Bleacher Report - Articles by Mark Kriegel

Dodgers a Big Letdown This Winter

Mark Kriegel — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 05:32:23 -0500

Eight weeks have passed since the World Series. The winter meetings have come and gone.

The Yankees did what they said they would, committing $243 million to two pitchers.

The Mets, doing what the Mets always do, spent a lot, but less lavishly than the Yankees.

The Red Sox offered Mark Teixeira an eight-year deal worth a reported $184 million. The Angels also offered Scott Boras' prized client an eight-year deal.

So far all the big market teams have played to type—except one. That would be the Los Angeles Dodgers. The more they wait, the more you suspect a big-market team playing a small-time game.

The Dodgers don't have their own cable channel like the Yankees or the Red Sox or the Mets. Then again, they drew more than 3.73 million fans last season, third best in the majors. In the five years since Frank and Jamie McCourt have owned the Dodgers, they have not drawn fewer than 3.48 million.

What's more, they would seem to be in an ideal position to make a key free-agent signing. You hear a lot about economic uncertainty. But the Dodgers' forecast is relatively certain and healthy.

The team's core—Russell Martin, James Loney, Andre Ethier, Matt Kemp and Chad Billingsley—remains young and affordable. What's more, the expiring contracts of Brad Penny, Nomar Garciaparra, Jeff Kent and Derek Lowe amount to a $36 million drop in payroll.

In other words, they've got some money to play with. They've got some options. They're not the Kansas City Royals. Besides, L.A. shouldn't be a hard sell for players. You get all the big-market glory, but not the pressure of playing in New York or Boston.

Still, to this point, the Dodgers' big offseason move has been re-signing Rafael Furcal. The shortstop's salary will be about $3 million less than he had been making. You wonder what the Dodgers are saving for.

Forget about bidding on Teixeira. The Dodgers were never in the game. More curiously, they were never in the game for CC Sabathia, either. Not only was Sabathia the best starter on the market, he made it very clear he wanted to play in California.

They offered Manny Ramirez—who carried a previously boring and underachieving team into the NLCS—two years at $45 million. If that's an obscene amount for someone to hit a baseball, it's a lot less offensive than what some of these Wall Street bums and hedge fund types were getting in bonuses. More than that, though, it was an offer Ramirez and Boras were sure to reject.

Jamie McCourt made a tactical blunder here. Last month, while appearing for a charitable initiative to eventually refurbish or build 50 new baseball fields in Southern California, she told the Los Angeles Times' Dylan Hernandez that the team was merely thinking of its fans during tough economic times.

"If you bring somebody in to play and pay them, pick a number, $30 million, does that seem a little weird to you?" she asked. "That's what we're trying to figure out. We're really trying to see it through the eyes of our fans. We're really trying to understand would they rather have the 50 fields?"

I'm not diminishing the Dodgers' charitable works, certainly not when a team like the Yankees keeps shaking down the City of New York (the latest request was for another $370 million in bonds).

But a little context is in order. The Dodgers have pledged up to $5 million for the ball fields over an indefinite period of time. That's not even a middle-reliever. If the Dodgers really wanted to feel their fans' pain, they'd lower ticket prices.

"What Jamie was seeking to do was have a philosophical debate about how intelligent it is to spend this sort of money," said team spokesman Josh Rawitch, referring to free agency. "In no way was she trying to intimate an either/or situation. The Dodgers are committed to the community no matter who the players are."

OK, fair enough. I'll also accept Rawitch's assertion that his bosses have been egregiously miscast as tightwads. "There's an impression out there that for some reason we haven't spent money or that were not willing to spend big dollars on free agents," he said. "But if you look at the track record since the McCourts purchased the team nothing could be further from the truth."

Consider some of the guys they've signed the last few years: Derek Lowe, Jason Schmidt, Kent, J.D. Drew, Garciaparra, Andruw Jones. If they didn't turn out well, they didn't come cheap, either.

Still, none of these arguments get the Dodgers off the hook. As the McCourts no doubt understand, owning a baseball team is a kind of public trust. But this particular team is a big market club with a substantially diminished payroll. Such a fabled franchise can't plead poverty. The fans have a right to expect something, and now more than ever, a good team to get them through bad times.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

On the Mark: New York Giants in Real Trouble Without Plaxico Burress

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 07:32:42 -0500

The most depressing stat of the week?

Easy. That would pertain to the New York Giants, who are now 0-2 without Plaxico Burress.

Less than two weeks ago, the Giants—who've been limited to a single, meaningless offensive touchdown in their last eight quarters—were easily the best team in football. But now you have to wonder how much a bad guy will cost a good team? Will Burress' absence cost the team its shot at another Super Bowl?

In the not-so-distant past, most people seemed satisfied the ne'er-do-well receiver had finally gotten his just desserts. Even in the best of times, Burress couldn't be counted on for matters so mundane as team meetings and practices. But only after his apparently unlicensed Glock accidentally went off in a Manhattan nightclub did the team decide to take any punitive action. After his arrest on gun charges, Burress was deactivated without pay for the remainder of the season. Then there were reports that the Giants could void his recently-signed $36 million contract.

Great, you said. The more you know about Burress the more difficult it became to conjure any sympathy for the guy. Last week the New York Post reported on his big night out. First, (along with teammates Antonio Pierce and Ahmad Bradshaw) he went to a strip joint (where else?) and "guzzled two bottles of top-shelf tequila, and gobbled the staff's Thanksgiving dinner."

Nice. Just what you want on the streets of a crowded city: a guy with a .40 caliber pistol who's just gone through two bottles of Patron. What's more, he never paid for a thing (another shock), and is notoriously cheap with lap dancers. In a fair world, the D.A. would add a count of bad-tipping to the charges, and the proceeds of his forfeited contract distributed among waitresses and busboys he's stiffed.

Still, anyone with even a little taste for retribution could enjoy a measure of satisfaction with the real-life outcome. What began as a near-tragedy now felt like a feel-good story, or at least, a tale of justice served. Besides, the NFL's defending champs had already won without Burress, who was serving a suspension for insubordination when New York played Seattle early in the season. He might've caught the winning touchdown in last year's Super Bowl, but the Giants didn't need him anymore.

