Bleacher Report - Articles by Zander Freund

San Francisco NFL Draft Weekend: Living in the Past with Steve Young

Zander Freund — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 13:26:10 -0400

As We the 49er Faithful look ahead to this weekend’s NFL draft, it’s easy to feel an overwhelming sense of dread.

Let’s face it, our team hasn’t been “good” since the days when MTV played music videos.

Admittedly, we’ve had our moments of hope—from drafting Frank Gore in 05’ to Singletary turning the ship around somewhat at the end of last season. But let’s be honest: we haven’t been a playoff caliber team in quite some time.

For most fans, it all starts with the quarterback. This was a franchise that—from 1981 to 1998—featured two of the greatest field generals who ever lived, running the most potent offense ever conceived.

Even the Garcia/Owens era, in hindsight, looks mighty rosy when one considers what our passing game has since become. It’s downright hilarious that with one of the league’s best QB/Receiver tandems we still felt so deprived of talent—but for whatever reason, we did.

Such is life as a Niner fan. We were privileged to bear witness to the miracles of the 80’s and 90’s, but it spoiled the hell out of us to the point where for awhile, anything short of a Super Bowl seemed like a disappointment.

The last five years, however, have given a new sense of perspective to fans throughout the Bay Area. A wild card berth has never seemed so exciting; people nearly lost it when Kurt Warner came to town.

One thing that often occurs to me is how hard it must have been for Bill Walsh to watch this all go down—to sit idly by as the once proud West Coast offense he built was destroyed by the variety of coaches who have since come up with more "fitting" schemes for our team, or to watch the front office put it’s eggs in the basket of one of the biggest busts in modern NFL history.

The days of Bill Walsh are long gone—and frankly, I’m glad that he doesn’t have to see another season of a mediocre quarterback at the helm. The man deserves better than that for all he did for us, and I hope that wherever he is there are quarterbacks who can throw deadly accurate 5-10 yard passes on the move and receivers who know their routes like the back of their hand.

One thing’s for sure: such players sure as hell aren’t on the current roster.

So what’s a Niner fan to do?

My answer; forget about the future and focus on the past. This team could literally cease to exist and we’d still have a plethora of glorious memories locked in our hearts forever.

That may sound defeatist, but it’s the God’s honest truth. Nothing that happens this weekend or this season will change the past.

If you’re ready to live in the past with me, come take a trip down memory lane as I pay tribute to a 49er legend. This is a man who still somehow gets short changed in the talks of the glory days, despite in many ways being the finest to ever play his position.

You know who I’m talking about, 49er nation; it’s not Montana Magic. It’s the guy who followed up Joe Cool’s act—the left handed mormon phenom, Jon Steven Young.

Speed.

Mobility.

Agility.

Athleticism.

Precision.

Heart.

Intelligence.

These are the characteristics that come to mind when the people of Bay Area think of Steve Young—and were indeed the principles that the man lived by every day during his time as a 49er.

His unrivaled athleticism as a runner, pinpoint accuracy as a passer, and sound judgement as a leader made him one of the most exciting talents to ever grace the ranks of the NFL, and without question my favorite football player of all time.

Steve Young. Such a simple name, yet one that brings back so many memories…

My first memories of Steve Young however weren’t exactly positive. For when he initially stepped onto the grass at Candlestick Park, he was largely regarded as the mediocre backup of the great Joe Montana.

I am ashamed to admit that I fell victim to this ridiculous categorization. Every minute Steve Young played before 1991 was a minute I wished Joe was healthy again.

This seems beyond absurd in hindsight—after all, Young was one of the most effective backups in the league. His scramble against the Vikings in 1988 will go down in the history books as one of the best plays of professional football lore, and his numbers as the #2 even in the late 80’s foreshadowed a brilliant career as a starter.

But at the time, we Niners fans were in love with another man. We had all been awestruck by #16 for so long that we had no room left in our hearts for any other quarterback wearing red and gold.

The story I am about to share is quite a painful one for me. It is a disgusting display of a young child’s inability to appreciate the magnitude of greatness that surrounded him and the warped sense of reality that multiple Super Bowl championships can produce in many fans.

That said, this anecdote is a part of my past that I cannot escape. I’ve wanted to get it off my chest for awhile, and now seems like an ample opportunity.

I was at a friend’s slumber party back in elementary school—it was probably 1990. As all of us were rabid Niners fans, it was only a matter of time before the topic of Steve Young came up.

The insult brigade commenced. “What a bum…that guy sucks!” somebody said.

“When the hell is Joe coming back?” I asked in earnest.

The conversation reached its climax when an older kid who was at the party told us that he and his buddies had egged Steve Young’s house (#8 lived down in the Peninsula at the time, where I grew up). Though even as an adolescent I was appalled by vandalism, this seemed to be an appropriate exception to the rule.

We all laughed hysterically. “The guy deserves it” I thought to myself. After all, he was out there trying to steal Joe’s thunder while our Lord and Savior was doing what he could to get healthy.

Little did I know that this “bum” would become my childhood hero a few years later.

Kids say the darnedest things, don’t they?

Except it wasn’t just kids who were ragging on Steve—the majority of the 49er faithful were simply unwilling to give one of the greatest quarterbacks in the history of college football a chance to succeed in the pros.

Joe was our guy; the thought of him being traded or retiring one day gave us the shivers.

So we took it out on Steve. These are my sins, father.

If I could travel in a time machine back to that slumber party, I would have told my parents to pick me up, drive us over to Steve Young’s house, scoop the broken eggs into a grocery bag, and return to the slumber party with some goodies for this older kid.

Then, I would smear the egg yolk all over his stupid face before doing the same to my own mug.

For it was we who deserved to be egged. Our utter naivety allowed us to talk foul of this fine warrior—who’s career, at 29 years of age, was just beginning to blossom.

In some way, I feel I have paid for my sins. By 1992, Young was far and away the league’s best QB—the new face of the Niners. Quickly realizing the error of my ways, I cheered him on during every play of every game.

I would do the same up until the day in which a concussion ended his career seven years later.

Every game I watched of Steve Young’s from 1992 to 1999 was a special one for me. I loved Joe Montana as a young child, but I truly became a man with Steve.

Young led the league in passer rating a record six times in his career and won two MVP awards. His career quarterback rating of 96.8 remains the highest mark in NFL history.

Statistically speaking, he may be the greatest passer in the history of the league. And that’s not even including his mind-boggling numbers as a rusher.

Numbers, however, don’t tell the whole story of Steve Young. It’s hard to fathom what must have been going through this guy’s head throughout those years given the large shoes he was expected to fill.

The 49er faithful couldn’t give two shits about numbers. All we cared about were Super Bowl victories.

Joe Cool had won four championships as our starting quarterback. And despite his statistical decorations, Steve Young hadn’t won any. The hated Dallas Cowboys had laid claim to what was rightfully his in both 92’ and 93’.

Then the 1994 season came.

And it was good.

To say Steve had an awesome year would be quite an understatement. Brace yourself as you look at these numbers:

70.3% completion percentage
3969 yards
35 passing touchdowns; 7 rushing touchdowns
10 interceptions
112.8 QB rating

And this, my friends, was before the rule changes where defensive backs could no longer touch receivers.

Going into the playoffs though, it was more of the same amongst the rabble of the Bay Area fans.

“The guy’s amazing—but can he win when it counts?”

“He’s still got a long way to go before we can mention him in the same breathe as you-know-you. Let’s see what happens in the playoffs.”

This time though, Steve wasn’t messing around. Flanked by Jerry Rice and Ricky Watters, Young easily marched the Nines into the Super Bowl to face off against Junior Seau and the San Diego Chargers.

The game would be the career defining moment for #8. He knew that his performance on this one Sunday would permanently shape his legacy in San Francisco.

The pressure was on. Would Steve live up to the ridiculous expectations Joe Montana and the pampered fans of the Bay Area had set for him?

Young didn’t just answer that question with his performance in Super Bowl XXIX.

Rather, he permanently put to rest any notion that he wasn’t one of the key pillars of the 49ers dynasty.

Jon Steven Young would throw a Super Bowl record six touchdown passes in a 49-26 trouncing of the Chargers—breaking the record previously set by…guess who?

Being the obvious choice as the game’s MVP, Young would finish with 325 yards in the air and 49 yards on the ground, becoming the first player to ever lead the Super Bowl in both rushing and passing yards.

It was a truly magical day for Steve, who, in the final minutes of the game, had his teammates physically pull the metaphorical monkey off of his back on the sidelines.
In a segment of NFL films, Young would later claim that he regretted this antic, but I personally think it’s quite fitting given everything he had worked so hard to overcome during his years as a 49er.

Steve's adventurous style as a dual-threat quarterback caught up to him later in his career. He continued to excel despite numerous concussions before finally retiring three games into the 1999 season due to serious health concerns.

The heart that this man displayed on the football field should never be forgotten—he continued to use all of the tools in his toolbox even when coaches and doctors alike advised him to be more cautious and conservative. He allowed his mind to guide him as much as he did his arm, rarely forcing balls in places they didn't belong.

Football was an art form for Young; it was such a pleasure watching him work. He was truly an inspiration for all Bay Area fans.

As we head into the fog of tomorrow, I ask you, 49er nation, to not let the future get you down. For we have a noble history that most franchises would sell the farm to inherit.

And no one can ever take it away from us, no matter what happens.

We must be resilient and proud, even if we are in many ways pessimistic and doubtful of where things go from here. If Shaun Hill (or God forbid, whatever other gunslinger the Niners welcome to the organization between now and September) sets the all-time record for incompletions in 2009, that will not change the beauty of what previously was.

For Steve Young was once taking those snaps. And that in itself should be enough to hold our spirits high.

Why Jayson Stark Is Wrong About Alex Rodriguez and Steroids

Zander Freund — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 15:59:02 -0500

This past Sunday, Alex Rodriguez confessed to taking steroids while playing for the Texas Rangers.

Shortly afterwards, ESPN columnist Jayson Stark went on a rant proclaiming that A-Rod had officially destroyed the history of professional baseball.

And now, I'm going to put Stark in his place for publishing one of the most disgraceful pieces of sports journalism I have ever seen.

In case there is any doubt about my motives here: I have always been fascinated with the history of professional baseball. The national pastime holds a truly special place in my heart, and there are few topics I enjoy discussing more.

I also happen to enjoy a lot of Jayson Stark's work. In fact his book The Stark Truth: The Most Overrated and Underrated Players in Baseball History is beside me on my desk as I type this.

Stark is clearly familiar with baseball history, which makes his argument all the more shameful. In this critique I will be quoting Stark's diatribe and offering counter-points and comments.

The original article that was published on ESPN.com can be found here.

Let's get started.

In baseball, we love our numbers. And we love our heroes. And that brings us to Alex Rodriguez, a man who has committed a crime he doesn't even understand:

A crime against the once-proud history of his sport.

A-Rod didn't commit that crime alone, of course. In many ways, he is just the latest, greatest face of a mass conspiracy that has now succeeded in obliterating the quality that used to separate baseball from the rest of the sporting jungle.

Ahem.

Implying that Major League Baseball has always been a cut above other professional sports leagues in terms of integrity and morality is a complete farce. Stark knows this as well as anyone.

This is a league that for half its history excluded minorities from stepping onto the field, and up until 1975 deprived players of rightful free agency.

The game has a proud tradition of cheaters that are regularly celebrated by historians and fans alike—from New York Giants Manager John McGraw watering down the base paths at the Polo Grounds and encouraging his players to slide with their spikes in the air, to Gaylord Perry, who made a career out of doctoring balls through any means possible.

From the way Stark makes it sound, Major League Baseball has had a squeaky clean record until now. Before Bonds, A-Rod, and the rest of the juicers ruined the national pastime forever, the league and everyone involved in it's existence was flawless.

I'd recommend that those of you who embrace such a notion watch Ken Burns' Baseball and make your own decision. You might re-consider your position.

Once, the numbers of baseball used to mean something special and magical. And the men who compiled those numbers were transcendent figures in American life.

I hear ya Starky. Men like Ty Cobb—who's love for a good fight led him to stab a night's watchmen trying to break up a scuffle, and Babe Ruth—who's cravings for booze and food made him a model of human health, are the kind of people we want our kids looking up to.

But not now. Not anymore.

Translation: A league that once was based upon a tradition of excellence and integrity has now been corrupted forever.

Perhaps Stark is right; the proud traditions that Kennesaw Mountain Landis and Cap Anson stood for have since been desecrated. Major League Baseball may have been characterized by bigotry and discrimination at the turn of the century, but bye golly, at least there were no roids!

Now we've arrived at this sad and tragic place where the players missing from the Hall of Fame will tower over the men who are actually in the Hall of Fame.

I'm willing to bet right now that Alex Rodriguez will join that Cooperstown missing-persons list -- no matter how many home runs he hits, no matter how he chooses to spin Selena Roberts and David Epstein's impeccably reported story on SI.com.

So long as Stalinist voters mark their ballots based on personal sentiments rather than the accomplishments of a player, I'm sure that will be the case.

