from tournament to tournament
2. Using one's head to score goals or score bookings
See also: schizophrenia
- Germany [JUR-muh-nee]
noun
1. Consistent importance on the world soccer stage
2. A better record in World Cups than World Wars
- Greece [grees]
noun
1. Defending European champions from 2004
2. The art of sneaking up on people at international soccer and basketball tournaments
- Italy [IT-l-ee]
verb
1. To stay on Brazil's heels as the most prolific World Cup performers
2. To flop
See also: World Cup giants, Manu Ginobili
I see you, Azzurri
- Netherlands [NETH-er-luhndz]
adjective
1. Displaying precision, interchangeability and control on the pitch
2. Displaying a Cleveland-esque knack for finding new ways to come up short
- Poland [POH-luhnd]
verb
1. To accomplish something just often enough to make people take your team seriously
- Portugal [POHR-chuh-guhl]
adjective
1. Most likely to become the eighth different nation to win the World Cup
2. Most likely to dress metrosexually when celebrating this achievement
- Romania [roh-MEY-nee-uh]
noun
PLEASE SEE: irrelevance
- Russia [RUHSH-uh]
noun
1. A promising yet blank soccer slate, considering young history
2. Dolph Lundgren's pick to win the tournament
- Spain [speyn]
noun
1. A nation that produces arguably more soccer talent than anyone on the planet
2. A nation that produces arguments over why it never wins anything
- Sweden [SWEED-n]
noun
1. A comical disparity between World Cup success and Euro futility
- Switzerland [SWIT-ser-luhnd]
verb
1. To ignore one's history and build a strong, young soccer federation
2. To assure further success through tournament manipulation
See also: co-host
- Turkey [TUR-kee]
noun
1. Onomatopoeic play at all major tournaments except the 2002 World Cup
FEARLESS FINAL PREDICTION: Portugal 3, Netherlands 2
We're, like, super soccer team number one!
Monday, June 9, 2008
The Ballad of Grady Sizemore
A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
Being up 3-1 for the AL crown
And I knew if we pitched a bit
We'd turn the Red Sox into shit
And then we'd take the Rockies down
But C.C and Fausto made me quiver
With every bad pitch they'd deliver.
Bad news from the bullpen
Betancourt's poise was stolen
I can’t remember if I cried
When I saw what happened to my Tribe
But something touched me deep inside
The day the season died
So bye bye any hopes for these guys
Hit some homers caught some fly balls
Then looked up to the sky
Hanging sliders spinning quickly as they all flew by
Thinkin’, "That motherfucker Carmona'll fry
"That motherfucker Carmona'll fry"
Did you see them warm-up toss
While they slayed the boys of the Boss
And closed it out with lots of ease?
Do you believe in Paul and Jake
Will the team still continue to rake,
So we can stop being the Mistake (on the Lake)?
Well, I think that he can't pitch no more
'Cause I saw a million BoSox score
You left him in the game
This Cleveland team he did defame.
We were a young and fiesty team with pluck
Hurting balls all day when our bats they struck,
But I knew that we were fucked
The day the pitcher sighed.
I started singin’,
So bye bye any hopes for these guys
Hit some homers caught some fly balls
Then looked up to the sky
Hanging sliders spinning quickly as they all flew by
Thinkin’, "That motherfucker Carmona'll fry
"That motherfucker Carmona'll fry"
Now this whole year, I been sittin alone
Thinking how will I ever atone
For taking such a bad defeat.
When I thought about the clear and cream,
In my eager eye there was a gleam
But I knew that it was just a dream,
Oh, and while the runs were raining down,
Big Papi was talk of the town.
The series was a waste;
To Cleveland we made haste.
And while Wedge planned our offseason meet,
The team was booed all through the street,
So Hafner showed some ladies the meat
The day the season died.
And they were singing,
So bye bye any hopes for these guys
Hit some homers caught some fly balls
Then looked up to the sky
Hanging sliders spinning quickly as they all flew by
Thinkin’, "That motherfucker Carmona'll fry
"That motherfucker Carmona'll fry"
So bye bye any hopes for these guys
Hit some homers caught some fly balls
Then looked up to the sky
Hanging sliders spinning quickly as they all flew by
Thinkin’, "That motherfucker Carmona'll fry
"That motherfucker Carmona'll fry"
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Indiana Jones and the Curse of the Crappy Sequel
There's a line in the new Indiana Jones movie that perfectly sums up my feelings about the franchise. Indy and old flame Marion Ravenwood are arguing in the back of a Russian military vehicle about why things didn't work out, and Indy tells her that he's been with a lot of girls since they were together, but they all had the same problem. "They weren't you," Harrison Ford says, with all the panache of his "I know" in response to Princess Leia's love declaration in The Empire Strikes Back.
My dad first turned me on to globe-trotting archaeologist Indiana Jones by showing me Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy's initial 1981 adventure, and it quickly became one of my favorite movies and a staple of my childhood. Now, after seeing Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the latest wretched abomination of American pop culture from Steven Spielberg and George Lucas (Star Wars Episodes 1-3, Transformers), it's becoming clearer and clearer that Raiders of the Lost Ark is a shark in a fish pond.