This was the real wishful thinking. The Giants had some protection problems the other night against the Cowboys, what with Eli Manning being sacked seven times. And, yes, Brandon Jacobs is out, and with him, a good part of their ground game. But that falls short of a full explanation as to the Giants' suddenly disappearing offense.

Manning was 18-for-35, 191 yards and two interceptions against Dallas. The week before, against the Eagles, he was 13-for-27, 123 yards. The touchdown he did throw went to backup tight end Darcy Johnson with 15 seconds left in the game.

It's not that complicated. There's no one to post up defensive backs. There's no one to spread the field. Amani Toomer, who seems like an awfully nice guy, might warrant a defense's attention. But Burress, a bad guy, demands its respect.

That's the problem with trying to turn a ballplayer's life into a morality tale. It often lacks for a moral.

On the Mark

He may not be able to pronounce "nuclear," but at least his cat-like reflexes are intact. (AP Photo / Associated Press)

You see the Iraqi "journalist" throw his shoes at George Bush?

Might've been the president's finest moment.

I mean, the way he just dipped his shoulder and got out of the way. Textbook.

If De La Hoya could've slipped a punch like that, he might've had a chance.

By the way, too bad that reporter wasn't a lefty. Scott Boras could've already gotten him five mil per.

I was finally cured of my "Californication" habit when the lead character wrote a book between episodes.

You know who's most upset about CC Sabathia getting $161 million?

The guys who make treadmills and ab-blasters.

Saw an excellent documentary, "Breaking the Huddle: The Integration of College Football," that airs tonight on HBO.

Then I read that Auburn hired Gene Chizik, 5-19 at Iowa State, over Turner Gill, one of four black coaches in Division I, a guy who merely transformed Buffalo (Buffalo!) into the MAC champion.

Think I'll send my screener to the Tigers' Athletic Department.

If you have to do that with your lips to hoist the trophy, then the trophy is too big. Capice? (Alex Brandon / Associated Press)

No one's talking about the human cost of the canceled Arena League season. It's so bad there's word that Philadelphia Soul owner Jon Bon Jovi might even go back on tour.

This just in, broadcaster Ian Eagle's weekly schedule: San Diego at K.C., the Nets at Toronto, Utah at New Jersey, Indianapolis at Jacksonville, Dallas back at the Meadowlands, Buffalo at Denver, Green Bay at Chicago.

So, please, no more about the ballplayers' work ethic.

Reggie Theus has become the sixth NBA coach fired in the last month or so, and this just isn't fair. I mean, how can you fire a guy before the season begins?

Me? I'm just looking forward to Christmas Day.

Three months of exhibitions is too long.

From the Los Angeles Times: "Center Alfred Aboya missed a workout because of his class schedule."

Hey, isn't that a violation of NCAA rules?

Chargers general manager A.J. Smith has an interesting theory on his team's underachieving ways. Don't blame Norv Turner. Don't blame LaDainian Tomlinson.

"...nobody can run if there's no space," he told Billy Witz. "We need to take a look at the line."

Oh. And whose job was that?

Press releases accompanying freak accidents—like the long ago news that Joe Namath's road roommate slipped in the shower when in fact he was slashed in the neck—are almost always bogus.

So I believe Derrick Rose accidentally rolled over on a knife while eating an apple in bed and had to get 11 stitches, the way I believe Terrell Owens when he says the media fabricated his feud with Tony Romo and Jason Witten.

Mets GM Omar Minaya says there are two superior closers in the majors. "In the end," he says, "There is Mariano and then Frankie."

Obviously, he missed that Red Sox-Angels playoff series.

I'm not saying my kid is growing up soft here in Southern California, just that she thought school would be rained out on Monday.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Yankees the Only High Rollers in Vegas

Mark Kriegel — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 05:32:28 -0500

If you're like me, which is to say suddenly middle-aged, you have grown up with the idea that sports are exempt from the normal economic calculus. Wall Street might have had its ups and downs. Same for the manufacturing sector and Silicon Valley. But the inexorable course of the sports business has been ever higher.

Pick your measure: salary, attendance, television revenue. Up. Up. And up. It's been that way for as long as anybody can remember.

Until now.

The NFL, the most successful league in the history of the world, is laying off 150 people. General Motors, among others, has pulled out of the Super Bowl. Arena football is on the verge of collapse. The Chicago Cubs, who have been on the market for more than a year, can't find a buyer. At least 16 major league clubs, according to USA Today, are freezing or decreasing the price of season tickets. And it's just beginning.

But nowhere are the symptoms of depression more evident than in Las Vegas. Vegas is the capital of the sports world. It is non-aligned; it roots only for your action.

December was once regarded as a tough month in town. But not for years. "The dynamic has changed so much," said Tony Sinisi, odds director for the Las Vegas Sports Consultants, the much-respected oddsmakers who supply betting lines for the casinos. "There was no such thing as a down period ... People in town felt it was recession proof. But they no longer feel that way."

I saw for myself last week before De La Hoya-Pacquiao. Friday nights before a mega-fight usually mean packed casinos, a mass shabbos for high rollers and hangers on, lemmings in flashy clothes. But last Friday was, well, a little lonely at the MGM, which was hosting the fight.

The high-end stores—retailers of necessities such as chinchilla hoodies, items that had been de rigueur since the Tyson era—had been empty all week. But now, the slot machine aisles were easy to navigate, and the hookers fewer and more desperate.

It took my party just a couple of minutes to get from the MGM to Mandalay Bay, where Pacquiao was staying. A night before a big fight, that should be 20 minutes in traffic. Mandalay Bay itself was a ghost town.

This past week, Vegas played host to baseball's winter meetings. For all the talk that preceded major league baseball's annual convention, high-priced free agents went just a little more quickly than chinchilla hoodies. In anticipation of the meetings, Sinisi released an "alert," warning customers (read: casinos) to "limit your exposure with baseball futures."