So if that's true, think of where this sport almost certainly will find itself 15 years from now:

The all-time hits leader (Mr. Peter E. Rose) won't be in the Hall of Fame.

Then put him in the Hall of Fame, jerk!

Here's a classy move: tell Pete Rose that if he comes clean about gambling on baseball you'll reinstate him.

Then when he does what you've asked, go back on your word.

The all-time home run leader (assuming that's where A-Rod's highway leads him) won't be in the Hall of Fame.

Why not? How come all of the other players who took steroids aren't on pace to set the record, but he is?

The man who broke Hank Aaron's career record (Barry Bonds) won't be in the Hall.

One of the best 10 ballplayers of all time isn't going into the Hall of Fame? Why again?

Oh yeah: because the voters are self-righteous tightwads that allow the unfortunate trends of an era in sports to blind them from true greatness.

The man who broke Roger Maris' single-season record (Mark McGwire) won't be in the Hall.

The man who was once the winningest right-handed pitcher of the live-ball era (Roger Clemens) won't be in the Hall.

The man with the most 60-homer seasons in baseball history (Sammy Sosa) doesn't look like he's headed for the Hall, either.

The Hall of Fame won't be the Hall of Fame without these three individuals, period. (To his credit, Stark did vote for Big Mac in 2007).

And who knows who's next? Who knows what other names are lurking on that list of seized urine samples? Who knows whose career and reputation will be fed through the shredder in the next big scoop? And the next? And the next?

In all likelihood, the majority of the superstars who played during this era of homerun ball were juicing.

Instead of banning them all from Cooperstown, why not just induct those who excelled above the rest? Isn't that the logical thing to do?
I keep reading those previous seven paragraphs, trying my best to fully comprehend them. I'm not really succeeding.

I'm not either. But probably for different reasons.

How could baseball have allowed this to happen to itself? How? Can anyone recall any other sport that has ever committed such an insane act of self-destruction?

If we apply the same standards for performance enhancing drugs to professional football or basketball as we have to baseball, we'll surely see similar fallouts in the years to come. Does anyone really believe that offensive lineman pack on hundreds of pounds of muscle through weight training and dieting?

A better question is: why did we scapegoat Major League Baseball?

And the answer, of course, is that that the sports fans of America care a whole lot more about the sanctity of baseball records than similar feats in other professional sports.

What compares to it? The Black Sox? This is worse. Game-fixing in college basketball? This is worse. Nominate any scandal in the history of sports. My vote is that this is worse.

Why open the nominations to other professional sports when there's such an obvious example in baseball itself?

Ever heard of the color line policy, Mr. Stark? That is a scandal of truly epic proportions.

Segregation in baseball lasted for over 50 years; it's existence prevented some of the most talented ballplayers known to man from competing at the professional level and deprived fans of the game from witnessing this talent first hand. This blatantly unjust policy has also left baseball historians clueless about how Josh Gibson might have performed in the Major Leagues, or whether Babe Ruth would have still hit 714 dingers against black pitching.

The color line policy made Hall of Fame decisions for black men who played before 1945 quite difficult. Voters could have easily said that because statistics were not regularly kept in the Negro Leagues that those players should be ineligible for nomination.

They didn't though—and thank the lord for that. We can now take our children and our children's children to Cooperstown and honor Oscar Charleston just as we do Tris Speaker.

Hall of Fame arguments for those who played during the steroid era are significantly less complex. We know how Barry Bonds stacked up to other hitters on roids, and we also know how he performed against pitchers who were putting the same crap into their bodies.

Far more importantly, while the prevalence of performance enhancing drugs in baseball may be a true shame, it's hardly as unjust and immoral as excluding entire groups of people from competing based upon the color of their skin.

Memo to Jayson Stark: it is an insult to Jackie Robinson, Branch Rickey, those who played in the Negro Leagues and the entire African-American population of this country for you to suggest that the fallout over performance enhancing drugs is the greatest scandal in the history of sports.
It's not worse because it will cause massive numbers of people to stop watching or caring about baseball. Check the attendance. Check the revenue charts. People will come back. They've already come back. The sport, as a business, is doing great.

But the sport, as a unique paragon of American culture, is devastated. And that's forever.

Excuse me: this sport has never been a paragon of American culture. Rather, it always has been and continues to be a reflective lens of our behavior as a nation—which sometimes is heroic and beautiful, and other times is selfish and ugly.

America was segregated along racial lines for the first half of the 20th century and so was baseball. In both cases, it took bravery and persistence on the part of individuals black and white alike to change the trend.

Major League Baseball also has a long history of owners oppressing their employees—the reserve clause, which was in place until 1975, prevented ballplayers from seeking offers from other organizations when their contracts expired. The United States meanwhile has struggled with issues regarding the ethical treatment of laborers since it's inception.

When it comes to today's star players, their actions should not come as a huge surprise. We can see examples of selfish individuals choosing their own personal betterment at the expense of their fellow men nearly everywhere we look.

While Barry Bonds and Alex Rodriguez were building their bodies into superhuman machines—the integrity of the game be damned—wall street power players and mortgage brokers across the nation lined their pockets as the world economy collapsed in front of our eyes.

Baseball has never been immune to the ills of our society. That's to a large extent what makes it such an important part of our culture.

But like the challenges that we've faced both on the streets of America and the fields of Wrigley and Fenway, we will learn from them and get past this dilemna. At least, that's what some of us will try to do…

At times like this, I always tell the story of what it was like to follow Mark McGwire around in September 1998. I saw this man hit 17 of his 70 home runs that season. I saw records topple. I saw powerful numbers rise and fall.

But more than that, I measured the feat I was watching by who else showed up to catch the show. And by that I mean Bruce Springsteen. And Bruce Hornsby. And Barbara Walters. And MTV. And "Good Morning America." And many, many others just like them.

They didn't join us in beautiful downtown St. Louis because they'd always wanted to see the Arch. They joined us because this wasn't a sports story -- this was a massive American story.

This was a story that lifted itself out of the batter's box and plopped itself right down on Main Street. It was a story that appealed to Americans who didn't know a split-fingered fastball from a banana split.

But they knew what the number 60 meant. They knew what 61 meant. They knew who Babe Ruth was. And they knew this was a phenomenon that linked Mark McGwire to the Bambino, that linked now to then, that linked this America to that America.

That's what the home run record used to mean in our land.

That's what baseball used to mean.

But not anymore.

And that's the crime here. That's the tragedy. That's what we've lost.

What exactly have we lost? The idea that the single season homerun record was won fair and square? If that's the case, why not just officially say that Maris still holds the record?

Do we really need to make this a drawn out tragedy that we can never recover from? Is that the American way? To sulk in our misery, rather than trying to look towards the future? Is that what we did when Josh Gibson was forbidden from playing in the Major Leagues and thus deprived of his chance at the record books?
We've lost the opportunity for Alex Rodriguez to restore that: the meaning. The relevance. The power. The romance.

He held that opportunity in his hands. And now it's gone.

Who put that burden of responsibility on A-Rod's shoulders to begin with? You and your colleagues, Mr. Stark. Some of us here never believed for a second that a guy like A-Rod was Christ reborn as a ballplayer.

Why was A-Rod expected not to cave into the pressure that other superstars did? Why was he pinged as the golden angel in the midst of this madness?

He's failed to live up to the expectations you set for him because those expectations were completely unrealistic. Perhaps it would have been better to wait until all the evidence had been collected before you chose him of all people as the savior of the game.

He was the one man on the planet with the chance to resuscitate the greatest record in sports. He was the one man on the planet with the chance to rebuild his sport's sacred bridge to the glory days.

The glory days of segregation and spitballs? Of corked bats and game fixing? Of treating the talented individuals who invest their lives in providing entertainment for millions like complete and utter crap?

And now he'll never get that back, no matter how many more home run trots he makes.

I do have some measure of sympathy for him, though. We can't forget that these test results were supposed to be confidential. So the leaking of the results of those tests -- particularly his tests -- is outrageous on one level, suspicious on another.

I also know that he isn't alone. I know there are 103 other positive tests on that list, capable of being leaked any minute. And I know there are hundreds of other players who never failed a test, who never have had a finger pointed, who never have come up in this conversation, who are just as guilty of performance-enhancing-drug use as the names we spend all our time talking about.

So even now, it isn't particularly fair to single out A-Rod. I'll concede that.

But those are all just subplots to the big show, under A-Rod's big top. And that show isn't going to close for the rest of Alex Rodriguez's life.

He should resign himself to that before he takes another step or utters another word. The yolk is never going back inside the egg. So whatever he does next, however he explains himself this week and next week and for the rest of his career, all he can possibly accomplish is damage control.

But the damage itself already has been done. And it's never going to be undone.

That's the crime here. Oh, it may not just be his crime. It's a crime shared by everyone who allowed the steroid era to exist and persist. But that doesn't make our man A-Rod any more innocent, either. No, in some ways it makes him even more guilty.

He was a special player, with a special gift -- and an even more special opportunity: He was the man with the opportunity to reconnect baseball's once-indelible dotted line between past and present, between great-grandsons and great-grandfathers, between his home plate and your hometown.

And now he's squandered that gift, squandered that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

So weep not for what A-Rod has done to himself.

Weep for what he's done to his sport.

No! I refuse to weep. I refuse to buy into this baloney that the league was once pure and has suddenly been corrupted.

The game of baseball it beautiful and perfect—but Major League Baseball has many stains on its historical record. This is merely the result of the human beings who have graced its fields and offices over the years and the flaws that all-too-often complement their strengths.

No one—not A-Rod, Barry Bonds, steroid dealers, owners who turned a blind eye, or even pompous media personalities using their fame to manipulate the mass public about the implications of this mess—can alter the history of baseball. History, after all, is immovable.

What can change is our attitude towards that history. The choice is ours:

We can follow Jayson Stark in declaring that Performance Enhancing Drugs will forever tarnish the sport.

Or we can be a little more optimistic and, while admitting that steroids were a setback for this great game, refuse to let their prevalence infiltrate our interest in the past.

To those who choose the former, I wish you the best of luck.

For those of us who refuse to let MLB history die: let the journey continue.

The Top 10 Reasons To Root for the Cardinals on Sunday—49ers Edition

Zander Freund — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 14:26:43 -0500

In just a few short days, the Arizona Cardinals will pour out of the gate onto Raymond James Stadium as the underdogs in Super Bow XLIII. Their mission: to take down Big Ben and the mighty Pittsburgh Steelers in pursuit of their first ever NFL championship. At least...that's the goal as far as the Cardinals players and all of their fans are concerned. But for those of us who live in the greater metropolitan area of San Francisco, the Cardinals' mission is far more dangerous and multitudes more important to the sanctity of all that is good in the world. On this coming Sunday, the Pittsburgh Steelers will go for their sixth Super Bowl victory. And the only thing that stands in their way is a flock of birds playing the most inspired football of their lives. If you are a fan of the 49ers (or the Cowboys for that matter...grr...) you should be praying every second from now until game time to the higher power of Kurt Warner's choice that the Steelers pull the biggest choke job history has witnessed since Mama Cass bit off more than she could chew back in 1974. Because if the Steelers emerge victorious from the battle in Tampa, they will lay claim to the title of greatest franchise in modern NFL history. Three NFL teams are currently tied for the most Super Bowl titles of all time: The 49ers, the Cowboys, and the Steelers each have won five such championships. However unlike America's Team or the Steel Curtain, the Nines have never blown an opportunity to capitalize on the most important game of the year and take home the Vince Lombardi trophy. Our San Francisco 49ers are a perfect 5-0 in America's most widely watched sporting event. Every time we have been in the hunt, we were the very best team the league had to offer, and played top-notch quality football when it mattered most. Despite what the haters may say, we are currently the greatest franchise the NFL has ever seen. We invented the offensive scheme that has revolutionized the league over the past 25 years; we watched the greatest player to ever lay his hands on a football dazzle us throughout the 80's and 90's. We were the epitome of class, tradition, and excellence in a league that has since been corrupted by pampered athletes and parity so extreme that even Kerry Collins has almost had the privilege of slipping on a Super Bowl ring…twice. That being said, the glory of the San Francisco 49ers could all come crashing down in a hurry should Mike Tomlin and the league's best defense clutch up this Sunday. No matter how you spin it, six is more than five. Another Super Bowl victory for Pittsburgh makes our undefeated championship record suddenly irrelevant. We all knew this moment was coming; it had to come eventually. We couldn't possibly expect that after nearly a decade of incompetent management and disgraceful play, the Niners wouldn't leave themselves vulnerable to such an atrocity. Now here we are…three days away from Armageddon. Make no mistake about it: a loss for the Cardinals is also a loss for us. History is on the line, and We The 49er Faithful must put all of our hope for a better world into one man and one team: A fanatically religious system Quarterback who's career should have been over a long time ago but is somehow making a bid for himself in Canton. And a franchise that, despite being around since the inception of the NFL in 1922 and stints in three different cities, has never hesitated to make the Los Angeles Clippers look like the New York Yankees. This Sunday, we root for Kurt Warner and the Cards. Both were once our division foes, but in this time of looming tragedy we must put aside our past rivalries and extend our arms in friendship. Despite our obvious interest in allying with Arizona, I have been greatly disturbed to hear numerous Niner fans throwing their support behind Pittsburgh. The justifications for this choice have ranged from the illogical "the Cardinals will forever be division rivals" to the downright preposterous "I don't want Kurt Warner to make the Hall of Fame." To those 49ers fans who have assumed such positions: please consider the history of this fine organization. Think about how it will feel when Steelers fans refer to their team as the "greatest of all time" and you just have to sit there and lap it up. The Cardinals are our only hope. So put down your crack pipe and pick up the latest edition of Gideon's bible—it's Warner time. To offer some extra incentive for those of Niner Nation who have been led astray by their short-term thinking, I now present to you ten reasons why the Cardinals must win Super Bowl XLIII. The ten men I am about to mention sacrificed for YOU, Joe 49ers fan. They gave 110% each and every Sunday so that you could have the opportunity to witness some of the greatest football ever played. Because of them, you've up until now had permanent bragging rights over your contemporaries who root for less worthy adversaries. These fine men of Red and Gold were destined for athletic greatness since birth—you on the other hand were destined for a beer gut and a life of spectatorship. While these warriors could have used their talents for mere personal gain, they instead choose to provide to you the sporting experience of a lifetime. When you're watching the Super Bowl on Sunday, remember these ten men. Think about the glorious memories they gave you and how little they have asked for in return. In other words: show a little appreciation and stop being such an ungrateful prick. The Cardinals MUST win on Sunday, and you MUST cheer them on the entire time with every ounce of decency you can find inside of your pathetic self. Without further ado…

Begin Slideshow

National Disgrace: Graham Harrell Told To Stay Home on Heisman Night

Zander Freund — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 07:33:06 -0500

This Saturday at 8 PM Eastern Standard Time, college football fans from around the nation will tune in to ESPN to see which of three talented gunslingers will win the coveted Heisman Trophy.