Raiders is exactly what its reissue tagline said it was: The return of the great adventure. It's an expertly crafted homage to adventure serials of the '30s and '40s, with equal doses nostalgia and non-stop action. It's the ideal role for Harrison Ford, the ideal rugged and resourceful action hero. It's chock full of memorable stuff, including technical elements (John Williams' score, the map transitions, breakneck pacing, exemplary execution of action sequences) and scenes (Indy running from the giant rolling boulder, Indy shooting the knife-wielder, the Nazis melting after opening the Ark in the finale). Just like Jaws reclaimed craft and character as integral parts of suspense films, Raiders of the Lost Ark bucked the '70s trend of high-concept disaster movies and made thrillers thrilling again.
The sequels, I'm really sorry to say, just don't measure up. 1984's Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was big on extravagant action set-pieces. It was also big on graphic violence and cruelty. I know many people who like 1989's Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade the most, but even they'll tell you that tired, ambitious blockbuster isn't half the movie Raiders is.
This new movie is the worst yet, a desperate attempt to salvage Ford's career and a deliberate avoidance of new ideas by both Spielberg and Lucas. What we have is an Indiana Jones flash-forward that deals with aliens (popular Spielberg topic No. 1) and ominously evil authority figures (popular Spielberg topic No. 2) in a specific historical time period (the late 1950s, popular Spielberg topic No. 3). Before the two hours are up, we witness the return of Ravenwood; learn what happened to Indy's curiously Scottish father; discover where exactly that warehouse at the end of Raiders is located; watch a prolonged truck chase reminiscent of earlier adventures; and notice at least two memorials for the late Denholm Elliott's adorably bumbling sidekick Marcus Brody. If Spielberg and Lucas are trying to conjure up warm memories of the first three films the same way Raiders conjured up warm memories of breathless adventure serials, they're failing miserably.
The story has something to do with returning a crystal alien skull to a lost city in the Amazon, and gaining the knowledge that the aliens gathered. In the tradition of the finales of Raiders and Last Crusade, Cate Blanchett's villainous Soviet colonel gets too greedy for the mystical-power-of-the-moment and meets a grotesque yet bravura end.
Blanchett's plight is actually one of the aspects of the movie that interested me the most. In one corner, we have Blanchett, an extremely gifted actress who never does bad blockbusters. In the other corner, we have Shia LaBeouf, the inexplicably popular young star who only does bad blockbusters. Blanchett loses this fight, thanks in big part (SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS) to a ridiculous subplot that establishes LaBeouf's character as Indy's son, with subtle and horrifying hints that LaBeouf's going to take over the franchise sprinkled throughout. It calls to mind the ridiculous subplot of Superman Returns concerning Lois Lane's son, who may or may not have Kryptonian bloodlines.
Actually, "ridiculous" is a great way to describe Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I understand the dynamics of Indiana Jones, that over-the-top chase sequences and outlandish storylines are par for the course, with dramatic elements placed at a premium. It's all about how the thing moves, and how white-knuckled you are by the end of the show. Raiders of the Lost Ark set those guidelines, but it did so with ingenuity, excitement and most importantly, heart. The fourth adventure is a nonsensical CGI bender with little care for what made this character worthy of sequels in the first place.
Even at 65, Ford cuts a fine figure as Indiana Jones. He still delivers those quips as sharply as he cracks a bullwhip. It's fascinating to me, though, that in a career that's spanned four decades and countless inventive horizons, Spielberg just won't let Indiana Jones go. An all-time great filmmaker, renowned for the ways he chooses to tell stories, has decided to tell the same story over and over again. I'm sure it doesn't help that Lucas, who majored in sucking the magic out of movies at USC, is his co-producer.
With every sequel that's released, Raiders of the Lost Ark climbs higher and higher on a pedestal. It's widely regarded as one of the top 50 American movies of all time, and no matter how many new adventures come out, the revisitations all have the same problem: they aren't Raiders. I don't believe for a second that it's impossible to make a quality Indiana Jones sequel, but as far as I'm concerned, Spielberg and Lucas have wiffed three times. And in an unfounded bit of speculation, I think they feel the same way, or else they wouldn't keep trying.
For the sake of everyone who grew up on their imagination, I hope they stop.
My dad first turned me on to globe-trotting archaeologist Indiana Jones by showing me Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy's initial 1981 adventure, and it quickly became one of my favorite movies and a staple of my childhood. Now, after seeing Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, the latest wretched abomination of American pop culture from Steven Spielberg and George Lucas (Star Wars Episodes 1-3, Transformers), it's becoming clearer and clearer that Raiders of the Lost Ark is a shark in a fish pond.
Raiders is exactly what its reissue tagline said it was: The return of the great adventure. It's an expertly crafted homage to adventure serials of the '30s and '40s, with equal doses nostalgia and non-stop action. It's the ideal role for Harrison Ford, the ideal rugged and resourceful action hero. It's chock full of memorable stuff, including technical elements (John Williams' score, the map transitions, breakneck pacing, exemplary execution of action sequences) and scenes (Indy running from the giant rolling boulder, Indy shooting the knife-wielder, the Nazis melting after opening the Ark in the finale). Just like Jaws reclaimed craft and character as integral parts of suspense films, Raiders of the Lost Ark bucked the '70s trend of high-concept disaster movies and made thrillers thrilling again.
The sequels, I'm really sorry to say, just don't measure up. 1984's Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was big on extravagant action set-pieces. It was also big on graphic violence and cruelty. I know many people who like 1989's Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade the most, but even they'll tell you that tired, ambitious blockbuster isn't half the movie Raiders is.