He had never done that before. Then again, he had never set odds in this kind of economy. "The gap between the haves and have-nots is getting wider," he said.

Actually, there's New York and Boston and everybody else. "A lot of bottom feeders," he said. "Look at San Diego. It's like a fire sale. These are tough times." What's true of Vegas might be truer of baseball. "We're all getting slapped in the face right now."

Only two deals of note went down during the meetings. Francisco Rodriguez, a closer with merely great stats and an ambition for a contract worth $15 million per, had to settle for a three-year, $37 million deal from the Mets, a team that couldn't have been more desperate for a closer. Then there was CC Sabathia.

In these times, the contract the Yankees reached with Sabathia isn't merely an anomaly—it's a staggering one.

The bidding for Sabathia opened with the Brewers' five-year, $100 million offer. It was Sabathia's only known offer except for the Yankees, who came in at six years, $140 million. After a couple of weeks, the Yankees threatened to rescind the offer. It never happened, of course.

Instead, they had Derek Jeter talk to Sabathia. Then they enlisted the services of Reggie Jackson, who played his last game for the Yankees when Sabathia was a year old. When none of that worked, they added another $21 mil to the pot, bringing them $61 million over the next highest offer.

I submit that no team, ever, in any sport, outbid its closest competition by $61 million.

Especially in the current economic climate, it seems madness. With cases from Ed Whitson to Randy Johnson in evidence, the Yankees should know that you can't bribe someone to pitch well in the Bronx. All the money in the world won't make a guy a big-market, big-game pitcher.

For all his regular-season success, Sabathia has an 8.61 ERA in the old Yankee Stadium. He's 1-3 with a 9.47 ERA in his last four postseason starts.

If the acquisition of Sabathia is reason to question the Yankees' judgment, it also makes them more hateable than ever.

A few days ago, Sinisi had the Yankees at 9-to-1 to win the 2009 World Series. After signing Sabathia, they're even with the Red Sox at 6.5-to-1. If they sign A.J. Burnett, they'll drop to 5- or even 4-to-1.

"If they add two frontline starters, you've got to make them the favorite," said Sinisi.

Some casinos weren't even waiting. The MGM already had the Yankees at 4-to-1.

Hateable perhaps. But not irrational. For all that they would pay Sabathia and Burnett and perhaps Derek Lowe, the Yankees have already cut their payroll by about $80 million, just by allowing the contracts of Jason Giambi, Carl Pavano, Bobby Abreu, Andy Pettitte, and Mike Mussina to expire.

Major League Baseball also allows teams to deduct many of their new stadium costs from the revenue sharing pie. For a team like the Yankees, with a $1.8 billion monument to excess opening next year, that's worth untold millions.

Finally, like so many unsympathetic, if absurdly profitable, companies, the Yankees got all their government subsidies (including $70 million toward a new parking structure, $65 million for roadwork and design, $91 million for a new railroad station, and about $313 million in tax breaks alone) before the recession.

Now that's hateable. But it's also good business.

The Yankees have been comped more than any high roller. And at those prices, how could they not spend the money on Sabathia?

So, you see, there's a difference between the Yankees and the people who wager on them. The Yankees didn't go all the way to Vegas to make a sucker's bet.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

On the Mark: BCS Still Didn't Get Everything Right

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 12:32:10 -0500

Oklahoma's presence in the championship game proves more than the value of running up the score. The pairing with Florida is right and just and potentially thrilling, pitting the two best teams from the season's two best conferences, not to mention the two best quarterbacks.

The BCS selection committee, those fair-minded custodians of student athletics, actually got one right. Well, so what? Don't let the title game fool you.

It doesn't make up for the disgraceful array of bowl games offered under the committee's auspices.

College sports, in particular, are supposed to bear some relation to merit. But tell me, where's the merit in an Orange Bowl featuring Cincinnati and Virginia Tech?

That's a No. 12 versus a No. 19. The Hokies, who get an undeserved consideration as representatives of the ACC, have four losses. Four. That's not fit for a New Year's Day bowl. At least it shouldn't be. That should be a game sponsored by, say, one of these fugazy mortgage companies.

A Sugar Bowl with Alabama and Utah? Nothing against Utah, but Texas and USC are ranked higher. And by the way, it's not the rating system that's corrupt. It's the bowl system. Computers aren't dishonest. They don't have agendas, and the worst of them is less fallible than the expense-account hacks and chamber of commerce types who run these bowls.

Take the Fiesta Bowl. For those who wish they still threw humans to lions, there's Ohio State being thrown to Texas.

Two questions here. First, how did the two-loss Buckeyes get in over no-loss Boise State? Second, how did Jim Tressel get candids of Myles Brand?

For the sake of both argument and tradition, I'll accept Penn State-USC without complaint. It's not a bad Rose Bowl. But again, so what? That makes the BCS two for five this year. That shouldn't be acceptable, especially when you consider that this shady system, like most shady systems, is perpetuated at taxpayer expense.

You want to get angrier? It's worth re-reading a piece that ran last Chistmas in the Orange County Register. According to the paper, "seven tax exempt bowl organizations received $21.6 million in government funding between 2001 and 2005."

William Rhoden of the New York Timeshas a good idea: College presidents, conference commissioners and BCS people should get together with somebody from the White House and come up with a playoff system. If not, Rhoden argues, the bowls should lose their tax-exempt status.

My idea is even better, though: The tax-exempt status goes no matter what. Public benefits for corporate-sponsored events have no place in the best of times. But now they're obscene. If you can't help the auto workers, you shouldn't be subsidizing the Fiesta Bowl.

The President-elect should understand. He wants a new system. But the BCS still needs an incentive to negotiate one. So here it is, straight from the executive branch: Either these bowl committees come up with a playoff, or each one of them faces an IRS investigation.

On the Mark

Don't besmirch Elisha Cuthbert. Don't everbesmirch Elisha Cuthbert. (MJ Kim / Getty Imag

McNabb's a bum. De La Hoya by TKO. I'm just glad I held off on that Subway Super Bowl column.

