Bleacher Report - Articles by Kris Pollina

The Evil Empire's New Clothes: Am I Missing Something About Joba?

Kris Pollina — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 00:15:09 -0400

While my participation in fantasy sports was born sometime in the last decade, in retrospect I think I’ve been subscribing to the concept and principles of fantasy as early as age 10.

Once a year. November 1. The Candy Draft.

The day after Halloween, my sisters and I would convene to build our fantasy sugar rosters, and being the oldest and most ridiculous, I took it too seriously. I’d manage to deal my Necco wafers for Snickers, Raisonettes for Peanut Butter Cups.

And my first round pick, the Carl Crawford of junk food, was always my KitKats. There was nothing I could be offered in exchange for them.

My sisters, being younger and normal, would commence eating their candy as soon as they could, but I wanted to keep trade talks alive for days, sometimes weeks. The result of this? I held onto my KitKats for so long and refused to move them, to the point where they were either melted or covered in stale powder.

Then they were about as useful to me as Necco wafers.

With the trade deadline coming up, hypotheticals over how far would you go, how much would you sacrifice, have blanketed the Yankee universe—a thick surround-sound of murmured accord and indignant disapprovals.

After weeks of observing it, I’m no more enlightened than I was before about why in God’s name is Joba seen as the immoveable keeper.

Ironically, the Yankees’ mentality seems to mimic that of a gourmet chef making risotto, terrified of letting it sit still for a second for fear of it crusting and becoming ruined. They’ve moved the young pitcher around so much, it’s amazing he hasn’t developed some kind of bipolar disorder.

The idea of trading Joba makes everyone shudder. WHY? Why do you want him so badly? While admittedly stunning back in the good old days of setup relief, he’s essentially useless as a starter and may as well be Esteban Loiaza at this point.

New York Sports Jerk does a great job of boiling down the abortive plights of poor Joba, and I’m struggling to see how this macabre laundry list of failures is categorically ignored when the topic of trade comes up.

"The standard argument used by people who have dug in on that side of the Joba debate is that you'd rather have him throw 200 innings than the 80 he'd get out of the bullpen.

Of course, it's impossible to get to 200 innings if you can't get through the fifth half the time, but why cloud the issue with factual matters like that?

Let's take a look at the numbers from Joba's last 7 starts:

35.2 IP (avg. of just over 5 IP per start)

47 hits

27 runs (20 earned)

5.05 ERA

1.77 WHIP

During that period, batters are hitting .311 against him, with an OPS of .861.

For a frame of reference, there are only 28 hitters in the American League with an OPS of .861 or higher, and only 26 players in all of baseball with an average of at least .311. In other words, Joba is turning every hitter he faces into one of the best players in the league."

The Joba Debate has been going on for more than a year, and given the current circumstances, the opposing sides should no longer be bullpen vs starter, but rather healthy vs hurt.

And anyone who looks at Joba’s pitching cannot in good conscience have the audacity to claim this guy’s arm isn’t in trouble. He went from have a ruthless fastball-slider combo, to having to work another two pitches into his arsenal.

His fastball is 10 runs below average from last year. A slider that was so effective that connecting with it was like trying to drive a nail into a tomato seed, is now met with ease and comfort. Like a looking at long-division quizzes you failed in 3rd grade and getting a good chuckle over the how unconquerable it used to seem.

Throwing overhand is against the body’s natural movement, making time off crucial for pitchers. The wind-up is complex, stressful, and violent, and unless a pitcher’s muscular composition is stable enough to prevent subluxation, the risk of strains is going to balloon with every start.

A study done by sports medicine researchers at Washington University found that professional pitchers have significantly decreased range of motion in their throwing elbows:

"The researchers reported on a study of 33 professional baseball pitchers in the October issue of the American Journal of Sports Medicine. Trainers and team doctors measured the pitchers' ability to bend, straighten and rotate their elbows and found that range of motion in the dominant elbow was limited when compared to the other arm."

History doesn't offer us a whole lot in terms of evidentiary pool for relievers-starters. A good reason for this may be the expedited exit from baseball's radar not long after this move. Take, for example, the drop-offs of these players after they put their relief life on the shelf: Brett Myers, Craig Lefferts, Danny Graves, Miguel Batista...

Isn’t it possible that despite a college career as a starter, that Joba’s muscles may have taken a hit when his routine was abruptly altered? And isn’t it also possible that the Yankees have done some investigation of their own into this possibility?

And if they did discover something was amiss with his arm or shoulder, wouldn’t is stand to reason that such information wouldn’t be the type of thing they’d want public right around the trade deadline?

I mean, hell, every fan is apparently convinced he’s priceless and the roster would be devastated without him, DESPITE the fact he hasn’t done a single worthwhile thing for the team in about 122 years. MAYBE this same faith and enduring wait-and-see attitude prevails in the league, as well, and is just as exploitable as Ks are leveragable.

Of course, it’s natural to suffer a degree of transitional wear and tear when moved from the pen to the rotation. No one expected his velocity to stay up, but we DID expect his value to stay put.

After all, wasn’t that the whole reason he became a starter in the first place? Because he’d be more of an asset to the team this way rather than limiting his dominant stuff to only one inning?

Yeah. He’s been indispensable. Without him, our relievers and their ever-amorphous caliber of talent would never see the light of the fifth inning.

Bill James, the master of all statistical significance himself, said:

“IT’S NECESSARY TO LIMIT THE RELIEF PITCHER’S ROLE, TO PREVENT RELIEVERS FROM BEING DESTROYED BY OVERWORK.”

“A HUNDRED RUNS SAVED BY A RELIEF ACE HAVE SUBSTANTIALLY MORE IMPACT THAN 100 RUNS SAVED BY A STARTING PITCHER, IN ALL CASES, EVEN IF THE RELIEVER’S JOB IS JUST TO COME IN AND PITCH WHEN THE STARTER GETS KNOCKED OUT.”

So continue to argue that he was a starter in college. That he’s young. That we had to expect a bit of a learning curve. That we shouldn’t automatically abandon someone who was brilliant for us just a year ago.

But…why?

Why are we grasping onto the Joba-is-good myth like it’s our lucky hat being worn in a convertible going 80 on the thruway? I can almost get on board with why the hat would be worn in the first place, but once you realize the liability involved, why not either put the top up or take off the hat?

Why don’t we want to trade him? What is he bringing to the rotation that can’t be achieved by letting Swisher go five innings instead? The Yankees’ former ace-turned-joker is hurt. And if some other team wants to tackle the gamble of whether he’ll rebound like Wang or like A-Rod, let them have it.

Joba Chamberlain, unfortunately, is now damaged goods.

The Real World: Draft Lobby

Kris Pollina — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 18:52:58 -0400

“When I examine myself and my methods of thought, I come to the conclusion that the gift of fantasy has meant more to me than any talent for abstract, positive thinking.” –Albert Einstein

Every year, I try to do something different with my team, and every year I have the same team. It’s the story of my life. When I first moved into NYC, I went to the closest bar to my apartment to watch the games until I had cable installed. I haven’t gone to a different bar since.

Or maybe it’s more like The Real World. How that show is still on is beyond me, especially since it churns out the same boilerplate list of stock characters every season. The cities change but the predictability of seeing a sorority girl, homosexual, jock, minority, and indie hipster never dilutes.

So last Sunday, when I ceremoniously logged onto Yahoo, when I did a cannonball into delightful world of fantasy drafting, and when I celebrated the return of the term “Stat-tracker” to my daily vernacular, I realized that it wasn’t just my team that looked the same year after year. It was the circus crew of fellow managers, too.

I’ve been the tagalong in my sister’s college friend's fantasy league for a few years, but have played in enough that I’ve realized that regardless of the sport, the players, or the league parameters, somehow every year the same dynamic manages to formulate, like some kind of Darwinian phenomenon.

And the truth of the matter is, we couldn’t survive any better without one of these core stock characters, any more than we’d be able to field a team without a catcher or pitcher.

* * *

The Top 11 Requisite Characters in any Draft

(Am I missing anyone?)

1. The Aggressive Commish

First Round Pick: Hanley Ramirez, due largely to the fact it’s first on all major sports rankings, and coincidentally enough, the commish’s got the first pick. Again.

He galvanizes the league months before the season’s onset, usually through e-mails warning against the repercussions of “being too busy this year.” He authors the Power Rankings and is the de facto final word on any kind of approval—whether we admit to it or not, his discriminating use of “nice pick” during the draft is akin to the waiter’s rare doled out approval when ordering at a restaurant. (What, no one else gets excited about that feather-in-your-cap from being the sole recipient of "Ahh, yes, excellent choice"?)

2. The Chick

First Round Pick: Derek Jeter

My sister relishes this role. Despite the fact she actually knows what she’s talking about, she still names her team “HOT PINK” and makes comments during the draft like, “I like Russell Martin because he’s my friend.” This is one sect of Chick.

Then there’s the legitimate imbecile, who somehow weaseled her way into the league just to be “near” her boyfriend, and lastly, there’s the over-the-top tomboy chick who spends the majority of the season reminding everyone how she’s a girl who’s STILL kicking your asses, y’all. I wish these girls would just go eat Yoplait and shut up.

3. The Friend of a Friend

First Round Pick: Carl Crawford (because he got stuck with the 20th pick, being the newcomer and all. And because he’s got no need to throw around a flashy sleeper name, so he makes a calculated, interestingly fundamental choice).

Usually a late addition when the draft’s 18 minutes away and you still have an odd number of teams. I was this role last year when my coworker invited me to play in his league.

Not only was I the only girl, but I was about 15 years younger than all of them, and this wasn’t a bunch of frat guys throwing something together on Yahoo. I was way in over my head. For some reason though, this is usually the guy who annoyingly is first or second best in the league. And because no one really knows him, no one can get too much thrill out of smack talking, etc. And 99% of the time, he's the nicest guy you'll ever meet and hence wouldn't want to instigate cyber-war, anyway. Doubly aggravating. It's like trying to do the dramatic-hang-up-slam...with a cell phone.

But this character also usually hands us one of the most entertaining nuance of the season--the discernible shift in dynamic in the draft day chat room. You’re comfortably entrenched in some kind of inappropriate/off-color discussion with the rest of your league--the transcripts of which probably would amount to mandatory jail time in some states--when you remember there’s a new guy in the chatroom that no one knows anything about, least of all how much latitude his sense of humor (or lack thereof) would afford us...

“Hey, Dan’s friend from soccer, sorry about that. We seriously don’t really think all those things about 2-headed Siamese twins. Just kidding around. Hey, great pick with Billingsley, by the way!”

4. Stat freak

First Round Pick: Josh Hamilton

He’s spent the off-season preparing for this moment. His bedroom looks like a scene from “Beautiful Mind,” and he will disseminate a continual stream of player trivia, its actual consequence inversely proportional to the degree of authority he shares it, (ie, “Lester’s not a bad pick, just added a change-up which should make him pretty solid” vs “OUCH. Uh, dude? Horrible move. I’m sorry, but Zambrano lost 3 mph off his fastball this spring. Good luck, man.”)

He spits out stats throughout the draft so flatly and one-dimensionally that it’s almost reminiscent of a woman sideline reporter.