Oklahoma's Sam Bradford, Florida's Tim Tebow, and Texas' Colt McCoy will all be present at the Heisman dinner and awards ceremony in New York City. All three of these young men epitomized the essence of the Quarterback position this season—they are natural born leaders who had their teams in the hunt for a national championship and put up mind-boggling statistics.

Regardless of who wins, all three field generals have so much to be proud of. They worked their butts off to get to where they are today and will remember this night for the rest of their lives.

I'd love to say that those of us watching from the living rooms and sports bars of America have an obligation to cling to a sense of pride and history for the game of football as this great tradition is passed along for the 74th time. This award has been given to legends such as Doak Walker, Roger Staubach, and Barry Sanders; it is one of the most prestigious honors in the world of sports.

But in this case, it is instead the responsibility of us fans to suffer through this once historic event with a sense of disgust and shame. Because on some pee-stained couch in Lubbock, Texas, a student-athlete of the finest caliber will be staring aimlessly at the television set with tears in his eyes, wondering why he lives in such a cruel and unfair world.

Graham Harrell majors in history at Texas Tech University. When he's not studying the Crusades or the Renaissance, he enjoys throwing a heap of leather with white stitching through the air while uber-athletic defensive linemen and linebackers run full speed ahead at him trying to bury his face in the grass.

He's pretty good at throwing these leather balls: This season Harrell finished second in the nation in passing yards (4747) while completing 71.8 percent of his attempts. He tossed 41 touchdowns and threw only seven interceptions, posting an overall passer rating of 163.03.

More importantly, Harrell got the Texas Tech Red Raiders one game away from the national championship. He led the school to an 11-1 record, their single loss coming at the hands of a talented Oklahoma team who will now be playing for the title. He orchestrated a game-winning drive against then No. 1-ranked Texas that will go down in the history books as one of the greatest all-time finishes.

Sure, Harrell has had the advantage of throwing to the talented Michael Crabtree all season long. The rest of his supporting cast, however, leaves much to be desired when compared to what Bradford, Tebow, or McCoy had to work with.

He plays football because he loves the game. If it wasn't obvious before, that should have become clear when Harrell broke two of his fingers in the second quarter of the season's final contest against Baylor, a game the Raiders surely could have afforded to take him out of.

Did I mention that he got a 4.0 GPA this year? His performance on the field and in the classroom earned him a spot on the All-Big 12 Academic Team.

With everything he's accomplished this season, there is no logical reason that Harrell should not be invited to New York alongside Tebow, Bradford, and McCoy. So why then was he snubbed?

One simple reason: He doesn't play for one of the nation's most prominent football programs.

That is a downright, crying shame—a disgrace to the game of college football and the entire world of sports. The decision to exclude Harrell is a viscous insult...not only this fine young gentleman, his family, his teammates, and his alma mater, but also to the college football fans of America and our intelligence.

Why couldn't four quarterbacks have been sent to New York? There have been as many as six candidates at the awards ceremony in the past. So why the need to be so restrictive this time around? Budget cuts?

Sam Bradford, Tim Tebow, and Colt McCoy have provided us with stellar passing and gutsy play all year long. They without question deserve to be commended for the performances they gave us in 2008.

But Harrell deserves to be honored as well. The fact that he isn't proves yet again that college football as a sport is long overdue for big-time reforms that will address the increasingly evident biases and inconsistencies within its voting procedures.

When you're watching the ceremony on Saturday, celebrate the accomplishments of three of the nation's top field generals with open arms. They deserve your utmost respect and attention.

But don't let Graham Harrell slip your mind. For if We the Fans continue to give our stamp of approval to these sorts of injustices, we can't expect the sport of college football to ever change for the better.

Goodbye, Yankee Stadium: A Tribute to Charmian Kaplan Freund

Zander Freund — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 12:49:25 -0400

I've always been a nostalgic person; remembering and reflecting on the past is one of my favorite hobbies. I find that clinging to memories of simpler times can often be a comforting tool in embracing the challenges that adulthood presents.

Don't get me wrong now: I'm always excited about the future. I'm not one of those folks that lives in the past—or thinks that everything is going downhill from here. At some point or another I'm sure I'll adopt that outlook, but at 25 my general feeling is that there's plenty of living left to do. But, to pretend that I don't think about—and sometimes, yearn for—the past would be a flat out lie.

There's an innocence about childhood that has always been very attractive to me; in hindsight I had so little legitimate responsibility and true understanding of the world. My lack of sophistication allowed me to really appreciate the simple pleasures of life.

I remember how alive I felt climbing trees, perched on a branch, gazing over the neighborhood; or playing catch with my Dad and brother and the bond it fostered between us.

Those kind of carefree moments are hard to recreate as an adult, so we settle for remembering them in our hearts and reliving them in our minds.

Watching the final game ever played at Yankee Stadium last night brought a lot of the past back for me. It was a very emotional experience, as some of my fondest early childhood memories took place there.

I may be a Californian now, but for the first seven years of my life I lived in New York suburbia, in a town called Scarsdale to be exact. I was born and raised a Bombers fan, though I later switched allegiances to the Oakland Athletes upon my westward migration.

But before I tell you my memories of Yankee Stadium, it's important to share with all of you the story of one of the most special people I've ever known: my grandmother, Charmian Freund.

Grandma Charm was born Charmian Litt Kaplan in Trenton, New Jersey. In her late teens, she married my Granddad Seelig, who was serving aboard the Queen Mary as a surgeon in World War II. When Seelig was eventually discharged, the couple moved to New York City, where they would remain for the rest of their married lives.

In addition to being a mother and homemaker, Charm was a 24/7 social butterfly; she had hundreds of friends scattered throughout Manhattan and beyond. Charm developed connections all over the city that ensured she could get the best ticket in the house to a new Broadway show, or walk into a hot restaurant on a Friday night without a reservation and sit at whatever table she pleased.

That's not to say that Charm was a stuffy elitist—this couldn't be further from the truth. Charm's most special quality in fact was her ability to relate to people from all backgrounds and cultures, and to make them feel respected and appreciated.

She may have lived in America's biggest city, but she had the charm (no pun intended) of a small-town gal.

As a young child, it took me a while to recognize why Grandma Charm was such a special lady. When we visited my grandparents in the city I was highly bothered by the fact that Grandma insisted on holding my hand every time we crossed the street, that she criticized my manners at the dinner table to no end, and that nearly everywhere we went I was expected to wear an itchy button-down shirt and blue blazer with equally uncomfortable shoes.

As I matured, I began to notice a whole other side of Grandma Charm. This can be best conveyed by the wonderful experiences she provided me at Yankee Stadium and watching how she operated during the course of a ball game.

One of Charm's best friends was Char Witkin. Char and her husband Dick were two of the original investors that purchased the New York Yankees from CBS in 1973. Charm thus quickly became friends with George Steinbrenner and the rest of the big wigs at the Yankees organization. As such, the only places I ever sat in Yankee Stadium as a child were in the owner's box or the first row of seats above the home team dugout.

I have fond memories of watching Don Mattingly, my first baseball hero, up close and personal, admiring the World Series trophy outside of the Boss' office, and slugging down hot dogs and soda in some of the best seats in the house.

That said, I have even fonder memories of watching Charm work her magic amongst the stadium staff and the other people she encountered throughout the game.

Getting from the parking lot to the owner's box usually took an hour or more. Charm would ask the parking lot attendant, with whom she was on a first name basis, how his children were liking their new school and what great things she had heard about their first grade teacher. She'd then have a 10-minute conversation with the elevator attendant, with whom she was also on a first name basis, and discuss the Yanks, the weather, the traffic, and the attendant's new puppy, whose name Charm also happened to know.

It would drive my grandfather absolutely bonkers. "Stop schmoozing, Charm," he would say, standing there awkwardly while Grandma continued to make small talk with yet another person she ran into.

I felt bad for him, in a way; an outing at Yankee Stadium with Charm could take six hours when all was said and done. Seelig was in fact famous for saying that while "some people leave without saying goodbye...my wife says goodbye without leaving."

Then again, without Charm, Seelig would have hardly had a social life outside of the operating room. And he sure as hell wouldn't be watching the World Series next to Don Larsen and Yogi Berra, or whatever other special guests were up in George's box.

I remember going to the playoffs with my grandparents one time in college—it was game six of the legendary Yanks/Diamondbacks Series. We ran into Frank Robinson on the way out, and Grandma introduced me before proceeding to ask about his wife and children.

I was dumbstruck by the fact that I had just shaken the hand of the only man in baseball history to win an MVP award in both the American and National Leagues. But what was even more memorable was that this conversation Grandma had with Frank Robinson was literally no different than any other she had that evening.

To Charm, this was just another night at the ballpark. Like those who worked at the stadium collecting tickets, parking cars, and serving food, Frank was simply another person that she wanted to get to know better and with whom she wanted to have a friendly relationship.

Grandma Charm died a few years later at the age of 81. Her memorial service was a grand affair, with hundreds in attendance and seven different individuals giving speeches.

The final speech ended with everyone at the ceremony singing the first verse of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." It was a fitting way to celebrate the passing of such a devoted fan.

Throughout her lifetime, Charmian Freund watched hundreds of ball games in Yankee Stadium—I had the privilege of attending a handful of these with her. Some of my most treasured memories as a young boy were watching the Yanks in her delightful company.

Last night my family and I stared at the television with glassy eyes as Mariano Rivera threw his cutter one final time before The House That Ruth Built became a historical memory. We may have been sitting on the couch in northern California, but it truly felt as if we were back in the Bronx with Grandma Charm.

As the Yankees organization moves into their new stadium, I'd like to pay tribute to one of their biggest all-time fans: to Grandma Charm—a woman of the highest integrity who loved baseball, people, and life in general with a ferocious passion.

I know she was watching that game from wherever she calls home today…

And schmoozing with the parking lot attendant on the way out.

Memo to the IOC: Gymnastics Needs Sudden Death

Zander Freund — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 16:54:23 -0400

After an exhausting day of moderating Alan Bass's latest article and assuring L.J. that Bleacher Report wasn't going to give the boot to the network's lesser-known writers, I finally managed to climb into bed last night and turn on some Olympics.

Any stressful loose ends walking around my brain vacated the premises instantaneously, as I admired the beauty of this once-in-every-four years global sporting event. I smiled as Tosta Sheena won her heat for the U.S. in the Women's 400m Hurdles Semifinals, then laughed full heartedly as Angelo Taylor thanked God for the opportunity to make a welcome mat out of his contemporaries for his second career gold medal.

NBC then rolled out a replay of the Women's Gymnastics Uneven Bars Final that I had missed from the previous evening. After some eye opening acrobatics and breathtaking balancing—courtesy of various talented ladies ranging between the ages of seven-and-a-half to 18—a controversy arose that made the heart of every fan watching sink like a stone.

Through their amazing performances, U.S. Gymnast Nastia Liukin and He Kexin had both put up scores of 16.725. What now?

A tie-breaking procedure soon gave Kexin the victory, along with a gold medal surely valuable enough to barter for a lifetime supply of pacifiers and Cabbage Patch dolls. Minutes later, the broadcast was over and we were back at the station with Bob Costas and world famous gymnastics coach Bela Karolyi.