This might be Brett Favre's first season in New York, but he already seems to have a firm grasp on Jets Tradition, knowing that the annual December Collapse starts around Thanksgiving.

Seems kind of silly for a sport aptly described as Bar Fighting on Ice to punish a guy for saying "sloppy seconds." That said, Sean Avery is a bigger attention-seeking diva than any of the starlets he dates.

A statue of De La Hoya at the Staples Center? I don't get it.

If anyone should've erected such a monument, it was the cable operators.

Forget the record and the titles. Oscar's real legacy is $624 million in pay-per-view revenues. And that was before the Pacquiao fight.

By the way, don't hate De La Hoya for getting old at 35. Respect Bernard Hopkins for still kicking ass at 43.

Next, consider the case of their partner at Golden Boy Promotions.

After it was learned that he used the illicit blood-booster EPO in his rematch with De La Hoya, the world's third-ranked welterweight should change his name to Shame Mosley.

Admit it. There's an eery resemblance. ( / Getty Images)

Sad to see Sunny Von Bulow pass away after 28 years in a vegetative state. Scientists believe that Al Davis is now the world's longest-living coma victim.

The State of Nevada finally did something the NCAA has refused to do for years: punish a USC running back.

I don't know if Tim Tebow is revolutionizing the position, just that he's bigger and faster than Ray Lewis.

All these geniuses on Capitol Hill and not one of them has come up with an idea as smart as the Daily News' Tim Smith:

Make the oil companies bail out the car companies.

I'm told he came up with the idea at Hatton-Malignaggi. It might be the smartest thing ever said in a press room.

And it didn't even have anything to do with food.

Makes sense for Kevin McHaleto coach the Timberwolves. I mean, after trading Kevin Garnett and Brandon Roy, it seems like a fair enough punishment.

By the way, for those keeping score at home, here are McHale's first-round draft picks since Garnett: Ray Allen (traded for the rights to Stephon Marbury), Paul Grant, Rasho Nesterovic, William Avery, Wally Szczerbiak, Ndudi Ebi, Rashad McCants, Roy (traded for Randy Foye), Corey Brewer, and O.J. Mayo (traded for Kevin Love).

Isiah Thomas could've done better.

Last thing I see, as I'm checking out at the MGM Grand, is a guy wearing O.J.'s Buffalo Bills jersey.

And I'm wondering if the state already auctioned it off.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Trainer Roach Seeks Revenge Against De La Hoya

Mark Kriegel — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 06:16:52 -0500

Manny Pacquiao has nothing bad to say about Oscar De La Hoya. This comes as no surprise, since Pacquiao is an aspiring politician who plans yet another run for congress in his native Philippines.

Rather, the disparagement of De La Hoya has been left to Pacquiao's trainer, Freddie Roach. It's a task that Roach, among the most charming and accomplished people in the fight game, has performed with uncharacteristic relish. In fact, it's not too much to say he's carried this promotion. He's succeeded in making it personal.

Pacquiao won't speak of his business dealings with De La Hoya, but it is known that they met in September 2006 and that the Golden Boy himself, the namesake behind Golden Boy Promotions, gave Pacquiao a briefcase with $300,000, a sum intended as a signing bonus. No surprise that the politician took the money.

He even signed with Golden Boy. The problem was, he had also signed with Bob Arum, and when the 77-year-old promoter heard that De La Hoya was moving on his fighter, he immediately set out for General Santos, a slum that makes Manila look like the City of Light.

"That's the difference," said Roach. "Bob got his ass on a plane and went all the way to see Manny in the Philippines."

If Oscar wanted to sign him so much, I asked, why didn't he fly out, too?

"Oscar would never do that," said Roach. "Oscar would never pay that kind of respect."

The matter went to court, and was eventually settled through mediation. Pacquiao stayed with Arum and returned the $300,000. But the issue of respect—less easily quantified, and more irksome to Roach—is still being decided.

Roach has his own beef with De La Hoya, of course, having trained him for his fight with Floyd Mayweather Jr. De La Hoya fired Roach after the split-decision loss.

"I didn't tell him to stop jabbing," said Roach. "But that's what happens. A fighter losses, he blames the trainer."

That's not what bothers him, however. The real breach in respect, at least to Roach's way of thinking, was not telling him to his face. "I found out in the media," he said.

This fight has afforded the trainer an opportunity to plot his revenge. A couple of months ago, I went to Roach's Wild Card gym in Hollywood, where the trainer declared that his fighter would knock out De La Hoya in nine.

On Wednesday, I asked if anything since had caused him to rethink his forecast. "No," said Roach. "I think this will be his last fight."

Oscar's last fight, he meant: "We're going to break him down and knock him out."

Here's his theory: Oscar is 35, and hasn't scored a true knockout since 2000. His last six fights include three losses, going back to 2003. What's more, in his advanced year, De La Hoya has developed a tendency to stop using his best weapon—the jab—after six rounds. If an opponent like Steve Forbes can bust up De La Hoya's face, what can Pacquiao do?

Pacquiao, always a tireless fighter, is in the best shape of his life. Roach says he won't give Oscar a moment's rest. As a southpaw, Pacquiao will be able to penetrate De La Hoya's defenses, beat him around the body, then attack the head.

It all sounds very logical, entirely convincing until I leave Roach's company. The fight is being billed as "The Dream Match," as if Pacquiao and De La Hoya were characters in a video game, as if their physical attributes could be adjusted to make for a fair contest.

The problem is that fighters don't exist in the cyber realm. There's a reason why "pound-for-pound" arguments are never adequately resolved. The 147-pound weight limit isn't an equalizer here. It's a huge advantage for De La Hoya.

The Golden Boy may be 35, but he's only coming down about seven pounds, four from his last fight. He's almost 5'11". His reach is 72 inches. That's just too much for Pacquiao, who's 5'6", with a 67-inch reach.

Pacquiao made his professional debut in 1995 at 106 pounds. His memorable battles with Juan Manuel Marquez, Marco Antonio Barrera and Erik Morales were all been waged between 125 and 130 pounds. Only once has Pacquiao fought heavier. That was last June when he was 134 for David Diaz, whom he took out in nine.