5. The Autodrafter

First Round Pick: Lance Berkman

If you can’t clear two hours to draft a team, then you have no business in the league. How can you expect to manage a team every day if that’s the kind of lack of commitment you evidence at the most fun part of the whole game?

My sister (see “The Chick”) didn’t take it lightly when we realized that a few rounds into the draft, her boyfriend (see “The Aggressive Commish”) was autodrafting. He was out with his buddies drinking, despite scheduling the draft for 10:00 on a Friday night.

So she did what any appalled manager would do if someone didn’t show up to the draft—she exploited her insider girlfriend knowledge, logged onto his Yahoo account, and drafted Heilman, Guittierez, and Roger Clemons.

This prompted such insidious backlash and ire from the rest of the league (“Thanks, Laur. You just ruined the summer.”), that I had to wonder if maybe we all needed to revisit one of the only worthwhile campaigns ESPN has put out.

But the Autodrafter is also ultimately the one who loses interest, stops checking his team/emails, and lets trade offers fester in his inbox, while he’ll have multiple empty spots on his roster because he never unbenched people like Wright, Manny, and Ryan Howard.

The worst part is, he still manages to win some weeks because of some statistical truth that says your odds are better if you don’t start frantically changing things around. And losing to this guy is basically like losing to Turtle in Nintendo’s World Class Track Meet.

6. The Klutz

First Round Pick: Trevor Hoffman

Clumsy in fantasy terms, anyway. Not only does he unwittingly pick up surgery-addled players who may be out for months, but he also is the guy who houses every player who’s one game away from limping off the field. I begged our league’s Klutz one year to pick Kyle Farnsworth off waivers. That’s how insane it had gotten.

That team was where players went to die.

(Except for my boy Farnsworth, who, despite a basic finger fracture, refused to step off the mound before ensuring his team was no longer in striking distance of a W. )

7. The OCD/ADD/Bipolar Freak

First Round Pick: Jimmy Rollins, who is the only remaining original player since the rest of the team has been stitched together from about 97 different add/drop moves.

I may or may not already have five moves in the first day of the season, so I cast no judgment on this delightful member of the league. Last year I added and dropped Mark DeRosa so many times that I think he eventually became damaged goods to the rest of the league, like the jerked around on/off girlfriend who no guy goes near because he doesn’t want to get involved in the drama.

8. The ?

First Round Pick: Dan Uggla

The spoiler. The guy who leads the league in ties; who has not a discernibly good player on his team yet manages to inexplicably take down powerhouses. It’s like how in the end of “Rookie of the Year” the Cubs squeeze out three outs by trick plays and rulebook loopholes (instead of just putting in a different closer, which I’ll never understand, but that’s a different issue altogether).

I hate Dan Uggla. Yes, I may base this entirely on his 2008 All-Star Game complete ineptness, but I don’t care. And yet I still picked him up. Because for some reason, he manages to serve up some weird helpings of competitive play.

9. Sleeping Beauty, Waking Ugly

First Round Pick: Matt Wieters

Will Matt Wieters, David Price, and Trevor Cahill still be available in the 18th rounds? Of course. But the SBWU wants something more than the players—he wants everyone to know he isn’t just picking them up as a casual later-round move.

He wants to stake his claim in their potential successes, so if and when Wieters lands on the cover of ESPN in late July (“the best catcher in baseball you’ve never heard of”), touting him as the “sleeper” pick of the year, the SBWU can use the coveted phrase, “I was the first one to know this kid would be awesome.”

(This guy’s the best—the first few weeks of the season, every player on his roster has a red “N/A” next to their names.)

10. The A** hole Who Refuses to Trade

First Round Pick: Mark Teixiera

He hates the Yankees. He also somehow has Albert Pujols. You somehow have Utley and Pedroia. In theory, it would make sense to give him one of your 2B, take one of his 1B.

But he patently refuses every trade you offer—even after you’ve slaved over creating the absolute most appealing trade package. There’s a certain sense of satisfaction from crafting a proposal that you feel meets all parties’ needs. And there’s also a certain sense of contempt when you receive, within minutes of submitting the offer, “TRADE DECLINED.” No counteroffer. No nothing.

For some reason, the rest of the league refuses to trade with me or my sister. They’re perfectly comfortable with offering us transactions like “Damaso Marte and Rod Barajas for Ian Kinsler.” Last year, I got harassed on a daily basis with offers for Brandon Phillips, in exchange for players who were categorically destined to be dropped to waivers the next day.

Finally, my sister said, “Fine, if they won’t trade with us, we’ll just trade with each other. Give me Brandon Phillips. And I’ll give you Jeter and Santana, and then bench Phillips just to annoy the guy who keeps offering you the BS deals for Phillips.”

Yeah, this is probably why girls aren’t allowed in leagues.

11. The Bleeding Heart Loyalist

First Round Pick: Oliver Perez

I guess it’s not a bad strategy. It eliminates the conflict-of-interest dilemmas intrinsic to the fantasy system. If you draft everyone on the Mets, (and you’re a Mets fan), you get to root for your team all the time. Plus, you don’t have to worry about getting the MLB Extra Innings package to stay on top of all the other games, since you’re just watching your local team station, anyway.

The only problem is this doesn’t yield the most desirable dividends if you’re a Mets fan (especially since you lost out on getting K-Rod when you picked OP first).

* * *

“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.”—Dr. Seuss

And with the key players of every league in place, the season thus begins. The staggered smack-talks. The harmless and not-so-harmless diatribes outlined in Power Rankings.

Dramatic trades that are conducted with the same gravity as if they were government-sanctioned foreign resource exchanges. Alliances and collusion. And most importantly, the collective suspension of disbelief.

The common thread among all stock players in all leagues is the unwavering understanding that none of us is insane for mistaking this all for reality.

A-Rod Haters Juiced with HGH (Hardened Glaring Hypocrisy)

Kris Pollina — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 19:18:35 -0500

Hypocrisy is a fashionable vice, and all fashionable vices pass for virtue.—Moliere

I am the proud owner of a blue iPod mini that I received as a Christmas present in 2004. Now every time I use it, I feel like Josh Baskin toiling away on his turn-of-the-century Macintosh. The reason for this being that I’m reluctant to invest in a new iPod until I know for sure that an even better one won’t hit the shelves 40 minutes later.

Similarly, I’ve been biting my tongue on the almost comical sequence of Yankees plights because I know it’s only a matter of time before a new chapter is added to the ever-growing anthology of controversy.

Seeing as in the last month, the Yankees have been seated in steroid use, an unflattering tell-all from their ex-skipper, and financial scam victimization, I’m feeling confident that there are not a lot of available scandals left that can plague them.

This means I can take advantage of this media respite to express my disapprobation at the Holy Grail of baseball stories.

(Actually, I was just waiting for A-Rod to get to the second half of his sentence before I started writing.)

Although some have lambasted A-Rod’s inexplicable self-imposed insistence on digging the biggest hole in the history of life, I for one was grateful for his unerring aversion to lucid articulation.

When A-Rod’s pregnant pause turned out to be of the Nadya Suleman persuasion, I was appreciably thankful for the bought time. The 791 minutes (or ~37 seconds) in between addressing his teammates and thanking them afforded me the opportunity to do my taxes, catch up on some correspondence, and establish democracy in a third world country.

Not to mention that A-Rod’s second foray into the art of making absolutely no sense at all, ensured at least another four days of media frenzy, which meant that my first chance to weigh in on the story isn’t falling squarely in the “old news” depot. So again, thanks, Alex.

I’ve spent the last two weeks combating the rampant Facebook frenzy documenting the polarizing nature of the story. Maybe polarizing isn’t the best word, actually, since that would suggest there’s more than three people on my humble pole-abode.

As one buddy pointed out in an email, “You certainly didn’t choose the easy route when you elected to become an online superhero defending all things pinstripe. You should at least get free fountain drinks for all the hard work.”

The chief problem with spearheading the Crusade Against Haters is that my client is guilty. A-Rod did indeed admit to using steroids, so to speak. (Perhaps the most beautifully candid line in this whole sordid ordeal is Cashman’s hilarious, “I don’t think that Alex is very good at communicating, to be honest.” In the docket of historic understatements, file that one alongside the penetrating questioning from the reporter at the 1956 World Series, “Mr. Larsen, was that the best game you ever pitched?”)

But despite the damning evidence, I’m finding the entire treatment of “A-Roid” ludicrously unsavory. And unjustly divisive. Evidently, you’re either with him or against him, and that amounts to being either for steroids or against them. And even more over reactionary, that means you’re either righteously upstanding or morally despicable.

It’s amazing how swiftly I’m dismissed when I purport the unfairness of it all.

“He brought it all on himself,” I was told last night. “The media isn’t killing him. He did it himself.” I thought about this. My buddy’s right. The news isn’t reporting anything that isn’t true, more or less. But then I thought about something else.

This past election has demonstrated many things about this country, not least of which is that the power of journalism is otherworldly and more profoundly powerful than we had ever thought. When America became outrageously obsessive about two men, when we spat vitriol at each other while debating the merits of each candidate, what did we use as our supporting points?

The simple fact is that everything we knew about O and Mac, was what was presented to us in the media. Unless you’re Cindy or Michelle, you know nothing more than what you’ve read online. And this makes the media so dangerously influential that it’s ignorant to dismiss its role in shaping our perceptions of people we know nothing about.

How can this be fair?

The inception of the whole brutal scandal is firmly entrenched in unfairness. He took an anonymous test, was contractually guaranteed confidentiality. He felt safe in this arrangement, especially since steroids at the time weren’t a punishable offense in Major League Baseball.

Then his, and only his, name was leaked allegedly by four sources that have not been made public. Does it bother anyone else that the results of an anonymous test from six years ago can be illegally obtained and fed to the media like Mason Verger was fed to the hogs, but yet the names of those who got the proverbial ball rolling are more mysteriously obscured than Deep Throat? Not to mention the 103 other ‘guilty’ players on the list who I have to assume are sweating like dyslexics who’d like to solve the puzzle, Pat.

So for the world to get up in arms upon hearing it called ‘unfair’ is–quite frankly–inane.

What’s worse, it’s flagrantly hypocritical and insidiously unnerving.

The same public that’s gasping in horror and indignant with disappointment, the same public that’s weeping with no tears over the apparent demise of the game…is the same society that celebrated baseball’s resurrection in the late '90s.

It’s the same fan base that indulged in the excitement and basked in the glare when the sport rose up like a phoenix at the hands of McGwire and Sosa. The same moralists who ignored what we all knew in our heart of hearts what was behind the great HR race in 1998.

Steroids, for all intents and purposes, didn’t just fortify the juicers’ stats. It fortified our emotional investment in the sport. Does that make its criminal implications justifiable? No. But it makes it unassailably pharisaical for us to sharply condemn the same behavior now. It’s like that scene in Encino Man, when Sean Astin tries to get rid of the caveman and Pauly Shore launches into the high point of his career. By keeping it real:

“You’re the one who weazed off his gig the whole time…cuz you thought maybe he’d get you somewhere. Now the guy gets a little crusty and you’re gonna bag him.”

So, you know. There’s that. Think about it.