Karolyi then broke down the tiebreaker decision to the Olympic viewers of the world. He was less than pleased:

This is just adding to the already brewing controversy and frustration in the heart of the athletes and including the viewers. This new scoring system generated a murky situation which nobody understands, clearly…obviously, first of all, taking away what was the trademark of this gymnastics—the perfect 10—is gone.

But even worse than that one, the direct participation of the viewers knowing and understanding the scoring system is gone. So everybody's just guessing: what is that? Why that score? What is happening on the floor?

And I believe the latest, is this: which is introducing and accepting a tiebreaking procedure which is totally unfair. And is absolutely ridiculous. At a time when this very Olympic games can't give out medals for winning athletes at the same position—two gold, two silver, two bronze—in gymnastics cannot be done? In gymnastics is refusing this general idea of the Olympic spirit?

Wow…

Bob Costas then asked Karolyi to clarify that if he himself had been judge, jury, and executioner of the event, he would have given gold medals to both Liukin and Kexin.

Here's what Bela said in response:

That was obvious...these two young ladies were the very best uneven bar performance in the world. Congratulations for them, they've done nothing wrong.

But, they've certainly deserved, at the time when finally the judging opinion is presiding in the same place, sure you got to give them what they deserve to have.

And here's what I have to say to Karolyi: Ever watch American football?

Karolyi rightfully backs the notion that no champion, in any competitive sport, should ever be chosen via mathematical formula.

But he completely misses the boat on another inherent truth about competitive sport that should never to be manipulated: in a championship match, there is always a winner.

Unlike many things in life, competitive sport is a zero sum game—one person (or team) wins at the expense of another's loss. From a viewers perspective, this gives us ordinary people an outlet for the not-so-friendly part of our inner being that longs to see failure and success stacked nose-to-nose against one another.

Tom Brady lost the Super Bowl last season because the Giants' defense won; the Celtics shocked the world of hoops because Kobe Bryant choked.

Rafael Nadal lost Wimbledon each of the last three years because of Roger Federer's dominating play—until this year, where Federer finally fell due to Rafa's athletic brilliance.

Zero sum games are not always preferable in "real life," but they are the ultimate ideal in competitive sport. In the words of the great Vince Lombardi: Winning isn't everything—it's the only thing.

If you don't want to win, you don't belong on the field. Or in this case...the floor.

Make no mistake about it; the two gymnasts who exceeded the efforts of their peers last night wanted to win more than anything in the world. They have trained for this event all their lives; they did not show up prepared for silver or a shared gold.

Think about it this way: Would you want to see two professional ball clubs share the World Series trophy?

The Olympics are no different than any other sport in this regard; it is an athletic competition where viewers twitch in their seats with baited breath and sweaty palms, in eager anticipation of a champion who is the very best at what he or she does.

If we were to go back in time and adopt Karolyi's philosophy into our favorite American pastimes, Bill Mazeroski would have never hit that unforgettable home run off Ralph Terry, and Alan Ameche would have never made that infamous run into the end zone at Yankee Stadium.

Hesitation to select a sole winner in a monolith sporting event such as Olympic Gymnastics is downright shameful. If I were in charge of the IOC, I'd tell Liukin and Kexin to get their butts back up on those bars:

"Both of you have proven without a doubt that your abilities are far beyond that of your peers. Through your mutual success, you now find yourself here.

"Now, it is time for one of you to fail and one of you to succeed; one of you to go home crying and broken, and the other to go home with a shiny new gold medal.

"May the weaker of you two screw up the dismount."

Move Over Barry Bonds: That's Why I Play in Center Field, Part III

Zander Freund — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 16:43:56 -0400

No. 3: Oscar Charleston

Oscar Charleston will never get the recognition he deserves due to Major League Baseball's "color line" policy, which existed from the late 1800s through 1946. The policy excluded black players from the league, which, in addition to being an awful stain on our nation's history, meant that fans were deprived of watching some of the greatest hitters, pitchers, and fielders show off their skills in front of a mainstream audience.

Fortunately, black ballplayers got together during this time of turmoil and formed the Negro Leagues, which hosted some of the best baseball talent known to man. Names like Satchel Paige, John Henry Lloyd, and Buck Leonard may be unfamiliar to the common fan but are legendary amongst the few who got to witness such genius on the field, as well as the historians who have since acknowledged their accomplishments.

Oscar Charleston is one of those men: Both his contemporaries and the students of the game alike seem convinced that he is one of—if not the—greatest center fielders of all time.

Early in his career, Charleston's speed and aggressive base-running style earned him the nickname "the Black Ty Cobb." He swiped bags in Cobb-like fashion, sliding with his spikes high. He consistently hit for a high average, posting an average over .350 each year from 1922 to 1930, including two seasons of .400 or better. Also like Cobb, Charleston could get on base by utilizing his talent for drag bunting.

That being said, his contemporaries (including former major-league players) insist that Charleston's defensive abilities exceeded that of the great Cobb. In the words of teammate Dave Malarcher:

"Some people asked me, 'Why are you playing so close to the right field foul line?' What they didn't know was that Charleston covered all three fields, and my responsibility was to make sure of balls down the line and those in foul territory.

Charleston had sticky hands and excellent range. His speed allowed him to cover the entire outfield effectively—and as was typical of the elite center fielders of his day, he played shallow yet was still able to run down deep shots.

But unlike Cobb, Charleston had a cannon for an arm.

In addition, Charleston's contemporaries insist that Oscar was a much more vicious slugger than "the Georgia Peach"; in the prime of his career, Charleston was indeed compared to Babe Ruth for his ability to hit for both average and power.

He best showed off this balanced offensive attack in 1921, as it is estimated that in 60 games, Charleston hit .446 with 28 stolen bases, while also leading the league in doubles, triples, home runs, total bases, and slugging average.

Charleston had quite a complex personality. He was a notorious brawler, whose fights both on and off the field are as legendary as his athletic feats. Charleston regularly fought with umpires, opponents, and even Cuban soldiers when he played in the Cuban winter leagues.

The most infamous tale of Charleston asserts that he once pulled the hood off of a Ku Klux Klan member and dared him to speak.

Despite his short temper, Charleston was the kind of guy you'd want in your clubhouse. He was protective of younger players, who idolized him for his charisma and leadership. The centerpiece of the Harrisburg Giants from 1922 to 1927, he led an otherwise average team to three-straight second-place finishes in his last three seasons with the organization.

Charleston performed quite well against major-league ballplayers when they met during the offseason. In 53 exhibition games against white major leaguers, he hit .318 with 11 home runs. His talents did not go unnoticed by those in the all-white majors: John McGraw, the infamous manager of the New York Giants, claimed that Charleston was the best player he ever saw.

Since seasons in the Negro leagues were so short and statistics so irregularly kept, it's difficult to gauge the true performance of a legend like Oscar Charleston. All we can go on are the limited statistics that we do have and the tales of his brilliance that have been handed down throughout the generations.

It could be that I am overrating Oscar Charleston by placing him in the three slot on this list. But it seems just as likely that, given his amazing all-around abilities, declaring him merely the third best to ever play his position is indeed an injustice.

No. 2: Tris Speaker

Before Andruw Jones, there was Tris Speaker.

Spending the first half of his career in Boston and the later half in Cleveland, "Spoke" (as he was known) played a shallower center field than anyone else in the history of the game.

And when I say he played shallow, I'm talking shallow.

Shallow as in, never more than 40 feet from the infield; some have even said as close as 15 to 20 feet at times.

Shallow like he was digging a shallow grave for whatever unlucky hitter whacked a liner his way.

Spoke played so shallow that sometimes he covered second on infield grounders. He played so shallow that in 1918, he executed two unassisted double plays, where he caught line drives and ran to second to double up.

Speaker played so close to the diamond that Red Sox catcher Bill Carrigan would sometimes fire pickoff throws to Spoke, who, sprinting in from center, would find his way to second and tag out opposing runners.

You may be wondering: What's so special about playing shallow? Can't anyone do it?

Anyone can play shallow, but only someone with swift backward flight can do it effectively. And Spoke was the guy who invented the very notion of backward flight.

When balls were hit deep in center, Speaker would turn towards the outfield and sprint for his life; then he'd catch the ball over his shoulder running full speed. In the words of teammate Smokey Joe Wood:

Speaker played a real shallow center field and he had that terrific instinct—at the crack of the bat he'd be off with his back to the infield, and then he'd turn and glance over his shoulder at the last minute and catch the ball so easily that it looked like there was nothing to it, nothing at all. Nobody else was even in the same league with him.

However, Speaker was, in fact, famous for saying that the crack of the bat was too late to start running; that a shallow center fielder needed to get a jump before the ball even touched the bat to have a chance at it. Spoke had an instinct for the ball like none other; he somehow knew when to start running towards the outfield before the ball had even been hit.

Speaker had a great throwing arm as well—his contemporaries claim one of the best in the league. His powerful gun, shallow positioning, and uncanny knowledge of where the ball was going made him arguably the most effective, defensive center fielder in baseball history.

Spoke was a true field general in center, directing traffic and assigning territorial responsibility between himself and his two wingmen. From 1910 to 1915, he was the fearless leader of Boston's legendary outfield, winged by Harry Hooper in right and Duffy Lewis in left.

Lewis claims that he respected Speaker's instincts to the extent that never once did they collide during their six seasons together.

Speaker still holds major-league records, both in career baserunner kills (450) and double plays (136). He is also the all-time American League leader in putouts (6,706). Throughout his career, Speaker led the league in putouts seven times, assists three times, and double plays six times.

That being said, the No. 2 slot seems pretty high up on this list for a fielding specialist—even at a position like center, where defense is so important. The thing is: Speaker wasn't really a fielding specialist.

In point of fact, Spoke was one of the greatest all-around baseball players of his generation, and indeed of all time.

Speaker could run like the wind, and stole bases with regularity. His 432 career swipes are particularly impressive when you consider he hardly stole at all during the second half of his career.

And boy, could the guy hit.

His .345 career batting average is fifth all time. Because he played during the same era as Ty Cobb, he only won a single batting title—but finished in the top three in the league an astounding 10 times.

Speaker was a master of slapping doubles into outfield gaps. He led the league in the category eight times, and his career mark of 792 is the most of any major-league player.

He was also a patient hitter, posting league highs in OBP on four occasions. He could hit for power as well, leading the league in home runs in 1912 and slugging average in 1916.

Despite his legendary skills as a ballplayer, Speaker played in the shadow of Ty Cobb throughout his career. People respected Speaker, but when all was said in done, Cobb was thought of as the better all-around player, as he hit for a higher average and stole consistently more bases than Spoke.

For the purpose of this list, however, Speaker gets the nod over "the Georgia Peach." Cobb may have been the more talented overall player, but Speaker better epitomizes the position of center field.

Everything Cobb learned about playing effective defense—shallow positioning, backward flight, getting a good jump on the ball—he learned from Spoke.

Speaker was a revolutionary in the outfield, who changed the way his position was played; he would influence fielders of both his era and future eras alike.

And, for what it's worth, Spoke performed a lot better than Cobb at the defining moments of his career.

Consider this: In three World Series losses, Cobb posted a .262 batting average, .314 on base percentage, and .354 slugging average. On the flip side, in three World Series wins, Speaker hit a far more respectable .306, with a .398 OBP, and .458 SLG.

So there you have it: Tris Speaker in the two slot. Which leaves only one option for the greatest center fielder of all time...

No. 1: Willie Mays

We've discussed Tris Speaker's mastery of shallow center field, Joe DiMaggio's ability to get wood on every pitch, and Ty Cobb's knack for poking singles through the holes. We've acknowledged Kirby Puckett's heart, Mickey Mantle's raw talent, and Oscar Charleston's unjust lack of notoriety.

We've clarified why Ken Griffey Jr., Max Carey, and Andruw Jones deserve spots on this list—while Richie Ashburn, Dale Murphy, and Duke Snider narrowly miss the cut.

Now, it's time to wrap it all up. And what better way to do that than by narrowing in on the man, the myth, the legend—Willie Mays, who, in my mind, is unquestionably the greatest center fielder in baseball history.

Simply put, "the Say Hey Kid" could do it all. He was the ultimate five-tool player; never before and never again will the game see a better combination of all-around skills on a baseball field.

Let's begin with base running. It's a common fallacy to point to Willie's 338 career-stolen bases and say "good, but not great."

Wrong, wrong, and wrong again.

Willie Mays is deprived of the credit he deserves for his stellar abilities on the base paths, due simply to the trends of the era he played in. There's a reason that Ty Cobb claimed in his later days that Mays had "restored the art of base running to the game."

Mays led the league in stolen bases for four-straight seasons from 1956-1959, yet never garnered more than 40 thefts in a year. Is that because he wasn't a superb base stealer?

No! It's because managers weren't calling for their players to steal bases regularly, like they had in the past and would again a few decades later.

Jackie Robinson was also known as one of the leagues' greatest baserunners—and he never stole more than 40 bags in a season either. The 40's and 50's simply weren't times when base stealing was popular. It's important therefore to put Mays's numbers into context.

Had Mays played during a different period in baseball history, it's not out of the question that he could have grabbed 70 or 80 steals some seasons and got his career totals above 600.