You wonder, however, if Morales could beat him at 125; if he went the distance with Marquez at 129, then what can he do against a guy who's built like their older brother? Oscar's left hand will only be more potent with eight ounce gloves.

Finally, and perhaps more important, is the matter of style. De La Hoya has problems with cute guys, superior boxers like Pernell Whitaker and Floyd Mayweather. But Pacquiao is made to order. Not only is he small, he comes right at you.

"Pacquiao is going to fight his typical fight," said Bernard Hopkins. "That's Oscar's style. That's made for him."

Put another way: "If you know a guy's coming to rob your house, you don't go outside. No need to chase the burglar. You just load up the shotgun, sit in the rocker, and wait for him."

Hopkins knows of what he speaks. Four years ago, De La Hoya tried to come up to take his middleweight crown. They fought at 158 pounds, a tiny jump compared to that which Pacquiao will make. Hopkins was 39, four years older than Oscar is now. Of course, Hopkins knocked him out in nine.

That's what'll happen Saturday night.

I have all the respect in the world for Freddie Roach. So my heart says Manny.

But my head says Oscar. In nine.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Oscar De La Hoya is the Champ of Cross Promotion

Mark Kriegel — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 05:05:04 -0500

LAS VEGAS - He's asking $54.95 to see him fight Manny Pacquiao on pay per view. Still, Oscar De La Hoya feels your pain.

"We know it's a tough economy," he said.

Here, then, was the Golden Boy's prescription for cost-effective pay-per-viewing: Get a twelve pack of the right beer for you and your friends. Next, get a bottle of the right tequila. Finally, to modulate your buzz, grab a can of the right energy drink.

Never mind the aggregate cost of these beverages. Disregard the potential hazard involved with imbibing alcohol and caffeine—that you may very well miss the fight's thrilling moments (and I think there will be some) while in the bathroom.

The recommended drinks were among the corporate sponsors for Saturday night's fight between Pacquiao, the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world, and De La Hoya, the most bankable. Apparently, each purchase corresponds to a partial rebate on the pay-per-view fee.

Buy them all, said De La Hoya, and "you're practically going to get the fight for free."

He was smiling when he said all this, grinning in that way only the Golden Boy can. And why not? De La Hoya was engaged in boxing's most venerable tradition: hustling. Don King was a hustler. Bob Arum, too. No one bats an eye. But hearing Oscar pitch so brazenly in the final press conference at the MGM Grand, I couldn't help but resent it. And I wasn't alone.

Now, at 35, near the end of his outrageously profitable fighting career, De La Hoya remains a curious case. Call him a sell-out, if you must, but then you're also obligated to acknowledge him as a savior. It's difficult to overstate how much the sport owes him. It's not too much to say he kept the fight game alive.

It was De La Hoya who enabled boxing to move beyond its relentlessly morbid fascination with Mike Tyson. It was De La Hoya who provided the juice in an age completely bereft of heavyweight excitement. What's more, his Golden Boy promotional company represents an extraordinary accomplishment. A fighter as a promoter? In the not so distant past, the notion was laughable.

And yet, I'm still not sure about Oscar. I should like him more than I do. But even after all these years, I never quite know what's real, and what's a corporate tie-in.

Consider the statue unveiled the other day at the Staples Center. Magic Johnson has a statue there. Wayne Gretzky, too. Jerry West does not. Nor does Kareem. Or Wilt. But now De La Hoya makes three. The strange part is, Oscar has fought but once in the Staples Center. It was a decision he lost to Shane Mosley back in 2000.

In fact, though De La Hoya likes to be known as "the Pride of East L.A.", he's fought only twice in Los Angeles since 1994. The other occasion was his lackluster decision over Stevie Forbes last May at the Home Depot Center in Carson.

The Home Depot Center and Staples are owned and operated by the same company, AEG. As coincidence would have it, that would be the same AEG that has a stake in Golden Boy Promotions.

The basis for the big bronze figure is not rooted in sentiment. It's corporate synergy and strategy.

There's too much transparent public relations. For instance, at the press conference, Oscar's people—including the parade of Mexican champions he claimed as his supporters—wore shirts or jackets endorsing The Ring. For those who don't know, the magazine is now owned by Golden Boy.

Then there's Angelo Dundee, the Hall of Fame trainer brought in to "work with" De La Hoya. Even Dundee—who showed up at De La Hoya's camp in Big Bear just in time for the big media day last month—admitted "I didn't do any homework." What Dundee could teach Oscar at that point, under those conditions, is anyone's guess...

I've long thought De La Hoya's finest moment was beating Ike Quartey—going on 10 years now, the night he knocked down a fearsome puncher in the final round. It had real merit, though no one seems to recall the fight. Rather, if De La Hoya's career were to end tomorrow people would recall his bout with Floyd Mayweather.

The promotion was great. Mayweather-De La Hoya is considered a watershed event in the pay-per-view industry. At 2.4 million buys, it easily set an all-time record.

But you can't measure fights merely by financials (hey, you don't hear anyone talk about the numbers for Ali-Frazier or Hagler-Hearns). The truth is, as a fight, Mayweather-De La Hoya sucked, lacking for both for action and drama.

I'm not arguing that Saturday night with Pacquiao will be a dog. Actually, I expect it to be pretty good, full of action. But it's not the best fight out there, either. That would be De La Hoya against Antonio Margarito or Miguel Cotto, natural 147 pounders.

De La Hoya is only behaving rationally, as any businessman should. Margarito and Cotto represent considerably more danger and much less money. Pacquiao may be a great fighter, with an immense following. But only one of his 50 fights has been above 130 pounds.

You figure that the Golden Boy (both the fighter and his namesake promotional company) selected an opponent based on a finely calibrated cost-benefit analysis. It's about risk and reward. It's about profit points. It's about cross-promotion. It's like being in the beverage business.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

On the Mark: Plaxico's a Joke, Guns Aren't

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 07:45:07 -0500

I don't really miss the newspaper business. I don't miss New York too much, either. But every once in a while, there's a story that makes me wistful for what I want to believe were good old days. The saga of Plaxico Burress and his Glock is one of them.