“It’s just that A-Rod was supposed to be the one who was above it,” my buddy argued last night. ”We all wanted him to be the guy who broke the home run record cleanly.”

And in the docket of historic cock-and-bull stories, that line was filed right next to the same buddy’s assertion that he’d “rather go 18-1 and lose the Super Bowl than 14-6 and win.”

You gotta be freaking kidding me. A bleeding heart Red Sox fan like this guy doesn’t want A-Rod breaking the HR record any more than he wants to see Manny in pinstripes.

And something tells me this isn’t an attitude monopolized solely by Boston freaks. The highest paid player in baseball who plays for the most hated team in the league. Yeah, I know, everyone was really pulling for him. Much in the same way I’m enthusiastically rallying behind mercury poisoning.

As far as the consensus goes, this couldn’t have happened to a better athlete. How hard had it been for the vast majority to ever concede A-Rod’s irrefutable talent? No one liked giving props to the guy who not only had his obscene salary working against him, but worse, his uniform.

That quandary has since evaporated, leaving everyone with the liberating freedom to bash the man whose MLB franchise cap was always in the shadow of Damocles’ sword.

More than ever, the past few weeks have demonstrated the inconsistency hallmarking the so-called value sets that the public has shielded itself with. A-Rod’s admission of guilt and apology was, in essence, the most perfectly crafted move. He confessed. He apologized. And he did so early in the game.

And before the crazed critics unleash their fury, consider a month ago when our beloved Commander-in-Chief made a regrettable first round draft pick for the Treaurer spot.

The guy slated to manage the nation’s bank is revealed to be your garden variety tax evader. Obama took swift accountability: “I screwed up.” At most, I rolled my eyes at the whole thing. But the public response to this was sheer absurdity.

From one blog:

“What a breath of fresh air. Thank you President Obama for admitting your mistakes and having the guts to admit it on national TV. In my books, you are off to a good start!”

I’ve gotten somewhat used to the chemical dependence on double standards, from the $170 million dropped on the Opening Day party to the minor peccadilloes in our Prez’s past and even current time, that would equate to an open season field day if they were done by anyone else. It’s standard operating procedure for America. But that doesn’t give us carte blanche to practice hypocrisy at every corner of rousing media hype.

If we’re ready to not only forgive Obama, but lionize his culpability, than we should disseminate the same forgiveness for someone with a less nationally consequential snafu.

But the fact is, it truly is immaterial what comes out of A-Rod’s mouth at this point.

The unwavering truth is that there is absolutely no combination of words he could string together that wouldn’t dig him into a deeper hole. Hell, Tony Robbins armed with a lantern and GPS system, couldn’t guide A-Rod outta this mess.

It’s particularly interesting to observe how harshly he’s being come down upon for each and every attempt to offer an explanation for why he took drugs. “I can’t believe he continues to blame it on the culture!” “Excuses, excuses! You broke the goddamn law, buddy! Shut the f up!”

But maybe we should consider the possibly that The Culture Defense isn’t some nebulous justification and deflection. Why? Because A-Rod is not the first, and won’t be the last, to paint the picture of the culture that facilitated steroid use.

From Mike Schmidt, HOFer:

“A term I think that has been overused a lot, and definitely by Alex, is ‘culture’ — culture of the era that you played in,” Schmidt said. “We had a culture when I played and a culture in the years when Babe Ruth played. In the ’60s, there was a culture. It’s that way in life. In hearing everybody, that was the culture of the mid-’90s and early 2000s and the temptation had to be tremendous for young men playing Major League Baseball back then. It’s part of the evolution of the sport of baseball. It’s unfortunate now.”

Exactly how many ballplayers are engendering this steroid zeitgeist…we can never be sure. But “defamation of the game” seems like a hefty charge to slap on A-Rod’s legacy considering the fact the Steroid Sensei himself has estimated 85 percent of the league to be juicing.

(Remember when that news first broke when “Juiced” hit the stands? Every sports fan was laughing so hard, we could have collectively drowned out the Daytona 500.)

And so our guffawing subsided when little by little, the former Bash Brother turned out to be, well, not wrong. (Nothing is quite so humbling as being in a position where this guy gets to say “I told you so.”)

Ken Caminiti. David Wells. Jose Canseco. All went on record estimating that at least half of the league uses steroids. Do I think it’s right to blame peer pressure? No. But I can understand what these athletes are getting at when they blame the times.

My dad, for example, is the picture of conservative Italian-Catholic: college accounting professor, barely drinks, perennially sporting a collared shirt–very reminiscent of the father in the Wonder Years. Then one day I’m looking for a chicken alarm clock in the basement and find a picture of him when he was 20–beads, flower patch on his bell bottoms, weird Jesus-like sandals.

That right there makes me more receptive to the Swept Up in The Culture defense. It happened to the greatest man in the world just as easily as it did the greatest ballplayers in the world.

After culture, A-Rod claimed the pressure to excel reared its ugly head. And once again, I don’t see why this remark is so detestable. Imagine you get recruited to be the Creative Director of your marketing agency, straight out of high school. You’re touted as this prodigy whiz kid. You’re also the most expensive employee on the payroll, and every single one of your older, experienced, less talented coworkers knows it.

And on the end of your first day on the job, after you’ve spent all afternoon under the scrutinizing glare of the envious cynics waiting for you to either fail or prove your worth, someone offers you something that will assuredly make you more creative, sharper, and more efficient. It’s undetectable, it’s nonpunishable. Maybe you take it, maybe you don’t. But try telling me that doesn’t make A-Rod’s seemingly flimsy excuses more comprehensible.

To be clear, I’m not advocating steroid abuse. What I AM taking issue with is the hypocritical attack on what I believe to be one of the greatest athletes ever. Was he only great because of the steroids? No. And everyone knows that. But everyone is also unduly thrilled to have this irrefutable confession on their side in their gleeful rejections of his talent.

A-Rod didn’t need drugs, but he did them anyway. Did Bill Belichick need to tape the Jets to beat them? No, but he did anyway. He lied about it, then got caught. And even though we all know sideline taping is going on in every NFL team, the Patriots were the ones branded with the scarlet C.

Was New England only good because they cheated? Of course not. But all the public needed was one cold, hard sin. Just one. And then we can ignore the nagging thought in our heads that maybe we hate the Pats because they’re good.

Spygate handed us our ace–it’s not that we’re bitter haters! It’s that they’re low-life cheaters! And as an added bonus, Spygate could be leveraged into a bigger shadow of doubt. Did the Pats ever really have a dynasty? Now we’ll never know, so throw some asterisks on those years, too.

It used to be that society sated its need for moral superiority by actively championing the underdog. But maybe that ideal has been replaced by demonizing juggernauts. It’s not enough for them to be taken down, they need to be stripped of their dignity and spirit.

We’ve come to embrace this belief that perfection is terrifying and that the sooner we can capitalize on its armor’s chinks, the better. But this mentality is derived from an empty tautology–the idea that if the greatest fall, then we somehow have something to gain.

The fact is, the failures and successes of someone else have absolutely zero effect on our own.

Which is why I don’t think A-Rod should be kept out of the Hall of Fame.

The opposition argues that A-Rod doesn’t deserve the honor of being celebrated alongside the likes of Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio. But baseball is a game of numbers, and it’s not graded on a curve. If A-Rod juiced every day from the second he hit puberty, if he hit 95 HRs in one season, and batted .469…does that have some kind of deflating effect on Ty Cobb’s BA?

The numbers punctuate the sport’s rich history. We can’t begin tempering these statistics with our own loose equations built on cultural impact. I think it was best said in Derek Zumsteg’s “The Cheater’s Guide to Baseball”:

“The argument about the integrity of records is overwrought. A record is only a story of what happened. A hitter on steroids hit those homeruns, just as a spitballer struck out those hitters and a bat corker got those extra hits. The statistics aren’t tainted; they just require us to remember their context, as has always been true. Every era’s statistics are skewed.”

Baseball during segregation. Oversized ballparks. Trick pitches. Would Lou Gehrig pile on the hitting stats like he had if he was facing today’s pitching aces? What about Gaylord Perry? Would he have even been a household name without his outlandishly illegal go-to pitch? Should he be booted from the Hall? Should Gehrig’s numbers be qualified with an asterisked footnote: “All white league”?

Bottom line: we only know of three years A-Rod juiced. Which means that the years he was presumably clean demonstrate that he was Hall of Fame caliber before he “cheated.” He belongs there. And furthermore, A-Rod’s still playing ball. If MLB doesn’t want to ban him from the sport, then Cooperstown shouldn’t ban him from the Hall.

(Speaking of, Pete Rose makes me sick.)

So, there it is. In the words of Will Ferrell post-debate in “Old School”: What happened? I think I blacked out.

(Now, there’s an excuse I would like to see more of. And if at all possible, perhaps less of the throw-your-relative-under-the-bus fad that’s sweeping professional sports.)

Fifty more days til Opening Day in the Bronx and only 40 days til the first Yankee game (at Baltimore.) So enjoy the next month and a half, haters. You can use the Yanks’ electromagnetic attraction to controversy to stymie your own burgeoning insecurities. Marinate in another person’s mistake, and excoriate the “morally reprehensible” people who defend him.

Go ahead. It’ll be twice as vindicating when the Yankees are the 2009 Champions.

First, Class: Elevating the Role of Ethics in Sports

Kris Pollina — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 11:42:09 -0500

“Winning is nice if you don’t lose your integrity in the process.” –Arnold Horshak, Welcome Back, Kotter

Forget steroids. Forget asterisks. Forget gambling, sideline taping, dogfighting, DUIs, and firearm possession. While they all are the headlining stars of the dramatic Demise of Sports feature film, they are also eclipsing other infractions that may be technically legal, but are much more cancerous.

The most salacious sins and underhanded offenses occur squarely in the gray area, the insidious trap of loopholes and defendable vices. On the contrary, performance-enhancing substances and criminal misdemeanors stack up neatly in the black and white areas, the right and wrong silos.

As disgraceful as these wrongdoings may be, at least they uniformly recognized as unacceptable. But when it comes to things like basic humanistic integrity and moral fiber, there’s no irrefutable litmus test.

Word of Joe Torre’s controversial contributions to The Yankee Years have been lighting up the news reels for the past week, sparking heated discourse with fans of every team as to what this does to Torre’s once-ennobled reputation.

Regardless of what anyone thinks of A-Rod or Steinbrenner, and regardless of what kind of tyranny Torre was subjected to at his players or boss’s hands, he was out of line.

This is a manager who made no bones about his disapproval over David Wells’ notorious Yankee memoir, Perfect I Am Not.

“What happens in the clubhouse, stays in the clubhouse” was the Skipper’s fundamental golden rule, and he was ticked off that Wells didn’t honor it. Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone, Joe.

No, he’s no longer sporting pinstripes. Yes, he was thrown under the bus. And no, technically he has no remaining obligation to his old stomping grounds. But the fact that so many Yankee fans feel betrayed is evidence enough that what he did, quite simply, wasn’t right.

Does it matter if there’s an explanation, or he can produce a viable defense? It certainly won’t when we see No. 6 on some new outfielder, instead of Monument Park.

You’re better than that, Torre. C’mon.

