Bleacher Report - Articles by Casey Michel

Ken Griffey's Return Worth The Wait

Casey Michel — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 23:11:04 -0400

There are things in life that should not happen. We see them in children’s books or on the Hallmark Channel, but never in our dirty world of grime and struggle. Life is incomplete, which means that it’s imperfect, which means that these Kodak moments we see in cinema or find in literature do not come to fruition.

But that is life.

This—the moment what I’ve experienced, the event that’s stopped me in my tracks—is sport.

Before I share that moment, however, I’d like to tell you a bit about myself.

There’s one person who got me into sports, one person who propelled this passion I carry. He is not my computer-selling father, nor my cookie-crafting mom, nor even my swagger-swinging brother.

This man’s name is Ken Griffey, Jr. and his is the face of my earliest memory of sports.

Although I was seven-years-old, I can still recall it vividly. As my parents flanked me in our Lego-infested basement, my jaw was dropped, my eyes were glued, and my hair was on end. I was witnessing the greatest Division Series the game of baseball has ever seen.

Against the New York Yankees in the 1995 ALDS, my Seattle Mariners had rebounded from a 2-0 series deficit to force a deciding Game 5. Down a run in the bottom of the 11th, Griffey had flashed from first and around third, grinning as he slid across home plate to give the Mariners the most exhilarating win I have ever seen.

In that instant, my path was set. That moment has stuck with me every day for the last 14 years, influencing decisions both academic and professional. Without it, I would be different beyond recognition.

Alas, with every moment of bliss comes a counterpart, and when Griffey departed the Mariners before the 2000 season, the hole in my heart was bigger than the mileage between Seattle and Cincinnati.

My hero had departed, never to return, and the glory days of my Mariners were now a bygone era. Nearly 10 years later, I’ve never felt the same glee as that moment, never held anyone on the same pedestal as Griffey. Ichiro, Edgar Martinez, and Bret Boone were good—but they weren’t the left-handed center fielder whose swing shone of perfect magnificence.

Years went by, achingly, as I watched Griffey tear himself apart with the Reds and the White Sox. Injuries stole his stature as one of the game’s greats. His downfall was swift and wrenching; his hurt was obvious and palpable.

Stuck in the Pacific Northwest, there was no way I could share my fanship and perhaps ease Griffey's struggles. Long ago, I’d pondered the idea of a possible homecoming. A hero’s welcome, I light-heartedly surmised, even though I knew full well that it could never happen. Baseball wasa business, and Griffey’s game had no business roaming Safeco Field’s outfield.

And yet, a twinkle of hope never went out. The lone event that lightened Griffey’s burden was an interleague return to Seattle in 2007. When he pledged to retire as a Mariner, I fancied the idea that a one-year contract was in the future—a consolation prize, little more than gestural symbolism, but better than nothing.

After all, my life was not a Hallmark movie, nor a child’s book complete with the happiest of endings. What more could I hope for?

I knew some things are beyond the reaches of fate. But two weeks ago, something broke that mold.

Griffey, a free agent for the first time in his life, signed with the Mariners.

The birth of my first child will have a tough time replicating the joy that overcame me when I heard the news. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully understand it. I don’t know how something this unreal, this otherworldly, this patently unfathomable, could have come about.

I know I’m sentimental. Sport evokes these swings in emotion that would make Shakespeare pale in awe. It’s become a shtick for me to bemoan, to aggrandize and to inject more passion into the sporting world than necessary. In the end, these are men who throw leathery orbs around a field of grass. Their movements are inconsequential, and there’s no reason for the idolization that comes about with each passing generation.

Or so you say. See, that inconsequential means nothing to me. Your arguments fall on deaf ears, for I am too busy re-watching Griffey’s 1995 run on my iTunes, reliving the instant when I became a sports fan.

Now here I am, attending school in Houston, a young adult looking back through the images of my childhood. But if you try to find me on April 14, I’ll be at the Mariners’ home opener, looking down from the stands at the image of my childhood.

During the telecast of that fateful Game 5, announcer Brent Musberger said, “Ken Griffey Jr. is fulfilling his destiny.” Musberger may have been 14 years early, but he was right—Griffey’s destiny has come true.

And my childhood, unlike so much else that goes awry in the world, has become complete.

And sometimes, that’s life.

The Shock of A-Rod's Confession

Casey Michel — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 00:50:11 -0500

When I first heard the news that Alex Rodriguez used steroids, there was nothing but shock. The report triggered a San Andreas fault-line straight through my aorta; it created a blow to the gut that could have turned Lennox Lewis into a pile of mush.

Shock. Clear and sharp, painful and wrenching.

All of this surprise, all of this reverberation, wrought by a man whose transgressions should have been limited to blonde bimbos and Material Girls.

Years ago, I acquiesced to the fact that my childhood love, baseball, turned out to be smoke, mirrors and a whole lot more. The teams I grew up with were laboratories, comprised of dishonest DH’s and petulant pitchers all searching for an improper edge.

We all know the names. We all know their transgressions. Mark McGwire was the original villain, duping us first and cutting us the deepest. Roger Clemens was the angriest man this side of Christian Bale, a “clear” aftereffect of his usage. And Barry Bonds was despised, sick with jealousy, so his guilt was sealed long before the underpinnings of his game were revealed.

America had no problem condemning these traitors to history, these thieves of a nation’s loyalty. They were disreputable bunch, and their punishments more than fit their crimes.

But Alex Rodriguez was clean. He was a prodigy, a five-tool player who resembled Bonds’ early mold but checked his envy at Derek Jeter’s door. His power was uncompromised, lean and fit where McGwire was bulging and doughy. And while his cuckolding was unbecoming, his misbehavior landed him a relationship with a crypt-keeper named Madonna, an unenviable duty that even he didn’t deserve.

Sure, I hated the guy. I couldn’t stand the dispassion he displayed, his willingness to act as a mercenary rather than a man. I took solace in the fact that he’d never won a World Series. I grinned amidst the flurry of Monopoly money that greeted his returns to Seattle’s Safeco Field.

That was then. This, unfortunately, is now.

When I view A-Rod, A-Fraud, A-Roid, there will no longer be enmity flowing through my veins. Instead, there will be the chunks of concrete that have crumbled from baseball’s foundation, obliterated by a 2003 test whose results should never have been revealed to SI.com.

And yet they were. And now we’re stuck with the realization that America’s pastime will never have the comfort of continuity that it long provided.

Bringing the past into the present, creating the ties and relationships that only Marty McFly could experience, was always the greatest part of baseball. Achievements were cemented in decades, battered by wars and economic slumps, surviving our lineage and allowing comparison between the generations.

These numbers created epics. Babe Ruth has a heartier following than Barack Obama; Cy Young’s name will live on long after David Petraeus passes; Willie Mays and Hank Aaron will inspire more than the Jonas Brothers ever could.

As a child, I was one of those in awe of the numbers. I remember lying in bed, paging through my book of “100 Greatest Baseball Moments,” soaking up the grainy images of a time long past. My history teachers could not reach me in the way that these recountings could.

I imagined where the current teams, rife with power, met their previous counterparts, and smiled with the knowledge that we could measure time based on wins, losses, and everything in between.

This makes what Alex Rodriguez did inescapable. As much as I hate to say it, I was cheering for Rodriguez to continue his trek to 762 home runs. He would be the savior that reconnected the passage severed by steroids. His talents were natural. His monetary greed was unfortunate, but his achievements, fashioned during an era of uncertainty, could at least be held to a higher standard.

Perhaps I was naïve. Perhaps I refused to give up the slice of childhood belief that lingered when I watched baseball, keeping me steadfastly convinced that one day Rodriguez would wipe the slate of Bonds’ stain. Perhaps I had too much faith in the goodness of an era, the belief that someone other than Ken Griffey Jr. was also clean.

But after last Saturday, any faith I harbored is gone, replaced by callousness and sorrow. We can never see how far we’ve come. We had already given up on the realities of McGwire, Bonds, and Clemens, resigned to the fact that their careers were embroiled in shadows and sideways glances. Alex Rodriguez now joins this unholy bunch, creating a Mt. Rushmore of malfeasance.

I can only hope that, someday, this mountain of deceit crumbles in the same shocking manner that baseball’s history has. Until then, though, the burns will remain. And my faith in my sport—our sport, America’s sport—will be no more.

Brandon Roy's 52 and the Greatness of its Memory

Casey Michel — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 12:47:45 -0500

They say you never forget your first.

And it's true, you don't. Kiss. Car. Bionicle Lego set. All of them memorable, keepsakes, safe from the hurricane of emotion and turmoil that the rest of life turns over.

So it's safe to say that last Friday's Blazers game, the latest of The Resurgence, would find its place in the lockbox of the heart.

But then Roy had to channel Clyde, via Damon, all in front of Terry. Roy, who generally has enough cool to make Fonzie proud, had to go and roar, deafeningly, like he did. Then Travis Outlaw had to snipe with stepback swishes. Then Greg Oden had to bash Shaq, put away soul-shaking dunks, and swipe two huge offensive rebounds in the waning moments. Then the Blazers had to go and play like they did, in the first game I could watch all year.

See, Australia's NBA contract is about as copious as the Bush Administration's limits on terror, meaning that the only Down Under shots I saw of the Blazers were the chopped-up dregs of the internet. Without download speed belonging to the dial-up dinosaurs of the '90s ("Crack Bing Zzzzzzzzp Doom, Doom, Enchhhhhhhhxxxxxxxxx: The Soundtrack of the Decade"), I went without seeing Oden suited up, without watching Rudy Fernandez float like a Spanish butterfly, without catching Roy continue his development to transcendentalism.

But tonight, braving both snow and the extra 30 pounds wrought by my Mom's desserts, I found myself finally ready to see the fruits of the team's labors. My pal's 52-inch TV held the goods, and with Marv Albert calling the shots, I was ready to return to Blazermania.

Welcoming the Phoenix Suns, a team they hadn't beaten since 2006 (11 straight games, enough to qualify as "bothersome"), the Blazers did not take long to recall my feelings of fandom. Sure, absence makes the heart grow fonder, but 5,000 miles of distance could not hold a candle to seeing the team finally coalesce on the court.

The most welcome sight, as you may have guessed, was a clean-shaven Oden—in his Blazers threads. And in the first few minutes, Oden looked the part that he will undoubtedly become. Matching against Shaq in the red-and-black paint—the rookie looked like Zeus warring with Kronos; I'd never seen the generational split more pointed than tonight.

Shaq had clearly invested in the Butterbean diet, looking more like his gravitational pull would click into effect than ever before. The two opened the contest as if on a one-on-one mission, trading pound-and-dunks before finally realizing the others on the floor were teammates, not just fans dressed alike.

Oden, I dare say, showed up Shaq with a monster block on Amare Stoudamire, but foul trouble limited the 20-year-old to the bench for much of the game. The battle for the Rose Garden's heart, it appeared, would be fought on another battleground.

Gettysburg. Metropolis. The Rose Garden's backcourt. All places where heroes have been born. All places that Brandon Roy would thrive. But (as far as I know) in only the latter could Roy show that he is truly a star.

As the Blazers and the Suns traded baskets, it was soon apparent that the game would be a shootout. The halftime score was 66-59, and while fans looked toward chalupas, Roy was warming up for a run that would put Usain Bolt to shame.

Phoenix kept up the pressure, using Amare's gifts and Matt Barnes' threes to keep the game just out of reach for Portland. Soon, a double-digit lead arose, and as time wound down in the third, it looked like head coach Nate McMillan's plans for a win were heading out the door.

But the Roy did what he does best, which, frankly, is exactly what I, and the thousands of Blazers fans watching, expected. He turned the compassion dial down, keyed his Terminator ignition and kicked his game into overdrive. You could almost see his pupils turn an blazing red.

Roy, top of the key, Barnes five feet back, dribble through the legs, quick jump shot from the arc. Swish.

Roy, fast break, going lefty, backboard-then-net. And One.

Roy, crowded with a pair of defenders and a Steve Blake handoff, leaping right to drain the three.

Roy, one-two-stepping. See ya, Shaq.

Roy, with the game tied 119-119 and 1:01 left, put up a game-breaker that everyone knew would fall. And so it did. A pair of Roy free throws later—with a 19-21 night from the charity stripe, you knew those were going in too—the Suns' fate was sealed.

124-119, Blazers. 17-10 on the year, 9-2 at the Rose Garden.

After the dust settled, the chalupas were consumed, and Craig Sager had hung his suit, Roy was credited with 52 points. "A quiet 52," said McMillan. "An eye-popping, door-opening, level-hopping 52," says me. A career high, and second only to Damon Stoudamire's 54 points in 2005 in Blazers history. The game ball, snug on his hip as time expired, was one Roy would be keeping with him for a long, long time.

Much like my memories of this game. Here's to the rest of The Resurgence, and here's to Brandon Roy.

Blowing Smoke: The Sean Avery and Steve Williams Debacle

Casey Michel — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 12:17:05 -0500

Please, don’t take offense, Phil. And Elisha, it’s nothing personal.

But guys, it’s time to grow up.