With the relentlessly depressing dispatches from Mumbai and Washington, Plaxico offers a welcome relief. A couple of inches north or south and it would've been different. But it's not as if he shot an innocent bystander. Nor did he imperil future generations of Burresses.

Rather, the erstwhile Super Bowl hero merely grazed his own leg while apparently fumbling with his piece (no jokes, please) in an alcove outside the VIP room of the Latin Quarter nightclub.

It all makes for a cautionary tale, mirthfully told. Everybody can agree; all can rejoice. Plaxico Burress? What a knucklehead.

But the comedy obfuscates the real issue, which is a sea change in the life of athletes, particularly the violent lives of football players. A year after the Redskins' Sean Taylor was murdered in a home invasion, ballplayers now think of themselves—and let's agree, they're largely justified—as targets.

As a result, gun possession has lost its stigma. As Giants president John Mara said: "Players, for whatever reason, feel the need to carry guns. It's not something we're particularly pleased about, but that is the choice that they make. You'd like to think that most of them are licensed to do that, but I'm not sure that's always the case."

Burress—repeatedly fined by the Giants, and reportedly investigated by police for domestic disturbances—might go to jail for possessing an unlicensed firearm. But in a larger sense, licensing is almost beside the point. The real question is this: If a guy can't be counted on to attend team meetings or practice, can he be entrusted with a gun?

Let's be honest, too. Plaxico isn't alone here. A good many professional athletes have never heard the word "no." Even into their 30s, they remain devout believers in their own invincibility. Ballplayers aren't known for circumspect judgment.

I understand what generates the paranoia: the cases of Sean Taylor, Darrent Williams and Richard Collier, just to name a few. Some players have taken to customizing their automobiles with bulletproof armor. Others hire bodyguards. But still others think the answer is getting strapped.

Jaguars running back Fred Taylor has an AR-15, an assault rifle. Houston cornerback Dunta Robinson, himself the victim of robbery at gunpoint, has purchased a firearm. "My gun," he tells ESPN magazine, "definitely makes me feel a little safer."

Sure. Plaxico Burress probably took great comfort in his Glock, too.

It's worth noting that Sean Taylor forgot to turn on his home alarm system the night he was murdered. He wasn't allowed to have a gun, either, having once been charged with aggravated assault with a firearm. You wonder: Would a gun have made any difference, though?

Perhaps. But I tend to think not. I'm still waiting for the first gun story with a righteous ending. You don't hear about the guy who popped the two burglars as they were coming through the screen door. No. The stories usually end like Plaxico Burresses, just not as funny. Or as lucky.

Do guns kill? Or do people? I don't have an answer. I just know the story is nothing to yearn for. Its comedy is counterfeit. Knuckleheads with guns are a deadly combination.

On the Mark

A week ago, everybody was talking about Myron Rolle, the Rhodes Scholar from Florida State.

Hey, you live long enough you see everything.

More recently, however, police charged two FSU receivers with battery for their role in a frat party brawl.

And it's just good to know the Seminoles haven't lost sight of their traditions.

Think it's safe to say that nobody interviews better than Norv Turner.

This just in: Chargers GM A.J. Smith is negotiating to buy Charlie Weis out of his contract.

Lane Kiffin goes to Tennessee, and I'm waiting for Al Davis to sue the Vols.

I have no problem with Oklahoma leapfrogging Texas in the BCS poll. The Sooners averaged more than 62 points against their last five opponents-Kansas State, Nebraska, Texas A&M, Texas Tech and Oklahoma State.

But how is 11-1 Penn State-which beat Oregon State by 31-ranked eight, while 10-1 USC-losers to the Beavers by six-at No. 5?

I mean, how much can you punish a school for its association with a pariah program like the Buckeyes?

Knicks coach Mike D'Antoni, Sept. 30, 2008: ''I'm open to anything, and that's why we have training camp ... Steph was in great shape; he's light, he's running the one and the two. He's a basketball player and obviously one of the best players in the league."

Then the coach went out and gave Allan Houston a better shot.

In summary, the Knicks have succeeded in doing for Marbury what Rosie O'Donnell did for Donald Trump.

David Lee put up 37 against Don Nelson's Warriors.

And I'm betting he never got that many in a summer league game.

A Harangody. That's one of those creatures that only live in Australia, right?

Dodgers co-owner Jamie McCourt told the Los Angeles Times the team didn't want to pay Manny Ramirez a really gaudy salary (as if $45 million for two years was squarely within the bounds of good taste) for fear of offending people in a depressed economy.

"We're really trying to see it through the eyes of our fans," she said.

Hey, if you really care about your customers, here's a hint, toots: try lowering the ticket prices.

Speaking of the public good, the Bloomberg administration shook down the Yankees for a luxury box, free food, 250 parking spaces and billboard space which the New York Times estimates is worth $750,000 annually.

This for a billionaire mayor who can actually afford to buy tickets.

What exactly is a sports hernia?

Amy Winehouse spends more time in the hospital than the entire cast of Scrubs.

Thanksgiving would've been a little more exciting if only the networks had figured out a way for Detroit to play the Aggies.

When do the Lions apply for their federal bailout?

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

On the Mark: McNabb Partly at Fault for His Situation

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 05:26:50 -0500

Donovan McNabb celebrates his 33rd birthday Tuesday, curiously unloved for a quarterback of his stature.

As if to mark the occasion, coach Andy Reid gave him back his starting job. It wasn't much of a gift. Nor was it much of a choice, as second-year pro Kevin Kolb proved dreadful in relief.

Make no mistake: McNabb's benching was richly deserved. Nine days ago, in a game that would go into the books as the NFL's first tie in six years, he threw three interceptions and fumbled in overtime. After the game, Philadelphia's 10-year starter famously declared not knowing a game could end in a tie.

Then, in two quarters of action against the Ravens on Sunday, he was 8-for-10 for 59 yards, with two interceptions and a fumble.