Every statistical indicator of running ability points to Willie Mays being one of the best of his era on the basepaths—he posted league highs in triples on three occasions and finished in the top three in runs scored 11 times throughout his career.

Another area of expertise that is often overlooked is Mays's ability to hit a baseball.

Again, casual fans may glance at his career batting average of .302 and say "good, but not great." After all, while hitting over .300 for your career is impressive, it's surely not the mark of a brilliant hitter. Right?

WRONG!

The league average throughout Mays's tenure in the majors was .263—that puts him nearly .40 points above his contemporaries, which ain't too shabby. Furthermore, he finished in the top three in the league in hitting six times, and won a batting title in 1954.

That's the mark of a great hitter, not a good one.

Some things Willie does get his due credit for are his power numbers and defensive abilities.

Mays hit 660 home runs throughout a career that spanned the '50s and '60s. While taken at face value, that 660 mark seems impressive, in proper context, it is, in fact, mind-boggling.

The 1960s were known as the greatest era of pitching in baseball history—so great that the mound was lowered by 33 percent of its original height in 1968 to increase offensive production.

Yet somehow, facing legends like Bob Gibson and Sandy Koufax, Mays managed to whack 378 dingers during the decade, including 49 in '62, 47 in '64, and '52 in 65. During his offensive peak from 1961 to 1965, Mays averaged 45 blasts, 118 RBI, and a .606 slugging average per season.

One can only imagine what someone with Mays's power could have done during the home run boom in the late '90s and early '00s.

Let's also keep in mind that Mays lost a few years early in his career to fight in the Korean War. Playing his first full season in 1951, Mays missed the majority of the 1952 season and the 1953 season entirely. When he returned to the majors in 1954, he hit 41 bombs, 110 RBI, and led the league with a .345 batting average.

We'll never know what Mays might have accomplished in those critical years, but it seems reasonable to assume he would have hit at least 60 more home runs, had he not gone to war. That would increase his lifetime total to 720, further solidifying his reputation as the best power-hitting center fielder to ever step on a baseball field.

Defensively speaking, Willie Mays was as good as they come.

During his rookie season, Mays found himself running full speed after a deeply hit ball in Pittsburgh's Forbes Field. As he located the ball over his shoulder, he realized it was rapidly hooking away from his glove.

Not knowing what else to do, Mays stuck out his bare hand and made the catch—Pittsburgh's General Manager Branch Rickey called it "the finest catch I've ever seen."

This would be the first of numerous dazzling grabs Willie Mays would make in center field throughout his career. He would become a human highlight reel, the likes of which the world had never seen, first at the Polo Grounds in New York and later at Candlestick Park in San Francisco.

Mays's most famous moment on the defensive side of the ball came in Game One of the 1954 World Series, where he robbed Cleveland's Vic Wertz with a running basket catch deep in center field of the Polo Grounds.

What is less well known, but perhaps even more impressive, is the throw Mays made immediately after the catch, which prevented Larry Doby from scoring and forced Al Rosen to sprint back to first.

Mays could get to more balls in center than anyone in the game. Like Tris Speaker before him and Andruw Jones after him, he played unconventionally close to the infield where he could turn line drives into outs, confident that he'd be able to run down balls hit over his head.

He had a strong and accurate arm, posting a league-leading 23 assists in 1955, a total he never approached again due to the respect baserunners gave him for the rest of his career. His 7,095 career putouts are a major-league record.

Need more evidence of his brilliance in center?

Consider this: The Rawlings Gold Glove award was invented in 1957, and Mays received the honor for the first 12 years it was available. Should Gold Gloves had been given out at an earlier time, and had Mays not missed nearly two seasons due to the war, he could have won as many as 18 awards.

Not only is Mays regarded by his contemporaries as the best defensive player to ever grace center, but in addition, many of those who played before Mays credit "the Say Hey Kid" with this honor.

Both Harry Hooper and Duffy Lewis, who played alongside Tris Speaker during the peak of his defensive brilliance, acknowledge that while Spoke was phenomenal, Willie was even better.

Of any other position on the baseball field, the great center fielders of all time are well-balanced players. Legends at the position can hit singles, doubles, triples, and home runs, throw bullets to the catcher from deep in the outfield, track down balls over their shoulder at full sprint, and make Michael Johnson look like Yokozuna on the base paths.

Willie Mays is the player that best demonstrates this balance of talents and everything it means to be a major league center fielder. He captivated audiences nationwide with his skills on both offense and defense, and continues to make baseball historians salivate today with the remarkable numbers he put up throughout his 22-year career.

For those of you who were lucky enough to see Mays play—hold on to those memories with all your might, and tell your grandkids about Willie once they are physically prepared to ingest his brilliance (a.k.a. are potty trained).

Because in all likelihood, there will never be another center fielder like "the Say Hey Kid."

Thanks for reading! If you disagree with my rankings (and I'm sure you do in some way or another), I encourage you to leave a comment. Or better yet, make your own list!

Other Notable Center Fielders Not Mentioned in this Column:

Earl Averill, Wally Berger, Cesar Cedeno, Dom DiMaggio, Hugh Duffy, Steve Finley, Marquis Grissom, Billy Hamilton, Torii Hunter, Bill Lange, Clyde Milan, Dwayne Murphy, Amos Otis, Vada Pinson, Spot Poles, Edd Rousch, George Van Haltren, Andy Van Slyke, Turkey Stearnes, Lloyd Waner, Bernie Williams, Hack Wilson, Jimmy Wynn

Read Introduction

Read Part I

Read Part II

Sources:

1) http://www.wikipedia.org

2) http://www.baseball-reference.com

3) http://www.baseballhalloffame.org

4) http://bioproj.sabr.org

5) http://www.baseballlibrary.com

6) (History of the Game thread) http://www.baseball-fever.com

7) http://www.baseball-almanac.com

8) James, Bill (2003). The New Bill James Historical Baseball Abstract. New York: Simon & Schuster.

9) Ritter, Lawrence (1966). The Glory of Their Times: The Story of the Early Days of Baseball Told by the Men Who Played It. New York: William Morrow and Co.

10) http://www.blackbaseball.com/players/oscarcharleston.htm

11) http://www.nlbpa.com/charleston__oscar.html

12) http://www.baseballhalloffame.org/hofers_and_honorees/hofer_bios/charleston_oscar.htm

Move Over Barry Bonds—That's Why I Play in Center Field, Part II

Zander Freund — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 21:52:22 -0400

No. 6: Joe Dimaggio

There was another center fielder that played long before Ken Griffey Jr. who possessed similar type of wheels—the kind that get you from second to home faster than a speeding bullet but don't produce a lot of stolen bases.

Joltin' Joe DiMaggio was his name.

Joe could do it all—field, throw, hit, and run. But in all honesty, his stats really sell his talents short.

The Yankee Clipper hit a surprisingly low number of dongs throughout his career (361), and only smacked 40 or more in a season on one occasion. Despite all the talk about his hitting streak, Joe didn't even win the batting title in 1941, and in fact only claimed two crowns throughout his entire career.

His lifetime on base percentage (.398) is significantly lower than the hitting legends he is usually compared with (Ted Williams, Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, etc.) Let's also not forget that Dimaggio stole a mind boggling 30 bases—in his career!—far fewer than any other center fielder discussed in this column.

So why then is Joe considered to be one of the greatest center fielders, and indeed one of the best overall players, in Major League history?

For one, he spent his entire career in Yankee stadium, an ideal spot for lefty sluggers and an awful one for righties. According to Bill James' calculations, DiMaggio lost more homeruns to his stadium than any other player in the history of the game. This should come as no surprise, as left center in Yankee stadium went back an astonishing 457 feet while Joe played there.

DiMaggio was also quite savvy with the whole "team ball" concept; he won four World Series championships during his first four years in the majors, and nine out of 10 throughout his 13 years of professional play. While the Clipper shared the spotlight with the Iron Horse for his first three seasons in the league, Dimaggio was undoubately the Crux of the Yanks for the remainder of his tenure.

Let's also not forget his solid RBI totals: Dimaggio drove in 120 or more runs in seven straight seasons from 1936-1942, including 167 in '37. After a few years of serving his country overseas, Joe then provided the means for 158 Yankees to cross home in his swan song season of 1948.

But when all is said and done, the most memorable aspect of Dimaggio's game was his firm command behind the plate; his uncanny ability to decide when a pitch was worth hitting and when it should be fouled away.

Joe went down swinging a grand total of 369 times in 13 big league seasons—that's an average of just over 28 whiffs per season. In 1941, the year of his hitting streak, he struck out a total of 13 times. He did this while taking 30 balls yard, driving in 125, scoring 122 runs himself, and walking 76 times.

Like wooah Scoob!

Dimaggio never struck out 40 times in a season—ever. When you consider that some of the league's best sluggers today average close to 200 K's per year, DiMaggio's 369 career misses and 361 dingers seems earth shattering.

Joe DiMaggio is the epitomy of an all around player and team leader. In addition to being one of the most well known athletes in history, he's clearly one of the best as well. His ability to get wood on any ball, catch fire for 56 straight games, effectively manage the outfield, and lead his team to nine championships in 13 seasons lands him in the six slot.

No. 5: Mickey Mantle

In his final season in the majors, the Yankee Clipper played alongside a nineteen year old kid from Oklahoma named Mickey Mantle. Throughout his career, Mantle would live in DiMaggio's shadow, as Joe was considered hands down the best Yankee center fielder who ever lived.

It's a pretty close call, but I think in hindsight the

Mick edges out Joltin' Joe for that honor. In Mantle's case, it seems practical to stack him up against the Yankee Clipper in evaluating his overall abilities as a center fielder.

Let's start with hitting. The typical argument goes something like this: Mantle's .298 career average pales in comparison with DiMaggio's .325.

Fair enough—but did you consider when Mantle played?

Mantle had the bulk of his greatest years in the 1950s, when 19 percent of regular hitters posted a .300 average or better. DiMaggio, on the other hand, played five of his best seasons in the 1930's, where 41 percent of regular hitters were over the .300 mark.

Even more telling, the league average during Mantle's tenure in professional baseball was an eye-opening .256.

The average during DiMaggio's career? .276.

Do the math: Mantle hit .042 points above the league average, compared with .049 points above for Joe. DiMaggio therefore was indeed the better hitter, but not by much (though he did strike out a whole lot less).

DiMaggio's slight advantage over Mantle in hitting for average is more than made up by Mantle's ability to get on base via the walk. Mantle walked to 1st base over 100 times in ten seasons, something DiMaggio never managed to do a single time in his entire career. Furthermore, the Mick's .421 OBP (compared with the league's .329 during his tenure) slaughters DiMaggio's .398 (compared with the league's .354).

Power wise, Mick gets the nod but not by much. Mantle hit 50 or more dingers twice in his career, and 40 or more on four occasions. Other than his 46-bomb season in 1937, Dimaggio never approached the 40 mark.

That said, DiMaggio's .576 career slugging average beats out Mantle's .557, though as can be expected, when compensating for the time periods each played in it ends up pretty much square.

So far, it's seemingly a tie ballgame. To recap:

Hitting for average: DiMaggio by a hair
Hitting for power: Mantle by a hair
Striking out (or lack thereof): DiMaggio by a ton
Getting on base: Mantle by a ton

Now let's bring defense and baserunning into the equation.

With all due respect to the Yankee Clipper, the Commerce Comet was surely the better baserunner. His contemporaries said he was the fastest guy they ever saw.

Rumor has it that the Mick ran from home to first in 3.1 seconds batting right handed. To give you some perspective, Ichiro recently was clocked a few years back at the same time, and he's a lefty.

Mantle stole 153 bases in his career—with major knee problems. His speed on the basepaths also allowed him to score more than 100 runs in nine consecutive seasons from '53 to '61, and 1677 total in his career.

DiMaggio may have been quick, but the Mick was quicker.

On the flip side, DiMaggio is by and large considered to be better defensively. Joe was known for playing deep in the outfield, which meant that he let a lot of bloopers fall in for singles but rarely gave up extra base hits over his head. While his conservative methods didn't win him many style points, Dimaggio's ability to minimize errors and not give up the big play proved to be highly effective in a large outfield like Yankee stadium.

Mantle, meanwhile, played solid defense in his prime—but his abilities in center didn't stand up to the test of longevity (most likely due to his knee problems). Mantle won only a single Gold Glove award in 18 seasons; Bill James asserts that (using his win shares system) DiMaggio was deserving of eight such awards in 13 seasons. Seems like an easy call here.

So DiMaggio and Mantle split baserunning and defense—hence we're still pretty much even Steven. What now?

Intangible factors need to be considered, and that's what lands Mick on top...barely.

Their postseason performances are pretty similar, but Mantle wins the day in the end. In 10 World Series appearances, Dimaggio hit .271, far lower than his career batting average of .325. Mantle posted a similarly sucky .257 in 12 series appearances, which again is well below his career mark of .298.

However Mantle's power numbers in the postseason are significantly more impressive: he slugged .535 career in the playoffs, compared with Joe D's .422. Mantle's postseason OBP is also significantly higher than Dimaggio's (.374 for Mickey, .338 for Joe).