This new movie is the worst yet, a desperate attempt to salvage Ford's career and a deliberate avoidance of new ideas by both Spielberg and Lucas. What we have is an Indiana Jones flash-forward that deals with aliens (popular Spielberg topic No. 1) and ominously evil authority figures (popular Spielberg topic No. 2) in a specific historical time period (the late 1950s, popular Spielberg topic No. 3). Before the two hours are up, we witness the return of Ravenwood; learn what happened to Indy's curiously Scottish father; discover where exactly that warehouse at the end of Raiders is located; watch a prolonged truck chase reminiscent of earlier adventures; and notice at least two memorials for the late Denholm Elliott's adorably bumbling sidekick Marcus Brody. If Spielberg and Lucas are trying to conjure up warm memories of the first three films the same way Raiders conjured up warm memories of breathless adventure serials, they're failing miserably.
The story has something to do with returning a crystal alien skull to a lost city in the Amazon, and gaining the knowledge that the aliens gathered. In the tradition of the finales of Raiders and Last Crusade, Cate Blanchett's villainous Soviet colonel gets too greedy for the mystical-power-of-the-moment and meets a grotesque yet bravura end.
Blanchett's plight is actually one of the aspects of the movie that interested me the most. In one corner, we have Blanchett, an extremely gifted actress who never does bad blockbusters. In the other corner, we have Shia LaBeouf, the inexplicably popular young star who only does bad blockbusters. Blanchett loses this fight, thanks in big part (SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS) to a ridiculous subplot that establishes LaBeouf's character as Indy's son, with subtle and horrifying hints that LaBeouf's going to take over the franchise sprinkled throughout. It calls to mind the ridiculous subplot of Superman Returns concerning Lois Lane's son, who may or may not have Kryptonian bloodlines.
Actually, "ridiculous" is a great way to describe Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I understand the dynamics of Indiana Jones, that over-the-top chase sequences and outlandish storylines are par for the course, with dramatic elements placed at a premium. It's all about how the thing moves, and how white-knuckled you are by the end of the show. Raiders of the Lost Ark set those guidelines, but it did so with ingenuity, excitement and most importantly, heart. The fourth adventure is a nonsensical CGI bender with little care for what made this character worthy of sequels in the first place.
Even at 65, Ford cuts a fine figure as Indiana Jones. He still delivers those quips as sharply as he cracks a bullwhip. It's fascinating to me, though, that in a career that's spanned four decades and countless inventive horizons, Spielberg just won't let Indiana Jones go. An all-time great filmmaker, renowned for the ways he chooses to tell stories, has decided to tell the same story over and over again. I'm sure it doesn't help that Lucas, who majored in sucking the magic out of movies at USC, is his co-producer.
With every sequel that's released, Raiders of the Lost Ark climbs higher and higher on a pedestal. It's widely regarded as one of the top 50 American movies of all time, and no matter how many new adventures come out, the revisitations all have the same problem: they aren't Raiders. I don't believe for a second that it's impossible to make a quality Indiana Jones sequel, but as far as I'm concerned, Spielberg and Lucas have wiffed three times. And in an unfounded bit of speculation, I think they feel the same way, or else they wouldn't keep trying.
For the sake of everyone who grew up on their imagination, I hope they stop.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Creative Differences presents: Paradoxical Phrases! Part 1--Boxing Retirement
"Pretty Boy" Floyd Mayweather announced his retirement today, ending his career undefeated. Apparently, the decision was pretty difficult for him.
"It is with a heavy heart that I write you this message today," Mayweather, 31, said in a statement. "I have decided to permanently retire from boxing. This decision was not an easy one for me to make, as boxing is all I have done since I was a child. However, these past few years have been extremely difficult for me to find the desire and joy to continue in the sport."
Those are some nice glasses, I will say
In other words, he'll be ready to fight again in about November (hopefully against Miguel Cotto, and not Oscar DLH).
Spontaneous homer combustion
Remember when ol’ FLS warned you of “vicious smears”?
Well sit down in that chair right there, cuz I’ve got one right here
Got back from work and had Baseball Tonight on in my room
And who else should be hosting but that daytar Steve Berthiaume!
A
He hails from
Well Coco Crisp on Thursday night, he charged the mound and threw
The weakest punch you’ve ever seen (and he’s a boxer, too!)
Now
But like ol’ Stevie’s SATs, he came off like a fool
In any case, a brawl ensued, and Berthiaume dropped a gem
Referred to them as “Devil” Rays, and sneezed bias like phlegm
You couldn’t help but notice all the shit that Berthiaume spoke
And if it wasn’t obvious already, he’s a joke
So let’s go down the list of things that make him fucking blow
And know that he won’t understand because he’s fucking slow
He roots for Beantown, rah rah rah, the Celtics, Sox and Pats
He beats off to Tom Brady at home naked in his spats
His TV check is hefty, keeping him in solid wealth
Which probably also keeps his wife from finding someone else
He stares ahead like
His brain atrophied in ‘01, and he’s been like that since
Berthiaume always refers to
Stroking
And yet somehow he landed a hot SportsCenter anchor
As his wife, and yet says “no” when she asks him to spank her
He’s lame in bed, this one chick said, and I think she would know
Let’s just say that after age five, some organs didn’t grow
Moral of the story, loyal readers, is simply this
Steve Berthiaume is a homer douche who’s ripe for being dissed
So hate on Derek Jeter, the Bambino, Thurman Munson
And if you don’t get innuendo, I fucked Cindy Brunson
Just like baseball
If Cleveland pushes Boston to the limit in the playoffs and comes up short, I hope Boston rolls to a title and makes us look good.
