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10/31/3: This marks 35 Halloweens without a decent costume. Which is too bad, because I think Halloween's a great holiday. It's a little edgy, it usually involves booze, and in your costume you have a great chance to express your creativity. Or wait until the last minute, put a cardboard box over your head, and pretend to be a TV set. You know how in the movies (and maybe in real life), when a coach is trying to inspire his underdog team, he says, "Remember, these guys put their pants on the same way as you do, ONE LEG AT A TIME." He says this to help alleviate the fear his players naturally have of the physically superior opponent they are about to face, to try to show his guys that there really isn't such a huge difference after all. For me, though, it would elicit the opposite reaction: I would be scared even more shitless. I mean, if when searching for similarities between our team and theirs, the first thing you could find is the way we put on our pants, I think we're in trouble. It's not a pants-putting-on contest, it's a basketball game or boxing match or whatever it is. Couldn't you find something like, "Remember, their long-snapper is no better than ours"? Unless of course it IS a pants-putting-on contest, in which case this pre-game strategy is completely appropriate. On the Bulls' early-90's championship teams, the big men were NOT ALLOWED to shoot three pointers. Phil Jackson would actually fine any of their centers who had the nerve to flout this rule. Of course, chief dickweed, disappointment, knucklehead and three-time undeserving NBA champion Stacey King was the only one to defy this wise regulation. After hitting a meaningless, lucky late-game three, King spent the bus ride back from the game arguing about the unfairness of the rule and probably trying to avoid the fine. "In college, I always shot the three," King said. "That's my shot. Always shot the three." The rest of the Bulls couldn't stand King any more than you or I, so hearing this ridiculous boasting was particularly unbearable. At their next stop on the trip, B.J. Armstrong located whatever pre-internet means of statistical research was available, and checked King's college stats. His grand total: zero three-pointers made. The reason I bring this up is that there are a number of guys in the NBA who can make a three point shot, but shouldn't even attempt one. The same way a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, a big man with 'range' usually does a whole lot more harm than good. Here are some of the guys who need to cease with the threes immediately. Antoine Walker 10/30/3: In junior high, I was a dirtbag's dirtbag. I bathed about every three days, I wore the same clothes for weeks on end, and not surprisingly, I came down with lice on at least one occasion where it wasn't just "going around." Even among my greasy friends, my personal brand of nasty stood out. I was such a filthy little beast that I was tagged with a couple of nicknames reflecting my lack of hygiene: "Dirt" (supplied by the kids one year ahead of me who we played football against) and, more fondly, "Dusty Jr." (by a supposed friend). In fact, there was even a brief song about my filthiness. These insults did do some damage. It's only through the passage of time and the wonders of therapy that I am able to laugh at it now. Why I chose to endure the abuse instead of showering on a regular basis is another question, but when you're 12 sometimes you're so lacking in confidence that you're basically paralyzed. But do I bring this up to elicit pity for the cruel treatment I was subjected to by my peers? Of course not. I was the meanest little prick of them all. Somehow, despite my lack of success with the ladies and with the soap, I felt high and mighty enough (or terrified and vulnerable enough) to insult everybody I knew. I would play favorites and pit people against each other in some twisted little theater of my own insecurity. In my defense, our entire circle of friends existed only to attack one another. If you exposed a weakness, it was exploited. Asked an innocent question, you were branded a moron. If you did something stupid or embarrassing, it was all you'd hear about for months, sometimes years. Life was a series of anxious Sunday nights and tense afternoon walks home from school, and the only way to survive, it seemed, was to make somebody feel worse than you did. Did these little put-downs make a lasting impact? You bet. One day in maybe 8th grade, my friends and I went to play football in Central Park, and rode home together on the subway. My friend Benjy had invited his friend Gary along, and Gary was a very nice kid about a year younger than we were. We were discussing some movie that was playing at the time (maybe "Outland"?), and Gary mentioned that Sean Connery was starring in it. Only he said "Seen" Connery, because he had probably never heard the word "Sean" pronounced aloud. Pretty innocent mistake. Well, I took off and ran with that shit like I was the anchor man in the 4 x 100 junior high asshole relay. Not only did I mock him for the remainder of the subway ride, but I am pretty sure that whenever I saw him for the next year or two, the words "Seen Connery" came spilling out of my mouth. Not surprisingly, I didn't see much of Gary over the next few years, and eventually I sort of forgot about the incident. Now it's 1999, and I am in the Blue and Gold, drinking, running my mouth, playing pool badly as I always do. In walks Gary, a grown man now, maybe 28 years old. I haven't seen him in about ten years, but we recognize each other and we have a nice little two-minute "Hey, how are you doing" conversation. As soon as we are done with the small talk, he says, "Seen Connery, remember? Ha ha, Steve" or something along those lines. I am a dick forever. Anyway, I know it's too little too late, but this is my apology to Gary and everybody else who crossed my fucked-up little path. The problem, of course, is you never really escape those juvenile patterns. I am still scared to ask questions in the middle of someone's story, for fear of exposing my lack of knowledge about whatever particular subject is being discussed. I'll