Another factor to consider: Mickey Mantle hit on both sides of the plate—and is unquestionably the best switch hitter of all time. Dimaggio only hit righty.

The final intangible quality where Mantle trumps Dimaggio is what I like to call "badass factor." DiMaggio might have thought that marrying an American sex icon and smoking a pack of camels a day was cool...but Mantle could put down a handle of Jim Beam faster than he could run to first base.

There are surely good arguments on both sides here—and in the end, it's not very important which of these Yankee legends is ranked higher on this list. These are two of the quintessential center fielders to ever grace the field; we owe both of them a great deal for what they did for the game of baseball.

For my money though, Mantle gets the nod over Joe in the five hole.

No. 4: Ty Cobb

A notorious racist with an anti-social demeanor and mean-spirited attitude, Ty Cobb was one of the most disliked players of his day. Few of his teammates got along with him, and the stories of Cobb's negative disposition are never-ending.

Indeed, the one thing that all of Cobb's contemporaries seem to agree on is the fact that the Georgia Peach didn't have very many friends.

That being said, Cobb is one of baseball's most infamous legends, who for all his negative attributes as a person performed feats on the field that will never be matched. He was the first man elected to the Hall of Fame, and was indeed considered the best overall player in baseball history before Babe Ruth came roaring along in the 20's. When Cobb retired after the 1928 season, he held major league records for batting average, hits, runs scored, runs batted in, total bases, and stolen bases.

Cobb's overall game was ferocious—he could play baseball in the purest sense. Whether it be his crafty baserunning, savvy defensive ability, or dazzling capacity to put bat-on-ball better than anyone else in the history of the game, Cobb excelled at the sport like none had done before him and few have done after.

Let's start with defense. Cobb's abilities in the outfield are somewhat disputed—namely by his contemporaries but also by baseball historians. While most agree he had excellent range and swift backward flight, many feel that his arm was merely average. His statistics, however, suggest brilliance in all departments in center.

In the words of Detroit right fielder Sam Crawford: "Cobb could only play the outfield, and even there his arm wasn't anything extra special." Yet it's hard to fathom that a guy who finished his career with 392 assists (second most all time) didn't have a laser.

Cobb is said to have covered more ground than most of the other great center fielders of his era. He played shallow, hustling towards the bleachers to catch balls that flew over his head while turning singles into double plays with great tenacity. His 6361 career putouts place him 4th all time among major league players.

I'm guessing there are two reasons that Cobb wasn't considered a top notch defensive center fielder during his time: first, that his other abilities as a player overshadowed his work in the outfield, and second, that he was such an awful person to be around that many of his contemporaries felt little inclination to give him props in arenas where they were not expected to do so.

Either way, Cobb's numbers seem to suggest that he was in fact an excellent fielder.

But really, it's a meaningless debate; for even if Cobb was terrible defensively, it would still be impossible to exclude him from this list given his achievements on offense.

While Cobb wasn't necessarily the fastest player in the majors, he will always be remembered for his brainpower on the basepaths. He is said to have outthought his defensive foes more often than he outran them. His aggressive attitude and willingness to get his pants dirty and spikes in the air intimidated pitchers and defenders alike.

Cobb was unquestionably the most effective base swiper of his day. He racked up 892 stolen bags in his career—the fourth most in league history—and led the league in the category six times. His record of 50 lifetime steals at home plate still stands today.

Now that we've covered defense and baserunning ability, let's examine Cobb's finest trait as a player: his knack for hitting a baseball.

Cobb is the best Major League hitter of all time—hands down, no question, end of discussion. Standing alone, his .367 lifetime batting average seems quite impressive.

But when you consider that the league average during his tenure was .273, Cobb's hitting ability appears out of this world.

With his parted hands style of gripping the bat, Cobb won 11 batting titles, and finished second in hitting on four other occasions. Cobb was patient behind the plate as well, leading the league in OBP seven times in his career.

Just as phenomenal are Cobb's power numbers—interestingly enough, this is the aspect of his game that is most commonly criticized. I suppose it makes sense in a way; after all, when a guy barely manages to crank 100 jacks over a 24-year career, your first instinct isn't to regard him as a slugger.

But Cobb was indeed a slugger of the finest caliber. He played in a time before players were hitting a lot of homeruns, and made up for it by whacking doubles and triples with regularity.

For twelve consecutive seasons—from 1907 to 1918—Cobb finished top three in the league in slugging average, leading the AL in the category eight times. He also led the league in triples four times, doubles thrice, and homeruns in 1909.

Furthermore, Cobb hit over 100 RBIs six times in his career—without ever crushing more than 12 bombs in a season.

Yet once Babe Ruth shattered the home run record in 1919—and then nearly doubled that effort the following season—the media quickly forgot about Cobb and his brilliant hitting. They adored Ruth for his happy-go-lucky spirit and homerun-happy tendencies, and embraced him as the new God of the game.

Cobb began to hate Ruth; he saw the Babe as a threat to both him and the long standing tradition of hit-and-run, grind-it-out baseball. His rage steadily boiled as the media took the spotlight away from him and continually asked why he didn't hit more homeruns.

Finally, in May of 1925, Cobb decided he had heard enough. He told a reporter in the dugout before a two game series that he was going to swing for the fences for the first time in his career, and prove once and for all that he was indeed capable of whacking the long ball.

The 38-year-old Cobb put his hands together on the bat and went six for six in the first game—with two singles, a double, and three dongs. He smacked two more dingers the following day.

Cobb's five homeruns in a two game span was a feat then unmatched even by the Babe, and permanently silenced his critics.

After that series, Cobb returned to his parted hands style and focused once again on the aspects of the game he truly adored: bunting, stealing, the hit-and-run, the double in the gap, and the squeeze play.

Ty Cobb may have been a truly disturbed individual, but what he did on the field shall never be forgotten. He is baseball's oldest legend—the player who put the sport on the map. His ability to run, field, and most importantly, hit, make him without question one of the greatest to ever play the game, not to mention highly deserving of the four spot on this list.

Don't miss the final edition of the series next week, when Zander reveals the most impressive trifecta of center fielders to ever set foot on a baseball field.

Read Introduction

Read Part I

Read Part III

Sources:

1) http://www.wikipedia.org

2) http://www.baseball-reference.com

3) http://www.baseballhalloffame.org

4) http://bioproj.sabr.org

5) http://www.baseballlibrary.com

6) (History of the Game thread) http://www.baseball-fever.com

7) http://www.baseball-almanac.com

Move Over Barry Bonds—That's Why I Play in Center Field, Part I

Zander Freund — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 15:04:37 -0400

No 10: Andruw Jones

With his unmatched defensive skills and home-run-happy tendencies, Andruw Jones is unquestionably the best center fielder of the last 10 years.

His pre-historic, yet highly effective, approach to positioning himself in the outfield—combined with his strong and accurate arm—make him one of the finer defensive specimens the league has ever seen.

It should come as no surprise that ESPN's Baseball Tonight ranked Jones as the best defensive center fielder of all time just a few years back.

Andruw Jones plays a shallower center field than anyone since World War II. He can afford to do this because he's so damn good at getting back. Jones is willing to bank on the fact that he'll be able to chase down any ball that is hit deep in his territory—a pretty ballsy move given the slug-happy tendencies of modern-day hitters.

This shallow style of positioning, which originated back in the dead-ball era (1903-1918), allows for the outfielder to regularly turn bloop singles and line drives into outs. As such, Jones is fully prepared to grab balls that others would have no chance at.

He has brought an ancient style of shallow outfield positioning back from the grave, during an era of baseball that is known for deep-ball hitters.

While Jones' throwback style results in balls occasionally flying over his head, he makes up for it by regularly taking away shallow base hits. Furthermore, his first step is so good that he gets to a lot of deep shots that appear to be out of his range—and his arm is strong enough to keep runners honest, even when long balls drop in.

Admittedly, Jones' defensive abilities have withered somewhat in recent years—however, this has been counteracted by an impressive surge in his offensive prowess.

Jones is always going to hit below the league average and do his best Rob Deer impression when it comes to whiffing the ball. But his power numbers in recent years have drastically improved. He hit 51 homers in '05 and 129 RBI in '06—both career highs.

He's whacked 30 or more dingers in seven different seasons throughout his tenure in the league, and will most likely eclipse the career 400-home-run mark by the time he hangs up his cleats.

Andruw Jones has been past his prime on the defensive end for some time now, though at his peak, he was as good as it gets. This, coupled with his impressive offensive production since the turn of the millennium, allows for Jones' inclusion as one of the 10 best center fielders to ever play the game.

No 9: Kirby Puckett

When I think of Kirby Puckett, I think of him braced up against the glass at the Metrodome, jumping at exactly the right time to pull a home run into his glove—and the excited fans in the frame behind him.

What an amazing player Kirby was. He was the heart and soul of those two championship Twins teams in '87 and '91.

Kirby could do a lot of other things besides jam himself up against the glass like a hockey player: he could hit, throw, and field a baseball pretty damn well, too.

Kirby's defensive abilities were his first sign of brilliance. In his rookie year of 1984, Kirby led the American league with 16 assists, and increased his number of victims to 19 the following season.

Baserunners clearly caught on to Puckett's reliable arm, as he never reached those kind of totals again, yet still managed to win six Gold Glove Awards in his shortened 12-year career.

In the beginning of his tenure, Kirby struggled offensively, failing to bat .300 in either of his first two seasons and hitting a total of four homeruns in a combined 288 games.

In his third year in the majors, he broke out as a hitter, smacking 31 dingers and 96 RBI with a .328 average to boot.

Kirby's offense continued to excel, and peaked in 1988 when he hit .356 with 24 dingers, 121 RBI, and 119 runs scored.

But credentials aside, Kirby's on this list much more for his attitude than anything else. He was a living, breathing example of how a center fielder should conduct himself on the field.

He had that connection with the fans, and the willingness to put himself on the line for the love of the game and give 110 percent at all times.

He ran out every grounder on the basepaths, and he hustled to shag balls in the outfield he knew were out of reach.

It's something you just don't see these days, as the slug-happy, modern-day hitters see nothing inherently wrong with watching their dingers fall on the warning track and having to hold up at second base on a clear triple because they didn't think ahead.

A center fielder must have an ambitious, go-getter attitude if he wishes to master his craft. Kirby had that attitude, and the fans of Minnesota adored him for it. His finely balanced skills and willingness to make the most of every play land him at No. 9 on my list.

No 8: Max Carey

It's difficult to stack-up players of ancient lore with those who played after World War II. The power numbers of the dinosaurs are always mind-numbingly low, and their defensive abilities are difficult to gauge, considering that most of the folks who saw them play are long gone.

Often times, it's tempting to exclude such players from consideration in a column like this (you see it regularly on ESPN), as the game played back in the day was so vastly different from the game that major leaguers currently engage in.

But sometimes, evidence of natural ability at a particular position is just too overwhelming to deny a pre-historic player a closer look.

Pittsburgh's Max Carey, otherwise known as "Scoops," is one of those players. By all historical accounts, Max Carey was considered the best defensive center fielder in the National League for the majority of his career—which spanned from 1910 to 1929. Fielding statistics (for what they're worth) seem to back up this assertion.

Carey accumulated over 400 putouts in six different seasons, including an astonishing 450 in 1923. He led the league in both putouts and total chances in nine seasons. In addition, Carey's 339 career baserunner kills (highest all time for an NL player after 1900) suggest that Scoops had quite a reliable arm.

Granted, Carey led the league in errors on four occasions. While this may initially suggest inconsistency in the outfield, the explanation that Carey's contemporaries put forth is that the guy was so quick that he simply got to more balls than anyone else in the game.

Carey is also known as being one of the fastest and greatest baserunners in the history of baseball. He led the league in stolen bases 10 times in his career, and in triples in 1914 and 1923.

He finished in the top three in the league in runs scored on five occasions. His career 738 stolen bags put him ahead of expert bandits like Joe Morgan and Bert Campaneris on the all-time list.

Perhaps most impressively, Carey was one of the most efficient thieves the game has seen. In an era where the average base-stealer was thrown out nearly 50 percent of the time, Scoops successfully stole 51 bases in 53 tries in 1922. Gazikes!

Carey was an average hitter for most of his career—his lifetime mark of .285 barely outpaced the rest of the league. That being said, Carey managed to find his swing towards the end of his career, becoming one of the better leadoff hitters in the game.

From 1917 on, Carey never struck out 40 or more times in a year—and he even kept his total whiffs below 20 in three full seasons.

In 1925, Carey switched to a parted-hands grip at the plate and hit .343 at 35 years of age. It was by far the best season he ever had offensively. He also showed off his ability to perform under pressure that year, leading the Pirates back from a 3-1 deficit against Walter Johnson and the Washington Senators in the World Series.

Carey's defining moment came in Game Seven of the series, where he used a tip given to him by Detroit left fielder Bobby Veach to light up the Big Train. Carey figured out that Johnson tipped off his curve when he shortened his delivery; he sat on those curves and whacked three doubles and a single in what capped a spectacular display of athleticism on all ends of the field.