98-88
EASTERN CONFERENCE REPRESENT
By the way, Tribe, way to fuck up a 4-0 lead after the first inning tonight. Seriously, well done.
98-88
EASTERN CONFERENCE REPRESENTThursday, June 5, 2008
Celtics/Lakers: PARTIDO UNO
In an experiment that will last as long as my sanity can hold out, get ready for the first inaugural Creative Differences Live Blog. This will more typically happen for mundane Pirates and Indians games, which will doubtless make it more entertaining for me.
Live from FLS' living room, in the style of the much-maligned Bill Simmons, away we go...
9:09--The game hasn't yet started, and already my mind is wandering to other things...like my shoes, BO, and other important shit.
9:10--Pau Gasol scores the first 2 points. Prop bettors who had Sam Cassell down for it raise their guns.
9:12--Garnett hits a J and Mike Breen tabs him one of the best jump-shooting big men in NBA history...don't the last 3 minutes of games count towards that assessment?
9:14--First hot chick in the stands sighting--nice black-haired specimen right behind Doc Rivers. She's probably doing all the coaching.
9:16--Mark Jackson calls the Derek Fisher acquisition more significant than the Gasol pickup...can't really say I argue. This is why I like Mark Jackson.
9:17--Bony, frightening-looking brunette in light pink behind Phil Jackson makes me almost yearn for Bill Belichek's latest eye candy, though, given his taste, maybe she IS it.
9:19--The Pirates look to be three outs away from their second straight win--and they took Pedro Alvarez, a fast-track player that addresses a huge need--for once, good news!
9:20--Closer Matt Capps hits the leadoff batter, and your favorite diary-writer changes the channel.
9:21--At the first break of the C's-L's, it's pretty evident that the Lakers have no one to guard KG.
9:24--Radmanovic looks like the fucking Wolfman. Just sayin.
9:28--Astros have gold at the lines, 2 outs, 9th inning...I almost feel like I just jinxed things.
9:29--Flipped back to basketball and was greeted with the omnipresent and mind-bogglingly fucking stupid Dockers San Francisco is what I see. Thought I was done with that now that hockey is over.
9:31--Hunter Pence hits a ball about 398 feet. Unfortunately, it was to dead center, where the fence is 399 feet away. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
9:32--Sasha Vujacic commits his first mildly hard foul of the series, and miraculously, no one tries to kill him.
9:37--Was about to say that the first quarter merits a huge "meh", but then my man Mark Jackson announces that Sam I Am is about to be inserted into the game. I included him in my preview as a joke, which tells you what I think of that move.
9:44--Cassell forces up a jumper after flailing around. Blind squirrel, meet acorn.
9:47--If the Finals were determined by hair, the Lakers would be running away with this one...
9:48--...But they're not, Celtics by 5.
9:51--MJack (my new, "hip" name for him) claims that Kobe is the equal of MJ. I'm no longer on good terms with him.
9:52--Cassell hits another shot...unfathomable.
10:03--Cassell draws a charge on KOBE, of all people. Seriously, someone let me in on the joke.
10:04--Offensive foul on Pierce--that's his third, and that's something of a make-up call.
10:09--Last time I looked, the Lakers were down 7, now they're up 3. I am a very poor live-blogger.
10:13--Randy Moss in the crowd, wearing a pretty sick black and white West Virginia jacket. Nice.
10:14--Jackson, after naming a whole team of all-timers in the building, finishes with, "And Van Gundy to coach." MJack is back on my good side.
10:18--Lakers up 5 at the half, with Bryant going all of 3 for 10. I'd feel good if I was a Lakers fan right now. Then again, I'd also be an unredeemable douche.
10:23--Break time. Jon Barry validates me by saying that the Celtics should be worried.
10:29--The Larry/Magic splitscreen makes me very happy I don't have HD.
Here's a picture of a hot girl, just because.
10:40--Pierce draws contact, buries 3, poof, 4-point play. Detroit fans are surprised he didn't get called for an offensive foul.
10:44--I have to say, for a tie game between two rivals, this game has just been boring to me. Has to be said.
10:46--Paul Pierce goes down and grabs the right calf after Kobe hits a "Don't realize how difficult it is" fall-away. If there were a difficult shot Olympics, I'd give Jordan the Gold, Kobe the Silver, and Larry Legend the Bronze.
Okay, actually Bird gets the Gold.
10:51--Scalabrine helps carry Pierce to the locker room--thanks for coming Brian!
10:53--Perkins gets hurt too, but at least he's walking. Breen calls the Celts a young team; currently they've got Kevin Garnett, age 32, PJ Brown, age 38, Ray Allen, age 33, James Posey, age 31, and Rajon Rondo, age 22. So, what he meant to say is, "Rajon Rondo is young."
10:56--Pierce comes back out to a standing O. He's walking like Kobe Tai after a long day at the office.
11:05--I wish Pau Gasol's name was Paul, so then we wouldn't have this silly debate about the best American-born white player thing anymore.
11:06--Kobe drills a tough fall-away...Kobe is starting to heat up. This is bad for Celts fans.
11:07--Did Breen just call Vujacic likable? He must also be a fan of Nickelback, Creed, Bruce Bowen, and Ugg boots.
11:08--Pierce hits two 3's to make the crowd erupt and then puts a forearm to Kobe. Paul Pierce is my buddy for awhile.