But it’s not just this. There’s a whole legion of slime in need of watching the final monologue in Scent of a Woman.

The other New York club isn’t any stranger to stomach-punching either, as demonstrated in the abhorrent firing of Willie Randolph last year. Firing a guy’s one thing. Breaking the news circa midnight in effort to sidestep morning press, when the firee’s on the opposite coast and about to fly home...despicable.

I don’t care if the Mets were 0-68 at the time. Nothing should transcend basic respect.

And what of the girl’s high school basketball team that won 100-0? What kind of coach allows this? What kind of people were in the stands that didn’t storm the court in protest? And what kind of girls continue to take jump shots from behind the arc, even after a 30-point lead, let alone the fourth quarter?

These lapses in empathetic decency are perhaps more disturbing because the game isn’t on the line, literally. It’s not about cutting corners to get a win. It’s about personal vendettas and ulterior motives. It’s not even excusable with Winning At All Costs.

How would the Mets franchise have suffered if they waited 'til Willie was back in New York? What did Torre have to gain by airing the locker room banter? Book sales? He doesn’t need the money.

An unnecessary evil, this kind of departure from basic class speaks volumes.

I know what I'm dealing with with sports, and I don't expect or even want it to be akin to some kind of summer camp, arm-linking, fireside, friendship celebration. I think bench-clearing brawls are entertaining. I think throwing a 65-year old man to the ground is crossing the line.

Breaking up a double-play by sliding hard into second is part of the game. Stealing second when up by 10 has no place in the game. Laying down a bunt during a perfect game when the score’s 2-0, is the right thing to do. Staying out of the game to preserve your batting average when the batting title’s at stake is pathetic.

Sports don’t exist in a vacuum, so it’s unrealistic to hold them to impossible standards. The game will never be immaculate, it never was and never will be. Every legend has a transgression to his name, whether it’s Babe Ruth’s carousing and drinking, Michael Jordan’s gambling, Larry Bird’s absentee fatherhood, Ty Cobb’s existence, etc...I don’t ask for or expect sports to be unblemished, or even close to it.

What’s tarnishing the integrity of the game isn’t the rampant yet ambiguous drug use. It’s the general dereliction of fundamental class. Sports were born from the spirit of competition, but are morphing into a Lord of the Flies-esque cut-throat war.

The bottom line, the grey area of anything grants its inhabitants immunity from culpability. There are no rules delineating the right and wrong way to handle things. You can technically get away with passing on fourth down when up by 30. There’s no law against exposing your team’s dirty laundry. And no jury will convict you for humiliating someone.

I remember in my old neighborhood, there was a short little stone tunnel/overpass-type structure. I think it was more for aesthetic purposes, because nothing really went over it, per se. It was right in the middle of residential, two-way side street, but it was only narrow enough for one car to pass through. It was an exercise in chivalry and courtesy, almost, whenever you saw another car through the other side.

You just waited for it to go through, or vice versa. Then one day, they put a traffic light up on either side of it, and my mom hated it because whenever someone had let her go through the little breezeway, she considered it a mini-celebration of human decency.

I know, it’s a stretch, but I empathize. I get like that if someone gives up their subway seat. But the point is, the traffic light made the grey issue a black and white one. No one technically has the right of way in that type of situation, but it relied on an unwritten code.

A moral rubric will never be published, nor should it, as doing so will effectively transform “ethics” into “laws.” However, as it is, as nebulous as ethics may be, they still pull rank on whatever else is at stake, whether it’s a job, a game, or money.

Maybe time has eroded the honor of the game. Maybe it will never be played with the class it once had. Or maybe athletes back then knew the spirit of the game was a function of the players themselves.

Ted Williams knew. He played a double-header against the Philadelphia A’s in 1941, when he could have locked up his .400 by simply passing on the at-bats. But instead he went 6 for 8 and ended the year on .406.

He stood to gain nothing. But he knew how to play the game. He knew it wasn’t about what you can get away with, and what’s admissible by the official rulebook. Because when it came down to it, he was willing to risk losing a record before he’d risk losing his integrity.

And that's the way the game should played.

Why Female Sportscasters Lose Their Luster

Kris Pollina — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 21:44:10 -0500

"A woman with a woman's viewpoint is of more value when she forgets she's a woman and begins to act like a man." –Leonor Kretzer Sullivan, American Congressman

On January 20, 2009, the first African American President of the United States was sworn into office. The country wept with pride, hope and relief, with a renewed faith in their nation for breaking down barriers. It was a truly monumental occasion in American history.

Except for the fact that we elect a president every four years.

The fact that politics has mushroomed into some kind of chic cachet demonstrates that this election is considered exponentially more remarkable than any other.

There’s no disputing the reason behind this—but I thought it wasn't about race. I thought it was about Obama’s commitment to change and his promise of hope.

Why is it a big deal that he's black? Why not be excited because you're glad his policies were victorious?

This celebration/dismissal of preconceived prejudices is the same dialectic framing women sportscasters. People’s accomplishments should not be qualified by their rarity or the adversity behind them. Our achievements are what they are and should not be measured by cultural variables.

That being said—all things being equal, I unquestionably prefer men.

That does not make me a sexist. It makes me someone interested in the glib, conversational voices of a gender that essentially was born into sports. It’s not a groundbreaking theory that generally, men know sports more than women do.

I can already hear the indignant huffing and puffing of self-professed female sports nuts:

"Listen, clown. I won my fantasy baseball league, and I played with all tough guys."

“Yeah, well, my cousin Edmond thought 'icing' was a Rachel Ray special episode until I explained it to him.”

“Back up there, do the words Pam Oliver mean anything to you?”

Please realize, I said, “generally.”

Put it this way. Remember Sports Illustrated for Women?

Yeah—neither do I. That's because I have gummy bears that have lasted longer than this defunct periodical. The problem with this type of desperate niche is that it overlooks a significant insight: Women don't like sports.

However, those that do like sports, like sports in general. They don't want or need to have sports tailored to their sex.

The book Differentiate or Die by advertising genius Jack Trout talks about why this type of marketing to seeming untapped niches isn't necessarily the brightest move:

"Successful firsts aren't tricky,” he said. “They tend to be good ideas. Conversely, unsuccessful firsts tend to be bad ideas. R.J. Reynolds spent a fortune on the first smokeless cigarette. This is the antithesis of common sense. Their theory was that smokeless cigarettes would appeal to nonsmokers. Unfortunately, nonsmokers don't buy cigarettes. Something like $325 million went up in smoke (or non-smoke) with the dismal launch of Premier cigarettes…Premier may have been a first, but it was just plain stupid."

Whether you’re smoking or following sports, you don't want a skewed version of either. I will take a man reporter over a female 10 out of 10 times. It’s not because men necessarily know more. In fact, plenty of times sports knowledge coming from women edges out those of men.

The thing is, I don't need or want to hear every fact ever about a running back—I just want pithy, conversational, unaffected analysis.

The reason I never get this from women is because their reports indicate they don't identify as a sportscaster. They categorize themselves as female sportscasters.

The glaring difference between them is that men have nothing to prove. That makes them sometimes sloppy, but ultimately likable. Women do have something to prove, which makes them ultimately successful and often unentertaining. It's like watching a boardroom scene in The Apprentice, or something along the lines of that.

After being absent from the scene for so long, women deliver their commentaries with noble ambition and meticulous accuracy. Kudos, ladies.

But no matter how much you know, no matter how hard you try to dodge the stigma, it still comes across to me as impersonal and trying too hard. Both are understandable, but not something I care to mix with the effortless leisure of watching the game.

I have to assume it’s the equivalent of starting a new job and going to your first status meeting. The account workers are irreverent and confident because they understand the office character. They know the parameters of what’s considered appropriate, what employees respond to and so on.

Even if the rookie is coming to this meeting with a stellar resume to her name, she’s still a little reticent to immediately hop into this dynamic. Instead, she wants to showcase her capability and establish herself in the pecking order by demonstrating she belongs there.

She has something to prove, but impressive as it is, it’s boring. No matter how ridiculous Boomer sounds, no matter how melodramatic Gus Johnson seems, and no matter how manic John Sterling can be, I still prefer their easy-going, honest, and seamless game coverage.

I want to hear Sterling's bubbly and often substance-less celebration of a grounder to short that he describes as "nearing the warning track," more than I want to hear Suzyn Waldman's rattling laundry list of every radar gun count of every pitch thrown since the turn of the century.

If a woman has decided to pursue a career in sports journalism, her qualifications and performance should be held to the same standards as men. That means recognizing that they need to stop perceiving themselves as minorities, because the fact is, they chose to be there.

I'm frankly sick of hearing girls start any fantasy league story with, "I'm the only girl in the league."

Why does that matter? If you like the sport, then what difference does it make? Constantly bringing your gender to everyone's attention proves your love of the game is punctuated by your love of the fact you're a girl who loves the game.

If women want to be considered as equals in the sports industry, then why do they perpetually imbue their work with reminders of their sex? If they want to be seen as a professional journalist and treated like one, then what difference does it make that you're a super-brave, independent girl tackling the intimidating world of Monday Night Football?

One thing I will never have to be subjected to when a man’s delivering the score is the scary hi-def portrayal of “When makeup attacks.” The ever-improving level of clarity characterizing new plasma screens is quite beautiful when it means that I am able to see the skate marks on the ice. It loses its cachet when it means I am distracted by nickel-sized pores stuffed with bronze-toned concealer.

Women should take their cue from Terry Griffith, the underrated 1980s B-list movie character in Just One of the Guys. She chopped off her locks and de-feminized herself so she could be taken seriously as a writer.

I don’t want to see this happening at the 50-yard line, but maybe women should adopt the mentality that the proof is in the pudding. She wanted to write, so she did. She didn’t care that no one knew she was really a girl. Do it for the sake of doing it. Be a sports fan without perpetuating a stifling prejudice.

I'm not saying it's an industry that should be exclusive to men, but I'll opt for the bumbling male every single time for the same reason I didn't like Lost in Translation, Vanilla Sky, or Taxi Driver. I don't care how impressive the cinematography is or how sophisticated the script is or how challenging the production was. When it comes to entertainment, I'm not deep enough for subtext. Give me Vince Vaughn playing video games over Scarlett Johansson transcending existential barriers any day of the week.

Especially if that day is Monday night.

The First Step is Admitting you have a Problem: How Sports have Skewed my Sanity

Kris Pollina — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 12:17:47 -0500

“The fan is the one who suffers.” –Frank Robinson

When you have spent enough time screaming at the TV in public or when you have worn enough team-branded clothing, you become known as the sports you support. You become the first person people think of when your team loses or wins, which means the sound of 489 text messages coming in at the same time runs the gamut from “Merry TEIX-mas!” or “%&#!! Did we really just give up a four goal lead to the Caps?”

And it means when the Giants beat the other NFC juggernaut known as Carolina, in OT, to win homefield advantage throughout the playoffs, the camaraderie between fans is punctuated by “GREAT game on Sunday!” for days.

But unfortunately, I could offer no additional game commentary to any of these enthusiastic outreaches. Why? Because I saw approximately eight percent of the game.