Great quarterbacks—and perhaps McNabb's curse is having everybody believe he should've been one—go through tough times. He's allowed to have a bad stretch. But the most damning evidence coming out of Philadelphia is what's not coming out of Philadelphia. It's not just the lack of love from the fans.

It's McNabb's teammates. Where are they? Where's the show of support? I hate to invoke Terrell Owens here, but is there a single guy who stood up and declared, in effect, that's my quarterback?

For whatever reason, or maybe for a lot of reasons, McNabb inspires something less than fierce loyalty. It's a shame, really. Give him a mulligan on the "I didn't know you could have a tie" line. Also acknowledge that he's had to put up with knuckleheads of every stripe, from the aforementioned Owens to Rush Limbaugh. What's more, he's never really embarrassed himself, or anyone else for that matter.

Finally, let's concede McNabb's unmatched talent for selling cans of Campbell's Soup. But as Andy Warhol could've told him, that alone doesn't qualify you as a leader of men.

You want to know who has his back? You should also ask whom he's made better. Who among the Philadelphia Eagles has Donovan McNabb made a better football player?

Blame Reid's pass-happy play-calling if you must. Blame the lack of supporting stars. But blame McNabb, too. It's a mistake to continue to cast McNabb as a passive observer in the drama that inevitably swirls around him. He shouldn't be so helpless. He is, after all, the quarterback.

He's put up great numbers. But with the last two Sundays in evidence, he remains as capable of mediocrity as brilliance. Philadelphians recall too many seasons that ended on McNabb interceptions.

Now the Eagles are almost four years removed from their loss in the championship round. McNabb has missed bunches of games with a sports hernia and a torn ACL. Still—and this is just a fact—the best and most inspiring quarterbacking the team has seen since their loss Super Bowl loss to New England was done by Jeff Garcia.

By virtue of talent and tenure, McNabb should be an icon, at least in Philadelphia. I understand that he's never delivered a victory parade. But neither did Allen Iverson, a man more flawed, perhaps, but also more loved and respected.

Iverson's passion was palpable, though. McNabb's is not. Maybe that's part of it, too, a crisis of demeanor.

Whatever the case, McNabb's birthday coincides neatly with the beginning of his end in Philadelphia.

Said Andy Reid, "I think I know Donovan better than anyone in this room."

But still not well enough.

On the Mark

Don't tell me that the prospect of a Jets-Giants Super Bowl is too far-fetched.

No jokes. No lines. Just enjoy. (Frederick M. Brown / Getty Images)

I mean, what were the odds of Turtle spending the weekend with Meadow Soprano?

Oops. Oklahoma just scored again.

Not for nothing, but did you get the feeling Texas Tech was playing without shoulder pads?

Quick, what's the difference between the Lions and the Thanksgiving Day floats?

The floats have a better chance of hitting someone.

Read in USA Today that Michael Jordan—the public face, chief executive, and part-owner of the Charlotte Bobcats—is in Dubai.

And not expected back until December.

Basically, Axl Rose is more accessible.

Charlie Weis says that Notre Dame "has gone from a crummy team to a decent team."

This after losing at home to Syracuse, which is two rungs below crummy.

Of course, this is the same Charlie Weis who assured his players and the press that Notre Dame would have a "decided schematic advantage" against every opponent.

Already the oddsmakers have USC favored by 29.5.

And you've got to wonder what that number would be without the schematics.

All that said, Weis would be Coach of the Year in the AFC West.

Now that Pacman is out of rehab and fully healed, it's only a matter of time before Jerry Jones asks Bush to grant him an executive pardon.

There's this rumor that the Major League Soccer season has finally come to an end.

"I looked it up," said a friend. "It began before baseball, Mar. 29."

Mar. 29? I ask. Of what year?

No NASCAR, no MLS, no Davis Cup. How will we ever get by?

At what point did boxers say, "You know who has a great fashion sense? Pro wrestlers."(John Gichigi / Getty Images)

Liked what I saw Saturday from Ricky Hatton, but the girlfriend couldn't have been more impressed with Brooklyn's Own, Paulie Malignaggi, and his electric blue loincloth.

"That last time I saw an outfit like that," she said, "was 1982, Halloween in West Hollywood."

She would've died for Hector Camacho.

It's been two weeks since the Yankees offered CC Sabathia $140 million, and if I didn't know better I'd think he might not want to play in New York.

I don't know if Mark Cuban has committed any insider trading violations, but why should Cubs fans have to be punished even more?

In a related development, Oakland A's owner Lew Wolff thinks the baseball playoffs should be single-elimination.

Such a proposal would find great support on the North Side of Chicago.

I mean, why prolong the agony?

You know the NBA season isn't off to a great start when the only thing people can talk about in 2008 is 2010.

My knee surgery couldn't have gone worse: no pain, no sympathy, no drugs.

Ed Tapscott, among the smartest, most charming and big-hearted guys I know, has just been made coach of the Washington Wizards.

But, hey, bad things happen to good people.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Kerry Collins' Comeback Is One for the Ages

Mark Kriegel — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 05:27:16 -0500

At this point in the season, there has been entirely too much discussion regarding the toughness of the Titans schedule, and not nearly enough about the toughness of their quarterback.

My last encounter with Kerry Collins—not exactly the up close and personal kind—was in the interview pen at Tampa's Raymond James Stadium, Jan. 28, 2001. The Ravens had just embarrassed the Giants by a score of 34-7, thanks, in large measure, to the fact that Baltimore's defense—"best defense I've ever faced," said Collins—had succeeded in beating down New York's quarterback.

Though Collins had been spectacular through the postseason (unexpectedly, many said), his failure in the championship round was epic. He knew it, too. His line for Super Bowl XXXV: 15-for-39, 112 yards, four interceptions, four sacks.

Still, those numbers fail to quantify the true misery of his evening. What epitomized the night for me was the sight of Collins being knocked to the ground in the first quarter. Just for good measure, one of the Ravens ripped off his helmet.