11:11--Through 3, it's the Celtics by 4 and Paul Pierce has all of the sudden become the best player on the floor. Faker.
11:14--So I said that this game was boring, but I have to say, business is starting to pick up. Here's to hoping for an entertaining 4th quarter and a choke by Kobe.
11:18--Celtics by 4, Cassell is in the game, just tossed up an airball, and that's the Cassell I know. I think I'll make some toast.
11:20--I make fun of Eddie House, but he's a damn side better than Cassell, who managed to hit a jumper because no one was within 50 feet of him.
11:21--As Garnett passes out of the double, I think, "Boy, I hope he throws it to Posey." You do not leave James Posey open--he will bang your girlfriend. Celts by 8.
11:24--Cassell rushes a shot, then on the next possession, makes the extra pass...as the shot clock runs out. Ray Allen gets on his case, and what I take from all of this is that Sam Cassell is ugly.
11:28--Lakers staying close while Kobe's out...interesting.
11:36--Seems like it's been 88-82 forever. Can't decide who's missing more shots at this point, Cassell or the entire Lakers team.
11:39--Okay, yeah, I'll go see Get Smart, but only because of Anne Hathaway. I swear that's the only reason.
11:42--Another brick out of Vujacic and this author thinks Kobe won't be letting anyone take shots anymore. Nor should he. Celts by 5.
11:46--Rondo penetrates, remembers the "Open Posey Corollary" and kicks it. Posey even misses open 3's well, as KG is there to flush it down. (Jackson: Give me my poster! I'm the Big Ticket!)
11:51--Celtics by 10 with 16 ticks remaining and this one is OVER. Celtics played great D in the 4th quarter to keep Kobe in check, and played a great 2nd half overall. Fairly entertaining game.
I know this liveblog was rough around the edges with too many notes and not enough funny, but give me time, fair readers, and I'll put something funnier together next time, with plenty more dick jokes, profanity, and less game analysis.
Live from FLS' living room, in the style of the much-maligned Bill Simmons, away we go...
9:09--The game hasn't yet started, and already my mind is wandering to other things...like my shoes, BO, and other important shit.
9:10--Pau Gasol scores the first 2 points. Prop bettors who had Sam Cassell down for it raise their guns.
9:12--Garnett hits a J and Mike Breen tabs him one of the best jump-shooting big men in NBA history...don't the last 3 minutes of games count towards that assessment?
9:14--First hot chick in the stands sighting--nice black-haired specimen right behind Doc Rivers. She's probably doing all the coaching.
9:16--Mark Jackson calls the Derek Fisher acquisition more significant than the Gasol pickup...can't really say I argue. This is why I like Mark Jackson.
9:17--Bony, frightening-looking brunette in light pink behind Phil Jackson makes me almost yearn for Bill Belichek's latest eye candy, though, given his taste, maybe she IS it.
9:19--The Pirates look to be three outs away from their second straight win--and they took Pedro Alvarez, a fast-track player that addresses a huge need--for once, good news!
9:20--Closer Matt Capps hits the leadoff batter, and your favorite diary-writer changes the channel.
9:21--At the first break of the C's-L's, it's pretty evident that the Lakers have no one to guard KG.
9:24--Radmanovic looks like the fucking Wolfman. Just sayin.
9:28--Astros have gold at the lines, 2 outs, 9th inning...I almost feel like I just jinxed things.
9:29--Flipped back to basketball and was greeted with the omnipresent and mind-bogglingly fucking stupid Dockers San Francisco is what I see. Thought I was done with that now that hockey is over.
9:31--Hunter Pence hits a ball about 398 feet. Unfortunately, it was to dead center, where the fence is 399 feet away. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
9:32--Sasha Vujacic commits his first mildly hard foul of the series, and miraculously, no one tries to kill him.
9:37--Was about to say that the first quarter merits a huge "meh", but then my man Mark Jackson announces that Sam I Am is about to be inserted into the game. I included him in my preview as a joke, which tells you what I think of that move.
9:44--Cassell forces up a jumper after flailing around. Blind squirrel, meet acorn.
9:47--If the Finals were determined by hair, the Lakers would be running away with this one...
9:48--...But they're not, Celtics by 5.
9:51--MJack (my new, "hip" name for him) claims that Kobe is the equal of MJ. I'm no longer on good terms with him.
9:52--Cassell hits another shot...unfathomable.
10:03--Cassell draws a charge on KOBE, of all people. Seriously, someone let me in on the joke.
10:04--Offensive foul on Pierce--that's his third, and that's something of a make-up call.
10:09--Last time I looked, the Lakers were down 7, now they're up 3. I am a very poor live-blogger.
10:13--Randy Moss in the crowd, wearing a pretty sick black and white West Virginia jacket. Nice.
10:14--Jackson, after naming a whole team of all-timers in the building, finishes with, "And Van Gundy to coach." MJack is back on my good side.
10:18--Lakers up 5 at the half, with Bryant going all of 3 for 10. I'd feel good if I was a Lakers fan right now. Then again, I'd also be an unredeemable douche.
10:23--Break time. Jon Barry validates me by saying that the Celtics should be worried.
10:29--The Larry/Magic splitscreen makes me very happy I don't have HD.
Here's a picture of a hot girl, just because.
10:40--Pierce draws contact, buries 3, poof, 4-point play. Detroit fans are surprised he didn't get called for an offensive foul.
