The Top 10 Reasons April Is Not the Best Sports Month of the Year

Nothing against either franchise, but as long as the two continue to win championships with identical vanilla organizational philosophies that frown upon superstar egos and individual accomplishments, they will be somewhat linked.

Because the Spurs enter each spring with 50-plus wins in ho-hum fashion, securing a solid seeding in the Western Conference playoffs, no one seems to take much notice. Like the Pats, the Spurs are supposed to breeze into the playoffs from year to year thanks to a supreme team effort that is disgustingly admirable, if not downright boring.

Behind the scenes, however, talks of yet another championship start to emerge, and Tim Duncan’s skin turns another shade of Tom Brady white. And this season is no exception. As of April 2nd, San Antonio stood third in the conference with a 48-26 record and is well within range of capturing their fifth title since 1999. Let the dynasty talks begin and the Tony Parker-Kevin Faulk comparisons ensue.

The streak began on March 24, 1991, in Los Angeles before a modest crowd of 16,158. It has endured numerous character changes, storylines, scenarios, casket matches, and even an overweight pallbearer with a creepy fetish for his urn.

All the while, its subject has matured from WWF rookie unknown to full-blown WWE superstar.

The Undertaker’s unprecedented winning streak was born at WrestleMania VII, against Hall-of-Famer “Superfly” Jimmy Snuka, just months after the wrestler made his mainstream debut. Such is the monotony that has followed the streak, the only thing that can seemingly spice up Undertaker’s ‘Mania matches is if Ric Flair for no reason whatsoever shows up, takes a steel ring post to the head, and bloodies up that blond do.

The Deadman will now attempt to capture his 17th consecutive WrestleMania victory when wrestling’s biggest pay-per-view event of the year is acted out at Houston’s Reliant Stadium on April 5. But, really, what are the chances Undertaker has his reign of dominance snapped at WrestleMania’s 25th anniversary, presumably in front of four times as many people as the number that witnessed its inception?

(Note: This article was written prior to the Undertaker’s win over Shawn Michaels at WrestleMania XXV, which just so happened to be the best match of the entire night.)

Due to the fact that Packer’s string of 34 consecutive Final Fours with CBS was ended this year, let’s discuss this one retroactively. For as long as I can remember, the NCAA Tournament has been one of the most exciting and thoroughly entertaining sporting events to watch each year—until the Final Four.

That’s when Packer would enter stage right and begin spewing his hot air all over the court in his trademark condescending and smug style, effectively ruining the three most important games of the tournament for everyone.

“He’s got such quick hands” and “That’s not the shot they wanted, Jim” are just some of the mundane comments Packer has made a living off of for more than three decades, much to the chagrin of partner Jim Nantz, who I’m sure has spent the past 35 Aprils wondering what he did to piss off God.

Things really came to a head a year ago, and it’s fitting that the unapologetic Packer managed to rile up an entire fan base during his Final Four goodbye. With Kansas up by 26 in the first half of the semifinals, Packer sent North Carolina Tarheel faithful into an absolute tizzy when he proclaimed that the “game was over,” leading many to believe that he was subliminally referring to the end of his broadcasting career with CBS.

Ever since ESPN chose not to renew its NHL broadcasting rights in August of 2005, we all suffered just a little bit, and that definitely includes head play-by-play man Gary Thorne, who was subsequently banished to Little League World Series hell for the rest of his career.

Enter the Outdoor Life Network, which bucked up $200 million over three years for the rights to show hockey on a channel that had specialized (and still does) in tree stands, the advantages of wearing deer urine to hide your manly scent from various woodland creatures, and prime-time rodeo bashes.

Compounding the problem that nobody had ever heard of OLN was the fact that it was hidden way up on the cable dial, smack dab between the Cartoon Network and Oxygen, a programming wasteland where no self-respecting male dare tread.

And just when most of us were starting to accept the shoddiness of our new found source for hockey action, OLN received a face-lift. Suddenly operating under the title of Versus, the network steadily began making noticeable improvements in conjunction with the country’s resurgent passion for the game, including upgrading its broadcast studio to look less like the garage of a suburban home and hiring award-winning play-by-play voice Mike Emrick.