ask anyway, but it's a conscious effort. And when you try to surround yourself with smart people, people whose opinions interest you, you often run the risk of surrounding yourself with judgmental, sarcastic fucks. And even if they're not judgmental, sarcastic fucks, you never quite get over the fear that they might be. 10/28/3: Stephon Marbury: electrifying, terrifying. Similar to the debates we had as kids about which superhero's powers we'd like to have, if I could have any basketball player's abilities, it would be Marbury's. He's just nasty. That first sentence sort of sounds like something Walt Frazier might say. And since it's opening night in the NBA, let's take a few minutes to reminisce about an incident involving Walt's partner. Remember Marv Albert's sodomy scandal from a few years back? What an embarrassment. And has a public figure ever been forgiven more completely for a transgression as debauched as Marv's? Remember, he was biting backs and dressing in tutus and shit. And he was all mad at his victim because she had failed to bring another man along on one of their liaisons. What a fucking nut. I get the feeling he is a wholly unpleasant man, totally unable to laugh at himself while insulting others as cruelly and often as possible. So why was he absolved so painlessly, and rehired so soon after the circus wound down? Simple. He is (was?) the best NBA announcer there is, and nobody could stomach Bob Costas's highfalutin and overanalytical play by play for another minute. We needed to get the pervert back behind the mic ASAP. So that's what MSG and NBC did, after some protests that I remember as brief and mild. So besides the poor woman, whose back must have healed by now, even if her spirit is damaged forever, who paid the price for Marv's sins? I'll tell you who: John Andariese. For those of you outside the NYC area, Andariese was Marv's MSG broadcast partner for probably 8 or 10 years. When the Marv scandal broke, and Marv got fired or suspended or whatever MSG did to him, MSG replaced Marv AND Andariese with the Knicks' radio broadcast team, Mike Breen and Walt Frazier. Andariese was shuffled off to the radio side, where he continued to provide his usual brand of pleasant if not particularly insightful analysis. Then when Marv was rehired, the Knicks kept Frazier, with his name recognition and his (mostly) annoying Rhymin' Simon style, to be his TV partner. Andariese, who is by all accounts a decent man with a genuine love for the sport, was forced to remain buried on the radio. The only TV bone he was thrown was a two-minute halftime segment that he hosts during each game, in which he's teamed with the curiously still-employed and always appalling Al Trautwig. Worse is the condescending slogan Trautwig chose as his signoff for each of these segments: "Be good on the radio, John." All that's missing is a pat on the head. If Trautwig wasn't such a moron, I would say he was intentionally rubbing Andariese's nose in his continuing exile. Of course, this might all be wrong; it's just the way I remember it going down. I always liked Tony Delk. Quality drunken street vomiting on tonight's Real World. I think the Matrix movies are stupid. And I have only seen one. And I didn't really understand it. 10/26/3: Ugh. What else can I say except, Let the Van Horn Era Begin. Sad footnote (and how hard is it to feel sorry for a Yankee fan?): I was flipping through the channels tonight, and the digital "info" for Fox lists tonight's programming as "MLB Baseball: World Series Game 7." I just had to reprint this sentence I came across in a National Geographic article on whether or not Bigfoot exists: "In Australia, Bigfoot is known as the Yowie Man." As to whether or not Bigfoot exists, of course he does. He's just a big half-man-half-ape creature, right? That's not nearly as fucked-up as some of the shit that's lurking under the sea, like the transparent cockroaches I saw on the Discovery Channel one time. Bigfoot: real. We don't need to investigate this matter and piss off the bigfeet that are peacefully chilling up in the woods. 10/24/3: I feel better now. I figured out who to blame. Sorry to dwell on the Yankees so much, but the World Series is going on, and I'm caught up in it, and the Yankees are losing, and for a while I couldn't figure out who to blame. But then I realized it's David Wells, so now I can sleep alright and I can face it if the Yankees end up losing the series. It's David Wells' fault. And somehow that makes it acceptable. Maybe it's something in my psychology, but when my team loses, I need to know why. Well, actually, I don't really want to know why, I want to convince myself I found the reason, and I want that reason to be something I can deal with. I don't want it to be Jeter's fault for not running out that ball in game 3 or for taking his time getting over to 3rd base during the botched hotbox in game 4. Jeter's a hero. I don't want to put it on him. I could blame Stinking Enrique Wilson for that stinking Enrique Wilson throw, but shouldn't we have known that Stinking Enrique Wilson would do something that stinks if we left him in there long enough? You can't blame poor losers like Stinking Enrique Wilson. I guess you could blame Joe Torre for putting Stinking Enrique Wilson in there, but who wants to blame Joe Torre? He's Joe Torre. He's responsible for most of the good things that have happened in this country over the last ten years. He gets a pass. Boone? He could have gotten back to cover that base, and he's married to a cheesy centerfold, and he keeps screwing up in spectacular new ways every game. And I really don't like him very much. He's a good target, alright. But I can't really single out the guy who hit that home run. THE home run. If you pulled me out of a burning building and saved my life, and then you spent the next 20 years kicking me in the nuts twice a day, I'd still have a soft spot for you. So Boone's out. I was running out of choices, especially with Soriano and Giambi benched (and Giambi hitting that pinch-HR). Then I read this interesting take in Harvey Araton's column about game 4: Yes, injuries happen,
even to the Yankees, but Wells later said he felt "a little stiff" on Wednesday.