Maybe I’ve been subscribing too much to the Judd Apatow School of Crude, Base, and Immoral Thoughts, but there’s no reason for last week’s uproar surrounding the golfer and the girlfriend.

For those who may not have seen the recent news, Phil Mickelson, he of southpaw putts and a penchant for heartbreaking losses, was addressed by someone else’s caddie in rather odious terms. The word seems to have, ahem, pricked at the thin skin of Mickelson, a golfer known more for his pudgy, pouty dregs than his powerful, prolonged drives. But the real crime, it appears, was not that Mickelson’s tender feelings were trod upon; rather, it’s the fact that the name-calling came from the caddie of the GOAT, Tiger Woods.

In similar straits as the droopy Mickelson is Elisha Cuthbert, best known as “The Girl Next Door,” who seems to have made a few enemies along her way to stardom. Cuthbert may have broken onto the scene as that girl from “Are You Afraid of the Dark?”, but she’s since broken the heart of the wrong hockey player.

With his spirit charred by Cuthbert’s burn, former boyfriend Sean Avery, late of the Dallas Stars, resorted to throwing Cuthbert back into her “Next Door” role by calling her an alliterative synonym for “unkempt after-firsts”. (Sorry, there aren’t many synonyms for “seconds.”)

According to the fervor meeting each “offensive” disturbance, you’d think that Avery and Williams had been pulling Bernard Madoff’s strings or were at least responsible for the (hilarious) shoe-throwing fiasco of Bush’s victory lap.

But in fact, these two professionals did something far more unseemly, far more insidious than actual ruining bank accounts or expressing their disgust at the pointless loss of thousands of lives. They called other people names.

That’s right. These two men, decidedly successful at the highest levels—granted, Williams is simply an intelligent pack mule, but can you name any other caddies on the circuit?—brought out their second-grade weapons of derisiveness and bombarded their enemies with (shudder) names.

Now, you’d think that these two would have earned certain leeway when it comes to expressing their opinions. After all, Williams has prodded Woods to become God’s gift to golfers, eclipsing record upon record and earning the most words of accolade since JFK.

And while Avery may not have earned the hardware that lines Woods’ yacht, he has, arguably, accomplished something far more noteworthy: piqued my (and many others’) interest in the NHL. As much as Gary Bettman turns me off with his elfish looks and corporate folly, it’s the crazed warriors like Avery that keep me returning to the once-moribund NHL.

However, it seems like Bettman, with his proclivity for rash decisions, has once again decided that must steer away from the best interests of his sport. Claiming that Avery had stepped the invisible line of offensiveness, Bettman promptly suspended the left winger from the league. As much as I hate to say it, I can begrudgingly see where Bettman is coming from on this one. Avery’s comments were not a flash in the pan, rarer-than-a-Dick-Cheney-supporter occurrence.

In recent years, the Canadian has not necessarily been the perfect little angel of the sport: From calling Mighty Ducks announcer Brian Hayward a fecal announcer to calling his the NHLPA’s management a pack of liars, Avery’s past has been more checkered than a Guy Ritchie movie.

But for Avery to be suspended in a matter of personal relations, at a time when the only thing controversial about the NHL is whether to leave the Wrigley Field ivy up in next year’s outdoor game, is simply stupid. The guy had a slip of the tongue, perhaps, but for him to lose both pay and prestige is misguided and sets an ugly precedent.

Like Avery, Williams’ days in the sunshine have netted a share of hoopla. The Kiwi has often clashed with fans attempting to snapshot the Woods, at one point snatching a spectators’ camera and depositing it, $7,000-lens-down, into a nearby lake. As the Rahm Emanuel to Woods’s Barack Obama, Williams hasn’t hesitated to crack a few heads along the links. Fortunately for the sake of good humor, Woods understood his caddie’s sentiment and smirkingly noted that Williams would, of course, be back behind the bag.

The latest rounds of controversy may have forced a couple people to check out Urban Dictionary, but let me assure you, there are worst things out there. There are worse names, there are worse intentions, and there are worse ways to run afoul of fans, teammates, and sponsors.

The Dallas Stars’ management appears to have skin as thin as the NHL’s margin of error, and Avery has been axed for the remainder of the season, unleashing a purported barbarity in the sport of barbarians. Meanwhile, by forgoing punishment, the generally stiff-upper-lipped gentry of golf actually let the content dictate their standards, rather than the other way around. They—and the game of golf—are better for it.

No one threw sticks, no one heaved stones, and no one trudged home with broken bones.

And Phil, Elisha, I hope I don’t offend you when I tell you to grow up, and grow a pair.

An Open Letter to the Seattle Mariners' New Manager

Casey Michel — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 00:01:55 -0500

An open letter to Don Wakamatsu, from a gray-haired, prune-munching, gout-having M’s fan, still waiting on his meatloaf:

So you’re the new guy, huh? Just came aboard a couple days ago, didn’t you? Mr. Don Waka-something, the new Mariners manager, the replacement for ol’ leather-face Jim Riggleman, right?

Yeah, that’s what I thought. I remember your days of playing ball in Hood River, OR, back before that town was overrun with microbreweries and wind-surfers. You put up some mean numbers, and if I remember correctly, you were once a catcher in the M’s system.

Too bad you couldn’t pull onto the big-league squad, or you coulda contributed to the losingest organization of the 1980s.

Now, those teams knew how to lose. Not like these knew guys, these pampered, light-their-cigars-with-Benjamins types who roll into town, plug softball-sized holes into their bats and gloves, and then pout when they don’t get their playing time. These new guys, the free agents and their ilk, they’re the ones who are the new losers.

But the boys from the '80s, they were something else. They were as inept as an Alaskan voter, and they owned it. They knew they were bad; they understood that Gaylord Perry, in town for all of a year and half, was the best thing that would ever happen to the organization—even though he went 13-22 while he was here.

But I curmudgeonly digress.

These new boys aren’t born losers—they are, as you say, “a young, talented team.” Maybe not 95-win talented, but certainly not a typical member of the 100-loss/$100-million payroll club (then again, as the charter members, there isn’t really anything to compare them to).

These boys—Mr. Ich-i-ro, Mr. Felix the Cat, Mr. Yummy Tennis Court, or whatever his name is—they know how to play. That big Sexson, Paul Bunyan’s unskilled brother, is outta here, and so is Jose Zero, er, Vidro. I don’t know if Raul’s coming back, or if that Bell Tray kid will bring back his fancy glove—with the economy the way it is, good thing he’s got so much gold! [Groan…]—but I do know that the team’s not nearly as terrible as those boys runnin’ General Motors.

I couldn’t find anything on the telegraph line, so I flipped on the inner-net to look up some stats on you. Looks like you know the division pretty well—bench coach for the A’s, third base coach for the Rangers.

Now, I’m no fan of espionage, but if you could tell us everything you know, that’d sure help, and if you remember any of their signs, well, why don’t you just tell your old teams that “you forgot.” Then we could win some ball games!

Also, I checked out that cute picture over on the Seattle Times site. Cute kid, you got. But does that mean she’s the one who inspired the unnamed Mariner to knock out Ichiro last year?

Back in my day, if a random-o had threatened me, I woulda gone up to each and every one of my teammates and fed them a knuckle sammitch, because that’s just how teams ran back then. Then again, I always ended up with a face of pulp, so maybe it wasn’t the best course of action.

Too bad you beat out our old firestarter, Mr. Joey “Before Griffey in ’95, I Had to Scora” Cora. Woulda been nice to see the munchkin kicking dirt on the shoes of the looming umps, trying to make eye contact but only finding the blue’s naval. Heh. Reminds me of my days watching Bob Hope, when he once…Eh? Oh, yeah, Cora. Good guy.

But I trust this Jack Jury’n’Chick, that new General Manager. He may have less hair than me, but his mop musta been constraining his creative powers. In just a couple days, he’s cleared house, bringing in his boys and is starting a stats department. I tell you, I may be old, but I know a successful saber-mattress-in when I see one.

And I hear you’re the first Asian-American to become a manager, eh? Good on ya for that—maybe you can talk some sense into Hiroshi Yamauchi for that crazy-as-Lizzy-Borden contract he gave Ken G. Joe G. Maw, or however you spell his darned name. (You want to know what caused the financial crisis? Contracts like that.)

I was durn sad when Kim Ng wasn’t offered Jack’s position, but it looks like the team’s making up for their backward-thinking. A stat department, the first Asian-American manager...what’s next, a World Series appearance? Well, that might be a stretch, but I’ve got faith in you.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, welcome aboard. These kids might not know, but we old seabirds understand that a true Mariner can weather even the choppiest of seas—and with you helming from the dugout, we may finally get a chance to break out of this storm.

Now, go win us some ballgames. And try not to let the dugout get bought out by microbreweries and wind-surfers.

(Mabel, where’s my meatloaf?!)

Joey Cora Becomes Front-Runner for Seattle Mariners' Manager

Casey Michel — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 23:34:10 -0500

Could it really be? With more struggles than Dubya and more fans jumping ship than the Lusitania, have the Mariners finally begun atoning for their wrongs? And, in the process, has a distant inkling of an M’s fanboy finally come to fruition?

Maybe, perhaps, and, well, quite possibly.

As you may have been reading, former Mariners spark plug Joey Cora is a front-runner for becoming the 16th manager of the Seattle Mariners.

That’s right. The same Cora who broke into stardom as the Mariners All-Star second-baseman of the late ’90s. The same Cora whose bunt, sprint, and Matrix-like dodge of Don Mattingly allowed Ken Griffey Jr. and Edgar Martinez to oust the New York Yankees in the 1995 playoffs. The same Cora whose encumbered tears following the ’95 ALCS still resonate with Mariners fans across the globe.

Yeah, that Joey Cora.

Cora was always overshadowed by his larger-than-life compadres. Griffey had the swing, A-Rod had the youth, Edgar had the heart, and Buhner had the dome. But somehow, Cora carved a spot in the hearts of M’s fans, eliminating Harold Reynolds from the second-base podium and bringing some vim to the position.

When Cora’s ’95 tears soaked a clubhouse towel, Alex Rodriguez wrapped a throwing arm around his diminutive teammate, confidently assuring him that the Mariners would be back next season.

But a year later, we weren’t back. Nor were we back a decade later. That season, that shot-in-the-dark moment, was a blast into the memorable that the organization has yet to recreate.

Seeing as I’m a typical M’s fan, I have an unhealthy obsession with the 1995-2001 clubs, with a childish preference for the first couple campaigns during that heyday. The Joey Cora poster still lining my room—at three-feet tall, it could well be life-sized—has always reminded me of the team’s scrappiness, its bygone grit, infused by Lou Piniella and implemented by Cora and his fellow foot-soldiers.

When Cora left, the headlines didn’t break hearts, nor did the rabid fans demand Woody Woodward’s head. Granted, a few female M’s fans were saddened—no “Marry me, Joey!” signs have since graced the Kingdome—but his 1998 swap for David Bell went largely unnoticed.

And now, a decade later, with a World Series ring and a two-fold education, stemming from a first-rate Vanderbilt schooling and the tutelage of the crazy-as-Hugo-Chavez Ozzie Guillen, Cora could get a final shot at fulfilling A-Rod’s promise.

Cora’s competition is deep, but it’s fair to say that he is toward the front of Jack Zduriencik’s pack of seven finalists. With Jim Riggleman now sitting comfortably aside Manny Acta, Cora comes in as one of the most weathered coaches on the list, despite his youth.

Red Sox bench coach Brad Mills may have a leg-up with Boston’s recent successes, but word on his interview is yet to leak. Randy Ready, manager of San Diego’s AAA affiliate, the Portland Beavers manager, left a great impression the few times I spoke with him last year, and yet his ascension probably won’t come with the Mariners.

A few others, such as A’s bench coach Don Wakamatsu, Diamondbacks third base coach Chip Hale, Cardinals third base coach Jose Oquendo, and Red Sox third base coach DeMarlo Hale are all relative unknowns, and may not own the experience necessary to helm this young squad.

Thus, Cora floats to the top.

Aside from Cora’s experience, the former Mariners will bring a sense of ease to the clubhouse. Long knows for his good-naturedness, Cora is still relatively young, allowing him to associate with the green crew stacking the team’s lineup.

His demeanor is fluid and his M.O. is reserved, not exactly harking to the firebrand he has worked under. As he told the Seattle PI’s John Hickey, “I'm not Ozzie. He is maybe the other side of the coin. We made decisions based on that, and so far we have been very successful, winning the World Series (in 2005) and making the playoffs this year.”

Cora was there to balance Ozzie’s belligerence, and it is his coolness that has brought him respect among both his peers and, apparently, Zduriencik.

The decision on the new manager is looming, much as the choices about Raul Ibanez’s future or Jose Lopez’s position. Unfortunately, the fans won’t know the minutiae of the interview process: what Zduriencik asks, how the candidates respond, or whether or not Howard Lincoln and Chuck Armstrong are somehow bugging the room. (My guess: probably.)

If history is any indicator, however, there’s no reason to avoid hiring Joey Cora. With his history, his experience, and his demeanor, the guy would be a return to gravity for a team lost in space.

Let’s just hope he won’t cry after every loss.