Today, fresh off a recent agreement that ensures broadcasting rights through the 2010-11 season, Versus is operating at maximum capacity. The only problem is it does so in accordance with the wishes of NBC, which has transformed from Game of the Week bystander to a major player in the NHL’s playoff coverage.

The result has been an onslaught of ambiguity that leaves hardcore puckheads and players’ girlfriends alike confused as to which network will carry which game from night to night during the season’s most critical juncture.

As is the case every spring, the winner of the World Series has been predicted to come out of the AL East. And I’ll give you a hint—the candidates don’t include the Blue Jays, Orioles, or even the defending American League champion Rays.

Like a fly to a steaming pile of you-know-what, ESPN seldom strays from playing favorites with the evil and financially sound empires that reside in the cities of Boston and New York.

The Red Sox feature six players age 30 or older among their starting eight, but the injury concerns surrounding Mike Lowell and David Ortiz will be quelled by the 41-year-old arm of John Smoltz. Meanwhile, the Yankees just spent $100 billion between a new palace with an infield, two starters, and a first baseman, so there’s no reason at all to believe fans won’t pay $500 a ticket to watch an ego-ridden, All-Star roster that may or may not gel.

If you want to look at it objectively, all ESPN is doing is feeding the proverbial beast—the two baseball clubs that just so happen to pay the electricity bills out there in Bristol.

Along with Duke, the Florida Gators, northeastern-based sportswriters, southeastern college football, North Carolina basketball, the SEC, Barack Obama’s NCAA bracket, Tim Tebow, and the New England Patriots, the Yankees and Red Sox are what give the Worldwide Leader in Sports its trademark bias, so why wouldn’t they pick those two teams to fight it out for a World Series title?

If only there were a way to eliminate all National League teams from contention, we’d be able to skip the season all together and let New York and Boston duke it out for a championship in a best of 163-game series. That way ESPN would have an excuse to show Yankee and Red Sox highlights in the opening minute of every SportsCenter.

You can’t deny that Augusta National Golf Club is one of the most beautiful places on the face of this planet. With an average high temperature of a balmy 58 degrees in the winter, the eastern edge of Georgia is the perfect setting year-round to cultivate the perfect golfer’s oasis.

Seemingly void of even one misplaced blade of grass, Augusta blends the very finest in nature’s beauty and man-driven architecture to give us a surreal experience every Easter weekend.

But despite all its wondrous traits, Augusta would simply be any other hacker’s municipal paradise without its trademark azaleas, which seem to bloom just in time for tournament week to provide us with an endless buffet of color explosion on each and every hole. Almost to the point that it becomes sickening. And if you think it’s hard for us viewers, imagine how difficult it is for the players to stomach the aroma of an infinite number of pollinating flowers.

You know that look on Phil Mickelson’s face when he reaches the back nine? It’s not because he’s fearful of relinquishing a lead passing through Amen Corner; it’s the expression of regurgitation when you succumb to the smell of millions of azaleas spreading their vile seed simultaneously in the thick, humid Georgia atmosphere.

It’s enough to make anyone shank one left while experiencing a full-body dry heave.

We as Americans do everything in our power to keep soccer from being woven tightly within our nation’s fabric. Dads push 5’6”, 125-pound kids to play linebacker, while nervous mothers insist their manly daughters would be better off playing a more lucrative sport, like field hockey.

Truth is, we already have a handful of sports we care about too much to care about soccer. A country’s whose competitive spirit was kindled by blood, sweat, and tears has no sympathy for a skinny-waisted, pretty boy striker who trips over a blade of grass, leaves the field on a stretcher, and returns five minutes later as if nothing had happened.

Alas, there are those gangs of mutinous strongholds loyal to Eastern civilization that take one month out of the year to pledge their allegiance—and they gather together in April. It’s called the UEFA Champions League knockout phase (why can’t they just call it playoffs).

Never mind the 10-month-long qualifying process by which teams from around Europe kill each other for a chance to enter the 32-team field. The nitty-gritty takes place over a one-week stretch in the early to mid part of the month, when such stars as metrosexual posterboy Cristiano Ronaldo and Brazilian god Ronaldinho, who may or may not be an extraterrestrial lifeform, contend for a trip to the finals in late May in Italy.

And the Race for Rome is a fiery one, the flames of which intensify as the media coverage surrounding the UEFA Champions League playoffs grows broader.