10:44--I have to say, for a tie game between two rivals, this game has just been boring to me. Has to be said.
10:46--Paul Pierce goes down and grabs the right calf after Kobe hits a "Don't realize how difficult it is" fall-away. If there were a difficult shot Olympics, I'd give Jordan the Gold, Kobe the Silver, and Larry Legend the Bronze.
Okay, actually Bird gets the Gold.
10:51--Scalabrine helps carry Pierce to the locker room--thanks for coming Brian!
10:53--Perkins gets hurt too, but at least he's walking. Breen calls the Celts a young team; currently they've got Kevin Garnett, age 32, PJ Brown, age 38, Ray Allen, age 33, James Posey, age 31, and Rajon Rondo, age 22. So, what he meant to say is, "Rajon Rondo is young."
10:56--Pierce comes back out to a standing O. He's walking like Kobe Tai after a long day at the office.
11:05--I wish Pau Gasol's name was Paul, so then we wouldn't have this silly debate about the best American-born white player thing anymore.
11:06--Kobe drills a tough fall-away...Kobe is starting to heat up. This is bad for Celts fans.
11:07--Did Breen just call Vujacic likable? He must also be a fan of Nickelback, Creed, Bruce Bowen, and Ugg boots.
11:08--Pierce hits two 3's to make the crowd erupt and then puts a forearm to Kobe. Paul Pierce is my buddy for awhile.
11:11--Through 3, it's the Celtics by 4 and Paul Pierce has all of the sudden become the best player on the floor. Faker.
11:14--So I said that this game was boring, but I have to say, business is starting to pick up. Here's to hoping for an entertaining 4th quarter and a choke by Kobe.
11:18--Celtics by 4, Cassell is in the game, just tossed up an airball, and that's the Cassell I know. I think I'll make some toast.
11:20--I make fun of Eddie House, but he's a damn side better than Cassell, who managed to hit a jumper because no one was within 50 feet of him.
11:21--As Garnett passes out of the double, I think, "Boy, I hope he throws it to Posey." You do not leave James Posey open--he will bang your girlfriend. Celts by 8.
11:24--Cassell rushes a shot, then on the next possession, makes the extra pass...as the shot clock runs out. Ray Allen gets on his case, and what I take from all of this is that Sam Cassell is ugly.
11:28--Lakers staying close while Kobe's out...interesting.
11:36--Seems like it's been 88-82 forever. Can't decide who's missing more shots at this point, Cassell or the entire Lakers team.
11:39--Okay, yeah, I'll go see Get Smart, but only because of Anne Hathaway. I swear that's the only reason.
11:42--Another brick out of Vujacic and this author thinks Kobe won't be letting anyone take shots anymore. Nor should he. Celts by 5.
11:46--Rondo penetrates, remembers the "Open Posey Corollary" and kicks it. Posey even misses open 3's well, as KG is there to flush it down. (Jackson: Give me my poster! I'm the Big Ticket!)
11:51--Celtics by 10 with 16 ticks remaining and this one is OVER. Celtics played great D in the 4th quarter to keep Kobe in check, and played a great 2nd half overall. Fairly entertaining game.
I know this liveblog was rough around the edges with too many notes and not enough funny, but give me time, fair readers, and I'll put something funnier together next time, with plenty more dick jokes, profanity, and less game analysis.
Holy Shit! It's the Lakers! The Celtics! I hope the refs win.
Oh boy! The NBA Finals are here, after only what seems like 6 months of waiting and slogging through mostly shitty games, we finally get to watch two of the most storied franchises (along with their unfuckingbelievably annoying fans) preen and posture through what I can only hope will be a swift, merciful series.
Since both teams rate slightly below "Self-castration with rusty grill tongs" on my "Things I Enjoy" list, it was difficult for me to pick a rooting interest. I settled on the Celtics, simply for the reason that, while I hate Massholes more than any other species of fan (except you, Yankee fans--you can rot in hell while listening to the complete works of Yanni), I hate Kobe Bryant a whole lot more.
Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the prediction--because you can't have a post about a major sporting event without a long-winded analysis best left to serious writers, followed by a bullshit prediction (look to my Pens preview from last night to see how THAT went).
Starters
Los Angeles (Spanish for "Second Quarter Arrival")
Lamar Odom--Notable NBA stoner, seems like a guy you'd want to hang out with, has nice versatility and can even bring the ball up the floor.
Pros: Versatile (also cooks, cleans, and does the dishes!), restrains himself from punching Kobe in the face every 2 seconds, great passer.
Cons: Very inconsistent, distracted by a bag of Fritos every time, fondness for Dyan Cannon.
Pau Gasol--Spanish guy that the Lakers were able to acquire for the hoops equivalent of this much.
Pros: Surprisingly, a good inside player, given that he played for the Grizzlies. Terrific at Calculus and an ambassador to the many Basque Separatists that call themselves Lakers fans.
Cons: Has a reputation for being a soft player, pre-game growling not "Garnett-like", plays defense with the aptitude of a blind nun.
Derek Fisher--Seemingly decent off-court human being with an admirable devotion to family.
Pros: Has a knack for hitting huge shots and playing solid defense on more talented players, is an inspiration to all other average players who aspire to be champions, manages to keep Kobe from killing the entire team.
Cons: Can be exploited by a talented point guard, but since we're talking about Rajon Rondo, Sam Cassell and Eddie House here, that shouldn't be a problem. Loves Danielle Steele "novels".