After Much Debate, The Title Of "Greatest Sport" Goes To...

Casey Michel — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 10:54:43 -0500

What sport, above all others, embodies the fire of the human spirit? What sport combines more grit, guts, and gregariousness than Odysseus or Ulysses ever knew? What sport propels men, women, and children beyond their hardened limits and into the world of excellence and legend?

Most of you, I’m sure, have already guessed the answer. Maybe you got it from my last name, or maybe you have actually experienced the ethereal, emotive responses that this exercise engenders. Regardless of the reason, you get my eternal props for your correct answer, and I’ll be mailing you the transcripts of some “Ozzie Guillen as Obama’s Press Secretary” outtakes.

For the rest of you, the heaven-sent sport in question was the progenitor of civility, the preeminent judge of one’s character, and the original wear-your-slacks-and-drink-some-tea pastime.

That’s right—I’m talking about the sport of croquet.

Now, there may be a few of you inbred ingrates who chuckle at the thought of croquet being the epitome of human achievement. But lest ye forget, there were also people who laughed at Picasso, Petey Pablo, and Puff, the Magic Dragon. If these cultural and intellectual giants had bowed to the gaggle of giggles, the modern world would be without their unsurpassable talent and gifts, to say nothing of the greatness of “Freek-A-Leek.”

Fortunately, the founding fathers of croquet did not hide from those ignorant chortles. They stood their ground, rightly believing that what they had produced would one day change the world for the better. Now, as we stand on the eve of a new era in America, we can look to the future knowing that the past and present will always be held together by the glue of croquet.

This sport may be old, but in accordance with the all-inclusiveness (and obesity) of the 21st-century, can any sport match croquet in welcoming both athletes and non-athletes alike?

But it’s recently come to my understanding that, inexplicably, there are those who have not partaken in this greatest of sports. I can’t help but feel the deepest pangs of sympathy, and although I may not know you personally, I feel that it is my duty to enlighten you as to the courage and temerity that croquet exemplifies.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that I have the aforementioned greatness in my bloodlines—my grandfather, Jean-Claude Michel, is the inspiration for the annual Jay Michel Memorial Croquet Tournament in Seattle, Wash. Please, don’t be jealous, but feel free to deride your grandparents for not attaining the importance that mine did.)

Before defining its perfect nuance, let’s take a look at why croquet gives other sports more shame than Nieman Marcus gave Sarah Palin. Basketball and soccer may have the fluidity of Coca-Cola, but you’ll end up tired and—I shudder just thinking of this—sweaty.

Baseball may be “America’s pastime,” but could you really fit a baseball diamond in Camp David? Tennis may pride itself on its sportsmanlike demeanor, but croquet gives you the opportunity to whack your opponent’s ball into oblivion, or at least the neighbor’s yard. Why John McEnroe chose tennis, we’ll never know.

Sure, croquet can be described as “just another game you play with your family by the estate in [insert overtly-pompous European grounds],” but there are key differences between croquet and other sports you can play whilst decrying the loss of upper-class tax breaks.

Lawn darts supposedly stump croquet in terms of danger, but as the ribs of a friend of mine can attest, croquet mallets are often harder than Michael Chiklis. And while bocce ball may always own ties to the Mafia, croquet traces its roots back to the rebellious French nobility. (Side note: The mallets can also double as sabres, leading many notable croquet historians to theorize that the Three Musketeers may have originally begun as croquet maestros. En garde!)

Croquet has surpassed all sports, even in the realm of the marital matters. Though they were

unavailable for comment—likely debating what to get me for Christmas—I can attest that the marriage of Jules and Kathy “Inaugural Winner of the Jay Michel Tournament” Michel frequently cracks during a heated game of croquet. Either Jules enjoys sleeping on the couch, or he unwittingly believes that he may some day beat Kathy. Either way, croquet has influenced their marriage in ways their children could only dream of.

Truly, croquet is both the sport of kings and the king of sports. Its impact is often compared with the invention of fire, and is said to have inspired the Taj Mahal and Einstein’s theory of relativity. Clearly, the world would be a worse place without it.

For those who’ve yet to enjoy the game’s unimaginable bliss, I can only hope that you come out of your shell and play a round with us, because in the end, it’s the greatest thing you shall ever do.

I mean, unless you’re listening to “Freek-A-Leek.” But that’s on a whole different level.

And The Rays Fans Will Be Oxymorons No More

Casey Michel — Thu, 06 Nov 2008 01:36:01 -0500

When I first met Rob Meister during Rice University's 2006 O-Week , he was a human impossibility.

Here stood a living, breathing oxymoron, proof that you really do meet the strangest people in college.

No, he wasn’t a Libertarian — he was a Devil Rays fan.

Contrary to what you may think, Meister didn’t become a Tampa fan by losing a bet. He’s lived in St. Petersburg, the Rays’ home, since 1992, and has loved the team since the day their rainbow ridiculousness first graced the Majors back in ’98.

As any proud homer, it didn’t matter that Jose Canseco and Wade Boggs weren’t exactly Gherig or Ruth — “[Boggs] played for the Yankees AND Red Sox. Could there be a worse individual?” Meister says — or that Tropicana Field had as many annoying distractions as the team had wins.

“When I was young, the thing to do was catch a game with my family or friends even though the team was horrendous,” he says. “I remember a couple of years ago there was a game where more fans were in attendance at the Montgomery Biscuits [Tampa’s AA affiliate] game than the Rays game.”

For years, this team was more laughable than Jessica Alba’s career, but they didn’t have searing-hot looks to fall back on — seriously, have you ever seen Greg Vaughn? There were whispers of contraction and moves, but to the glee Rob and the few remaining D-Rays fans, the team remained in South Florida.

“As I got older and really started to get into baseball, I became more and more excited about the Rays because of their unbelievable farm system and player potential,” he says. “For the last eight years or so, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel — the pieces, though young and inexperienced, were slowly coming together.”

Ever since I met him, I’ve mocked Rob enough to make Tina Fey proud, reminding him time and again that Ben Grieve and Elijah Dukes do not a great team make. Heck, they barely constituted a Major League squad. After all, this was a squad that popped the bubbly when they broke the 70-win ceiling. With a record of 645-876 in its first ten seasons, Tampa could do little more than cringe and flail when another team came to town, acquiescing when the transplanted Bostonians turned the Trop into Fenway Lite.

For that first decade, seeing the Rays earn a winning record, let alone taking the pennant, was about as likely as stepping in a pile of rocking-horse manure.

“The biggest reason that we never could draw fans, I think, was because we sucked,” he says. “We were awful for ten years, and who wants to see a team lose all the time?”

And yet Rob held fast, he held true, and he held on, knowing that one day, the doormats would go all “Revenge of the Nerds” on their American League bullies. Because when all else has been lost, faith, that eternal wait-till-next-year syndrome, remains.

“To any big baseball fan, it was pretty obvious that the Rays were positioned to improve [in 2008] — the younger players finally had some experience under their belts, and a few veterans were signed/traded for to help bring some maturity to the team,” Meister says. “Also, Evan Longoria is a God amongst men.”

Longoria’s holiness may be questionable, but it is only fitting that 2008 should be the time for Tampa to break from the chains of ineptitude. In a year that a biracial man became US President, when no one boycotted a Communist-hosted Olympics, and when Ben Affleck is actually funny, the Rays made it to the World Series.

That’s right, the Tampa Bay Rays won the American League pennant.

Swirl that around for a bit, gargle it, and spit it out. Still tastes funny, doesn’t it?

“The highlight [of the season] for me was Game 7 of the World Series against the Red Sox,” Meister says. “Boston had all the momentum — they won Games 5 and 6, their best pitcher was on the mound, and David Ortiz had finally started hitting. Matt Garza, one of our young starting pitchers went out there and shut them down. David Price, another young guy, did a hell of a job closing the game. It was really nice to see the more inexperienced players take the lead and win the game.”

But the Rays weren’t just the victors; they were also the underdogs, making it easy to get behind them. The bandwagon will be at full throttle next year, but Meister doesn't mind. At long last, his faith, long glued to his D-Rays hat and his Joe-Maddon-look-alike glasses, has finally been rewarded.

“I’m a little bummed [that the Philadelphia Phillies won] but I’m still really, really happy and proud of this team,” says Meister, whose favorite player was Fred McGriff, a Tampa native. “To go from last to first in the AL East, then beat the White Sox and Red Sox in the playoffs . . . it’s pretty impressive.”

Following this semester, Rob will join his friends and family in “the Burg,” basking in the glow of Tampa’s success. But don’t think for a second that he’s going to invest in any cowbells.

“No, I think [the cowbells] are stupid, but I kinda think the blue Mohawks are jazz,” he says.

Rife with Questions, the Seattle Mariners Look to 2009

Casey Michel — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 09:52:14 -0500

In America, November brings more than basted turkeys and wasted elections. The 11th month signifies the stoking of baseball’s hot stove, a panacea to the unavoidable candy-induced hangover of Halloween.

While the Phillies wipe the crust of champagne from their hair, most teams utilize this month to assess themselves, their situation, and their future. The A’s scrounge McAfee Coliseum’s dumpster, the Yankees cull the crop of “Antiques Roadshow,” and the Nationals try to find nine people who own a baseball bat and four limbs.

It’s fair to say that most teams have a gameplan, or, in the least, an idea of what it takes to be successful. The Mariners, alas, are not one of those teams.

Oh, they won some games last year—61 wins would make then instant contenders in the NBA—but in doing so, they became charter members of the “100-100 Club.” With a payroll of $116 million , the M’s successfully put their full effort into eclipsing the 100-loss plateau, a feat not easily attained. Technically, you could adjust for inflation, but even Titanic fans will still claim that the Mariners suck.

In a rare feat of rationality, heads rolled during the season, and yet, after John McLaren and Bill Bavasi found their way to the welfare line, the troubles continued. Injuries were chronic, underperformance was palpable, and team infighting was as veiled as John McCain’s anger issues.

The entire team may not have wanted to knock out Ichiro or bring shame to their family , but 2008 turned this squad’s cracks into canyons of callousness and conceit.

Now, new General Manager Jack Zduriencik has a bigger workload than Hank Paulson. With M’s president Chuck Armstrong and CEO Howard Lincoln breathing down his neck, Zduriencik will be expected to fix a busted garbage truck with some worn Scotch tape. Not exactly enviable.

As the offseason beckons, the questions boring into Zduriencik are great in number and few in enjoyable, and yet, all will need to be dealt with.

Let’s start at the top, shall we?

Raul Ibanez, long a stalwart in Safeco’s outfield, has run out of contract but not yet ability. An underrated slugger—last year he brought in .293/23/110—Ibanez’s bat has been a lone bright spot in an otherwise moribund offense, and his high affability has made him a unique draw in an industry that prizes loyalty.

But as torched as his bat’s been, Ibanez’s glove has nullified any contribution he has made, relative to fellow fielders. Ibanez is as good at defending as Bill O’Reilly is at subtlety , and his Tin-Man legs need to be considered when discussing his future.

In the least, if Ibanez leaves, his Type-A distinction will land the M’s either a first or second-round pick in the 2009 draft, depending on who plucks him up.

Fortunately, the Mariners have a gaping, desperate, bottomless hole at designated hitter. Since Edgar Martinez last swaggered off in 2004, Seattle’s DH’s have done nothing but doze off and bring blocks of Swiss cheese to the plate. Ibanez’s bat is proven, his off-field demeanor is collected, and his fit at DH is tacit.

The second free agent of importance—and I’m trying to stifle a laugh—is Willie Bloomquist. The longest-tenured Mariner has always brought a grittiness to the latté’d Northwest, and his Bremerton roots have brought him into the hearts of M’s fans young and old.

Although his bat has more holes than Augusta National, he’s a decent fielder and can still swipe a base when asked. He’ll only crack the starting nine on a neighborhood softball team, but he’s an essential stopgap during the late innings. Thus, there’s reason to bring him back, so long as his contract is minimal and requires him to dress as the Mariner Moose ever fifth game.

Once these free agents are settled, all eyes turn to the host of the hot corner: Adrian Beltre. A Gold-Glover and perennial guarantee for .270/25/85, Beltre now finds himself in the final year of his contract.

He’s been maligned for his post-Dodgers downturn—and will always be subconsciously associated with Richie “I Can Hit, I Swear!” Sexson—but the third baseman has constantly provided Seattle with solid performances, and aside from Ichiro, Felix Hernandez, and Brandon Morrow, no Mariner would net a greater haul.

You could discuss trade scenarios all day, but I tend to shy from peddling crystal balls, although I think it’s safe to say that Beltre’s days in Seattle are over. Unfortunately, that means that his patented "1, 2, Step" in the batter’s box will also be taken with him.

The other everyday Mariner nearest to the trading block is second-baseman Jose Lopez. The former All Star has dropped off since his heady 2006 campaign, falling prey to a leaden glove and, from his appearance, Carlos Silva’s diet.

Lopez’s defensive decline has become so apparent that Seattle’s typically-inept braintrust has mentioned switching Lopez to first base, which rattled the obstinate second baseman . However, Lopez’s bat showed resurgent pop last year to the tune of .297/17/89, helping offset his fielding miscues. Both he and his partner-in-crime, the slippery Yuniesky Betancourt, are bought on the cheap, so Lopez may be safe yet.