Thanks to Fox Sports International, which announced last week it has acquired the rights in the U.S. and Caribbean to show as many as 110 live and tape-delayed matches per season, soccer hooligans right here at home will be able to get their fix nearly every month out of the year, therefore weakening the bonds that have kept the phrases “clean sheet” and “there’s the equalizer” out of America’s sports lexicon.

Here’s to hoping that ESPN NFL Draft analyst Mel Kiper Jr. spends his second lifetime as a gentle daffodil swaying in the breeze, because in this one, he courses through his days belittling his peers with a cold, heartless demeanor and preying on the weak and feeble Todd McShay’s of the world.

Just as indignant are the New York Jet faithful, who support their team down to their steely core year in, year out, but do so with the pretentiousness and smugness of a frat brother with three popped collars.

Every April, we are treated to the convergence of these two annoying parties, and the results nearly ruin the copious amounts of draft coverage in a minute’s time. Kiper, equipped with a disturbingly perfect head of hair, stares into our eyes for hours upon end and tells us who will be selected by which team and in what round the fourth-string kicker from Mississippi Valley State will fulfill his NFL dreams.

And then, as if to imply something is wrong with the game of football and not him, Kiper smears us with some half-ass explanation as to why a certain team did not make good on his projection.

Providing a mind-numbing soundtrack to Kiper’s predictions are the Jets fans. No doubt an army of supporters whose loyalty demands they camp outside on the eve of the draft, they anxiously take their seats in the makeshift bleachers facing the stage and, before long, begin swinging from the rafters of New York City’s Radio City Music Hall to the barbaric tune of “J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, Jets, Jets.”

But all becomes calm, however, when the Jets’ front office once again gambles on a little-known quarterback with no arm, upon which time the confused and angry throng of onlookers intently listens in on Kiper’s uncensored and unrestrained commentary.

A chorus of boos immediately rains down, and the process repeats itself for the remaining seven rounds of the draft.

The aforementioned Emrick is probably the best there is in the business. He knows the game of hockey like the back of his hand, and this allows him to call a game with a vernacular and quick wit that are both unmatched by his peers.

The danger that comes along with doing your job with an overwhelming sense of enjoyment, though, is that you often are unaware of your surroundings, and any unchecked outpouring of emotion could be misconstrued as a sexual innuendo.

Take it from me, a hockey fan who grew up with the Blues’ Ken Wilson, whose “Oh, Baby!” catch phrase only got louder and more passionate as the season wore on, finally reaching its climax somewhere around the team’s annual first or second-round playoff exit.

Though Emrick’s battle cry is beautifully simplistic, it can quickly register a 9 or 10 on the Orgasmo Meter if given the opportunity, especially if New Jersey is one of the teams he’s covering (he’s the regular season play-by-play man for the Devils).

To his credit, Emrick does an excellent job of concealing his excitement until it is absolutely necessary. He’ll lull you into a trance with his inviting tone, but the second Alex Ovechkin rings one off the crossbar or Martin Brodeur does the splits, Emrick will hit you with an emphatic “Ooooooooooooooooooooh!” that rings your ear drums and makes you wonder if he’ll use the next commercial break to smoke a cigarette.

Obviously, this isn’t the case, but it seems that way. It makes you wonder what kind of tomfoolery or illegal substances the other players on the tour were using when Tiger didn’t come away victorious those eight times between 1997 and now.

That being said, because every year the question is whether anyone will challenge Tiger, and players seldom do when he’s on, we are left thinking the Augusta National brass should consider letting the rest of the field play from the ladies’ tees until Tiger goes five or more years without a Green Jacket.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind at all seeing Mr. Woods win. But the fact remains: When Tiger wins at Augusta, he smokes the field by an average of 4.7 strokes.

In other words, he plays roughly a hole and a half less per Masters Tournament than every other chump that’s trying to chase him. It is this glaring handicap that has rendered the golfing world’s most affluent and snooty championship an amateur dog-and-pony show.

And unless Tiger cans another miraculous chip or hobbles around the course like a Crip at a barbecue because his knee is acting up, this year’s Masters will be much of the same: completely void of drama.

That is unless, of course, you are excited to see who comes in second.