I did not see the game go into OT, Carolina’s missed FG, or Brandon Jacob’s winning TD. Did not do shots with my two younger sisters who came out solely to spend time with their older sister. Absent for all of it.

I almost wish it was because I was working Sunday night, or because I was abducted by pirates. Really anything other than the reality that I was sitting in a bar bathroom, trying to gauge the game based on the sounds I could hear erupting from people in the bar actually watching the game.

I missed the Giants’ game of the year because they scored their first touchdown while I had been in the bathroom. And when I came out and continued to watch the game as convention would dictate, they did not score.

To my warped senses, this translated into one thing only: the obvious and logical conclusion that the Giants would never score again unless I kept remained right where I was.

Maybe I would have conducted some control experiments on this theory if we were, say, playing Seattle in October. But this game was entirely too important to entertain my own selfish desire to watch it. So I took one for the team, while a bar full of people most likely assumed I had just eaten really bad wings.

I realized when I was going to bed that night how jealous I was of my sisters, because they have not an ounce of vested interest in football. One actively loathes it and the other is indifferent, although she did graciously agree to wear the Giants hat I forced on her because I said it would be lucky.

I was envious of the simple fact that they, who had about as much interest in the Carolina game as they would have if they had been watching the local weather forecast on a loop, got to watch that game.

And when I finally retreated to bed mere hours before I had to get up and get ready for work, it just made me think (with an acute, sad awareness) how much easier life would be if I just did not like sports.

It is worse than an addiction. People have successfully gone through rehab, quit smoking, given up alcohol. But have you ever heard of someone successfully diluting their passion for his team?

The truth is, we are too far gone.

But what if I could? What if there were Betty Ford clinics for sports fans? How, exactly, would my life be different if I was able to temper my irrational emotional investment in my teams?

And after musing about this, with the Panthers game still at the forefront of my mind, I came up with this: the Top 10 Ways My Life Would Be Easier Without Sports.

1.) I’d be able to watch the game.

I remember during the infamous Bug Game two years ago, when the Yankees ultimately lost to the Indians amidst a sea of terrorizing midges, during the last inning of the game, I had curled up in a ball covering my ears, staring at the wall, and instructing my sister to watch the game but not to make any tell-tale exclamations.

15 minutes of this maniacal behavior later, my sister says, “Um, do you want me to tell you what happened? The game has been over. Pronk hit a walk off. Stop acting like a freak.”

2.) I would drink less and sleep more.

It is a Catch-22, really. The only reason I was able to stomach the intensity of Super Bowl XLII was because I did not have enough faculties to be nervous. While I was relaxed enough to watch the pressure-cooker, I was perhaps too relaxed to remember anything that occurred thereafter.

And it is almost a lose-lose for sports fans when it comes to sleep. “HOLY %^&*! The Sox just came back from 7-0 to avoid elimination in Game Four! Ok, I am hitting the hay.”

No. You do not want the feeling to end, and sleep would indeed end it.

Conversely: " I hate you, Mets! Why are you categorically averse to the post-season! I loathe you so much I am going to wash up for bed extra brusquely!"

3.) My wardrobe would be considerably less limited.

I wore my Plax jersey up until about three weeks ago. After the shooting fiasco, it was admittedly embarrassing to wear it out, but you cannot quibble with a good luck shirt. I was almost (almost) relieved when they dropped the Eagles game since it meant it was no longer lucky, and I could get a new shirt in good conscience.

And the rest of my clothes are governed by a similar code. My Drury sweater—collecting dust (lost every game I attended with it.) Anything article of clothing I wore to Yankee Stadium on October 20, 2004—shoved in the dark corners of my closet. Adjustable hat—game-watching staple. Giants helmet—so lucky I am scared to touch it unless absolutely necessary.

4.) I would probably be more interested in politics.

I watched the Rangers-Islanders game on November 4th instead of the returns. I do not understand the allure of broadcasting the vote count updates. I asked someone, “can’t you just wake up tomorrow and find out who won?” He countered, “Can’t you?” Touche.

I guess the returns are what StatTracker is to me. And after Obama won, the cheers and screaming outside my apartment were indistinguishable from what NYC sounded like when the Giants took down the Patriots. I have to assume the rambunctious celebrators did not follow sports. Because if they did, they would know what it feels like to win a World Series or Super Bowl. And this feeling of triumph and glory would not be a novelty to them.

5.) I would have more professional credibility.

I do not think it is entirely fair that my outside interests define me at work. Just because my coworker is pregnant does not mean I print out Baby Hot Stove articles for her, aka birth announcements, and tape them on her door.

Or if I was leaving work early for some recycling fundraiser or manatee charity ball I would be responsible and professional. But I feel like when I say I have to leave early for a game, people think I am cutting out to go play in the dirt and eat bugs or something.

What is worse, a few months ago we won a new account, and I was told my interaction with the client would be extremely limited: “Well, he is a huge Red Sox fan. We told him our copywriter was a big Yankees fan, and it did not go over well. Is there any way you could pretend to be a Boston fan?”

“Sure. Is there any way you could pretend to worship Satan?”

5a.) I would have more credibility with significant others.

“You didn’t watch the game?”

“No.”

“Because you were in the bathroom.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm…well, then I guess you didn’t see the interview with Coughlin.”

“No.”

“Yeah, he kept getting asked about his offense in the second half, and how the defense worked Steve Smith, and he just goes, ‘I can’t say enough about this team. But none of this game goes our way without Kris locking herself in a public restroom.’ Seriously, I don’t know how to explain you sometimes.”

6.) I would know people by their real names and not their fantasy ones.

I play in a baseball league with a bunch of guys who I see once a year, if that. A few of them I do not think I have ever met, actually. And when their names come up in conversation, I have little to no idea of who they are…until someone recognizes my perplexed expression and says, “It’s DirtyBirds, you guys had that tiff over Torii Hunter” or “You know Gil…’Suck on this 1 Time’? He had the awful Manny/AJ/Dice-K team.”

7.) I would use Facebook for normal purposes (like stalking people I have met in my single-digit years?) rather than using status updates as a passive-aggressive (or just plain aggressive) vehicle for slinging my contempt at opposing fans.

Nothing good ever comes out of my mindless perusal of status updates. And despite the fact I am 27 years old and should have matured at some point in the last decade or so, I still cannot help myself:

“Liam is recommending good golf courses for the Yankees in October.”

"Kris would recommend some good golf courses to Brady for the rest of his playing career, but unfortunately he can’t physically do much more than catch up on his DVR.”

“Adam just learned from Roger Goodall that making snow angels is unsportsmanlike.”

“Kris thinks our first responsibility is to be a good person, which is why she doesn’t believe in taking extra bases or endzone dancing when winning by a lot.”

8.) I would be less judgmental and probably have more friends.

Over the summer, one of my buddies had a request: “I’m not watching games with you anymore unless you refrain from making fun of the Mets.”

Cut to us watching the Amazins relinquishing the standard 10-run lead at the hands of their formidable bullpen, as the Mets are want to do.

“Do the starters in Queens get paid more since they have to spot their relievers twice as many runs as other teams?...Ok, I’m sorry, sorry. I’m done now. Actually, Heilman probably has pretty good numbers in fantasy ‘holds.’ Seriously.”

“Ya just can’t let it go, huh. There’s something wrong with you. You have like Mets Tourettes or something.”

9.) I would enjoy weddings more.

Since the onset of the Friends-Dropping-Like-Flies era, I have missed a Giants home opener, multiple NFL Sundays (thanks to non-JetBlue flights), Rangers playoffs, Yankee-Sox series, and worst of all, the last game at Yankee Stadium.

I love the fall, and I even love weddings. But the appeal of an open bar and seeing all my college buddies is compromised by being a bajillion miles in the air on return flights home. I told my mother that when I get married, it is going to be February 29th, because I only have to celebrate it once every four years, and also there is zero risk of stepping on anyone’s sports plans.

(She responded without skipping a beat, “So you’re getting married in 2012?? Ahh, from your mouth to God’s ears!”)

10.) I would be generally less high-strung.

A few years ago, I was in a bar watching the Yankees in the playoffs while a guy next to me was doing the same with his Mets. After an hour or so of our staggered cheers and groans, he said, “I miss watching them play some Brewers game in July.”

I knew exactly what he meant. In the summer, I am listening to radio broadcasts of the Yanks on the beach, and life is good. Autumn comes, and I am a cracked out lunatic who goes into cardiac arrest with every pitch.

Which is why I pay little to no mind to the Hot Stove or off-season rumors. I spend the tail end of any season twisted up in knots. After a few weeks of coaxing my muscles out of tightened stress, I can take a sabbatical from all of it. Til opening day, at least.

I suppose this could all be traced back to my years of watching sports with my dad, having no idea what was going on, my dad explaining to me how many the bad guys needed to lose by, how many “tries” to get a “down,” and making screaming at the TV look cool.

Is it worth it? Sometimes I wish I just had an amicable appreciation of the sport. I could root for the Sox when the Yanks are out of it, because it would make my boyfriend happy. I could get draft-day-giddy over a tight game, and not public-speaking-nauseous.

But then again, exchanging the ice water in our veins for tepid ginger ale is a high price to pay for being boring. And if I start to question the weight we assign to every game, I shall recall the sage words of an East Asian proverb, and know this madness is all truly worth it:

“There are no fans in hell.”

Game on.

Breaking the Ten Commandments in 2008

Kris Pollina — Tue, 23 Dec 2008 05:37:26 -0500

"Sports is a game. You need to play by the rules." -John Baxter For all athletes' endzone signs-of-the-cross and pointing to heaven between innings, very few actually live by any religious rubric. The past year has been punctuated by the standard bevy of spectacular championship titles, seedy controversy, underdog ascents and dynasty collapses. And through it all, no commandment was left unturned. Here's a look at the wild sins of the sports that came out of 2008.

Begin Slideshow

19 Things I Learned From Dating a Boston Sports Fan

Kris Pollina — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 06:25:18 -0500

"Wisdom is learning what to overlook.”—William James

Remember when Ed Norton went to jail in American History X? Even though he suffered some disturbing blows at the hands of his out-for-blood cellmates, a kindly African American underwear-folder facilitated his education, which made Norton begin to see things from a whole new perspective.

This is a little like that.

So far I’ve learned:

1. World Series Tabulation Begins in the Year 2000

The Yankees suck because they haven’t won a World Series in eight years. Their record-breaking, storied franchise is null and void when you consider that in this century they are ringless. And that’s what counts.

I was thinking about this lesson and trying to make sense of it, when I remembered something my biology-major sister taught me. Somewhere between eight and 12 months of age, a child's cognition develops so that he understands that objects continue to exist even when he can't see them or experience them.

Boston fans blew right by this stage and skipped straight to the next one. Which interestingly enough, happens to be an inability to acknowledge others' viewpoints. I'm not making this up. Some scientiest named Jean Piaget did.

2. Tom Brady Played Hurt in Super Bowl XLII

Sure, it’s easy to beat the all-mighty Patriots when Tom Brady is injured. Big deal.

Why is someone always handicapped during pivotal moments for Boston teams? Curt Schilling played without a foot, Paul Pierce played without a knee…it must be nice to have that little justification to fall back on in case your team loses.

3. Jeter and A-Rod Suck

They are also gay, which is unforgivable.