He said nothing about it to Stottlemyre. So there you go. Wells is the villain. He selfishly neglected to tell the team about his injury, and by the time they found out, it was too late to do anything about it. I'm sure you can point out 100 holes in this theory, but I don't care. It's working for me. Wells will be gone next year anyway, so I don't have to hate him much longer. I was thinking about this process, my personal process of coping with defeat. In this case, I am pointing fingers at a team that might still win the World Series. I don't want it to be this way, but I figure if I start now I can soften the blow a little if and when they lose. But thinking about this made me realize how negative sports really are. Forget about how silly they are, what a waste of time, how they take on way too much importance in the lives of those of us gullible enough to get passionately involved. Pretend for a minute that they're a worthwhile endeavor. Imagine that there is some greater purpose to the wins and losses than just wins and losses. Now think about how much more anxiety and despair and aggression there is, how many more knocked-out teeth and sore groins and even suicides there are in this universe because of sports. How the fleeting moments of joy in a season, the great shots and diving stops and no-look passes, are just temporary diversions from what is almost inevitably a final, crushing defeat. How even these moments and the brief happiness they provide come at the expense of some other poor sap. How there are 30 teams in a league, and 29 of them go home in various states of humiliation and failure. How each of those teams has millions of fans who share the misery, and how every moment you spend watching your team there's something in the back of your mind that wonders how exactly they'll end up in that losing pile again this year. How even when your guys win the whole thing, and your worries disappear, what you really feel is a sense of immense relief as much as anything else. Maybe this is why when someone like Mike Tyson or Tiger
Woods or Pete Sampras or Derek Jeter comes along, someone who actually wins
championships more than they don't, it provides such comfort. It fools you
for a moment into thinking sports are about joy and victory. Instead of
the cruelty of a tournament bracket, with its steadily dwindling levels of
happiness. Instead of Donnie Moore and Earnest Byner and Jackie Smith and
poor Steve Bartman. But then Buster Douglas knocks Tyson out and there's
no comfort left in the universe at all. We're reminded that sports at
their very heart are about hostility, and anger, and submission. About how
defeat is never more than a couple of mistakes away. The Yankees and Marlins
could go out tomorrow night, shake hands, and then go paint a mural or volunteer
at a shelter or tap a keg, and the universe would probably be a happier place
somehow. But then we'd have nowhere to direct our anger, and no chance of
experiencing that rare chance at a jump for joy. Two more sports observations, if you made it this far: 1) The Marlin kiss is very bad and nobody can tell me
different. I am not being homophobic; if they were gay and kissed each
other, it would be kind of sweet. But it's forced, it's rehearsed, and
it's phony. And more than a little bit gay. 10/23/3: This is what I wrote to a friend in an email today about the chances of the Marlins winning the series: "it's entirely possible - but if you had read the papers yesterday, a yankee victory was just a formality - they were already being crowned as champs. shows you how the press is incredibly stupid and never learns from past mistakes. the truth is, you can predict baseball standings with some degree of accuracy, because over 162 games, the most talented teams will generally win the most games. but you would have to be psychic or stupid to predict the outcome of a 7 game series between ANY two teams, let alone two very talented teams. There are just way too many variables and it's too short a time frame for a winner to be forecast with any degree of certainty." I think of all baseball clichés, one of the most annoying but accurate is "You're only as good as tomorrow's starting pitcher." That is one reason why the best team wins a postseason series about half the time. Teams like that 116-win Mariners team are vulnerable. The 2001 Diamondbacks were a pretty average team, but they won it all because they could abuse the easy postseason schedule to maximize the number of starts for Schilling and Big Unit (what a stupid nickname). Not that I think the Yankees are that much better than the Marlins (especially the way they are hitting right now), but tonight, our starting pitcher hit the showers after the first inning. And our bullpen was spent from last night. And their decent starter had great stuff. And our bats are cold. So now we have our backs against the wall, and I think it is time to start dismantling this team (I know, that's very Yankee fan of me). But first I want to reiterate my lack of surprise at the press's stupid knee-jerk reactions to each and every development. Here is an excerpt from the usually calm Peter Gammons' column after the Yankees won game 3: "The Yankees hold the upper hand in this series right now, though, and they also hold a big advantage in the upcoming pitching matchups. And that will likely be the reason why the Yankees will eventually be crowned the champions for the fifth time in the last eight years." That was typical. The series was 2-1 at that point. Not 3-1. Not 2-0. 2-1. After 3 games, a series can't be any closer than that. This guy has been watching baseball for like 50 years and he feels the need to say stupid stuff like that. As to the housecleaning (even though I still think we can win this series): Must go: 10/22/3: Unbelievable. I think Derek Jeter has been reading too much of his own press (including the props I issued him on verbungle.com). His mistake in the first inning of not running out his little jam shot was unfathomable. How does that happen? I would say that the first rule taught to pee wee leaguers holding the bat for the very first time is if you hit the ball, you run. Somehow, the most heads-up player in the game forgot that in game 4 of the World Series. He looked like Ambrose on the softball field in the summer of '02, enjoying a leisurely trot to first. Jeter, you better make it up to me or I will rip you hard in tomorrow's edition. The definition of unconvincing is Mayor Mike saying, "Let's go Yankees." One thing that's come out of this whole extra round of the playoffs in baseball is that there is now no discernible break between the baseball and basketball seasons, on either side. They overlap twice each year, in spring and fall. There used to be maybe 10 or 12 days in late October when a man could limit his sports-watching to football and hockey (if he cared about hockey). This was a chance to reflect on the year that had just passed, to actually think about some heavy stuff, to evaluate his progress in life and