The Pirates won the game 9-7; Scoops hit .458 in the series and stole three bags.

Max Carey may be lesser known than the majority of center fielders that are ranked in this column, but that should not negate the fact that he is unquestionably one of the best 10 to ever play his position.

His uncanny defensive skills, wheels on the basepaths, glimpses of hitting brilliance, and ability to step-up his game at the most important time in his career make him a highly deserving selection for the eight spot.

No 7: Ken Griffey Jr.

Ken Griffey Jr.; what can you say about him?

His career may have taken a downhill turn after leaving Seattle, but he's a legendary center fielder nonetheless.

In his prime, Griffey was superb defensively. I've heard some talk recently that Griffey's defensive abilities were overrated—pardon my French, but that's horseshit.

Griffey could cover more ground than any center fielder of his generation, and he was damn consistent, too. Furthermore, I can't think of a guy who I'd rather have try to bring a homerun back into the park than Ken Griffey Jr.

Can you?

Sure, he was a showoff with his basket catch move. But it was fun, wasn't it?

Griffey also happened to be an offensive powerhouse, before the injuries that would plague the second half of his career began to take shape. He had eight seasons with at least 100 RBI between '91 and '00—and three straight with 140 or more from '96 to '98.

Griffey could hit for both average and power. For five straight seasons ('90-'94), Griffey hit well over .300, peaking out in '91 with a .327 average. Griffey also whacked 40 or more dingers in seven seasons—a feat that remains unmatched by any other center fielder in the history of the game.

Then, of course, there's Griffey's most overlooked ability: his speed.

In his prime, Junior had a non-conventional type of speed that historians are likely to overlook—for as fast as he was, he didn't steal too many bases. Griffey didn't reach his top speed as quickly as other players because his legs were so long; it took him a couple of steps to get going. That's one of the main reasons he only has 184 stolen bags in 20 seasons of professional play.

But running from second to home on a double? Griffey was fast as they came.

It's inevitable that Junior's drop-off in production after the new millennium will be held against him, but in hindsight, he was unquestionably one of the best couple of overall players in the majors during his tenure in Seattle.

Griffey's performance during the 1990s is so impressive that, in a lot of ways, it seems like the seven slot on this list is somehow selling him short—until you look at the guys ahead of him and see what an elite club of athletes we're talking about here.

Tune in next week, as Zander breaks down center fielders six through four on his all-time list.

Read Introduction

Read Part II

Read Part III

Sources:

1) http://www.wikipedia.org

2) http://www.baseball-reference.com

3) http://www.baseballhalloffame.org

4) http://bioproj.sabr.org

5) http://www.baseballlibrary.com

6) (History of the Game thread) http://www.baseball-fever.com

7) http://www.baseball-almanac.com

Move Over Barry Bonds—That's Why I Play in Center Field, Introduction

Zander Freund — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 14:50:57 -0400

Duke Snider, Kenny Lofton, and Cool Papa Bell.

Jim Edmonds, Dale Murphy, and Earle Combs.

Richie Ashburn, Larry Doby, and Fred Lynn.

All center fielders—dynamite center fielders at that. These men mastered their position and captured the attention of millions of Americans throughout their careers.

Whether it be their ability to patrol the outfield, position themselves for catches, or show off their dominance behind the plate or on the base paths, these men found a way to stand out amongst their contemporaries—who tried desperately to do all the same things with lesser success.

The abilities of these men speak for themselves; the performances they have given baseball fans over the years is simply tremendous. So tremendous, in fact, that I thought it fitting to write up a column on the nature of playing center field and what it takes to be top notch at the position.

Let's begin by putting center fielders in perspective with other defense-friendly positions.

Center field is widely recognized as the third most important position on defense, behind both catcher and shortstop. That said, an argument can be made that center field is indeed the toughest position of any to play.

It requires more versatility than any other position. Players must have a strong arm, reliable glove, and wheels like no tomorrow in order to effectively hold down the fort.

Let's also keep in mind that while shortstops and catchers are to a significant degree "tolerated" when they pose an offensive liability to their team, center fielders are by and large expected to produce behind the plate as well as in the outfield. This makes fielding that much harder, as center fielders' minds must turn to offense as soon as the inning is over.

Defensively speaking, what they do is nothing short of awe inspiring. Center fielders always have the call over their teammates in the outfield—they can make plays in left or right, however they see fit. If he so chooses, a center fielder has the authorization to mow down a corner outfielder or tell him to get the hell out of the way in order to make an acrobatic diving catch.

Center fielders can play shallow or deep—and rarely choose anything in between. They will live or die by those two choices: if a runner is on base and the center fielder grossly under or overestimates, they're automatically giving up a run.

They have to possess an incredible instinct for the ball, as making the proper break and getting a good first step is pertinent to success. A bad jump on the ball in center field may result in a triple that puts your team out of the game—unlike right or left field, where a double is generally the worst-case scenario if you screw up.

Center fielders must be lighting fast without exception—they cover so much ground that a slow player is simply incapable of playing the position. They frequently sprint for 100 or more feet at a time; no other fielder goes to such lengths to turn base hits into outs.

They have to be able to judge balls off the wall. They have to gracefully pull off full speed, diving catches.

Initiating the relay throw; doubling up with pinpoint accuracy.

Communicating intentions to your teammates on the fly. Commanding the troops in the outfield with the confidence of a drill sergeant.

And perhaps most importantly: maintaining perfect position at all times.

These are the characteristics that make a top tier defensive center fielder.

Jimmy McAleer, Paul Blair, Taylor Douthit, Happy Felsch, Curt Flood, Gary Maddox, Johnny Mostil, Garry Pettis, Terry Moore, and Devon White each possessed these attributes.

Then of course comes the other side of the ball—and that's where the tricky part enters the fray. Because some of the best defensive center fielders of all time happened to be damn good on offense too.

Center fielders are fast—and many of the all time greats have stolen over 400 bases in their careers.

Center fielders are powerful—many legends have gone yard on more than 400 occasions.

Center fielders can also hit for average—really frickin' well. In fact, one center fielder happened to be better at hitting a baseball than any other man to ever set foot in a Major League stadium.

Hitting, slugging, running—and of course, defensive ability. The presence or lack of these skills is what separates the bad from the average, the good from the very good, and the great from the legendary.

What follows in the next three installments of this series is a countdown of who I believe to be the ten best all-around center fielders in the history of the game. This list is not meant to serve as a definitive guide towards player production—I simply am evaluating the all around abilities of ten men who I feel most epitomize the heart and soul of the position. Enjoy.

Read Part I

Read Part II

Read Part III

Memo To Packers Management: Lay Down the Crack Pipe and Bring Back Brett Favre

Zander Freund — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 14:30:40 -0400

In case anyone has yet to hear the news, Brett Favre has formally requested, in writing, that the Green Bay Packers release him.

I've stayed silent on the entire Brett Favre situation since he announced his retirement. I had a feeling he might be coming back, and I wanted to save my farewell address to one of most special men in all of sports for his true finale.

However, it's now 100 percent clear that No. 4 wants to play another year in the NFL—and the Packers' management is doing everything they can to discourage him from doing so.

The way that Favre has been forced into the position he currently finds himself in has made me finally boil over to a point where I can't do anything else today before I vent a little.

My apologies to everyone who currently finds themselves on Bleacher Report with a burning question—I simply will not be able to give you my full attention until I get this off my chest.

I cannot put into words how disgraceful I believe the recent actions of the Packers' management to be.

Here you have one of sports' all-time legends—a man who has played 15 consecutive years of professional football without missing a start...who won three straight league MVP awards...who holds nearly every significant passing-record known to man...and who is the epitome of a fearless, play-at-all-costs competitor who never winked at any sign of adversity.

Admittedly, Favre became an interception machine in his later days, and it appeared that his career was coming to an end. But he worked his butt off last season to get back into top form, posting his highest quarterback rating in over a decade and leading an otherwise young and inexperienced Packer squad to the brink of a Super Bowl appearance.

For all of his hard work—for everything that Favre has given to the Packers organization, the city of Green Bay, and football fans across the world over the past two decades —Brett Favre has been treated so poorly as of late that even a piece of garbage in the town dump would consider it disrespectful.

And it just isn't right.

I have one question for Mike McCarthy and Ted Thompson: When you've looked at the mirror in the past couple of weeks—while a God among men has been leaving messages on your machine telling you he wants one more shot—what have you seen staring back at you?

If the answer is "a human being," I'm going to go out on a limb and say that both of you are boldface liars. The way you two have conducted yourselves in this situation is shameful, classless, and downright monstrous.

This man has given his heart and soul to your franchise for 15 years. And he was AWESOME last season; he gave you guys a legitimate shot at your fourth Super Bowl victory.

Now he wants to return and take one more crack at the Vince Lombardi trophy. And you're telling him you want to move the team in a different direction?

What direction is that, may I ask? Straight down to the depths of the NFC Central?

It's pretty sad that you'd rather see your team make the playoffs five years from now than have a shot at a ring this season. It's especially disgraceful considering the long history of excellence that has defined the Green Bay Packers' franchise since the days of coach Lombardi.

You guys surely remember Vince Lombardi, right? Remember that thing he used to say...what was it again?

Oh yeah: "Winning isn't everything—it's the only thing."

Well, apparently that's not true anymore for the Green Bay Packers in 2008. Looks like you'd rather lose with a young Aaron Rodgers than win with a grey-haired Brett Favre.

As a Niners fan for life (how bout that for irony?), I remember back in the summer of '92 when Carmen Policy, Eddie D, and George Seiffart found themselves in a similar situation with the great Joe Montana. Joe wanted to come back and play for the Nines, but management felt he was over the hill.

Joe and the Niners ended up parting ways, and it worked out pretty well for both parties. Montana re-assumed his position as the best clutch football player to ever live, leading the Kansas City Chiefs to the AFC Championship with some brilliant come-from-behind-victories in the postseason.

The 49ers, meanwhile, won the Super Bowl just a year later, behind the brilliance of quarterback Steve Young, who didn't waste any time establishing himself as the league's best passer.

However, there are a few key reasons why the situation with Favre and the situation with Montana are totally incomparable:

1) Joe Montana had been injured for nearly two entire seasons before his release. Brett Favre has started in 253 consecutive football games.

2) Aaron Rodgers is no Steve Young.

3) Joe Montana hadn't led the 49ers to the NFC Championship game the year before his release.

4) Joe Montana hadn't carried his team on his back the year before his release and lost his chance at a final ring because of the second coming of the Perfect Storm.

5) Aaron Rodgers is no Steve Young.

Brett Favre has served as an inspiration for athletes worldwide since he threw his first completion in the pros (to himself). He loves his job and has never missed a day of work throughout his career. He has never hesitated to give credit to his teammates and conducts himself on the field at all times with the heart and mind of a true competitor.

Sure, he has a habit for forcing balls into places where they don't belong. But by the same token, Favre has also thrown for more touchdowns and more yardage than any other passer in the history of the game.

You take the good with the bad, and for most of Favre's career, the good has far outweighed the bad. Last season was a prime example—Favre proved that even at age 38, he still has what it takes.

When he expressed his desire to return for a final year, Packers management should have rolled out the red carpet for Favre. They should have laid roses by his feet and showered him in champagne for his undying devotion to the game, and the fact that him playing another season gave the team a legitimate chance to get back into the Super Bowl hunt.

Instead, Favre's former coach and general manager chose to drop their drawers and defecate all over one of the greatest men to ever step onto a football field—all for the benefit of an unproven quarterback who could still learn plenty this season from the sidelines.

Mike and Ted: It's not too late to change your mind. Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.

Why Americans Can—And Will—Embrace Soccer

Zander Freund — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 12:50:54 -0400

Since we initiated our weekly Open Mic about the beautiful game of world football (aka "soccer") and its future in the United States, I've read a handful of pieces suggesting that the sport will simply never catch on in this country.

I'm here to tell you, my fellow Americans, that you are wrong, wrong, and wrong again.

Trust me here—for I was once like you.

I hated the lack of scoring, and the never ending sense that nobody ever had true possession of the ball. I couldn't stand the way the players fell down on purpose and laid all over the field for minutes at a time like a bunch of babies.

The shin guards, the acting, the silly cards the refs stuck in the air (can't you just announce the penalty and enforce it like a man?) It reeked of a softness that made Dirk Nowitzki look like Mike Tyson on PCP.

And perhaps most importantly, this whole notion that you couldn't use your hands...

I mean, come on now: in America we use our hands for everything!

We use our hands to clutch our french fries and burgers as we inhale another extra value meal—before licking our fingers to consume every last grain of salt.

We use our hands to crack open our beer cans—and then again to flip them upside down and consume the liquid found within the metal container at warp speed. We use our paws once again to crush the container aggressively and remind us we're sane—and finally to throw the remains on the ground in a frenzy of testosterone.

We use our hands to grab our wallets when we pay for things, which we love to do; we use our hands to embrace our women and hold them close, letting them know that if any jerk looks at them the wrong way that they'll end up with a bloody lip.

It's no coincidence that soccer is not seen as a very "American" sport. The fact that it's so popular in the rest of the world but not here just feeds into this stereotype.