Except when homosexuality is tied to Brady. It’s okay to be “gay for Brady.”

It’s not okay to make any insinuations about Brady being gay.

Actually, I've learned it’s just easier to not say anything about Tom Brady at all.

Some little known facts about our lionized Yankees: Jeter’s egregious inability to go to his left side when playing the infield, makes him the league’s worst shortstop. Not "good, but not great." The worst.

Also, A-Rod is worthless. Homeruns only count in the 9th inning.

4. Papelbon Can Fist-Pump. Joba Can't. Pedroia Can Slap Away Balls. A-Rod Can't. Manny doesn’t make errors.

The only thing more ridiculous than Manny Ramirez’s fielding is the fact he actually recently indicated he wants a Gold Glove. I have to assume he thinks a Gold Glove is the latest Wii accessory.

Joba’s fist-pumping enraged…someone? I’m not sure who decided this was unacceptable, but soon young Joba had to stifle his excitement after ending an inning. Papelbon is free to roll out Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Floats.

While A-Rod's slap-tactics defamed the sport, expedited global warming, supported organized crime, and made the world unsafe for democracy, Dustin Pedroia's arm flailing was part of his natural running motion.

5. Yankee Fans Are Classless and Obnoxious. Sox Fans are Wacky and Irreverent.

FALMOUTH, Mass.—A Cape Cod man faces charges for allegedly beating another man with a baseball bat because he thought he was a New York Yankees fan. He accused the man, whose children were in the car, of being a Yankees fan, then beat him and vandalized his car.

NASHUA, N.H.—A 43-year-old Nashua, N.H. woman faces murder charges after a man she's accused of running down during the weekend died. Witnesses say the incident was sparked by an argument between Red Sox and Yankees fans at a Nashua bar early Friday morning.

It's comparing apples and oranges. But really apples. I guess I can see the difference. Running someone down is psychotic and malicious. Beating someone up with a bat is all in good fun. Yankee fans have no sense of humor.

6. They Took the Hard Way When They Chose to Support the Red Sox. New Yorkers Took the Easy Way Out.

I’d go ahead and venture to say that choosing to be a Yankee fan while growing up in Boston would have handed you infinitely more hardships throughout your life than choosing to register as a member of the Red Sox Nation party.

7. 18-1 Is Nothing to Be Ashamed Of.

“I’d rather go 18-1 and not win a Super Bowl, than 14-6 and win a Super Bowl.” Right.

Patriot fans maintain that 18-1 chants don’t bother them at all because it’s such an impressive season. Yeah, I know exactly what they mean. Whenever someone gives me hell over the Yankees choking in 2004, I simply remind them of how remarkable it was to take a 3-0 lead in the ALCS in the first place.

8. Massachusetts Loves the Williams Sisters.

An ESPN poll done this past July asked the nation “Which is the better pair of current sports siblings?” While nearly 75% of the country chose the Mannings, Massachusetts went the way of the Williams sisters. Apparently, they are just a really big tennis-loving group of sports fans.

(Similarly, a poll this past weekend indicated that while the entire country thinks Favre has been a success with the Jets, Massachusetts and Connecticut disagree.)

9. Their misery cannot be compared to that of a Cubs fan. Their arrogance cannot be compared to that of a Yankees fan. Their fanaticism cannot be compared to that of an Eagles fan.

No fans will ever be quite like them. Ever. Cubs fans are bitter. Yankees buy their team. Eagles fans are assholes.

But Boston fans are unique. Which makes sense—according to Tolstoy, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

10. Larry Bird is Basketball Jesus. Johnny Damon was Red Sox Jesus. Tom Brady is God. “A-God” is Sacrilegious.

All this coming from a state with the second highest percentage of Catholics in the country.

11. They don’t believe in curses.

I’m not sure I’ve fully comprehended their stance on the Curse of the Bambino. Ask any Boston fan and they’ll swear they never bought into it, and it was just the product of hyper-extended media craze.

But then ask them 15 minutes later and they’ll regale you with tails of how the curse was broken when Manny hit a kid in the face with a line drive, who happened to be the current inhabitant of Babe Ruth’s house.

Then ask 15 minutes after that, and they’ll tell you, “Curses don’t exist. The Yankees are cursed. With A-Rod.”

12. They’re Incredulous Yankee Fans Continued to Wear Their Team’s Hats After 2004.

Which would mean that Red Sox fans shouldn’t have worn their team’s hats in the 86 years before 2004.

13. Tom Brady Is Better Than Montana, Unitas, and Simms. Seriously.

Broaching this subject means referring to the Golden Brady Rule discussed in Lesson #3 which consequently means I'm forced to chew off my own tongue.

14. Cheering For the Lakers Is Synonymous With Advocating Rape.

You can’t point out the off-field/court indiscretions of any Boston athlete. They act like whatever point you just brought up is on par with incest or genocide.

“Ok, that’s just wrong. You just went too far.”

15. They Do Not Have an Unhealthy Obsession With Hating the Yankees. Fine, If They Do, It's Only Because the Yankees Suck.

During a recent trip to Boston, I was reminded that I sucked. Everywhere and all the time.

Tourguides just went to town:

"Please don't lean out the boat windows. Unless you are a Yankee fan, feel free to fall out."

"Are there Yankee fans here? I'll talk slower to you guys."

"Fenway is painted Fenway green. Our Yankee fan Kris here probably wants to buy it and become a Red Sox fan."

(I don't.)

Eventually it seemed like the New Englanders weren’t really interested in affecting me one way or the other, so much as they wanted to establish themselves firmly in opposition to New York. I got it. Point taken.

16. They Will Continue to Champion Curt Schilling and Bill Simmons, Despite Admitting They’re Fed Up With Both of Them.

It’s a little bit like Republicans running to Palin’s defense time and again, all the while thinking, “C’mon, I’m throwing myself in the line of fire for you and you can’t even name one Supreme Court case?”

17. There’s a Hockey Team? Are They Good?

I think there might even be a little animosity towards the Bruins for not joining the Boston Championship Club. Like the mousy freshman girl who decides she doesn’t want to join a sorority, so everyone pretends she doesn’t exist.

18. They Always Believed.

I can’t even listen to this without wanting to claw my ears off. Why is this worthy of commendation? Isn’t this part of the job description when you sign up for supporting a team?

Hey, tomorrow I think I’m going to go in and ask my boss for a raise…for coming into work every day.

And what exactly do they mean by “believe”? Is it…believed they were going to blow it at the last second to fulfill their masochistic dreams? Believed they were doomed to be heartbroken? Believed their frustrations outnumbered their gratifications?

Every team has fans that leave the game early, but not every fanbase refers to itself as “[Stadium] Faithfuls.” Not every team defines itself by its resiliency to adversity.

But this is irrelevant. Boston fans did the impossible. They rooted for their team. When no one else did. (Mainly because we were too busy rooting for our own teams.)

I wonder if they liked Dave Matthews before anyone else did, too.

19. They’d NEVER Date a New York Fan. Ever.

“I swear, I’m not that kind of person. I usually don’t do this kind of thing…”

Just this once.

* * *

It may appropriate to conclude this the same way American History X wrapped up: “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection.”

Right. Easy for Lincoln to say.

For Love Of The Game: Retirement Case Studies To Help Jamie Moyer

Kris Pollina — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 08:34:38 -0400

“If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.”—Orson Welles

My dad tells this story of his friend’s big night at the craps table in Vegas. It was one of those scenes that generally doesn’t exist in reality—the casino’s population all concentrated around this one table, my dad’s friend spurred on by the rallying cries of everyone around him.

He was holding court, throwing more and more colored chips on every space of felt left on the table, which at that point looked like the streets of New Orleans at the height of Mardi Gras. The story is legendary, as the entire table was up thousands of dollars.

The thing with craps that I never understood is the feverish disappointment when the hero tossing dice inevitably rolls a seven and everyone craps out. What did everyone think was going to happen? What if he leaves the table when he was still hot and setting the world afire? Would we nod understandably or reproach his cowardice?

An athlete like Jamie Moyer, for example, can either watch his team record the final out to capture their first World Series title in 28 years, get all his teammates to write down their email addresses so he can stay in touch, and drop off his 2008 World Series Champion uniform at the dry cleaners before heading home to watch “The Shield” on DVR.

Or he could parlay the glory of capturing a title into next season, and maybe for as many seasons as it takes him to rack up another 54 W’s. Maybe October 29, 2008 handed Moyer the ideal opportunity to cash out his chips. But it also could have reinforced everything he loved about the sport, enough to make him let his winnings ride.

At 46 years old, Moyer is teetering on the brink of Kevin Brown-status. Although I can’t speak with any authority (barely an educated guess, really) on what’s going through Moyer’s mind right now, the issue of whether to return next season most likely is making some kind of cameo.

To assist him, I’ve sifted through some case studies on athlete retirement and unretirement, assigning each impressive instance of career waffling with a highly coveted award to commemorate it.

The winners are…

The Britney Spears “Gimme More” Award for Juggernaut Comeback that Flatlined at Mediocrity

Michael Jordan. He should have stopped after comeback No.1, when he shed he minor league baseball pipe dreams in favor of leading the Bulls to 3 straight titles. Did anyone think anything good was going to come out of comeback No.2? Seriously. Besides the Wizards, anyway.

The Melvin Udall Redoing his Kiss to Waitress Carol at End of “As Good As It Gets” Award for Leaving Retirement to Finish Career the Way He Wanted To

George Foreman. Came back from second retirement to reclaim the heavyweight title at age 45, the one he had lost to Ali 20 years earlier. “I know I can do better!”

The Bill Clinton’s Second Term Award for Unretiring only to become Mired in Controversy and Scandal

Roger Clemens. Ugh. Told us all he was retiring after the 2003 season. Then the back page of New York papers were reading “What an Astro!” I don’t even know how many times he announced retirement since then. A lot, though. He comes back to the Yankees, pitches about as well as Aaron Heilman, and then becomes the center of a media steroids circus. And throws in some adultery charges for good measure.

The Michael Myers Award for Continually Resurfacing to Torture the Sports World

Jose Canseco. I used to love this guy, too. My first baseball hat was an Oakland A’s hat. Now look at him. He’d have been better off skipping the Juiced tell-all and just going straight to center square of Hollywood Squares. If I were an active player, I’d live in fear my name would be the one that the peg landed on when Canseco did his daily spin of the Steroid Accusation Wheel.

The Michael J. Fox Award for Unretiring with Flying Colors After Medical Hardship

Mario Lemieux. Retired because of lymphoma, then later returned to re-establish his dominance, netting the second highest number of goals that year. Also saved the Penguins from bankruptcy and now remains the team’s principle owner.

The Elizabeth Berkley in “Showgirls” Award for Bold Comeback that Ended in Humiliation

Muhammad Ali. Comeback No.1: Marked by the epic Joe Frazier fights. Comeback No.2: Came back only to be handed his ass and dignity back to him by Larry Holmes

The J.D. Salinger Award for Consistent Success With Every Re-emergence

Phil Jackson. Called it a day in 1998 after topping off the second of the Bulls two three-peats. Returned to the game a year later to coach the Lakers, taking them to their own three-peat before calling it quits again. Returned to the Lakers the following year and brought them to the Finals two years after that.