to decide how to move forward in the year to come. Now it's gone, this little recovery period, and we're left with nothing but enjoyable sports for every single moment of the year. Without this break, I am left to flounder eternally in an adolescent daze. 10/21/3: From tonight's "Real World" episode, which made for a better rain delay time-passer than whatever Fox had on: "To see you with Jamie is a whole different limelight." "The great thing about Giuseppe is that...he adores me." Tonight I watched some more co-ed softball on my way home from work. There were two nice moments. One, a girl ripped an RBI double over the head of the drawn-in outfield. She was just a wee thing, and she really cranked it. Second, some douchebag drew a walk (remember, this is lob-pitch softball!), and then arrogantly tossed the bat aside (almost like Bret Boone on one of his home run swings). The bat landed and then rolled right into a deep, muddy puddle. Everybody on the team saw it coming and tried to run over and grab it before it got soaked, but it was too late. The guy himself had already put his head down for his Pete Rose sprint to first base, so I am pretty sure he remained unaware of his own crime. I would bet that later in the game, he went to the plate and felt the soggy handle of the bat, and thought, "What asshole dropped the fucking bat in the water?" Schmuck. 10/20/3: Once you get married, as much as you might not want to admit it, your priorities change.* You start thinking about shit like saving money and buying a house. Your dreams of rock stardom and three-day drinking binges with Marianne Faithfull inevitably start to sag. You find great pleasure in a made bed or a fancy new gadget. In short, you start becoming the person you swore you'd never become. And it doesn't feel that bad. Along those lines, my wife and I have started thinking a lot lately about where to live. Neither of us has any real idea. The country/small town, with its tranquility and down-home charm (and mind-numbing lack of things to do)? The suburbs, with their relative safety, convenience and abundant resources (and stifling uniformity)? Or the city, with its diversity, culture and fast-paced, exciting lifestyle (and bands of marauding youths)? Well, the truth is they're all great as long as you're rich, and if you're not, life's gonna be tough. Anyway, as long as we are in the city, I feel like we should try to live our lives to the fullest, or at least to the half-fullest. I used to play basketball on Monday nights in a gym downtown. We'd pay $100 for two hours and it was one of the highlights of the week, a bunch of nice, interesting guys and a just-right level of competitiveness. We all got a little older and a little busier and a little fatter, and we just sort of stopped renting the gym. But now I want to start renting a new gym, so I am calling around to gauge interest and trying to locate a good spot. It's kind of a pain. It reminds me how much I hated winter here as a teenager. We had no place to play basketball, and none of us had $100 to lay down for a rented gym. So what we would do on occasion back in those glum mid-80's was try to get total strangers to take us into the Coles Center, NYU's then-spanking-new athletic facility. We would have to lurk about 60 feet from the entrance because we didn't want to be spotted by security. Then we would accost people as they walked down the street, and quickly mumble our little spiel about "hi are you going to the coles center and if so can you take me in as your guest? i will pay the fee and we just have to pretend we know each other." It was incredibly awkward, and since we were half a block away, half of the people weren't even going to the gym to begin with. The worst was when it was 20 degrees outside and all your friends had already mooched their way in, and you were left out there alone, debating whether to accept your total scrubitude and go home, or tough it out and work your way in. As bad as that feeling was, being last usually motivated you to start asking every single person who walked by if they'd take you in. Your reward for all this humiliating hard work? You got to wait an hour to get in a pickup game against ball-hogging, phantom-foul-calling, own-skill-level-overestimating NYU dickbrains. So this makes me think that I want my kids to grow up someplace where they can always get a game. And then I spend the weekend in the country and see something as horrifying as this, and I think I need to stay right here. * - of course I offer only the opinion of one man -- it is theoretically possible to live a single life as a married man, a la Tony Soprano. Go for it. As much as I think those Yankees in the bullpen were out of control and probably bear the majority of the responsibility for what happened in Fenway at the end of Game 3 in Boston, I have a hard time believing a fair investigation has actually taken place. It would provide some pathetic measure of satisfaction to Red Sox fans if somehow the city of Boston were able to keep a key player out of the lineup for a game and if the Yankees managed to lose the series because of it. 10/19/3: I was checking out Pete's web site, and he had a rather touching photo of a guy in a Brewers hat sitting in Yankee Stadium, and then Pete commented about how the guy is a hero for standing up to the ignorant hordes of Yankee fans. Normally, I find nothing but wisdom on Pete's site, and I do appreciate his sharp eye in spotting this ridiculously excellent Brewers cap from the most ridiculous era in cap history. But then Pete goes on to attack the ignorance of Yankee fans and in particular their deification of Derek Jeter. After spending last Thursday night sitting in the same upper tier that Pete sat in, I cannot completely disagree with his assessment of Yankee fans -- they can be brutish and violent, and they often have trouble distinguishing between the success of their team and the achievements they've made in their own lives (although blurring this line is why many of us watch sports in the first place). But I've planted my ass and opened my wallet in other stadiums across the land (including the Brewers' home park), and I don't think Yankee fans are any dumber (as Pete suggests) or more informed (as every new player who is traded to New York recites in his inaugural press release) than fans anyplace else. In fact, I have found that every stadium has a rich variety of fans: screamers who know nothing, guys looking for fights, nerds who know too much and score the game, girls wearing pink baseball hats and showcasing their naval piercings, old guys with sandwiches, dads explaining every little thing to their kids, foreign tourists taking pictures, people with signs trying to get on TV, regular folks having a good time, face-painters, big guys who get drunk and sort of melt into the seat, armchair umpires, and people who have sex for the crowd's enjoyment (especially in Toronto, but I have heard other stories as well). But what really bugs me is this feeling I get from