And then, when we see our teams go down to the likes of Italy, France, or Brazil, it gives us reason to further shun the game as illegitimate.

After all: us Americans don't like to be second best.

But the truth, everybody—no matter how much you don't want to hear it—is that it's all in your head.

Soccer isn't unAmerican in the slightest. We Americans adore sports as much as any other nation.

And as a sport with as rich of a historical tradition as any—constantly overflowing with athletic entertainment—its due time that we begin to appreciate the great game of soccer (err..."football").

This is a nation that feeds on competitive athletics; the nation of Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson.

The nation of Jesse Owens and Jerry Rice.

The nation of Michael Jordan, Muhammad Ali, and Tiger Woods.

If we can enjoy the talents of these great performers, we can surely acknowledge the likes of Pele and Beckenbauer—or more recently, that kid Ronaldo out of Portugal.

Soccer is by no means a slow paced game that we as a country are too restless to embrace. There is continuous action for 90 minutes; the idea of a "timeout," "commercial break," or "two minute warning" simply does not exist.

We're too impatient for soccer, ehh? Give me a break! Have you ever watched a baseball game?

I traveled to Germany with some friends for the last World Cup and it totally changed my perspective on the game. Being forced to watch entire matches at a time made me realize how talented those guys on the field were, and how a great play could so easily energize a crowd.

At the end of the trip, I felt like a complete bufoon. I had missed out on so many great games simply due to narrow mindedness.

As a child, when my father made me watch Diego Maradona play I hardly gave a rat's ass. I could have been studying the game and learning about its intricacies the way I had with baseball, football, and hoops.

Instead, I hid my face in the cowardly notion that soccer wasn't for me because "there wasn't enough scoring." It was foolish.

Look, I know we like to do things our own way over here. I know we've got four great professional games that we're already attached too at the hip.

But look guys: there is a reason why soccer is the world's most popular sport. It is a game that requires a steady combination of speed, athleticism, endurance, and power.

And before you jump down my throat for that last one, why don't you do yourself a favor and watch Roberto Carlos kick this goal.

Mark my words, young Americans: in your lifetime, the United States will reach a World Cup Final. And when that happens, this entire country is going to open their eyes to the beautiful game.

You meanwhile will sit there, like I did, wondering why you didn't start caring sooner.

It's not too late—you can still jump on the bandwagon fresh and early before everyone hops aboard.

The European Championships is in full effect right now, and it just continues to get more exciting. TIVO some games while you're at work, and instead of watching the Red Sox or Yankees when you get home, tune in to some world class football.

It might take some getting used too, but I promise it will be worth it in the end.

Take it from me, former ugly American: soccer is here to stay.

Why Kobe Bryant Should Give the MVP to Chris Paul

Zander Freund — Wed, 07 May 2008 03:53:04 -0400

Hey Kobe—you wanna be a man?

Then own up to what isn't yours and hand Chris Paul that MVP trophy.

You heard me Kobe: Chris Paul is the rightful winner of that award, not you. And I don't care whether or not you deserved one some other year—my calendar says its 2008, and the Most Valuable Player trophy is supposed to go to the best player in the league the same season it's awarded.

Don't thank your teammates, Phil Jackson, or the league for this honor—thank the writers who convinced themselves halfway through the season that you and you alone deserved the award.

They, after all, are the people who have committed this fraudulent act. And even though it would have been nice of you to decline the award and offer it to Chris Paul, no one's blaming you for walking off the stage with the Maurice Podoloff Trophy firmly in your grasp.

Honestly, I'm happy for you Kobe. I really am. When the Lakers finally surrounded you with some talent, you proved to everyone why you're one of the all-time greats.

You made us eat our words Kobe. You're clearly a good leader, a team player, and capable of winning without Shaq.

Your team earned the top playoff spot in one of the most competitive conferences the league has seen in years—and if the current pace continues you'll soon be on your way to a fifth NBA Finals appearance.

And hey—despite sharing the glory with Pau and the gang, you managed to put up some pretty impressive numbers: 28.3 ppg, 6.3 boards, and 5.4 dishes.

But Chris Paul, Kobe...Chris Paul's numbers make your year look like something out of Tractor Traylor's play book.

And I'm not talking about the stud from Michigan who tore down the backboard…I'm talking about the out-of-shape lardass that was traded five times in seven NBA seasons.

Let's go over some basketball basics together Kobe, and perhaps you can see why I'm so angry that you won.

The point guard is the guy who runs the offense. As such, he tends to handle the ball more than anybody else on the court—including scorers such as yourself.

Believe me Kobe, Chris Paul handled the ball quite frequently this season. But even though he was running the offense and you were playing the wing, Paul managed to turn the ball over significantly less often than you.

Being so cautious with the ball, you might think that Chris Paul wouldn't have created much on the offensive end of the floor. But that's simply not the case: this year, Paul became one of the few point guards in league history to average over 20 points and 10 assists per game in a season.

And he did it with fewer turnovers than anyone else in the history of the NBA to accomplish such a feat.

You know Steve Nash, right Kobe?

In his two MVP seasons, Nash averaged 11.5 and 10.5 assists per game, respectively—he turned the ball over more than three times in each of those seasons.

What about Magic Johnson, Kobe—you remember him? The best Laker the City of Angels had ever seen until you came to town?

Magic averaged over 20 points and 10 assists in three different seasons, which is simply mind-boggling. It should come as no surprise that he cleaned up MVP honors in each of those seasons as well.

But in every case, Magic turned the ball over between 3.5 and four times a game.

Chris Paul on the other hand averaged 22.1 points and 11.6 dimes a game this year—with only 2.5 turnovers.

Let's also not forget that Magic and Steve Nash weren't (and aren't) famous for their defensive abilities. As a defensive phenom yourself, you surely realized that Chris Paul led the NBA in steals per game this season…right?

Here's the bottom line, Kobe: Chris Paul just completed one of the greatest seasons for a point guard in the history of the game. You on the other hand had a very good season for a shooting guard...but by no means revolutionized the position.

Yet somehow, you walked away league MVP.

Don't like the point guard/off guard comparison? Fine Kobe, we'll do it straight up:

Chris Paul was a stronger offensive player than you this year. He shot the ball significantly better from the field (.488 vs. .459) and distributed the rock in ways you can only dream about.

Your defense was more impressive, but not enough so to compensate for the vast performance discrepancy on the other end of the floor. And while you surely deserve credit for how far you brought the Lakers, Paul singlehandedly turned a sub .500 New Orleans team into a legitimate contender that finds itself leading the four-time World Champion Spurs 2-0 in the second round of the playoffs.

Let's also not forget that Paul is a good seven inches shorter than you.

Reason with me here, Kobe; be a man and give the deserving player the trophy. It will be an unprecedented action that will permanently alter the way that history looks at you.

If you don't listen to me, I think you're going to lose to the Hornets in the next round. Because no matter what he says, Chris Paul is pissed about all of this…and if he can't be league MVP, you can bet he's already shifted his focus to the Larry O'Brien Trophy.

These are the times that try men's souls, Kobe—I know you'll do the right thing.

Why Josh Howard's Marijuana Confession Makes Him a Good Role Model

Zander Freund — Mon, 28 Apr 2008 16:54:47 -0400

Last Friday, Josh Howard of the Dallas Mavericks admitted on Michael Irvin's radio show to smoking pot during the NBA off-season.

Seconds later, the relevant parties were notified and the story was the top headline on ESPN.com.

Mavs owner Mark Cuban said the team would deal with the issue internally. Head coach Avery Johnson expressed that Howard's comments demonstrated "poor judgement and poor timing." Sources close to ESPN pointed out that while Howard would most likely not be suspended for his remarks, that he would probably be required to enter into the NBA's marijuana program—which includes more frequent drug testing and counseling during the off-season.

Josh Howard, meanwhile, went out to play some Friday night hoops in front of a raucous Dallas crowd. With a little help from the refs, the Mavs managed to win their first (and likely only) victory in their series against Chris Paul and the deadly Hornets.

Apparently the win caused Howard to reflect upon the mess he created, as yesterday he released this statement on his website:

"I recently talked about a controversial topic with members of the media. I used poor judgment and I want to apologize to my fans, the Mavericks and the NBA. I am fortunate to be playing basketball in the League. I realize I have a responsibility as a role model for young fans, and I take that responsibility seriously."

America can now sleep easy—Josh Howard is a moral man and regrets that he openly discussed a topic on public radio that could negatively influence children who look up to him.

But for at least one 25-year old hoops fan watching this unfold from his San Francisco office, Howard's morality was obvious well before Sunday.

When asked before gametime on Friday why he wanted to discuss marijuana on a sports-radio talk show, Josh Howard said:

"I was raised on being truthful and honest with myself and my family, so I can say it with no problems and go out there and perform to the best of my abilities tonight and not even think about it."

I read this quote late Friday afternoon as the controversy took shape. Am I the only one who got in Josh Howard's corner right then and there?

Let's just take this all in for a second: League officials and/or Josh Howard's PR guru want him to recognize that he's a role model for children. They want America to think of him as an honest, decent man—a walking endorsement for the NBA.

So instead of encouraging him to discuss his life as an athlete, his values as a person, and his opinion on a controversial league issue, they instead coerce him into telling a bald-faced lie so that parents across the nation can kid themselves into thinking that their children are now safe from danger.

Josh Howard 1, League Officials 0, American Public -10.

We all know that Josh Howard isn't sorry for what he said. Nor should he be.

I could go on a rant about how the league has no business testing for marijuana in the first place, as it's a drug that if anything decreases performance on the court.

But I won't.

Instead, what I'll say is this: Josh Howard ought to follow his instincts more frequently.

During a time when multiple professional athletes are being investigated for lying under oath, an honest guy like Josh Howard is a breath of fresh air.

I don't know Josh Howard personally and I'm not pretending to vouch for his character. But I do know that he conducted himself in a classy manner in this instance—well before he read that pre-typed apology.

You may or may not agree with Josh Howard's fondness for puffing the whacky tobaccy—that's your choice as an American. Josh Howard's an American just like you, and as such has the ability to make his own choices as well.

He chose to smoke marijuana, knowing the potential legal and health risks in play. He also made the choice to talk about this fact publicly, and as such will have to live with the consequences.

But like any prideful person, Josh Howard isn't afraid of who he is and will always opt for the truth when in doubt. That in itself is an admirable characteristic that every athlete—and more importantly, every role model—ought to follow.

For a second there, we didn't just have another athlete trying to win favor with the media and fans. Rather, we had a shining example of a young man who demonstrated the characteristics we as people value in each other as human beings—dignity, honesty, and imperfection.

If we as a society could embrace these values in our athletes rather than clinging to sugar-coated idealism, perhaps Josh Howard could show his true colors more often. Instead, he's being taught that his public image and the league's opinion of him are more important than telling the truth.

That surely isn't the message we want to send to our children. Perhaps next time around, we should allow Josh Howard to decide for himself what a good role model really is.

The All-Time San Francisco 49ers Roster

Zander Freund — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 12:32:27 -0500

The 49ers went 5-11 this year—needless to say, the organization has seen better days.

Some fans may be interested in analayzing who the Niners might be drafting next season in order to improve to 7-9, but this fan would rather remember the good old days of quick slants and screen passes, a dominating secondary, and five Super Bowl Championships.

For as the old saying goes: There's nothing quite like nostalgia when the present seems so utterly pointless.

OK, I just made that up...but who ever said you can't invent proverbs when it's convienent?

Anyways, assembling this roster was no easy task—Steve Young, my favorite NFL player of all time, is sitting on the bench, and I'm not happy about it (however it's pretty much unavoidable when you consider the field general who preceded him).

There are a bunch of other guys who didn't end up making the cut, but will always be remembered by Niner Nation as heroes of the most special kind. So I threw together a bench to give the reserves their deserved moment in the sun.

And what a fine bench it is...almost as intimidating as the team itself.

Without further ado, I give you the all time San Francisco 49ers...

Offense

QB: Joe Montana
RB: Garrison Hearst
FB: Tom Rathman
TE: Brent Jones
WR: Jerry Rice
WR: Terrell Owens
T: Bob St. Clair
T: Harris Barton
G: Guy McIntyre
G: Randy Cross
C: Forest Blue

Defense

DE: Fred Dean
DE: Chris Doleman
DT: Bryant Young
DT: Leo Nomellini
OLB: Charles Haley
MLB: Ken Norton Jr.
OLB: Dave Wilcox
CB: Deion Sanders
CB: Jimmy Johnson
SS: Tim McDonald
FS: Ronnie Lott

Special Teams

K: Ray Wershing
P: Tommy Davis
Return Specialist: John Taylor

Bench

Steve Young, John Brodie, Roger Craig, Hugh Macelhenny, Joe Perry, William Flloyd, Dwight Clark, Gene Washington, Jesse Sapolu, Charlie Krueger, Dana Stubblefield, Michael Carter, Cedric Hartman, Keena Turner, Jack Reynolds, Eric Wright, Carlton Williamson, Abe Woodson, Eric Davis, Dwight Hicks, Merton Hanks