The Paul McCartney Award for Playing Well After His Body Had All But Given Up, Making Fans Collectively Plead at the TV to Just Put Himself Out of His Misery

Patrick Ewing. By the end of a dominant career with the Knicks, he was dragging his leg around like Kathy Bates had had a go at it. He had been tough, formidable, and obscenely talented. His fans could recognize he was physically done and just wanted to fast-forward to the number-retiring ceremony.

The Bill Cosby Award for Retiring and Unretiring With Immunity on Account of Good Guy Status Combined with Lifetime Achievement

Lance Armstrong. Good for him. He beat cancer. He won the Tour-de-France a record-breaking seven times. But tread lightly, buddy. They’re gunning for you.

The ESPN Sports Guy Bill Simmons Award for Converting Innocuous Charm into Self-Important Irritation so That Fans Gave Up Hoping He’d Retire and Just Flat Out Ignored Him

Curt Schilling. Please go away. Please, please, please. Or at least get fitted for one of those metal plates that Beetlejuice threw over Geena Davis’s mouth to keep her from talking.

The “Sister Act” Award for Unretiring to Coach A Bunch of Unguided Misfits into Glory

Bill Parcells. After spinning the mess of the Giants into three division titles and an 8-3 playoff record, Parcells retired.

Comeback No.1: Coaxed out of retirement. Within two years, led New England to first playoff appearance in eight years, then three years later led them to first Super Bowl. Left to coach Jets and similarly whipped them into shape.

Comeback No.2: Was lured out of retirement again to coach Cowboys who were coming off three straight seasons of 5-11 play. Led ‘Boys to three winning seasons.

Comeback No.3: Unretired for the ultimate challenge—the Miami Dolphins. Good luck.

The "Sopranos" Series Finale Award for "Wait, what? THAT'S how it ended?" Retirement

Barry Sanders. After 10 years playing for Detroit, he decided it was time to retire. And by retire, I mean fax a letter to hometown newspaper announcing he was done. One of the best running backs in NFL history, he left with 15,269 rushing yards, 2,921 receiving yards, and 109 touchdowns (99 rushing and 10 receiving)—just inches from breaking the all-time rushing record.

It’s a little like how my dad will stay up with me to watch an extra-innings game. And then in the 16th inning, with bases loaded and two outs, he’ll get up and announce he’s going to bed.

The Samuel L. Jackson in “Snakes on a Plane” Award for future HOF-er Joining a Comedic Mess

Brett Favre. After retiring in 2008, Favre unretired only to discover he was persona non grata in Green Bay. He got traded to the New York Jets who, as per usual, straddle the fine line between fortifying momentum and frantic disarray.

The New Kids on the Block Award for “This is gotta be a joke, right?” Improbable Return that Still Makes My Head Spin

Ricky Williams. Retired because it was easier than having someone else pee in a cup for him every time he got randomly drug tested. Unretired and apologized profusely to all his fans…only to fail drug test No.29,108 less than a year later. This back and forth of reinstatement-drug policy violation went on for the better part of a decade. And now he’s back on the Dolphins. Hey, why not?

“The Bob Newhart Show” Series Finale Award for The Ultimate All-Time Retirement Swan Song

Michael Strahan. After the Giants won the Super Bowl, I remember saying to my friend Rob, “I’m scared that I’ll be at the altar of my own wedding someday and think, ‘Yeah, still not even close to as happy as I was on February 3, 2008.’” I couldn’t even fathom a situation that could manufacture the same degree of euphoria I felt that night. And I have to assume Michael Strahan felt the same way when he announced his retirement shortly thereafter.

* * *

I can’t presume to know what goes on in Jamie Moyer’s head or any other athlete who’s confronted with the issue of retirement. The only thing I can compare it to is when I’ll go to the park and shoot the old b-ball around.

Of course, after about an hour of this, my arms are about as strong as the inflated tubemen outside a car dealership. So it’s really anyone’s guess where the ball’s gonna land.

That’s around when I start saying to myself, “Ok, hit this three and then call it a day.” (Which soon becomes, “ok, just bank in this layup…”) Eventually, I’ll hit some nothing-but-net beauty, and instead of making good on all my deals with myself, I’m overly encouraged by this one shot and mistakenly think I’ve hit my stride.

The only thing I’ve ever hit is a number of deadened nerve endings from forcing my body to toss up what now feels like a watermelon.

If I multiply that sentiment by about infinity, I can begin to come to terms with athletes who refuse to give up the game, who won’t just throw in their cards, tip the dealer, and leave.

Deciding when to leave the table is about as critical decision as there is. It’s looking at the Jager shot on the bar after five hours of drinking, knowing that it could either make or break you.

It’s a decision that forces the athlete to consider who exactly he’s playing for: himself or the fan who financially supports him. Whose opinion is more compelling? We rally around our heroes and pride in their successes, as if we have a degree of equity in their glory, in exchange for the high price of emotional investment.

So when they crash, our anger is palpable, draining, and unforgiving. But how far can they take us, or will they take us? And what’s worse—when our heroes abandon us by choosing to retire…or when they stay at the party too long and go from star karaoke singer to the clingy, helpless drunk?

These aging heroes may not even consider what unretirement will potentially do to their legacy. They’ve seen their images go every which way in the course of their careers, so the threat of it being tarnished is eclipsed by the draw of once again suiting up.

Why do we return to our alma maters for alumni weekend? How often do you pass a little league game and think what you wouldn’t give to be the one playing instead of the one on the other side of the fence.

The vise grip of competition keeps us clamped to the table so securely that the win/loss chip count isn’t as important. When my dad comes back from poker night, he’s not giving us the rundown of how up or down he went. He’s going a mile a minute on his buddies Reilly and Danny and Harold and Dorey. He’s swearing off the game or singing its praises. He’s just happy.

So maybe when it comes to retirement, the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Leave the table too early, and you’ll always feel cheated. Leave too late—well, at least you’ll have the stories.

Everyone’s gotta crap out eventually. Except my dad’s friend in Vegas, who actually was escorted from the casino before his legendary roll ended…once cameras caught him urinating in the cup ledge. No one could figure out why he didn’t just use the nearby bathroom, until he explained it:

“You NEVER leave the table when you’re hot.”

The Enemy of My Enemy Is My Friend: Choosing Sides in the 2008 World Series

Kris Pollina — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 10:53:19 -0400

"There is nobody as enslaved as the fanatic, the person whom in one impulse, one value, assumes ascendancy over all others." -Milton R. Sapirstein

There are few things more aggravating than trying to escape mushrooming media hype of a story you just don’t want to hear. The internet is a demon the day immediately after your team blows Game Seven, or your idolized all-star is caught in salacious mischief, or your star QB’s season-ending injury is documented in 14,000 different photo angles.

You’d think that New York City journalism would be so overwhelmed with news that it could avoid spinning out the same stories over and over. But as it stands, the only thing transpiring in Manhattan is the election. And the World Series. And trying to decide what’s less interesting is like trying to pick between sharing a cell with Omarosa or Andy Dick.

I’ve been able to sidestep the burgeoning political smoke and mirrors suffocating the country, but my nagging interest in baseball precludes me from shunning the World Series.

After observing the heated lunacy punctuating the election, it made me think that the polarizing and divisive nature of politics that I’ve always scoffed at, is scarcely different from that of the nature of sports fans.

The relationship a fan has with his team is perennially challenged by rival fans, the dynamic is ever-shifting. Love for the players converts to contempt for the opposition’s loyalists. You can't love both the Mets and the Yankees, or your credibility falls along the ranks of George O’Leary.

DC natives are out for blood when the Cowboys come to town. And a little research uncovered an Ohio-Michigan couples group on Facebook…with a staggering three female members. (I have a few ideas that explain the notable absence of boyfriends, their failure to exist being one.)

The relationship a voter has with his party’s candidate is a push-pull balance of championing the issues and attacking the other party. While Obama and McCain battle it out in the inaccessible stratosphere of politics, the common citizens are left to either cheer them on, or spit vitriol at each other. The former may be nobler, but the latter is decidedly more gratifying.

And in both pools of sports fans and American voters, there may be people who advocate principles without assassinating characters. But I think the lion's share of the bell curve houses those whose team/candidate loyalty is overshadowed by animosity towards the opposition.

It’s arbitrary, narrow, and sometimes illogical. But this mentality is also the only thing tethering non-Tampa Bay/Phillies fans to coverage of the 2008 World Series.

On paper, this matchup should be fantastic. But we’re two games into the Fall Classic, and I still can’t find even a small pocket of emotion around who will win. The Phillies are durable and hungry. Tampa Bay is feisty and young.

In the words of my mom, “Yeah, Wednesday was an exciting game until I realized I didn’t care.”

When your team is out, the only thing left to do is root against the enemy. And when the enemy itself isn’t someone particularly worthy of hatred, you look for the fanbase that is.

Certain cities, usually in the northeast, are subject to this kind of hater mentality. Philadelphia, New York, and Boston are like a murderers row of obnoxious fans, so when the hapless Phillies or golden Pats are in the playoffs, it’s not the team that haters are rooting against. It’s the people in the stands.

And while the Tampa Bay and Philly teams may be in dead heat stats-wise, their respective legions of loyalists couldn’t be more polar.

Tampa Bay Devil Rays

What do you do with a team that has about as many fans as there are players on the roster? What the hell is a Tampa Bay fan anyway?

I can’t wrap my head around this. While my sister’s ex-boyfriend purports vehemently that he has ALWAYS followed this franchise, the fact that he isn’t a middle-schooler makes this argument less plausible.

Is the vague frustration over alleged bandwagoning enough to root against the Rays? If you need a reason to hate this nascent faction, it might be a better idea to direct your attentions to the catwalk, or oddly sterile playoff atmosphere in the Trop, or the blinding effects the brand new fleet of Rays jerseys have on the viewer.

I can understand hating Pink-hat wearers or Patriots fans who popped out of the woodwork post-1994, but the Trop motley crew is inexplicably exempt from this contempt.

It’s like in Teen Wolf when everyone gets into Wolfmania when the Beacon Town Beavers start making a championship run, their all-star talent in the form of a 17-year-old werewolf. It’s too weird and surreal to think about.

Not to mention there’s also the age-old adage that you never root against a team whose largest crowd was under 50,000…and for a New Kids on the Block concert.

Sure, the cowbells are giving the Thunder Stix a run for their money in the campaign for All-Time Irritating fan props. The Rayhawks are obscene. The poster signs held up at the stadium read like loose translations of a foreign language. And the Trop’s highlighted feature? “The only stadium in the world with live cownose rays.”

(Say what you will about the Trop, but at least you’re not taking in a game where the cownoses aren’t live.)

And in the Chutes and Ladders game of team likeability, the Rays were cleared a path to higher grounds. Outside of winning eight gold Olympic medals, there’s only one other feat that can generate such profound, unanimous gratitude across sports fans:

Taking down the Yankees.

Forget they didn’t play the Yankees in the postseason. Or that the Bombers were one of only two AL teams with a winning record against Tampa. It doesn’t matter. The Rays represent everything the Yankees are not. Low-profile, cheap, young, guileless, raw, and successful. And from the looks of both teams, it may stay this way for a while.