a lot of places that Derek Jeter is overrated (please note that this column that suggests he is overrated also says, "probable hall of famer" -- I hate those overrated hall of famers). I think maybe it stems from the fact that Jeter arrived on the scene at roughly the same time as Nomar and ARod. Of course, they are all great shortstops, they all date famous and/or beautiful women, make lots of money and are fan favorites in their home cities. But people outside New York can't stand to hear Jeter's name mentioned along with those guys. "Jeter doesn't hit for power," "his defense is average," etc. etc. etc. Well, if it makes anyone feel any better, I hereby acknowledge that those two are better players than Jeter. I think, if presented with the evidence, a lot of Yankee fans would acknowledge the same thing. But we love Derek Jeter. We love him because he's a great player: he hits .320 every year, he scores lots of runs, he sometimes hits home runs and makes great plays in the field, because he understands what's needed to win and somehow always seems to provide exactly that. And because it seems like all his strengths get sharpened during those heated moments when other players' abilities weaken. Because he has an almost insane addiction to winning. What's not to like? I'm sure a lot of it is playing on a great team and having tons of opportunities to make big plays, but it seems to me he actually has a Jordanlike ability to carve a win out of a loss through his sheer force of will. And while I realize that's a pretty steep comparison and I know Jeter is not in Jordan's class as an athlete, I would argue that the ability to turn around a baseball game is harder to find in one man than the ability to turn around a basketball game. Yet Jeter has probably done it 20 times in the last eight postseasons. I know it must be annoying to (jealous) fans of other teams the way he stands on the top step of the dugout, the way he leans into pitches, the way he holds his hand up to let the umpire he's not quite ready to bat, the way the camera always seems to find him no matter how little he's done in that particular game. I've felt the same way about opposing players over the years. But if he was on your team, it wouldn't bother you. And if your team always seemed to win, you'd be chanting "De-rek Jee-ter" along with the rest of the crowd. Jeter may not be as good as Nomar or ARod or Tejada, but I wouldn't trade him for any of them. Tim McCarver just said, "A walk's as bad as a home run right now." Is that EVER really true? Ugh, Andy Pettitte just started praising God like crazy for this victory. Old story, but let's recap: nothing wrong with worshipping God, but something very wrong with thanking God in the context of sports victories. It's insulting to fans, and it's insulting to God, if you ask me. I sort of respected the way Pedro pointed to the heavens after he got knocked out of the game the other night -- he had just suffered one of the most disappointing moments of his career, but he still thanked God for the chance. That's the way it should work. 10/17/3: I could talk about the game I attended last night in the Bronx -- you know the one I mean -- I could talk about the rich, annoying preppy Boston fans sitting behind us, and all the snide things they said, like when Jeter was batting with two strikes and one out in a seemingly innocuous 8th inning, and they said, "Hey Jeter, I hope you enjoyed your last at bat of the year (if your team hadn't won in 85 years, would you tempt fate this way?)." Or when my friend received a verbal warning from a cop for taunting these fans at 8:10pm, 10 minutes before game time. Or, after Mussina got out of the jam in the 4th, how I turned to the Boston guys and said, "Turning Point." Or when their desperation began to show, like when the Yankees brought in Rivera and the guy behind me said, "You better hope the Yankees score, because you got NOBODY after Rivera" -- here we were, tie game, heading into the 9th inning, and he was already looking for any reason to hope, anything to cling to, but also looking BEYOND the pitcher we had just brought in, the best reliever ever. Because what else can you do, when Rivera comes in, except look beyond? Of course, on this night there was no Beyond Rivera (band name?). Or the (young, attractive) woman who held up a sign that said, "Hey Derek, remember this ride?" with an arrow pointing to herself (she was pretty far away, but I believe she was wearing one of those cheap T-shirts that you get at an amusement park -- the ones that bear a photograph that's snapped on the roller coaster as you scream your lungs out. Maybe she sat next to Jeter on the ride, and that was her little joke - but the sign's implication was decidedly less wholesome than that). Or when Deion belted out any one of his numerous inane but charming chants, like, "C'mon Hideki, hit it in the upper decky" or "C'mon Nick, show 'em the big stick" or even the mystifying "C'mon Jason, hit it like a freemason." Or about the guy next to us, a man who gave off the impression that he had just reluctantly trimmed his mullet in honor of game 7, and who was screaming his lungs out for the Yankees all night long. "I go to 11," was his tagline, a la Spinal Tap. Then it was, "I go to 15. You think I'm gonna stop yelling? Forget it!" He was a winner, we embraced about 6 times. Or about the story I heard on the subway on the way home, about the four Red Sox fans who were departing the stadium in tears, and the Yankee fan who turned around and asked them to smile as he took their picture (a brawl ensued). Or the way they played "New York, New York" at least four times after the game, as we danced, leaped, hugged strangers, gabbed on our cellphones like lovesick teenagers, and generally soaked it in like the asshole Yankee fans we were proud to be. And how the Sox fans behind us slunk out of the stadium in misery after this song had been played once, and how we didn't turn to offer them a last jab or a condescending handshake because we knew the scene itself spoke louder and clearer than we ever could. Or the general sense of meatheaded camaraderie and "now I remember why I watch sports" satisfaction that we all felt. OK, I guess I did talk about some of that stuff. But I think this photo sums up the experience.
Here are a couple more (taken with the cheapo phone/cam, thus the low resolution):
10/16/3: It's pretty hard to get excited about the Marlins being in the World Series. I know it's a cool story, but the disappointment I feel for the poor Cubs and their devastated drunk fans makes it completely impossible for me to like them. The Marlins? What the hell is that about? And if the Cubs didn't make the World Series this year, when it was all set up for them to do it, how the hell are they ever gonna make it? I also have a baaaaaaad feeling about the Yankee game tonight. The Red Sox have that "us against the world" underdog bullshit going pretty good right now. I only hope that Pedro continues to look mortal out there.