Vladimir Radmanovic--Balkan gunner who can run as hot as Houston in July or as cold as that bitch who rejected me at the bar last night.
Pros: Great shooter when on, runs around yelling faux-Soviet phrases like, "In Soviet Russia, ball shoots you!", drinks Aunt Jemima syrup during timeouts.
Cons: Doesn't realize that no one thinks he's any good, isn't any good, will likely cost the Lakers at least one game with his crappy play.
Kobe Bryant--Self-absorbed, back-stabbing Jordan wannabe who'd play 1 on 5 if he thought he could win.
Pros: Unmatched scorer, defender and competitor. Terrific clutch player. Apologizes for mistakes with expensive gifts.
Cons: Has a nasty habit for throwing everyone around him under the bus, is still a total cancer (trust me), secretly doesn't trust any teammates in crunch time.
Boston (Irish for "Whiny fucking assholes")
Rajon Rondo--Guard from Kentucky with the jump shot of Ashley Judd.
Pros: Decent floor leader, hasn't totally shit the bed so far, isn't Sebastian Telfair.
Cons: Young player prone to getting a little frazzled, takes a long time on Starbucks runs, awful at Jenga.
Paul Pierce--Scorer, rebounder, do-it-all'er for the C's.
Pros: All the things mentioned above, remarkably resilient to knives, pulls off horrid-looking porn mustache with ease.
Cons: Kind of slow, to be honest. Too much baby fat, rumored to be on Chris Hansen's bad side.
Ray Allen--Superb shooter, one of two imports that got the C's rolling this year.
Pros: Smoothest J in the game, dresses well, hates Kobe.
Cons: Can't play defense unless he's guarding Wally Szczerbiak, his caucasian counterpart, unnervingly close to having OCD, has no street cred.
Kevin Garnett--Intense, emotional heartbeat for the Celts. Also happens to be very good at basketball.
Pros: Intense to the point that it's scary, has very white teeth, energy released from pre-game screams powers entire buildings.
Cons: Having ball in his hands late in a close game is his Kryptonite, seems like a borderline psychopath, hates miniature golf.
Kendrick Perkins--Suddenly decent former prep-to-pros player.
Pros: Gives the Celts lots of rebounding and D, knows how to properly treat a lady, isn't Mark Blount.
Cons: Still a project of sorts, forgets to brush AND leaves the seat up, infuriating any hooker he brings home.
Benches
LA
Sasha Vujacic--Voted Most Likely to get righteously decapitated in this series, in a poll of all NBA players not named Bruce Bowen.
Jordan Farmar--Too good to spell his last name with a fucking "e", like the rest of us.
Ronny Turiaf--Dances like a fucking moron. Fuck him.
Luke Walton--Son of Bill, therefore, annoying as fuck.
Boston
Eddie House--Saw him live, it was the only time I thought I could beat an NBA player straight up.
Sam Cassell--Hopes games don't run too long, is due back at old folks' home by 11:30.
Leon Powe--Actually, he's pretty decent.
Glen Davis--Might eat Vujacic, if given the chance.
James Posey--Most likely to commit a blatantly flagrant foul and act like it was nothing.
Given all that, and with virtually no actual analysis to be found, my sources say Celtics in 6.
And really, as long as someone (read: Kobe) gets the Rambis treatment, I'll be happy.
Since both teams rate slightly below "Self-castration with rusty grill tongs" on my "Things I Enjoy" list, it was difficult for me to pick a rooting interest. I settled on the Celtics, simply for the reason that, while I hate Massholes more than any other species of fan (except you, Yankee fans--you can rot in hell while listening to the complete works of Yanni), I hate Kobe Bryant a whole lot more.
Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the prediction--because you can't have a post about a major sporting event without a long-winded analysis best left to serious writers, followed by a bullshit prediction (look to my Pens preview from last night to see how THAT went).
Starters
Los Angeles (Spanish for "Second Quarter Arrival")
Lamar Odom--Notable NBA stoner, seems like a guy you'd want to hang out with, has nice versatility and can even bring the ball up the floor.
Pros: Versatile (also cooks, cleans, and does the dishes!), restrains himself from punching Kobe in the face every 2 seconds, great passer.
Cons: Very inconsistent, distracted by a bag of Fritos every time, fondness for Dyan Cannon.
Pau Gasol--Spanish guy that the Lakers were able to acquire for the hoops equivalent of this much.
Pros: Surprisingly, a good inside player, given that he played for the Grizzlies. Terrific at Calculus and an ambassador to the many Basque Separatists that call themselves Lakers fans.
Cons: Has a reputation for being a soft player, pre-game growling not "Garnett-like", plays defense with the aptitude of a blind nun.
Derek Fisher--Seemingly decent off-court human being with an admirable devotion to family.
Pros: Has a knack for hitting huge shots and playing solid defense on more talented players, is an inspiration to all other average players who aspire to be champions, manages to keep Kobe from killing the entire team.
Cons: Can be exploited by a talented point guard, but since we're talking about Rajon Rondo, Sam Cassell and Eddie House here, that shouldn't be a problem. Loves Danielle Steele "novels".
Vladimir Radmanovic--Balkan gunner who can run as hot as Houston in July or as cold as that bitch who rejected me at the bar last night.
Pros: Great shooter when on, runs around yelling faux-Soviet phrases like, "In Soviet Russia, ball shoots you!", drinks Aunt Jemima syrup during timeouts.