Wladimir Balentin and Jeremy Reed should battle it out for the rights to Cameron’s Woods, otherwise referred to as center field. It’s possible that Ichiro may give it another go, but the Japanese giant’s legs wore out two-thirds of the way through last year, so his presence in right field is all but assured.

And for the conspiracy theorists claiming that Ichiro’s time in Seattle is finished, it’s time to wake up and smell the green. There’s no other Mariner that brings in more revenue, no one as flamboyant, exciting, or debonair as the “Kasugai Killa’.”

With the immediate future already in the tank, ownership won’t risk turning Safeco Field into Dolphins Stadium, and while Ichiro may not bring clubhouse leadership, he brings the crowds. And if that wasn’t enough, his stats are ridiculous: eight years of 200-plus hits alongside a composite .331 BA and 1.02 OPS? Ring me up Pete Rose—it’s time to crown a new hit champion.

So, with Ibanez, Bloomquist, Beltre, Lopez, center field, and left field up in the air, you’d think Zduriencik’s play couldn’t hold much more, right?

Um, no.

Kenji Johjima, he of LVP fame , is currently slotted at catcher, much to Jarrod Washburn’s chagrin . Joh is an all-encompassing hole in the lineup, seeing more strikes than the Paris subways and missing more swings than Pompeii's playgrounds. His unprompted contract extension turned heads, and the questions he garnered were exacerbated by his (gulp) .227/7/39 line.

Furthermore, queries of the time arose from his blockage of Jeff Clement, the Mariners’ super prospect. However, Bavasi, in his bald-pated wisdom, may have been on to something. It appears that Clement can’t grasp the nuances of the pitching staff, so a move to first base is in the works.

Or not . Or…maybe . No one’s really sure at this point, just as no one’s sure why Zduriencik is sporting the same hairdo as his predecessor (…creepy).

But if Clement can’t handle a big-league staff, it’s not his fault. After all, he’s yet to see one. Want proof? Go wash down some rancid meat with a glass of sour milk, then look at the lines of Washburn, Silva, and Miguel Batista, and tell me which one makes you feel worse.

This is the most terrible threesome since Bush, Cheney, and Wolfowitz, but the latter trio will at least get book deals out of their debacle. Washburn is unsalvageable, Silva only performs when his stomach is full—an incredibly rare feat—and Batista is constantly getting distracted by his next volume of poetry . Felix, Morrow, and Ryan Rowland-Smith have all carried this bloated (literally) staff, but their youth and inexperience will only take them so far.

And it’s not like the three vagabonds come with a receipt—this cast costs $28 million, or about 28 million hot dogs for Silva’s slovenly stoutness .

Meanwhile, Erik Bedard languishes with a pitcher’s worst nightmare, a torn labrum. With only a year left on his contract, Bedard may still be traded, but his stock is lower than AIG, so he will likely return as a cog in the M’s rotation. That is, if he can be healthy for the first time in his career. At least Adam Jones didn’t make last year’s All-Star team...?

As you can see, Zduriencik’s work will be treacherous, with long hours, meddling superiors, and a roster that would make Peter Angelos cringe. The only area bringing relief will be the bullpen (pun intended), but in a game of complex and interdependent parts, having only one area in working condition simply will not suffice. Zduriencik won’t just need a plate for these problems—he’s going to need the whole buffet.

Speaking of food, I’m going to go guzzle some rancid meat and sour milk, because chewing on the Mariners is making me sick.

We Don't Know Jack about the Seattle Mariners' New GM

Casey Michel — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 19:24:05 -0400

You don’t know Jack.

Seriously, you don’t. That’s not an insult — it’s the truth, and you know it.

It’s cool though, because I don’t know Jack, either.

But does that make us stupid? Ignorant? Laughable? Does that bring us down a notch, Stump-the-Schwab-wise? Will people look at us with smirks and jeers, whispers and sneers?

Nah, they won’t. Because the Schwab, in his infinite, Dunkin’-Donuts-induced wisdom, doesn’t know Jack, either. In fact, no one really does.

Which is why I hesitate on applauding Jack’s hiring as the newly-appointed Mariners general manager.

Jack Zduriencik, usurping Lee Pelekoudas’ throne, is the latest Northwest gunslinger. A scouting man by trade, the Z-man—whose name sounds more like a Polish independence movement than a baseball lifer—made his reputation by stockpiling the Milwaukee Brewers’ farm system in ways that would make Billy Beane proud.

As Scouting Director of the once-moribund Brew Crew, Zduriencik oversaw a greater face-lift than the Joan Rivers Experience, helping Milwaukee return to prominence and eclipse the playoff threshold for the first time since M*A*S*H went off the air.

See if these names ring a bell: Corey Hart, J.J. Hardy, Prince Fielder, Dana Eveland, Tony Gwynn Jr., Yovani Gallardo, Rickie Weeks, Ryan Braun, and Cole Gillespie. All property of Zduriencik’s foresight, all succeeding in ways Mariners’ draftees could only dream.

Think not? Just compare them. While they’re still young, the three best M’s picks in recent years have stagnated at the big-league level. Jeff Clement? Can’t hit. Wladimir Balentin? Can’t hit, can barely field. Brandon Morrow? Showing Felix-like promise, but still unproven.

On that same parallel, the Brewers’ top three have had more success than US Special Forces in Syria. (Er….) Braun? Too many rookie awards to count. Fielder? Holds the Brewers’ record for jacks in a season. Gallardo? A meager 3.35 ERA in a healthy 134.1 innings tossed.

Yeah, Jack’s done all right.

Let’s face it: The Z-man has some scouting chops. But don’t take it from me; let his “Executive of the Year” trophy do the talking. Let his two former protégés-turned-Scouting-Directors, Tom Allison and Bobby Heck, tell you. Let his glowing predecessors describe the hire: “I think the hiring of Jack Zduriencik is going to be looked upon very favorably by a huge percentage of the baseball community,” says former Cincinnati Reds GM Wayne Krivsky.

But the Mariners weren’t looking for favorable posturing. If they were, Kim Ng would be helming the Mariners’ future. Nor are Howard Lincoln and Chuck Armstrong looking to update to a 21st-century, numbers-only mantra. If they were, Tony LaCava or Jerry DiPoto would be steering the Mariners back toward respectability.

No, the M’s were looking for someone that would get the job done without the frills or pomp that had invaded the previous executive box.

Zduriencik is old-school, a 57-year old, suit-and-tie, as-much-flash-as-a-potato kind of guy. He’s not made of flair and fluff; from his initial press conference, the guy believes in both stoicism and minimalism. He’s a man of few words, and unlike Bill “Jarrod-Washburn-is-Cy-Young-Material” Bavasi, Zduriencik looks to let his actions speak for themselves.

Unfortunately, Zduriencik already comes to the club with a stigma attached: He is a product of an Armstrong-Lincoln decision. For those keeping score at home, these two knuckleheads, who seem to be on a decade-long audition for the Dumb and Dumber reboot, have run a once-promising franchise into the ground and are threatening to break underneath China if not soon stopped.

While the Z-man has claimed that he will have as much autonomy as anyone else, the numerous people turning down GM interviews were obviously influenced by Armstrong’s call for a “collaborative and inclusive” work environment.

This style of management was rampant before Bavasi endured the “hot seat” of ’07-’08, but it’s not as if the preceding cooperative era of Carl "Dinosaurs-Ain't-Real" Everett and Charles "Spiderman" Gipson was much better.

Suffice it to say, the duo of Armstrong and Lincoln would have made Lehman Brothers' upper management look good over the last couple years, which is why I worry, fret, and fear for Jack. Ultimately, Zduriencik’s success will ride on his ability to coax Armstrong and Lincoln out of the room and onto Edgar Martinez Drive, allowing the new GM to focus on the changes needed (which, if you haven’t noticed, run aplenty).

When he finds a new center fielder, DH, and first baseman, we’ll know Jack. When he decides the future of Raul Ibanez and Adrian Beltre, we’ll get an idea about Jack. When the Mariners’ new manager strides to the plate on opening day, we’ll have formulated an opinion on Jack.

Right now, though, we just don’t know jack about Jack.

After Eight Years, The Blazers Are Back

Casey Michel — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 18:12:35 -0400

Eight years ago, I dribbled a worn basketball in my cracked driveway.

“Beat LA!” yelled the blue-shirted dude passing on his bike.

“Yeah,” I offered, meekly, turning my back to the guy. Try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the reason I was outside, dejectedly displaying my Rucker Park game for all the neighbors to see.

We weren’t going to beat L.A. We weren’t even going to have another shot.

My Trail Blazers, the only team I’d shared a city, a home, and a ’hood with, were about to be ousted from the 2000 NBA Western Conference Finals after owning a 13-point lead in the fourth quarter. Portland’s pride, the NBA team most often compared to the Green Bay Packers, was staring down the barrel of a Game 7 Shaq attack, and there was nothing the rastafarian Brian Grant or I could do about it. So I cowered, running outside and avoiding the on-court onslaught.

Eight years have passed since that June. Eight years of Rasheed Wallace’s vitriol, Damon Stoudamire’s Hummer, Ruben Patterson’s sex life, and Bonzi Wells’ I-black-out-sometimes middle finger. Eight years of Jail Blazers, Fail Blazers, and Sigh, We Need Someone to Post Bail (Again) Blazers.

That may have made you laugh, but just remembering those names brings a Medusa-stopping cringe to my face.

There’s no getting around it — those eight seasons sucked.

Sure, you could argue that karmic fortune got the (ping pong) ball rolling when 2007’s No. 1 pick came to town. Or you could say this Rose City Renaissance began with the 2006 draft, a haul that netted the indomitable LaMarcus Aldridge and the incomparable Brandon Roy. Heck, you could even mark the reboot at Kevin Pritchard’s ascension to assistant general manager a couple years back.

But you’d be wrong. Those examples are nice, no doubt — but you’re forgetting Zach “Stat-Bo” Randolph, Darius “Head-Bop” Miles, and the 21 “wins” of 2006; you’re omitting Oden’s microfracture and Paul Allen’s bankruptcy; and you’re overlooking the still-maligned Chris Paul debacle.

After all, it was just last year that Rick Reilly, pre-Bill Simmonsized at ESPN, told Oden that if Portland picked him, he’d get to see his teammates in orange jumpsuits.

Suffice it to say, I’d rather give Rosie O’Donnell a Thai massage while watching every Nicholas Cage movie than have to relive those years.

Fortunately, Blockbuster was out of The Wicker Man and Rosie’s publicist never called me back, so I can look to the ’08-’09 season with my innocence and sanity intact. A new season is just around the corner, and just like Bush from the White House, eight years of abject failure are about to be swept into the past, replaced by change, hope, and, above all, some basketball IQ. (Is it any coincidence that Barack Obama’s brother-in-law is now the head coach at Oregon State University?)

The era of the Great Northwest crime wave appears to be over, and we once again have a team to pack the Rose Garden for. No matter what NBA preview you’ve read, the basketball brains are all saying one thing: The Blazers will be a force from the opening tip till the first round of the postseason, and possibly beyond. In the toughest conference across the sporting world, one of the youngest teams in the game’s history should find itself hosting an above-.500 record, a Rookie of the Year — not necessarily named Oden — and a playoff game or two.

But it’s not just the fact that we can, technically, ball. Any team can with shoelaces and some leather can find net. The reason my eyes glint while talking about the Blazers is because these are guys who could hang out with your Mom, guys you would want to watch your kids, guys who wouldn’t say no to a neighborhood potluck. These are amiable, affable, and downright approachable people, all of whom are proud, right-minded citizens of a proud, left-minded city. Channing Frye wants your advice on artwork, Travis Outlaw drives around in a Neon-Hulk Impala, and Greg Oden has diversity that only Philip Seymour Hoffman could rival.

See? You can’t help but smile, can you?

You know, there’s a reason that NBA commissioner David Stern, after shining Clay Bennett’s shoes, claimed that the Blazers were the team he’s looking forward to the most.

Portland may not take the scepter, crown, or throne this year — it’s only fair that we let Madman Artest and his gang of Houston misfits get a shot — but the next decade will be ours. Behind Roy’s acumen, Aldridge’s deftness, Rudy’s YouTubery, and the Tower of Oden, the Blazers’ reemergence will surprise no one, yet astound everyone. Our future is mind-numbingly open for success, bright in ways that only Stephen Hawking could imagine.

And yes, the bandwagon will be up and running — Sonics fans automatically get the front seat — but feel free to join the likes of Magic Johnson, J.A. Adande, and the whole Sports Illustrated crew when the postseason winds its way through an Oregon trail.

And this time, I promise, it’ll be different.

This time, we’ll beat LA.

So, Who Wants On the Blazers Bandwagon?

Casey Michel — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 06:19:35 -0400

Unless you’re busy spending $150,000 on clothes and makeup — and therefore spreading the wealth! — you’ve undoubtedly heard that my Trail Blazers are back. With Oden’s beard, Roy’s stealth, and Coach Nate’s bark, these P-Towners are set to squash Western Conference bottom-feeders and force the looming giants to take heed of their future replacements.