10/14/3: Once I heard about the Cubs game, and how they choked it away, I couldn't help but think about this early verbungle quote (5/20/03) that was quite prescient: "You know what act would run completely contradictory to human nature, and as proof I offer that I never remember seeing it happen in thousands of opportunities? When there is a foul popup that's coming down right within the first couple of rows of seats, or dropping just outside the seats onto the field, but within reach of the fans in the first row, I have never seen a fan make the conscious decision not to reach for the ball if it is the home team's fielder attempting to make the play. If they are a true fan, they should want their player to record the out, but the selfish, childlike desire to catch a major league foul ball is so powerful, all rational thought goes out the window and the fan just thinks, "Mine Mine Mine Mine." Sometimes you can even see them mouthing those words with their oily popcorn lips as they stare to the heavens." 10/13/3: It feels sort of good to get angry about sports again. It reminds you that you're alive. Tonight I am angry at the following Yankees: -Soriano The announcers were talking about Mussina's performance like it was one for the record books; but 6.2 innings of 3-run ball and leaving with men on in the 7th is really not so special, especially when you're going up against the unbeatable Tim Wakefield. Speaking of Wakefield, it's hard to dislike him. He just stands out there tossing the ball in at 68 mph. He seems gentle and harmless and perhaps even a little low-normal. I think a good exercise for anybody is to prepare for death. Pretend, with no disrespect towards the terminally ill, that you're terminally ill. Assume you have 6 months to live. Get your affairs in order. Decide what you really want to do. Live life with some enthusiasm, with a sense of excited desperation. Then, when 6 months have passed and you are not dead, go back to your shitty ways. Sit on the couch. Watch TV. Drink a Coke. Be thankful. The PFI is RIP. It was just a sucky idea and I am proud to have cut it off early, before it got away from me. I seem to remember Tarantino distancing himself from the movie when it came out, but ten years later, I think Tony Scott did a fantastic job on "True Romance." I think it holds up better than "Pulp Fiction" (which, while still a fine movie, is just too rife with Tarantino's annoying pop culture references and film-dork love notes to himself), and probably "Reservoir Dogs" as well, which I haven't seen in about 8 years. It's just a tremendously entertaining movie from beginning to end. Christian Slater was only marginally annoying back then. Patricia Arquette was so pretty and nice. How about that scene where Slater goes careening out of the hotel driveway and almost crashes into that other car? Or the brutal fight between Alabama and Gandolfini? And of course the other, quoted-by-annoying-office-douches-until-they're-unbearable scenes, like the Hopper-Walken showdown. The music was good, too. That little boop boop boop song. So good. Maybe it was a little more Hollywood than you might like, but I just love it. 10/12/3: Now that I have had some time to reflect on the Yankee game yesterday, and some time to calm down, I want to reassess blame for the hostilities on (and off) the field. It's amazing how a sporting event can turn a man, even a fan on the couch in his underpants, into a ball of unjustified rage. I wasn't even drinking, so I can only imagine what thoughts must have been going through the heads of the Massholes at Fenway, especially after their team lost. As the game was going on, I sent an email to my friend in which I broke down the blame in the following manner: Pedro: 74% Pedro: 66% (he started the whole mess for no reason, and he escalated it with
his taunts) 10/11/3: Boston, you should be ashamed of your team and yourselves. What a bunch of dirtballs. But Zimmer, you're a schmuck, too. What the hell are you thinking? Go play shuffleboard or something. Although Kevin Kennedy's postgame analysis shed a little light on the situation -- Zimmer's famous beaning was probably behind his rage this evening. He knows how dangerous those kinds of pitches are. But why not send Sojo or somebody after Pedro? I also like how angry Posada is. He's gonna get in a fight by the end of this series. And my man Karim Garcia is mixing it up like a champ. The Red Sox need to be punished for their bush-league bullshit. Despite (because of?) the shenanigans, this baseball postseason is the best I can remember. I am in a refreshing state of macho partisan meatheadedness. Bret Boone has said about ten words the whole series, but today he said two of the funniest: Joe Buck: The news we are getting is that the person who was involved in
the fight in the Yankee bullpen is a groundskeeper. Someone who is
employed by the Red Sox. Pedro, I have lost all respect for you. Please stop reading verbungle.com. 10/10/3: Holy shit. I just watched this week's Real World on the Magic Box. That guy CT from Boston is a legitimate thug -- I think he'll be dead in five years. Total cringing entertainment on a weekly basis. As a reality TV trailblazer and inspiration to many (terrible) shows, this program doesn't get nearly the credit it deserves. It still applies its formula better than just about anybody else, and I am not ashamed to admit I still watch it (even though perhaps I should be). Granted, it has been sucking a bit these last couple of seasons, but this guy CT needs his own show. He's the type of fellow you run into in a bar and he shoves you, and so you speak up for yourself, thinking it'll get broken up long before punches are thrown (the same false assumption that Adam Goldberg's character pays dearly for in "Dazed and Confused"), and the next thing you know he's just wailing on you like a piñata. 10/9/3: How much do we as Yankee fans love Andy Pettitte? Even though he lent his name to that Super-Christian "Power for Living" text that was advertised on the subway a few years ago, and he's clearly a very religious man, he doesn't push his Christianity on you every chance he gets. He seems honest and decent and he answers questions with legitimate, thoughtful answers, instead of incessantly invoking Jesus' name a la John Wetteland. Mostly, he pitches big in big games. And isn't that what playing in New York is all about? We will respect Mussina, but we won't love him until he delivers us some season-salvaging win, the way Pettitte has so many times (remember Game 5 of the '96 World Series?), the way Wells and Clemens have as well. For the same reason, Patrick Ewing will never elicit an emotional response from fans, despite being one of the Top 5 Knicks of all time. We trusted him with our hearts, and while he didn't stomp all over them, he never really pulled us close and carried us home. He just talked about it a lot. The fascinating thing about Pettitte is that perhaps his defining characteristic is something that some might argue is an unfair measurement of pitching skill: his ability to win. Sure, he gets run support up the ass, but I contend that there is more to his 149-78 career record than being a lucky Yankee. A Red Sox fan sent me an email pointing out that Pettitte's statistics (aside from his 21 wins) were very comparable to Tim (11 wins) Wakefield's this season. It's true, and throughout his career Pettitte has usually given up more than a hit an inning, and his career ERA is around 4.00. But he does a lot of things that help his team win. He fields his position well, he picks runners off and prevents them from stealing, he doesn't give up a lot of homers. I normally don't buy into the BS about how a team plays with more confidence, and thus scores more runs, behind a pitcher they believe in -- or any of that other stuff about "intangibles," especially in a sport with