Cons: Doesn't realize that no one thinks he's any good, isn't any good, will likely cost the Lakers at least one game with his crappy play.
Kobe Bryant--Self-absorbed, back-stabbing Jordan wannabe who'd play 1 on 5 if he thought he could win.
Pros: Unmatched scorer, defender and competitor. Terrific clutch player. Apologizes for mistakes with expensive gifts.
Cons: Has a nasty habit for throwing everyone around him under the bus, is still a total cancer (trust me), secretly doesn't trust any teammates in crunch time.
Boston (Irish for "Whiny fucking assholes")
Rajon Rondo--Guard from Kentucky with the jump shot of Ashley Judd.
Pros: Decent floor leader, hasn't totally shit the bed so far, isn't Sebastian Telfair.
Cons: Young player prone to getting a little frazzled, takes a long time on Starbucks runs, awful at Jenga.
Paul Pierce--Scorer, rebounder, do-it-all'er for the C's.
Pros: All the things mentioned above, remarkably resilient to knives, pulls off horrid-looking porn mustache with ease.
Cons: Kind of slow, to be honest. Too much baby fat, rumored to be on Chris Hansen's bad side.
Ray Allen--Superb shooter, one of two imports that got the C's rolling this year.
Pros: Smoothest J in the game, dresses well, hates Kobe.
Cons: Can't play defense unless he's guarding Wally Szczerbiak, his caucasian counterpart, unnervingly close to having OCD, has no street cred.
Kevin Garnett--Intense, emotional heartbeat for the Celts. Also happens to be very good at basketball.
Pros: Intense to the point that it's scary, has very white teeth, energy released from pre-game screams powers entire buildings.
Cons: Having ball in his hands late in a close game is his Kryptonite, seems like a borderline psychopath, hates miniature golf.
Kendrick Perkins--Suddenly decent former prep-to-pros player.
Pros: Gives the Celts lots of rebounding and D, knows how to properly treat a lady, isn't Mark Blount.
Cons: Still a project of sorts, forgets to brush AND leaves the seat up, infuriating any hooker he brings home.
Benches
LA
Sasha Vujacic--Voted Most Likely to get righteously decapitated in this series, in a poll of all NBA players not named Bruce Bowen.
Jordan Farmar--Too good to spell his last name with a fucking "e", like the rest of us.
Ronny Turiaf--Dances like a fucking moron. Fuck him.
Luke Walton--Son of Bill, therefore, annoying as fuck.
Boston
Eddie House--Saw him live, it was the only time I thought I could beat an NBA player straight up.
Sam Cassell--Hopes games don't run too long, is due back at old folks' home by 11:30.
Leon Powe--Actually, he's pretty decent.
Glen Davis--Might eat Vujacic, if given the chance.
James Posey--Most likely to commit a blatantly flagrant foul and act like it was nothing.
Given all that, and with virtually no actual analysis to be found, my sources say Celtics in 6.
And really, as long as someone (read: Kobe) gets the Rambis treatment, I'll be happy.
Stabbing westward
Creative Differences and Lucasfilm Ltd. present...
A DJMomJeans production...
KNIFE NIGHT 2008
So I was talking with my bro from Philly today, and we were both watching the French Open semi between maddening early bloomer Jelena Jankovic and deliciously cute assassin Ana Ivanovic. I looked away for a few seconds, and he told me the cameras spotted Monica Seles in the crowd. Just to show you how completely warped and tasteless this blog is, what you are reading now is exactly where my mind went after he mentioned that.
See, I thought about Seles, and instead of remembering all the great matches she played and the tournaments she won, I remembered when that crazy dude raced out of the stands and stabbed her in
But WHERE does that stabbing RANK in the PANTHEON of SPORTS-RELATED STABBINGS?!?!
To answer that cutting question, I’ve compiled a tournament championship, forever to be known as
KNIFE NIGHT 2008
The Early-to-Mid ‘90s Bracket
Monica Seles vs. O.J. Simpson
Seles was the victim. Juice was the victimizer (allegedly).
Hers happened in
Hers interrupted the match. His interrupted the 1994 NBA Finals.
Weapon used against Seles: 5-inch serrated steak knife. Weapon used by Juice (allegedly): unknown.
Motivation against Seles: jealousy. Motivation for Juice (allegedly): jealousy.
The intrigue quotient is on Juice’s side, but Seles is a warrior, and she actually recovered from the wound and the trauma to play on tour again just two years later. If some lunatic from
WINNER: Monica Seles
The Post-2006 Bracket
Mitch Cozad vs. Rafer Alston
Let’s see…a football player is upset over no playing time, goes berserk and stabs the starter in the leg.
Quarterback? No. Running back? Nope. Receiver? Nah. Defensive player? Doubt it. Someone who actually contributes? Barely.
The Mitch Cozad story would have been a lot sexier if (a) he wasn’t a punter, and (b) it wasn’t at
WINNER (term used loosely): Mitch Cozad
The Finals
Monica Seles vs. Mitch Cozad
It ain’t exactly Lakers-Celtics, but then again, this isn't basketball.
Seles is a fighter, Cozad is a douchebag. Seles needed to be stabbed to lose the top spot, Cozad needed to stab to get the top spot (at Northern Colorado). Seles took it out on her opponents, Cozad’s taking it up the ass from inmates.
But above all, Seles inspired this post. Cozad inspires vasectomies.
WINNER and CHAMPION: Monica Seles
Just like the French Open ... Sharapova will never win this one
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