And that’s good news for you, because the Blazers Backers’ recruitment office is currently taking applications for bandwagoners.

The requirements are simple and straightforward, and remember, please note how many times an airport screener has discovered your tinfoil-covered marijuana. (We can’t explicitly deny entry to Damon Stoudamire, but we’re going to try everything we can.)

No cutting, unless it’s on a backdoor pick, and please, no head tattoos or calls to “Get caught up in life!”. Sonics fans should form in the quick-pass line, while those abandoning the Suns’ ship, busy going down in flames, might take a bit longer to organize their burning paperwork.

The requirements are as follows:

•    Must despise being surrounded by four walls, especially while awake. As a parallel requirement, you must scale at least one mountain per year, kayak one river per six months, and hike a national park every other week.

•    Must be willing to deface anything at a moment’s notice, so long as those items contain gold and/or purple. If anything in your house — be it clothes, faucets, satin sheets, or shrines to Omar Cook — is colored gold or purple, discontinue reading, because we don’t want you.

•    Must display bike rage at ignorant motorists breathing down your neck as you pedal along I-84. If you have to get a license plate on your bike, then, heck, you should be able to cruise along the highways, right?

•    Must believe in Sasquatch. (Sonics fans may have a leg up in this area.)

•    Must be willing to slash tires of any U-Dub or Wazzoo fan, but willing to root for the Ducks or Beavers no matter the opponent.

•    Must sign a petition to return Boomer the Beaver to his rightful place in PGE Park.

•    Must be willing to spend at least seven straight hours in a bookstore. If illiteracy is your thing, then I have no idea how you’re understanding this, but I’m intrigued, and you may continue your application.

•    Must wear a bullet-proof vest when traveling on the East Side. (Ok, this one’s a joke — Portland’s safer than the Bubble Boy, and Hawthorne St.’s bistro-and Shins-lovers won’t try to hustle you as you pass them by, unless it’s for your opinion on Gus Van Sant.)

•    Must be terrified of three centimeters of snow.

•    Must not time travel to 1815 and get Shanghai’d in one of Portland’s underground tunnels. I mean, you can, but do you really want to sweep the poop deck as some pirate’s slave?

•    Must always see a Major League Baseball team just beyond the horizon, knowing that one day, the politicians, team owners, and city officials will all be on the same page, bringing the Portland Cascades from my dreams to a downtown ballpark.

•    Must convince at least three people to place “Nader/LaDuke 2000” signs in their front yards, and keep them there through Nov. 4.

•    Must have seen The Hunted, Mr. Brooks, and Are We There Yet? and despised every one of them.

•    Must know what geoducks and tree octopi are. (If not, feel free to look them up — you won’t be disappointed. Well, maybe you will, but that really depends on your standards.)

•    Must claim East Coast bias on everything from NBA predictions to food reviews, because let’s face it, it’s always there.

•    Must revile Bob Whitsitt, love Martell’s shooting stroke, guess Oden’s age, miss Kevin Duckworth, steal Brian Grant’s dreads, want Bill Schonely as a surrogate grandfather, admire Jason Quick, feel for Sam Bowie, live on the Blazers' Edge, smoke with Bill Walton, and name first child “Clyde” (or, if it’s a girl, “The Glide.”)

If you have read and understood the stipulations for Blazers bandwagoning and are still interested in this unique and vaunted position, please contact recruiters at Remember1977@RoseGarden.com, JRRidersnipple@ArvydasSabonisWasSmoove.com, or DariusLovesMoCheeks@BonziBlackouts.com.

NB: If you use umbrellas, nuh-uh, thanks but no thanks. None of those namby-pamby water shields — only Columbia Sportswear up here, kid.

(PS: Any more I missed?)

A Hero's Welcome: Ken Griffey Jr.'s Return to Seattle

Casey Michel — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 02:08:10 -0400

For most people, the end of childhood comes gradually. The final stroke of this elemental phase of your life usually takes time to develop, and most people are often unaware of the measured, minuscule changes that land them in the throes of adulthood.

There is rarely a defining point, a singular moment where you can pinpoint the conclusion of this primordial stage of your life.

For most people.

For me, my childhood had an exact expiration date: Feb. 10, 2000. Had I been more prescient, I would have seen it coming, for it was only a few weeks after Ken Griffey Jr., one of the greatest outfielders the game of baseball has ever seen, had demanded a trade from the Seattle Mariners.

After a full night of parsing my Legos, I awoke on the 10th to a morning that seemed instantly gloomier than most. I'm not sure if it was my Dad's somber look or my Mom's condolences that originally tipped me off, but I knew that this day, for all the wrong reasons, would not be a fond memory.

And in a moment, I would give anything to forget. I picked up the already-handled newspaper, and saw that the headline read “GRIFFEY SENT TO CINCINNATI."

It was in this instant that the meaning of tragedy became painfully apparent. Granted, tragedy is relative. You see, I’m blessed enough to not know the loss of a parent, or a precarious life on the streets, or even the failure of being rejected from a college. Regardless, for one reason or another, I have been fortunate through the entirety of my life.

The sports teams I followed were no different. My Mariners of the mid-1990s played superbly—unlike their modern counterparts—and were anchored by Griffey, my childhood hero. He embodied everything my pre-teen self strove to be. He was a comic-book hero come to life: The Batman of batsmen, so to speak.

His lithe stature and Ruthian aura made my seven-year-old eyes sparkle with wonder and amazement whenever the lefty scaled the padded, sky-blue outfield wall to bring the ball back from the land of home runs, or when his swing sent the ball into a majestic arc that would never seem to end.

Ah, his swing. If beauty were to ever die, its tombstone would contain only three words: Ken Griffey’s swing. That motion, the astounding perfection of shoulders, elbows, wrists, torso, hips, knees, ankles, and feet, could make women swoon and men renounce their masculinity.

Distraught babies would fall quiet, hardened kings would offer their nubile daughters, and bloody wars would instantly end just to watch Ken Griffey Jr. slice the air with his redwood rapier.

But on the 10th, all of this reality came crashing down like a glass house. That newspaper, the devil incognito, acted as judge, jury, and executioner, officially confining my childhood to the realm of memory. He was my hero. And he had abandoned us. Nothing could ever be done to change the weight or depth of his exodus.

Thus, the lean years began.

Yet, in an odd twist of fate, I was not the only one who began suffering after that infamous swap. Griffey, who I once thought could outrun a Mustang—or at least a Randy Johnson fastball—was soon hampered by injury and fatigue. The freewheeling days of youthful bravado had caught up to him, and his body, once nimble and graceful, was forced to pay the toll of time.

After six seasons in Cincinnati, injuries deprived Griffey of over half of the games. Karma was truly a cruel mistress.

But as Bud Selig, the commissioner of the MLB, would have it, Griffey’s days in Seattle were not quite over. With the advent of interleague play, the great barrier of league affiliation was beaten down and teams from both National and American Leagues could face one another during the regular season.

Rivalries once sequestered solely for the World Series could flourish under the gentle May sun, and teams that had never seen the lush ivy at Wrigley Field or the ignominious catwalks of Tropicana Field in Tampa Bay now had the chance. And at long last, I would have the chance to see my hero return with all the gusto and fervor of his youth.

Right?

Well, yes, but not right away. Patience, as with anything that is worth waiting for, would be required. Years came and went, but—since the thick-skulled Mr. Selig failed to realize what the weight of Griffey’s return would mean—there was no sign of my hero’s arrival on the horizon. At all.

Through my awkward middle-school years, through my wonderful high-school summers, there was not one whisper that the hero would return. And while my love for the Mariners matured, a dearth of World Series appearances had me longing for the glory days of yesteryear.

Good thing I was patient, because as I sat at my hardwood desk in early 2007, barricaded from the harsh February winds by the windows on my right, I saw on my glowing laptop screen what I had been longing to see since the days I watched Nickelodeon: June 22-24, 2007, Cincinnati at Seattle.

Griffey would be returning.

I immediately began singing—I think it was “Oh, Happy Day!”—and skipping down the carpeted hallway in nothing but a pair of shimmering athletic shorts. Weird looks ensued, although my neighbors really should have been used to my antics by now.

Once the jaunt had worn me out, I quickly called my dad, since he is my comrade in attending baseball games—not to mention ticket-purchaser. After a couple minutes of reveling in the patience rewarded, we cemented our agreement to buy the tickets to those games.

The next few months flew by and before I knew it, June 21 had arrived, bringing with it a combination of Christmas Eve-excitement and childhood-movie reminiscing.

Unfortunately, my dad was—to use a cheap sports analogy—on the disabled list, so I had to scrounge up some replacements. Fortunately, fair-weather Mike and Blazer-backer Clement were willing to join me on the trek north.

The uneventful drive to the Emerald City took place in my clunky red Volvo station wagon, complete with the years-old GoGurt stain above the passenger seat. Plodding shrubbery and pale-green plains marked the tedious, uneventful trip.

But as we finally crested the last hill to Seattle, seeing the aptly named Space Needle sitting alongside the skyscrapered downtown, I could feel the anticipation building. I’d taken this drive, passed the green-and-white metal sign pointing to Safeco Field innumerable times before, but never before had I felt this yearning in my chest, this warmth in my gut as I imagined what was to come.

As we drove up, Safeco Field, the home of the M’s, came into full view. This mass of evergreen girders and guttered metal looks more like a Boeing airplane hangar than a ballpark, but I love it nonetheless. It had replaced the dour Kingdome, a pile of concrete that was more of an eyesore than the oft-maligned Minneapolis Metrodome.

The one aspect that joined the Kingdome with "The Safe" was a short right field porch, built in the hopes of retaining a certain left-handed slugger...ah, what could have been.

Since the summer sun had burned off the damp Puget Sound fog, the retractable roof had opened and cast a shadow over us as we walked through the empty, weed-filled lot on the west side of the ballpark. After giving the ticket to the teal-colored, geriatric attendant, I ascended the stairs behind left field.

As I reached the top I looked to my right to glimpse the shimmering green, the deep brown dirt, and the stark white chalk-lines meshing to create a magnificent spectacle, one that I could never tire of seeing. But this time, the view was different, because all around me people donned shirts, jerseys, and caps with only one name attached.

"Griffey."

Everyone—everyone—was here for him.

Bumping my way through the packed concourse, I finally made it to my seat, 40 rows directly behind home plate. Looking out, I could see the swath of every color of the palette filling the 45,000-plus crowd. Sprinkled throughout the wave of fans were signs, painted in red and blue marker, reading “No ’Roids in Griffey” or “Welcome Back Junior, We’ve Missed You.”

It seemed wherever my gaze fell, I found someone who reveled in this day just as much as me. Like a war hero returning from years of fighting abroad, Griffey’s fans had gathered, en masse, to offer him the warmest welcome the Evergreen State had ever seen.

Sitting down, I overheard someone mutter that batting practice had ended 15 minutes early for a “proceeding,” and a knowing sensation spread throughout my body. I quickly pulled out my camera and prepared for whatever was to come, but my patience would not be tested long.

A hush quickly fell over the crowd, as images of Griffey, once again in Mariners white and blue, appeared on the giant video monitor. There was his first at-bat in in the majors, his slender frame looking lost in the pillowy Mariners garb.

There were the towering back-to-back home runs he and his father hit in 1990, a feat no one could—hell, should—have ever predicted. There was Game Five, the deciding game of the 1995 American League Division Series. And instantly, I am transported into my seven-year-old self again.

I am sitting in my dank, musty, carpeted basement alongside my dad as my mom rocks back and forth in the ratty armchair on my left. The yellowed walls are starting to peel, and the shelves of toys are, as usual, a mess. But we’re not noticing this right now. All eyes are on the TV in front of us.

The Mariners have made the playoffs for the first time in their 18-year existence and are facing none other than the pinstriped posterchilds of pompousness, the New York Yankees, in the best-of-five American League Division Series. Having dropped the first two games in New York, the M’s had returned to Seattle with their backs to the walls.

They somehow took the next two games to even the series, but right now, the Mariners find themselves down a run in the bottom of the 11th inning.

Facing the Bunyan-esque Jack McDowell, the Mariners sent their diminutive fireplug Joey Cora to the plate, whose bunt promptly carved a nice little resting spot on the first-base side. With Cora on, Griffey then sent a line drive through the hole at second, pushing Cora to third and bringing Edgar Martinez to the plate.

Martinez, with the look of the grizzled veteran he would eventually become, laced a fastball down the left-field line, scoring Cora easily to tie the game. The boisterous crowd hoisted “Refuse to Lose” signs and rose out of their seats to cheer, but, as we immediately realized, the play was not yet over.

A streaking bullet was rounding second—it was as if Griffey was about to run out of his uniform—and in typical October fashion, we realized there was going to be a play at the plate.

Griffey flew around third, arms churning and legs a blur. The relay took one, two hops in its race to catcher Jim Leyritz. But the ball was no match for Junior. As Griffey slid into home plate, the horde of Mariners fans erupted in a cheer I thought would blow out my TV speakers.