such excellent performance-measuring statistics. But with Pettitte, you can almost sense how bad the other players want to succeed for him. He competes, he cares a ton about what happens, and, I guess, he's lucky. He's been a big part of some great teams, and we will never forget it. How much would I hate the Yankees if I wasn't a Yankee fan? As much as he would have us believe he's the second coming of Cary Grant, George Clooney seems to me to be a 21st century version of the wisecracking, frat-guy 1980's-style action star. 10/8/3: I want to reiterate that the inclusion of "Ice Ice baby" and "Under Pressure" on the soundalike songs was a joke. Not necessarily a funny one, but a joke. On to a couple more songs: Rolling Stones, "Brown Sugar" and Dandy Warhols, "Bohemian Like You" Chris W. submits the following pairing and accompanying story: Spirit, "Nature's Way" and Cheap Trick, "The Flame" "In high school when we used to have house parties, drinking Black Label Light and smoking doobies, my habit was to call the local rock station (I-95 FM in Brookfield, 'Fairfield County's Real Rock') and request songs they would never play and then tell them they suck. I was a scream. Anyway one house party night, around the time The Flame was a hit, I called the station and begged the DJ to just trust me and play the Cheap Trick song and Nature's Way back to back. Amazingly, he did and then came back and said something to the effect of, 'that kid may be drunk and obnoxious but he's on to something here.' I was a hero for the rest of the night." 10/7/3: Kudos to Pete on his Ahnuld prediction. Shame on California for the whole debacle. I present to you my preliminary list of songs that sound like each other (to me). Sometimes it's a dead ringer, other times just a passing similarity in a specific part of the song. You may disagree or agree or add your own. -Sly and the Family Stone, "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Again)" and Wild Cherry, "Play That Funky Music" -Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Sweet Home, Alabama" and Warren Zevon, "Werewolves of London" -you kind of have to listen hard here, maybe it's just me -The Beach Boys, "Sloop John B." and Big Star, "The India Song" -The Replacements, "Waitress in the Sky" and Johnny Rivers, "Mountain of Love" -David Bowie/Queen, "Under Pressure" and Vanilla Ice, "Ice Ice Baby" *** *** This one is a joke. Sorry for any confusion.
10/6/3: I know that Red Sox fans are probably looking at things right now and thinking bullshit thoughts like "Team of Destiny." "Heart." "Refuse to Lose." Well, I have a few words that are more accurate: Bush leaguers. Bad sports. Losers. The other day in Boston, several Red Sox players lined up on the top step of the dugout with tape arranged on each of their backs to form the word "Lil-ly." This was meant to encourage the fans to start in with that tired, derisive chant that originated with Darryl Strawberry. Incredibly lame -- a sign of a team that really doesn't get it (the Red Sox also all shaved their heads* -- reminding me of the doomed Knicks of the mid-90's who would shave their heads and wear the same shoes and chest bump and basically do every little junior high school thing you could do to pump each other up, but then they would still throw the game away in some horrifying way when it really counted). Rev up the fans, but don't encourage them to attack a specific opponent, you idiots. It makes you look like suckers. Manny's arrogant home run styling tonight was offensive as well. He's a wonderful hitter, but he is...somewhat lacking in other areas of his life. Lowe's obscene gestures towards the A's dugout after the game...what a moron. The Red Sox must understand that the only reason they were able to win this series is that they faced the A's, a team that has absolutely no idea how to win (this is the 9th straight time they have lost a game with the chance to clinch a series). The Sox should also beware that their manager is one of those lunkheaded guys who continues to push the wrong buttons and survives despite it. I am fairly confident that the Yankees will put a stop to this nonsense. Twice tonight I used the "rewind" feature of the Magic Box while watching the Red Sox -A's game. This is quite possibly my favorite feature of the MB. The first time I called upon its power was in around the 7th inning, when I heard somebody yell (presumably from the A's bench) something that sounded obscene. I rewound and discovered that indeed someone had yelled "first fucking pitch!" as one of the A's grounded out. I also rewound to see if Zito was laughing at his dominance over Manny early in the game (which would make Manny's actions somewhat justified). He didn't appear to be laughing. Rewinding a program you're in the process of watching live is truly life-affirming, but it's also a little dangerous. If you don't hit the "Live" button right away, you might forget, and then continue watching the version of the game that is taking place in a previous universe. Later that evening, you'll remember that you are still stuck slightly in the past, and at this point, hitting the "Live" button is like playing Russian Roulette. You might think your team is winning 2-1 in the 8th, and then you hit "Live" and you see the final score up on the screen, and you have lost 4-2. Hasn't happened to me yet, but I am scared. * -except for a few guys, who didn't. Sort of defeats the whole "team unity" thing (Patrick Ewing and John Starks never joined in the Knicks' head-shaving, either -- maybe that's why we never won). 10/5/3: Why does it gross me out when married people or people in serious relationships talk about their sex lives, but I'm completely enthralled when a friend describes a random, botched one night stand? There's something creepy about people (like one married guy I work with) who say things like, "Yeah, I got laid last night. My wife was finally in the mood." Maybe it's because I feel that the marriage should have some degree of privacy and trust, and I may actually have to meet the wife someday, and of course I'll be unable to avoid picturing her writhing beneath her thrusting beast of a husband. Hearing about somebody's random sexual adventure, as innocent or as filthy as it might be, almost seems like fiction, and can be enjoyed as such. Maybe part of it is that married people having sex bears some distant connection to our parents having sex, and that is certainly disturbing. I don't know, maybe I'm screwed up. I was reading about the riots in Bushwick during the '77 blackout. The article itself is sort of all over the place and manages to make everybody seem unsympathetic (which is sort of how I remember New York back then), but I guess chaos and the worst aspects of human nature were what ruled that evening. What a fucked-up scene. I was here in '77 -- I have a vague memory of that blackout, but I don't really remember the looting and rioting and arrests and beatdowns. The looting is just horrible, but it does show you how people can come together in tough times like that. I mean, if I want to loot by myself, I'll just get arrested, but if we all do it -- there's no way they can arrest us all. Teamwork. Sort of like filesharing. Of course, they did arrest like 3,000 people that night, and beat countless others into submission. I wonder if there are people out there who are still watching TV's and listening to radios they stole that night. I bet they were bummed when they got home and they had no electricity to power up their new shit -- sort of like when you got a new Mattel handheld football game for Christmas but your parents forgot to buy batteries, so you just had to sit and stare at it until the next day when the stores reopened. You are hellbound if: You are pulling for Roy to recover from his mauling, but only so you can make guilt-free jokes about the whole thing.