But despite all this, the feisty Rays only give us reasons to not root against them. Is there a reason to root for them?

Philadelphia Phillies

The Phillies, conversely, are a much more evocative franchise. Their historical record is pathetic, boasting the unequivocal worst, most abysmal history of any baseball team. In 126 years, they have one championship, more losses than any other team, nine seasons of playing under .300, and 14 seasons of 100 losses or more. Worst of all, they have no excuse. No small market, no ballpark issues, no manager ruts. Not even a curse.

The interesting part about Phillies fans is that most of their notoriety seems to stem from a peripheral stigma—the wildly unpopular perception of the fans tailgating across the street from Citizens Bank Park.

E-A-G-L-E-S.

The Philly baseball fans I’ve encountered have never struck me as obnoxious, crass, loud, idiotic, or even bitter. It’s almost as if years of stunning failures have resigned them to an even-keeled approach to baseball: retain fundamental northeastern sports zeal, watch the game without thinking about the season, never let it break your heart.

On the other hand, Eagles fans are the Judd Nelsons of the NFL Breakfast club.

They irritate the hell out of everyone. They love the negative attention, mistake their outspoken idiocy for unrivaled fandom, wreak enough violent havoc to necessitate holding cells in their stadium, and worst of all, they won’t be slowed by logic. They’re certifiably insane.

Unfortunately for the baseball fans, Eagles have fostered such abject ignominy that Phillies' fans are inevitably guilty by association. If there’s even a slight chance Eagles' fans will experience remote pleasure, the general public will work overtime to prevent this.

People will root against the Phillies for the same reason I rooted for the Lakers last spring. If I had any interest in basketball, I would in all likelihood favor the Celtics. But the idea of Red Sox fans celebrating again made me shudder. That’s how powerful my hostility towards Boston fans is. That I could root against a refreshingly talented NBA team to thwart the joy of fans from a completely different sport.

Going even further away from the teams actually playing right now, anyone who hates the Mets—or rather, is entertained by their fans’ Charlie Brown-like misery, is rooting for the Phils. To the Private Pyle of MLB, what’s one more harsh whack with a towel wrapped bar of soap?

The complex web of fan alliances and discords runs thick and deep. It’s compelling and ubiquitous, and while I sometimes hate its overpowering nature, it fends off apathy. At least towards sports.

I limit my sociopolitical education to Facebook status updates, SNL skits, and cartoons on Page six of the New York Post. I only recently nailed down the names of the presidential candidates, because the further I stay away from the philosophical melee ravaging Manhattan, the better.

I don’t particularly need another demographic of people to irrationally hate. I almost killed a man for saying Jeter was one of the worst shortstops in the game, spent weeks arguing with my best friend over the Celtic’s D in the playoffs, and nearly disowned my youngest sister for rooting for Green Bay last year.

I am already governed by sports loyalties that breed hostility towards certain fan sects, and that’s enough. I am incapable of separating people from the teams they support, just as the politically minded often define people by their red or blue penchants.

Such are the issues tugging at the baseball fan’s loyalties. Twenty-eight teams’ supporters can either ignore baseball altogether or forge a makeshift allegiance to Philly or Tampa Bay. We are now at the mercy of the Laws of Thermodynamics: energy cannot be created or destroyed, but it can change from one form to another.

The rabid devotion that innervated the season cannot be extinguished so seamlessly. Nor can I concoct some test tube passion for either team. Such fanaticism can only be transferred to something else.

Now on the heels of Game three, I’m still waffling on a team to back. The best solution I can think of? Aggressively, passionately, fervently root for…a seven game series. If nothing else, it will buy me more time.

Curt Schilling's Shocking Discovery of New York-Boston Animosity

Kris Pollina — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 03:24:38 -0400

"Wise men speak because they have something to say; fools because they have to say something." -Plato

Curt Schilling reminds me of the generic and requisite Real World stock character: the cantankerous jackass that falsely assumes his "candor" is anything more than pathetic and offensive white noise.

The guy whose audition tape sounds something like, "I don't give a $%^& what people think. I just keep it real and say what no one else will say. I'm not afraid to go there." And while he's initially embraced by the other housemates, he ultimately alienates himself from the group, leaving him with nothing left to do but self-indulgent confessionals.

Curt's latest talking-head piece criticized New Yorkers for reveling in the season-ending injury to New England Patriots MVP Tom Brady. Also mentioned in his radio-broadcasted rant were shots at the Yankees and Jets, reminders of his Diamondback glory days, circa the turn of the century, a guaranteed win for an NFL team he's about as integral a part of as Elizabeth Shue is, and a fairly insane claim about the nature of Boston fans.

I swear to God, I'm shocked the guy doesn't have a Facebook account, just so he can update his status every day to reflect a new and fiery conviction. ("Curt...is reasserting his political affiliation. He's Republican. A big one." "Curt...damns yet another group of people to Hell." "Curt...thinks electric toothbrushes are superior to the manual pieces of crap and judges anyone who uses them.")

Indeed, the sidelined pitcher gives us many things to reflect on.

Tom Brady

When Tom Brady went down, my first emotion was actually acute distress, and for absolutely no other reason beyond the fact I had the Patriots winning Week One in my suicide pool—a pick 100 percent based on the fact that I wanted to root for them only once and get it over with early on in the season.

Once they scraped out a W, I washed my hands of any "allegiance" to the New England Patriots. Any distress over the golden boy's injury evaporated. And I was thrilled the potential AFC beast was dealt a second helping of some karmic retribution.

While many people have taken offense to Schilling's attack on Brady revelers, he's not wrong. Bars in NY erupted when the star QB limped off the field, but I can unequivocally guarantee that the vast majority of these rabid fans were not thinking of Brady's physical duress or the medical implications. We're sports fans before bedside nurses, just as Tom Brady is a professional athlete before he's a vulnerable mortal.

No one was happy he was hurt. Period. No one actively hopes for an injury. But this is a game. It happens. Brady's not invincible, and Belichick risked Brady's health last year by gluing his starters to the field. Maybe a season of "Eff You, NFL" pass-plays guzzled up Brady's luck.

So it's awfully convenient for New Englanders to suddenly develop integrity and self-righteous compassion when one of their boys hits the ground. They're looking down the barrel of a Brady-less season, chins quivering and revenge hopes dashed.

And when the tables turned on them, instead of taking their lumps, they resort to categorizing New Yorkers as classless.

I might take such accusations more to heart if they were coming from a fanbase whose moral rubric didn't advocate drilling baseball players in the head.

Boston's unerring commitment to human compassion was egregiously absent during the Up-and-In reign of terror Yankees suffered at the hand of Pedro Martinez. Where were these Class Crusaders when the Sox hurler sent Alfonso Soriano and Derek Jeter to the hospital?

And during my trip to Fenway last spring, 35,000 fans weren't exactly overcome with grief when Dice-K opened his Boston career by beaning A-Rod. In the words of Schilling, "The euphoria was palpable."

And of course, nothing will ever reek of more class than Pedro throwing down 72-year Don Zimmerman by the head. Though seemingly indefensible, Sox fans doled out copious and zealous support.

I'm not suggesting we offer a moment of silence whenever the heart of our lineup gets plunked. But good God, don't make sweeping generalizations about New York's honor and ethics.

The truth is, we don't care enough about Tom Brady to celebrate his problems. Tom Brady is the same guy who was carved up by Big Blue's D this past February. Hell, we love Tom Brady. Why would I want him out of commission? Without Brady, Super Bowl 42 just wouldn't have been the same.

Brady-less Patriots at the Jets this Sunday

"The sad part is going to be when they beat the Jets next week. Then they are going to come up with something else."-CS

How do I get in on this? If total lack of team involvement doesn't preclude eligibility to guarantee a win, I'd like to toss my hat in the ring. I guarantee (aggressively) an Ohio State win over USC on Saturday. Done.

(What's poor Matt Cassel thinking about all this? This is like some Saved by the Bell episode when Zach makes a bet with Slater or Valley, gets over-confident, and then ups the ante by putting his giant cell phone in the pot. Screech, meanwhile, is tugging on Zach's sleeve trying to alert him to some crucial bit of information that will severely hurt his chances of winning. "But Curt! I haven't started a game since high school!" "Not now, Matt, I'm in the middle of running my mouth off...")

And then there's Curt Schilling denouncing the practice of always having something else to complain about.

...

Too easy.

The New York Yankees

"The Yankees suck this year, and they are bitter and mad and making excuses over that. I was front row and center when their dynasty ended. They want us to be as bitter and mad as they are. Unfortunately, it's not gonna happen."-CS

Yes, unfortunately, we'll never hear Curt Schilling bitter and mad. Maybe someday...

I'd be lying if I said the Yankees' season hasn't severely deflated me. Of course we're disappointed. But it's skewed logic to connect a faltering New York baseball team and a weakened Patriots offense.

If New England loses every game, it doesn't help the Yankees. Bronx-haters may be well versed in actively delighting in another team's failure, but Yankee fans are still wrapping our heads around the threat of an empty October.

Brady's fall merely gave us a welcome respite from arrogant taunting. A temporary respite, I'm sure. But still. It was like finally plugging up a wailing infant with a pacifier.

Schilling isn't false when he reminds us that he was on the winning side of the 2001 World Series, although it is an odd choice of series to wax smug about. I'd have gone with the 2004 ALCS over the ultimately lifting experience of the 2001 Fall Classic. But hey, semantics.

To that end, though, the words of Bill Belichick may prove apposite here: "If you live in the past, you die in the present."

Which is not to be misinterpreted as a wish for Curt Schilling's death.

* * *

Maybe Schilling is sloppily trying to lobby support for his return to the Sox, now that he's on the tail end of his contract. Or maybe he's getting cabin fever on the DL. Who knows what inspires the Most Judgmental and Opinionated Athlete Ever to update his blog of complaints.

I don't expect him to lionize opposing fans any more than I'd expect either presidential candidate to concede to the other, "Hey, you know, you're right. I never thought about it that way."

But it would undoubtedly behoove Schilling to loosen the stranglehold he has on hypocrisy and to just accept the enjoyable (at best) and insidious (at worst) rivalry between our two cities for what it is.

There's a fable that tells the story of a scorpion asking a frog to carry him across the river. The frog is scared the scorpion will sting him, but the scorpion assures the frog that if it were to sting him, they'd both drown. The frog agrees by this logic, and sure enough, the scorpion stings him, mid-river. As they're both drowning and about to die, the frog asks why.

"I'm a scorpion. It's my nature."

I live in New York. I've been conditioned to get irrationally furious at slow walkers, to live in an overpriced shoebox of an apartment, and to get territorial when non-native transplanted Yankee-haters forget what city they're now calling home.

I've been conditioned to put the Evil Empire on a pedestal and get wildly defensive when they're constantly subject to contempt. And New Englanders should be able to empathize with this kind of fierce loyalty.

So, on Sunday afternoon, I wasn't celebrating the blow to Brady's knee...Just the blow to the outspoken hubris and arrogant drivel characterizing (much of) Boston's fanbase.

As a New York sports fan, it's my nature.