And when he was being dog-piled by his exuberant teammates, Griffey’s face broke into the childlike smile he had become known for—the carefree smile that made you think, yeah, everything would be all right.

And that night, everything was more than all right. Everything was perfect. And it was that perfection that people from all over had now traveled to Safeco to remember. So, 12 years later, when Griffey finally emerged from the visitor’s dugout, the accumulated weight of all those years without him was lifted.

In the foreign colors of red and black, Griffey approached the microphone stand, hands held behind his back as he gathered his thoughts. But we wouldn’t let him. For three straight minutes, we cheered for him. We cheered because of all he had done for us; we cheered for his honesty in an era of steroid-induced deception; we cheered because of the nasty fortune he had been dealt.

I cheered for my childhood hero, whose arms soon extended in thanks to the fans who will always consider him one of their own.

As soon as he managed, “I never knew how much I missed this place,” I felt the first tear, seven years in the making, sneak its way out and onto the back of my hand. Tears found their way to Griffey, too, especially when he was greeted by former teammates Edgar Martinez and the bald-pated, recently-retired Jay Buhner.

Although the Mariners would go on to lose that game by the astounding score of 16-1, the worst loss in Safeco Field history, it didn’t matter. My hero had returned, and, for the weekend, I was a kid again.

Some Cinematic Preditions for the 2008-09 NBA Season

Casey Michel — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 03:04:03 -0400

With the NBA season fast approaching, let's take a peek at how the 30 squads will compare to one another.

And for all you cinephiles out there, try to spot the movie reference accompanying each team—which should be about as difficult as making Manu Ginobli flop!

Atlantic Division

1. Boston Celtics, 58-24

With Rajon Rondo’s postseason ascension, a clever media takes to calling him, KG, Paul Pierce, and Ray Allen the Fantastic 4. Following the script, Rondo, as the Invisible Woman, will end up marrying Garnett in this year’s sequel.

2. Philadelphia 76ers, 45-37

Looming larger than life in his new town, Philly fans and teammates look in awe at the terrifying Elton Brand. With zero fourth-quarter assists on the year, it’s apparent no one wants to take the Monster’s Ball, at least not with the game on the line.

3. Toronto Raptors, 43-39

Rumor has it Andrea Bargnani, the No. 1 pick from 2006, underwent an intense offseason workout regimen. Secretly, though, Bargnani has been training as an undercover assassin, as succeeding in the NBA is not something he ever really Wanted—as evidenced by last season’s abysmal performance.

4. New Jersey Nets, 34-48

On a new squad and still utilizing incomprehensible English, Yi Jianlian continues his transformation into Wall-E by befriending one of the Continental Airlines Arena cockroaches—and, in a scientific find of the decade, inadvertently discovering actual vegetation in North Jersey.

5. New York Knicks, 12-70

Stephon Marbury’s downward spiral continues, as the point guard claims he goes spelunking in the nude, eats live pigeons before gamedays, and actually enjoyed The Happening. Somewhere, Freud and Isiah Thomas smile.

Central Division

1. Cleveland Cavaliers, 52-30

After a swift rebuke from Cavs owner Dan Gilbert, King James comes clean on his future in Cleveland. Will he stay? “Definitely, (Maybe).”

2. Detroit Pistons, 50-32

After Rasheed Wallace, Tayshaun Prince, and Rip Hamilton all retire to form a breakdance troupe, “The Motown Movers,” first-year Pistons coach Michael Curry looks to Rodney Stuckey to Step Up. Stuckey feels the beat, leading the Pistons back to the Eastern Conference Finals.

3. Chicago Bulls, 40-42

Seeking Atonement for last year’s horrific implosion, Joakim Noah offers to sacrifice his hair, turning it into some Hot Fuzz via blowtorch. (Oh man, two movies for the price of one Joakim Noah-has-awful-hair joke! Sweet!)

4. Milwaukee Bucks, 31-51

Still smarting from his team’s humiliating loss to the USA in the Olympics, Andrew Bogut, a native of Australia, retaliates by sending every member of the Redeem Team live crocodiles. And thus, the legacy of Steve Irwin lives on.

5. Indiana Pacers, 18-64

This team’s highest-paid players, in order, are Troy Murphy, Mike Dunleavy, and Rasho Nesterovic. Is Will Ferrell filming a sequel to Semi-Pro, or does Larry Bird just not care anymore?

Southeast Division

1. Atlanta Hawks, 52-30

With Josh Childress soaking up the Hellenic rays, general manager Rick Sund has a midseason Nightmare Before Christmas when he dreams that the former Hawk’s ’fro is still taking up cap space.

2. Washington Wizards, 49-33

In a recent blog entry, Agent Zero asks his fans to share a Quantum of Solace for his brittle legs before every home game. DeShawn Stevenson pleads for the same, as multiple fungi have started taking over his beard. (Meanwhile, Jay-Z formulates a ‘Yo, Dat Fungus is Humongous’ riff.)

3. Miami Heat, 46-36

Stealing the cape from his in-state neighbor, Dwyane Wade uses the 2008-09 season to show that when Superman Returns, he does so with a vengeance. Plus, Chris Quinn could pull off a Lex Luthor, don’t you think?

4. Orlando Magic, 31-51

After being on the wrong end of Rudy Fernandez’s Olympic YouTubery, Dwight Howard switches superhero personas, but regresses more than Sam Raimi did with Spiderman 3 as the Magic fall from playoff contention.

5. Charlotte Bobcats, 30-52

With apathy and approaching senility, Larry Brown spends most of the season lounging on the Carolina coast, earning the moniker of Old Man and the Sea. To everyone’s surprise, Adam Morrison eventually grows a beard and wins a Hemingway look-alike contest.

Pacific Division

1. Los Angeles Clippers, 60-22

The Life of Brian Skinner entails many things, such as riding the pine, picking up Baron Davis’ water bottles, and cowering from the Cloverfield monster—er, Marcus Camby. The one thing Skinner accomplishes this season? Stealing the "Ugliest Baller" title from Chris Kaman. (Again, two movie references—what's with bad hair and more movie shout-outs?)

2. Los Angeles Lakers, 58-24

With Pau as Brian, Odom as Champ, Kobe and Ron, and Bynum as Brick, this Laker squad succeeds both on the court and in the newsroom. What, you didn’t know Phil Jackson coaches Anchorman reenactments in his spare time?

3. Sacramento Kings, 48-34

Kevin Martin plays out of his brain, sneaking his surprising team to the second round of the playoffs. As congratulations, Shaq sends K-Mart a copy of The Queen.

4. Golden State Warriors, 41-41

After being axed as the Warriors’ mascot, “Thunder” finds success of the set of the upcoming Smurfs film, valiantly playing Smurfette’s sexy pool boy, although he later sues Papa Smurf for making him reenact Monta Ellis' moped accident. (Side note, with an added movie reference: Which NBA player can look his teammates in the face and say he rides a moped? That's like the scene from The Departed, where Leo DiCaprio's character gets flak for drinking cranberry juice. Are we to believe Ellis accepts bar brawls as the toll for trolling around on a moped?)

5. Phoenix Suns, 28-54

Looking to reclaim the run’n’gun offense from the departed Mike D’Antoni, Steve Nash and company average 299 ponts per game for the season. Unfortunately, their opponents tend to notch just over 300.

Southwest Division

1. Houston Rockets, 64-18

In order to protect his (deep breath) back, neck, shoulders, wrist, knee, ankle, and hamstrings, T-Mac constructs a protective suit of gold alloy for game day. Much to his chagrin, the non-element-savvy media still tags him as Iron Man.

2. New Orleans Hornets, 60-22

Now that people actually recognize him, David West lies awake at night, just waiting for someone to come forward and produce a picture of his 1992-94 stint as a Jeri-curled Wedding Singer. Think Calvin Murphy, but with falsetto.

3. Dallas Mavericks, 43-39

Using the Pineapple Express to take his game to the highest level, Josh Howard helps Dallas smoke out the regular-season competition. Not to be blunt, but Howard loves the ganja—does that make him more or less anti-American?

4. San Antonio Spurs, 29-53

Trying to will his way past stale teammates and an aging core, Tim Duncan toughens up and adopts the moniker of American Gangster. However, people quickly remember he’s from the Virgin Islands, and the Big Easy reverts to being softer than a marshmallow Peep.

5. Memphis Grizzlies, 22-60

As brother of Pau, Marc Gasol may always be considered Almost Famous, but he reaches the apex of Google searches when he stands on top of the FedEx Forum and screams, “I am a golden god!”

Northwest Division

1. Utah Jazz, 56-26

After carrying the Russian flag through the Opening Ceremonies, Andrei Kirilenko decides to continue the tradition at all Jazz home games. Alas, David Stern is a big fan of Red Dawn, and quickly nixes Skeletor Kirilenko’s idea.

2. Portland Trail Blazers, 48-34

Calls are still out to Danny Glover, a Portland native, to portray Greg Oden in the sequel to The Rookie—so long as Glover can look ten years older.

3. Denver Nuggets, 41-41

Deciding that it was frugal to ride to Denver together on a motorized scooter, AI and ’Melo give new meaning to Dumb and Dumber when they decide to try some of Chris Andersen’s, um, “prescriptions” along the way.

4. Minnesota Timberwolves, 30-52

Kevin Love’s weight continues to balloon as the rookie devours anything he can get his hands on. Kevin McHale cringes when, during a road trip to NYC, Love mistakes the city’s power cords for black licorice and throws Gotham into The Dark (K)night.

5. Oklahoma City Thunder, 12-70

Acting out scenes from Superbad, the utter boredom of OKC leads Kevin Durant and Jeff Green to get the baby-faced Russell Westbrook, a.k.a. McLovin’, to buy them some booze. “The funny thing about my hook shot is that it’s located on my...low block."

The NBA Playoffs Should Be Changed, Like It or Not

Casey Michel — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 01:01:10 -0400

Contrary to what some may say out there, good sports writing still exists. Ian Thomsen, the balding Sports Illustrated sage—he and TrueHoop's Henry Abbott should form a club—can usually be counted on to donate his time toward sound NBA observations. His writing in the magazine is some of the finest out there, but, as I am a poor college student, si.com has become my bastion of Thomsen musings.

So during an offseason whose highlight has—for me—been Rudy Fernandez in-your-eyeing Dwight Howard, I decided to check out Thomsen's archives, scouring the links for any tidbits that may help me in future discussion.

And help, they have. During one of his “Weekly Countdowns,” Thomsen dispensed interesting support of Tracy McGrady, disdain of the tragicomedic Clay Bennett, and explained why he—as we now see, mistakenly—picked the Mavs to win it all.

But as the capstone of last week’s commentary, Thomsen threw his weight behind something which, as a Gen-Y’er and thus a purveyor of equal opportunity, I simply cannot agree with—keeping the NBA playoff format.

As a matter of full disclosure, I guess it’s necessary to point out that, yes, there is a Blazers sign posted next to my door, but my stance toward restructuring the playoffs was in no way affected by my Portland partiality. Promise.

Therefore, since Thomsen so graciously gave us “five reasons to stick with the playoff format,” I will attempt to counter these arguments with a five-some of my own.

5. The NBA can seed a single bracket.

The MLB doesn’t do it. The NFL doesn’t do it. The NHL (if anyone still cares) doesn’t do it. So why, my friends, should the final participant in the Big Four deign to cobble all playoff teams into one bracket?

Two words: March Madness.

Only a fool or a liar would claim that the March Madness, with the possible exception of that lone play-in game, is a failure. From Selection Sunday to the Final Four, the excitement of this lone bracket is akin to the feeling Waterloo’s outcome brought Britain.

The teams are dispersed evenly, without regard to conference or—with the possible exception of the top seeds—locale. Only the 65 best teams are welcomed into the pearly gates of the Madness, and only the top will eventually find themselves lauded by Digger Phelps and Bob Knight.

No, I am not saying that the NBA should mimic all the attributes of the Greatest Spectacle on Earth—the less Dick Vitale, the better for my eardrums. I'm just saying that The Administration should cull March Madness' best aspects and apply them to NBA playoffs.

As Thomsen says, a slight tweaking of the schedule would need to happen in order for the “equality” aspect of this to work. Stern has obviously shown that he is willing to shake things up—relocating into six divisions just went down a couple years ago, murmurs of European/Russian expansion continue to bubble and fester, and the guy approved a team moving from a top-15 market to—and I still can't believe this is true—Oklahoma.

Granted, pooling all the teams would be a reversal of current trends, but I never understood where this fixation with division winners came from. Ok, well, maybe I do—more playoff games equate more money, especially ticket prices that have gone up by more than double-digit percentages in the last 10 years.

Baseball started the craze in 1995, and the other three soon followed suit. Before you know it, Atlantic Division Champions banners joined the rafters alongside the plethora of World Champion flags in Boston Garden.

But if I could use the 2008 playoffs as Example A, the divisional structure has created some strange, Twilight Zone-esque situations. What kind of world is it where a higher seed—the Jazz—cedes home-court advantage to a lower seed?

As the first-round series wound toward Game Six, the Utah-Houston matchup had easily become the most intriguing competition out West—if only because Houston would have hosted the deciding Game Seven. Ian, this makes about as much sense as John McCain claiming he invented the BlackBerry, doesn't it?