10/3/3: One thing I forgot to mention when I was up in Montreal was the poutine. I got an email from my friend Benjy while I was up there, and in it he offered support for my thesis that nothing really happens in Canada. He said, "Yeah, poutine and ketchup flavored potato chips don't really cut it. I remember so many times going up to Montreal and trying all the stuff that was different than in the U.S. and being disappointed every single time." Despite this less than enthusiastic review, I began wondering what the hell poutine was. About three minutes after I read the email, my wife said, without knowing that I was Mulling Poutine (band name?) at that very moment, "My friends from Montreal told me that we HAVE to try the poutine while we're up here." It turns out that poutine is a French-Canadian treat that consists of french fries submerged in gravy and then topped with cheese curds. Sounds like something you'd get at a truck stop, but apparently there it's all the rage (remember, they don't have as many cable channels as we do). So we went out and ordered some at the recommended local Poutinery. Rather, my wife ordered some and sort of liked it (them?). I nibbled on a soggy fry or three and thought pretty much what Benjy thought about the whole thing. For starters, as a vegetarian, the entire concept of gravy makes me a little nauseous. I respect the fact that the juices are tasty and you don't want to waste any part of the animal, but I can't help being grossed out by it. Even the word is yucky. Gravy. Plus, french fries need to be crispy. Even an American knows that. My wife claimed that the fries managed to stay crispy somehow -- that the gravy formed some sort of protective seal or something -- but unfortunately that is bullshit. They were soggy, I tried a couple. Finally, the cheese was kind of cold and then it sort of half-melted when sprinkled over the fries. As Dipak might say, whatever. They even serve poutine at McDonald's up there (McPoutine?). Perhaps we should have tried that -- McDonald's has conquered french fry technology, maybe they have done the same with poutine. The sad part is how much I like the word "poutine." I thought it would be a great name for the mischievous youngest son on a French sitcom. Like, at the end of an episode, the father would have powdered sugar (or gravy) all over his face, and he would yell out, "POOOOUUUUTIIIIIINE!" while shaking his fist furiously. After viewing the concoction itself, I also think "poutine" is a nice all-purpose word for anything involving defecation. If you stopped in a restaurant and needed to use their bathroom in a hurry, you could just grimace and hold your stomach and say, hopefully, "Poutine?" Or, at a fancy dinner party, "Hey, you might want to wait a few minutes --I just made some major poutine in there." Actually, I like using the word to mean just about anything. 10/1/3: I was thinking that Vin Diesel is probably much better suited to being a pro wrestler (name and all) than an actor, but then I realized he falls way short of the necessary charisma requirement. Which must make people like Roddy Piper and Randy Savage bitter that he has made millions of dollars in Hollywood, while they barely made a dent. My amended alternate career choice for Diesel is bouncer. I am so accustomed to drinking cheap long-neck domestic beers that when I ordered a Heineken at a bar tonight (because the only cheap long-neck domestic beer available was Coors Light), I repeatedly attempted to drink before the bottle had reached my lips. I didn't spill any, though. If you had two roulette wheels, one with the names of every recording artist of all time, and the other with every song ever written, and you had to spin the wheels, and then the artist from Wheel A would cover the song on Wheel B, your worst fear would probably be Limp Bizkit covering "Behind Blue Eyes." Well buckle up, because it's happening. Is there a more annoying creature walking the earth today than the "Mac Person"? I respect that fact that Macs are probably way better than PC's -- they're cooler looking and more elegant, they're designed with the user in mind, blah blah blah. I invite anyone who's interested to partake in the wonderful world of Macs. But these people forge such intense personal connections with their computers that they then feel the need to proselytize about it. I suspect that they aren't even using the computer for its intended purpose, cruising for porn to masturbate to. They're masturbating looking at the computer itself. It's offensive, creepy and sad. An announcer doing the A's game just forcefully complained that the pitcher had struck out a batter instead of inducing him to hit into a double play. As if pitchers can control the direction of a batted ball with enough precision to conjure up whatever result they want. A strikeout is a perfectly acceptable result in any situation. I guess that's why these people were good at sports -- instead of sitting around thinking and wrestling with ideas, books and thoughts, they were outside smashing baseballs around. Of course, then they retire and we have to hear them talk on TV.
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