The schedule of equality would no longer be weighted, as every team would face the other, say, three times, for a grand total of 87 games. Thomsen declares this method would never work because, among other reasons, it would “ruin any hope of creating divisional or regional rivalries.”

Really? If San Antonio and Dallas didn’t meet as often, that rivalry would go the way of the telegraph? And are you saying that the whims of carpetbaggers are suffice to ruining the I-5 and potential Oden-Durant rivalries, but a sense of fairness isn't?

Call me an idealist, but I don’t buy it. Regional rivalries will always exist—look no further than the NL's Brooklyn Dodgers' and the AL's New York Yankees' fights of yesteryear for proof that a glut of regular season meetings don’t mean squat.

And don’t give me this “travel sucks” baloney. This isn’t the post-Depression 1930s, and you are not the Boston Red Sox catching the 9:30 train to St. Louis for a night game with the Browns.

It is now the 21st century, a time in which a phone can turn into a TV and anything is just a click away. As Tony Stark said in Iron Man, the charter flights will wait on those flying, not vice versa, so quit your whining.

4. There's no proof—none whatsoever—that equality seeding would ruin matchups.

Thomsen penned this article while the playoffs were in their infancy, so he didn’t have the fortune of hindsight now available. Beyond the claim that, based solely on record, Golden State and Portland would have put up better fights than Atlanta and Philadelphia, Thomsen’s claims of series being “better” or “worse” is both trivial and irrational.

For example, he says that New Orleans vs. Cleveland would have been “worse” than Cleveland-Washington or New Orleans-Dallas. I'm not a betting man, but I can guarantee no one would take a bathroom break in New Orleans Arena while LeBron James went toe-to-toe with CP3.

And how did that Phoenix-San Antonio "whoever-wins-this-series-will-win-the-West" struggle turn out? With the exception of the ESPN Classic-worthy Game One, the Suns turned out to be terribly over-hyped, and Steve Nash’s inability to properly dish the ball meant that the series was sealed long before it was over.

Thomsen’s arbitrary opinions are null and void, and fail to count on upstarts—like Philadelphia and Atlanta—putting up a legitimate fight.

3. The NBA playoffs will still be “quirky," but no longer unfair.

No one likes predictability in sports. Fans, sports writers, and Pete Rose et al. would desert the realm of sports if Goliath always stomped on David. Fortunately, the games’ intangible and capricious nature means that no one—besides the 1919 Black Sox—knows what the coda of the show will entail.

Thomsen is right in saying that “the NBA puts on the purest tournament of the four major leagues”—but only in the sense that 12 of the last 13 NBA champions have been one of the top two of their conference. However, as we saw in 2007 with Baron’s beard-led Warriors, anything can happen come postseason.

The “quirky” factor of the NBA will remain if the most deserving teams are let into the playoffs, but when a team has put forward the will, fortitude, and desire through 82 grueling games, only to see its championship hopes go up in flames due to a line-in-the-sand setup, something does not sit well.

Since “the most qualified teams usually advance through the playoffs because that’s how the best-of-seven series format works in the NBA,” why would it be so terrible to actually give everyone a fair shot?

2. The lottery is a consolation prize, sure—but only for a couple teams.

Ok, Thomsen may be correct on this one. At the end of the rainbow lies a nice little lottery pick for those unfortunate teams whose bubbles burst after 82 games. But, beyond the benefits for those one or two teams, how does this make the league better in its current format?

When I was but a middle-schooler, a mid-NBA-season Sports Illustrated article ran chronicling the rise of the West (for some reason they decided to include a piece on Bonzi Wells, but that’s beside the point). It’s not that hard to imagine a lazy SI editor recycling the story, replacing a couple names here and there, and not worrying that the fans would even bat an eye.

Why? Because, despite the Danny Ainge's pickpocketing of former teammate Kevin McHale, the West is more dominant than its ever been, with nearly nine 50-plus win teams. And who knows how many the Blazers would have gotten with Greg Oden holding down the post?

The NFL and MLB have it right in this department, rewarding the worst teams with the best picks. But karma had its way with both Memphis and Boston in 2007—teams that obviously tanked as the season would down—and gave Portland and Seattle/Oklahoma City the top picks (although it's debatable Miami would have picked Derrick Rose during the 2008 draft).

But as the 2007-08 regular season entered its final throes, who could have said the teams that came within a whisper of the playoffs wouldn't have landed the No. 1 pick once again? With Baron Davis, Monta Ellis, and Michael Beasley on the team, the Warriors would undoubtedly rocket into the playoffs, leaving yet another worthy West squad at home during May.

Chicago, with a 1.7 percent chance of earning the pole position, took on the role of spoiler—but those minuscule odds could have just as easily gone toward the West.

1. The complaining from fans, media, etc. is completely justifiable.

Finally, after all is said and done, Thomsen’s No. 1 reason for keeping the current format, the point that will surely sway any and all readers to his side, is—the strength of the fans’ complaints?

Ummm...that's it?

Ok. I know we’ve been called a nation of whiners (thanks, McCain's economic adviser!), but Thomsen wants us to be louder about it?

This final “argument” is actually just rehashed points from earlier bullets, with Thomsen claiming, “It's better to hear from passionate and occasionally enraged fans about the current system than to imagine the ‘improved’ system that would take its place.” Nothing concrete here—no suggestions, postulations, or ideas for why the playoff format should not represent equality.

The regular season wouldn’t become “non-descript”—at least not anymore than it already is—and to call the potential first-round matchups less compelling is both arbitrary and, as evidenced by the lackluster contests out West, simply not true.

As the 2008-09 season comes to fruition, it’s time for David Stern to get his head out of Clay Bennett’s, um, grip (no need for bad words here) and finally step up for the good of the game.

What Did We Learn From These Olympics?

Casey Michel — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 00:12:37 -0400

Without any invasion of Taiwan or reboot of the Cultural Revolution, the Beijing Olympics came to a close with a relative whimper. These Games featured their share of exhilarating victories, devastating defeats, and questionable antics, just like the Olympiads of yore. So, barring any unforeseen Russian ransacking of Georgian locker rooms, let’s see what we’ve learned:

— The producers of Entourage had it backward: Michael Phelps, not Adrian Grenier, should have auditioned for the role of Aquaman. And just imagine how many more medals he would have won if he’d grown a Mark Spitz ’stache.

— After sweeping the medal stand, the U.S. women’s saber team should be sent to sort out the mess in Afghanistan.

— The U.S. softball team needs to start preparing ASAP if they want to reclaim that gold that Japan stole. Aw, dang, scratch that. Looks like they’re idea to switch over to handball was based on more than Lisa Fernandez’s whims.

— Speaking of handball, that sport needs to catch on in America as badly as John McCain needs to come clean on his Viagra use. Actually, on second thought, that analogy is gross. My bad. Anyway, handball is awesome.

— Pixar should partner with whoever put on the 55-second clip of the Opening Ceremony fireworks barrage (as long as the Chinese government lets them out of their imprisonment, that is).

— Usain Bolt, who showed that a steady diet of Chicken McNuggets doesn’t always leave you looking like an orca, should challenge Soulja Boy to a dance-off.

— The underwater camera angles during the women’s water polo matches make me feel dirty. And not in a good way.

— Ronaldinho is as unattractive as ever, but my oh my can he play fútbol.

— Shawn Johnson could be my bodyguard. But even then I would probably be too scared to tell her to do anything.

— Kobe finally won something without Kazaam!

— I miss the Hamm brothers’ Rugrats impressions. Oh, what? Those are their real voices? Wow. Guess that’s what happens with one-too-many failed parallel bar dismounts.

— The Chinese character for “13-year-old gymnast” is actually the same as “If you Google ‘Darfur’ one more time, you should keep your door locked. Aw, what are we saying, it really won't matter whether you lock it or not. We gon' getcha!”

— Its really hard to not make a joke about Tyson Gay dropping his partner’s stick in the 4x100 relay.

— Anyone who can make a ping pong ball spin both ways on one shot, well, they should really get out more.

— Speed-walking is as much a sport as speed-crawling, speed-crab-walking, or speed-three-legged-racing. C’mon, Jacques Rogge, this is in the Olympics, but dodgeball isn’t?!

— If I hear one more rip-off of the Olympic slogan, I’ll go Citius, Altius, Fortius Chuck Norrius on your ass.

— While in Australia, you really shouldn’t make fun of the fact that they call their soccer team the “Olyroos,” or they’ll sic Russell Crowe on you.

— Whoever designed the Bird’s Nest must have been going for the “what-if-a-building-was-attacked-by-Spiderman” aesthetic.

— Those competing in the archery contests should challenge Legolas to a fight. I’d have money on the elf, but I’m guessing it would be interesting (especially if Shawn Johnson was pitted against Gimli, too).

— The irony that China’s 1.3 billion couldn’t even fill most of the Olympic venues nearly made my head explode.

— Funmi Jimoh proved that not all Rice students go on to become bookish engineers, struggling English majors, or, um, Lance Berkman.

— True story: The highlight of the equestrian competition is making a horse switch its lead foot. Pardon me while I go watch paint dry.

— Big Papi and Brian Urlacher should strongly consider badminton in the 2012 London Games. If those Vitamin Water commercials are any indication, they’ll do better than our, ahem, zero male representatives during these Games.

— The rifle-shooting competitors would be really good Halo hustlers.

— Armenian women have taken up the mantle that the East German female weightlifters abandoned 20 years ago. Seriously, BALCO must also stand for “Ballsy Armenian Ladies Coming Over!”

— And last but not least, if any of you aspire to sing the Chinese National Anthem as a buck-toothed seven-year-old girl, well, it’s time to look for a different vocation.

The Most Exciting Play in Baseball Has Found Safe Haven In...Softball?

Casey Michel — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 15:02:53 -0400

The game of baseball has many great moments—the suicide squeeze, a do-it-yourself triple play, and a successful “daylight” pickoff move represent just a few of the best.

Not only do these plays result in gleeful grins from fans, but baseball writers of years of yore scrounged for nicknames to describe them. From “basket catches” to “worm-burners,” all were cleverly coined, yet all were easy to picture.

But one play, an event whose origins had eluded my grasp, goes beyond a merely imagistic nomenclature: the Baltimore Chop.

Cleaving the air downwards with the bat, a batter aims to sky the ball off of the plate and into the air while the impatient fielders squirm underneath. Rarely is this play utilized; rarer still is its success, because those who unleash the Chop must be quicker than a chameleon’s tongue on smack (i.e. Ichiro or Jose Reyes).

In fact, this play is so rare that I didn’t even know it existed until I perused my “Wide World of Baseball Words” novella a couple months ago. Turns out that the Baltimore Chop did not originate with crack deals gone wrong on the mean streets of Monument City.

Instead, it originated with the Baltimore Orioles during the dead-ball era. The only reason I could surmise the phrase had lost favor with the voices of baseball was its resemblance to a Great Depression steelworker—both were effective, but no one would employ either.

No one in baseball, that is.

Softball, on the other hand, is a wholly different story. In softball, the Chop is drawn on by some of the most successful athletes in the game. The small dimensions of the softball field allow the batter to bound the ball over the heads of the drawn-in infielders, putting fans on the edge of their seats and sometimes requiring the coach to bring in an outfielder for certain batters.

Had my brother not had the hots for an All-State softball player last summer, I would’ve known none of this. After he turned on that infamous family charm, I found myself finally attending my first softball game, and my family and I soon witnessed the trials and tribulations the state softball tournament had in store.

Before the first game, my exposure to softball was about as limited as the rights of a Gitmo detainee. To me, softball was little more than a poor (or at least overweight 40-year-old) man’s baseball.

Therefore, with a dash of adolescent chauvinism, I went into the opening playoff game with a smarmy attitude and a dour outlook. Entering the warm, breezy stands, I saw the girls tossing the cantaloupe-sized ball around the 60-foot base-paths and taking their hacks with the tiny-barreled bats. “Simpletons,” I thought. “Where’s the difficulty? Where’s the intrigue? Where’s the danger?”

To paraphrase someone from some movie, boy, was I ever glad I was wrong.

Not only is softball as strategic and technical as America’s pastime, but it succeeds where baseball leaves off. The occasional molasses-like pall that baseball’s critics harp on is forgone in softball, with rapidity between plays encouraged by both umpires and coaches alike.

And with fewer innings than baseball, you can get in and get out in time to catch that evening’s newest episode of Lost. But the ramped-up speed doesn’t stop there: Because the field is so small, plays often happen quicker than you can say, “Marry me, Kat Osterman.”

The girlfriend’s team won that game handily, mercy-ruling their unfortunate opponents and eventually finding themselves hosting the state final in Corvallis, OR. The aluminum seats were blistering under the bottoms of the thousands of fans, and the all-dirt infield looked no different, singeing the ball as it skidded along the scorched earth. Extra innings proved the girls’ downfall, but the excitement, determination, and grit these girls displayed was in no way lessened.

Softball has been oft maligned as a niche sport, lacking the necessary exposure to take off like the International Lacrosse League or Funny Car racing. The Olympic boost the sport received last decade catapulted the sport toward the legitimacy it desired, and a Dream Team of Lisa Fernandez and Jennie Finch helped the U.S. gain three-straight golds from 1996-2004.

But like Bryan Singer with X-Men, the Olympics abandoned softball just as the sport was prepared to make that final leap into the stratosphere. While baseball got the ax in similar fashion, there’s no doubt that the game will thrive under the reign of Bud Selig (please, try to stifle that laugh).

Softball, on the other hand, needs the Olympics almost as badly as Skip Bayless needs to contract laryngitis. Without this national stage, softball could end up the way of the passenger pigeon or the Cleveland Spiders. And if softball’s extinction came to pass, the Baltimore Chop, one of the most electrifying plays a diamond has ever seen, would be no more.

Scoop Jackson, James Blake, and What it Means to Cheat

Casey Michel — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 01:58:25 -0400

As I traipsed along Sydney’s Royal Botanical Gardens the other day, flanked by Gray-Headed Flying Foxes and the serene Circular Quay, I decided to treat myself with a dollop of hazelnut gelato.

And after I had returned to the confines of my dorm, crashing wearily into bed and flipping open the awaiting ESPN.com, I checked the recent musings of Scoop Jackson.

Two scoops. Two things I enjoy, gelato and sports writing.

But only one left a good taste in my mouth.

Leaving the fact that I love hazelnut to the side, it really wasn’t that hard to decide which scoop I could digest easier. Scoop’s column begins innocuously enough, posing a simple question. "What should Fernando Gonzalez have done?" (Apparently, Scoop is practicing to be a third-grade teacher.)

Seeing as my eyes had been previously epoxied to the Michael Phelps extravaganza, I had barely registered that Gonzalez was the Chilean tennis pro who knocked off James Blake in the Olympic semifinals, one round after the American had trounced then-No. 1 Roger Federer.

Intrigued, I delved into the column, soon learning that Gonzalez had stolen victory, helped by a shot whose contentiousness made the Russia-Georgia conflict look like a pillow-fight.

On a “pendulum point,” the chair umpire botched what replays seem to have clearly shown: the rocketed ball, which would have landed Blake one point from his first Olympic final, actually skimmed off Gonzalez’s racket before landing out of bounds.

To his credit, Blake contained his inner John McEnroe and merely pleaded with the Chilean to come clean to the umpire; to tell the chair that he felt the vibrations, heard the thudding as the ball ricocheted off his racket and into the green yonder; to put Blake a breath from the height of his career.

‘What should Fernando Gonzalez have done?’

Now, I’m not sure what’s Spanish for "the right thing," but I sure as hell know how to say it en anglais. Because there’s no getting around it. Gonzalez, with a brush-of-a-bullet shot of adrenaline and a crumbling Blake across the net, saw his opportunity. And, ever the Machiavellian, he went for it.

Which is good enough for Scoop.

As the rest of his column goes on to detail, cheating your way to the top is acceptable—nay, admirable—as long as it takes place in the realm of sports. As long as the ref doesn’t see it, or if the zebras blow the call, all is fair in 40-love.

Apparently, Scoop missed the third-grade lesson about integrity.

For both the competitors and the game, cheating—or even turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to a transgression—cheapens the morals and the standards of both the competitors and the game. The fans don't get their money's worth, and the athletes, who fail to stand up to the challenge, blatantly diminish their skill-sets. Who wins?

Here’s Scoop’s logic, simple and concise: Since everyone else is doing it, there’s no reason for you to be different. Scoop writes, “What athlete in his right (or left) hemisphere would give away a point that critical?”

Let’s equate that to, say, politics for a moment. What presidential hopeful would, in the dog days of the election, clamp down on the 527s, the 21st-century swift-boaters? Honestly, none, but that doesn’t mean we don’t wish they would.

And if there was tangible, all-encompassing evidence that Obama or McCain had eradicated any semblance of these low-blowers, don’t you think the honesty could maybe, just maybe, give him a precious bump in the polls?

Furthermore, when Scoop allows conformity at this integrity-laden cost, do you know who he sounds like? Jose Canseco. Bill Romanowski. Any third-grader who makes faces behind the teacher’s back.

Sorry, Scoop, but I ain’t a lemming. If you want to be like everyone else and degrade both your morals and your stature, go right ahead. Me, I’ll wait to raise up an athlete who, as cliché as this may sound, plays the game as it’s meant to be played. The athlete should not govern the rules—the rules should govern him.

That being said, I suppose now would be a good time to come clean—that 3-2 curveball I saw with runners at the corners a couple years ago? Yeah, I didn’t check my swing. Not even close. But that’s not how the ump saw it. And according to Scoop, as long as the burden of failure lies on the umps’ shoulders, I have free run of the place. So why do I still feel like a jackass over that totally (ahem) truthful example?

Gonzalez choked, but not in the traditional sense. His unknown status has since been replaced by a dishonorable image, a slithering, slash-and-burn purveyor of the dark side of athletics. (Ah, hyperbole is the spice of life, isn't it?)

Fortunately, as Scoop’s column signs off, the idea of “karma” comes into play—and it is this ethereal influence (and raw, unabated talent) that landed Gonzalez under the sole of Rafael Nadal’s tennis footprint.

Third grade, like Gonzalez’s gold-medal hopes, may have come and gone, but integrity? That can last forever.

If only my hazelnut gelato could, too.

Cricket: Sport of Kings, King of Boredom

Casey Michel — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 13:26:20 -0400

Before I came to Australia, I’d never wanted to chug Vegemite, punt a joey, or jump naked into a pool of hammerheads.

Then again, before I came to Australia I’d never watched cricket, either.

But after a cricket-filled afternoon last weekend, I’m sure I’d do anything to avoid watching it again, including snorting a funnel-web spider. Because, my friends, the rumors are true—cricket is really that mind-numbingly, tear-jerkingly, face-cringingly boring.

And trust me, I know boring sports. I got plenty of flak in high school for being a baseball fan. “After all,” they would say, “isn’t baseball just a dreary ol’ pastime, brimming with fatsos and unathletic dimwits? Can any game where Marshmallow Man-ny Ramirez thrives really be considered a sport?"

Since I wasn’t on the debate team, my responses generally utilized the phrase “your mom” (and if you’ve met me, you know that still rings true). But if I had better prepared my insult-ability, I would have simply carried the rulebook for the “sport” of cricket, doling it out to those who considered baseball tedious and tiresome.

Actually, on second thought, I probably would have brought someone who knows the rules. To a layman like myself, cricket is about as understandable as a drunk Nigerian discussing quantum physics.

Through TV sessions and those random grad students on the IM Fields—who show up, unfailingly, every Saturday afternoon—I’ve pieced together a couple things about cricket, but you’ll have to bear with me. It looks like a batter, wielding a spanking paddle and a fencer’s helmet, takes a swing at a speeding, bounding ball, which is thrown by the pitcher.

Actually, thrown isn’t the right term; “windmilled” is more like it. These pitchers, affectionately called “bowlers,” look like they belong in a ballet troupe as they contort their bodies into all kinds of artistic, unnatural poses.

So this batter, standing in front of some broken sticks, spanks the ball, sending it anywhere on the field—in front, behind, it doesn’t really matter—and runs about 20 feet away to some more broken sticks.

The teams rinse, lather, and repeat for days on end, until for some reason they switch sides. Once the squads have had enough naptimes, they count their overs, runs, and, I’m assuming, gallons of tea consumed, to determine which side came out on top.

Got that? Nope, neither do I. But the Aussies sure do.

Since the Land Down Under is a commonwealth country, cricket has reigned supreme since the first convicts murdered and pillaged their way here 200 years ago. The Australian national Test cricket team is tied with Britain for the oldest in the world, dating back to 1877.

In the subsequent 130 years, the Aussies have become the most dominant force this side of RoboCop. They’ve taken the last three Cricket World Cups and, in a streak the Redeem Team can barely fathom, have won 29 straight World Cup matches.

But their success isn’t a recent phenomenon. The greatest batsman of all time, Donald Bradman, received a massive 100th birthday celebration a couple weeks ago, including the minting of a commemorative $5 Australian coin. The only downside? Bradman died seven years ago. Still, that didn’t stop 400 people from eating his cake.

With a position in the national spotlight, you’d think Australians would be proud to claim the best cricket team in the world, right? Eh, not so much. In fact, it’s the one thing all the travel brochures seem to skim over.

There are the pictures of the rough-and-tumble rugby players, the cute koalas, and the picturesque Opera House, but nothing of the white-clothed cricketers and their spanking sticks. Could it be that the Aussies are finally coming around to how much this sport makes its audience want to tear its hair out?

Perhaps not, because as an Aussie TV commentator decreed the other day, “A nation isn’t civilized until it plays cricket.” Ouch.

But, by golly, if me and my fellow Americans aren’t civilized, then so be it.

In comparison to its Australian cousin, our game of baseball is like a sport-gasm, as exciting as Christmas Eve and as exhilarating as your first kiss. There’s no way a country like ours will ever deign to the boredom, tedium, and monotony of cricket, nor will we ever approach that level with any of our other homegrown sports.

Oh wait, we still have NASCAR, don’t we.

Dang. Now that makes me want to chug some Vegemite.

Lance Armstrong, Can't You Please Stay Retired?

Casey Michel — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 13:19:19 -0400

And now, for your reading pleasure, a scene from Lance Armstrong’s recent therapy session in which the chatty, highly critical shrink dissects Lance’s recent decision to rejoin the Tour de France.

Tell me, Lance—who do you think you are? Michael Jordan?

Sure, you were both the greatest in your respective sports, brought fans to their feet, and royalty to their knees. Your names are synonymous with complete success, although you never stuck your tongue out when crossing under L’Arc de Triomph.

Your dedication to such a unique craft was unequaled and rewarded with the highest accolades that Tony Kornheiser and Michael Wilbon could ever bestow.

But MJ had it easy, Lance. He had actual teammates, not those punks you have out-shoving rival riders to the side. He had Pippen, Kerr, Kukoc, and the Worm.

You have, what, Floyd Landis? The guy who blamed Jack Daniels for his failed drug test? Now, now, I’m not implying you doped too—you offered to post your lab results online, which is only fair—but to come back on a “team” sponsored by a city in Kazakhstan? Is this the sequel to Borat or something?

I know he got three more rings during the first comeback, but you got to remember that MJ stayed in shape as a season-long promotion for the Birmingham Barons. You’ve merely toured the country (including Rice!) as a spokesperson for cancer research. Not exactly the most physically exerting task, if you ask me.

And I don’t even need to remind you of MJ’s Washington Wizards campaign — although in fairness, at least you won’t have to team up with Kwame Brown.

Still, Lance, who do you think you are? Brett Favre?

Again, I see the resemblance—you’re both grizzled, you’ve both fought back from terrible adversity (you had testicular cancer, he’s from Mississippi), and you can both draw crowds bigger crowds than Woodstock.

But Favre’s decision to come back wasn’t without its share of problems, Lance. The guy’s return was more divisive than the Iraq War and Sarah Palin’s new haircut combined. There were cries of treason heard from the flowing hills of Appleton, Wisc., to the snow-covered cherry trees of Oshkosh, Wisc.

And all the while the New York Jets, a team more forgotten than Roseanne Barr, were put back on the map. You’re not saying you want Roseanne back, are you, Lance?

Good.

But really Lance, who do you think you are? 90210?

Sure, you dabbled with Sheryl Crow, who seems pretty Californian. And you kinda look like Kirk Douglas, in the right light.

But you are a gunslinger from the Lone Star state, taking over the Texan throne that Roger Clemens vacated when he decided to let dudes stick needles in his butt.

You and Beverly Hills go together as well as Shannon Doherty and the 21st century. At least she’ll always have Scare Tactics to fall back on. Nope, wait, that’s hosted by Tracy Morgan now. Dang, things really aren’t looking up for ShanDo.

So c’mon Lance, who do you think you are? Batman?

It’s been argued that the greatest graphic novel of all-time is Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns. Are you telling that you could be a retired, mid-50s Batman, still reeling from Robin’s untimely demise but forcing yourself to face the Joker one last time?

Actually, that may work—you’ve vanquished the French seven times now, so what harm is there in going for an eighth?

But here’s the thing, Lance—in TDKR, Batman’s hand is forced, and the Joker doesn’t quite make it. Are you implying you’d like to go mano-a-mano with French president Nicolas Sarkozy? I’m no bookie, but when a guy like Sarkozy can bed Carla Bruni, he probably has a few tricks up his sleeve.

I’ll ask you one last time, Lance: Who do you think you are? Georgian territorial integrity? I guess you’ve both been in the news recently, but really, how could you possibly compare yourself to a former Soviet Bloc?

I don’t see you being trampled by Russian tanks. I don’t see Russian troops giving illegal passports or non-native currency to your breakaway provinces. And while you both have a fierce independent streak, I don’t think Georgian president Mikheil Saakashvili’s eyes are nearly as blue as yours.

So Lance, even after all these comparisons, you’re telling me you still want to come out of retirement, crushing the dreams of those who thought a superstar might, for once, actually stay retired?

Well, that’s just nuts.

(Oh, sorry—nut.)