After the game, Collins delivered one of the most sober and stand-up self-appraisals I've ever heard: "I don't think that any one man is completely responsible," Collins would say. "But if there was one guy, it would be me. This game is going to hurt me a lot...It's going to stick with me a while."

How long? That was the question. Collins, then 28, had already come back from prohibitive odds—from alcohol, injury and a pronounced case of knuckleheadedness. Still, anyone who saw that game couldn't help but wonder if the Ravens had taken more than his helmet that day.

"I'll come back," he said.

I'd like to say I believed him. I don't think I was alone, either. Professional football is a game that allows even casual fans to indulge their gambler's expertise, endowing them all with a confident sense of the probabilities. But you didn't have to be a professional handicapper to bet that Kerry Collins had run out of comebacks.

What's more, who could have envisioned a comeback like this: seven seasons removed from that Super Bowl, after some lean years with the Giants and leaner still with the Raiders? Who'd have thought an aged backup would be the starter for the NFL's only undefeated team, the 10-0 Tennessee Titans?

Well, maybe there was one guy.

"I'm not surprised," says Colts president Bill Polian. "I'm not surprised by anything he's achieved."

Consider Polian's history. While general manager of the Buffalo Bills, the team went to four consecutive Super Bowls. While GM of an expansion team in Carolina, the Panthers went to the conference championship in only their second year.

Ten seasons ago, Polian became president of the Colts. Indianapolis has been to the playoffs in eight of those years and won a Super Bowl. In other words, it's safe to stipulate that Polian qualifies among the best assessors of talent in league history. Unlike the vast majority of sportswriters, gamblers, and fans, his endorsement means something.

"Terrific arm," Polian says of Collins. "In terms of throwing the ball, there's nothing he can't do. He can make every throw, and he's particularly accurate deep, as you saw."

He was referring to a pair of Collins-to-Justin Gage touchdown strikes—56 and 38 yards—that enabled the Titans to come from behind and beat the Jaguars last Sunday. Collins, it's worth mentioning, has now thrown for 36,472 yards, 14th on the all-time list.

But it wasn't just talent, or a live arm, that drew Polian's notice. "He's got tremendous toughness," says Polian, who first witnessed it Nov. 12, 199—a cold, damp day in Champaign, IL.

The occasion was Illinois-Penn State. Though Penn State was undefeated and playing for a national championship, it fell behind 21-0. The Nittany Lions wouldn't take a lead until there were 57 seconds to play.

Collins, who'd throw for 300 yards and a touchdown that day, was 7-for-7 on the final drive. It ended—one of the fabled games in Penn State history—35-31. Joe Paterno's team would become the first Big Ten team to go 12-0 (and still not win a national championship), and Kerry Collins would go to Polian's Panthers with the fifth pick in the draft.

Those first two years in Carolina—a run that saw an expansion team come within a game of the Super Bowl—must've been a blast. Maybe too much of a blast. Teammates had already begun wondering about Collins' drinking.

Alcohol being a time-honored analgesic among ballplayers, I can't help but wonder whether Collins was self-medicating. But Polian won't go there.

"I'm not a psychiatrist," he says. "I couldn't speak on that."

Whatever the case, Collins was liquored up pretty good that night at the bar when he referred to a couple of his teammates with racial slurs. He thought he was being funny. Obviously, you had to be wasted to appreciate the humor.

Collins apologized, of course. He would pay for those remarks—in public and in the confines of his own locker room. But the bad times had just begun. Two nights after the bar incident, Carolina met Denver in a preseason game.

Collins was in his follow-through, having just let go of a pass, when Broncos linebacker Bill Romanowski tried to drive his helmet through the quarterback's face.

"One of the dirtiest plays I've seen in all of football," says Polian. "It was a terrible, terrible injury."

Romanowski was fined $20,000, not nearly enough if you ask me. Collins' jaw was broken in two places. The surgery required two metal plates. He couldn't eat. He drank through a straw. He lost maybe 20 pounds.

To make matters worse, Collins returned to start the third game of the regular season. "It was obvious that we brought him back too soon, that he came back too soon," says Polian. "He was physically weak."

A couple of games later, on national television against the 49ers, he had the worst game of his then-young career: 11-for-24 for 126 yards and three interceptions. Polian had so admired Collins' ability to stand and deliver, his obliviousness to the oncoming hit. But it was now clear—if not to Polian, then to everyone else—that the quarterback's confidence had been fractured with his jaw.

"He went through a period, as anyone should have expected, that he wasn't himself, wasn't what he had been prior to the injury," said Polian.

They spent a lot of time talking.

"This, too, will pass," Polian assured him. "You'll be back to what you were, probably better."

Probably better? I wonder if Collins believed it.

It was a terrible year. Polian left for the president's job in Indianapolis when it was over. The Panthers waived Collins four games into next season. He bounced around—from New Orleans to the Giants to the Super Bowl. That ended his first comeback.

Some years later, he'd find his way to Oakland. That last year with the Raiders, he threw for 3,759 yards, with 20 touchdowns and 12 interceptions. Not bad for a guy who was sacked 39 times. But, hey, Collins always knew how to take a beating.

Next stop, Tennessee, where he was a backup until Vince Young came down with his own case of knuckleheadedness the first Sunday of the season.

Forget Collins' numbers, the quarterback rating bit. The Titans are 10-0. That's his rating. It signifies another comeback, and a big one, too.

There are two points worth noting here. The first is for Vince Young. He should take some comfort in the example of the man who replaced him.

The second regards Bill Polian, and his remarkable ability to handicap the human condition.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

On the Mark: Condom Thieves and Interior Design

Mark Kriegel — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 10:16:58 -0500

When informed that an NFL football game could end in a tie, Donovan McNabb wondered aloud what would happen in the Super Bowl.

Easy. He'd be stoned to death upon his return to Philadelphia.

Have you heard about the basketball player from Binghamton busted for stealing condoms?

I don't know if he's good enough to play at the next level, but that's one kid who could skip the NBA's rookie orientation.

nother thing: let's let up on the guy. It gets cold up there in Binghamton.

Hey, you don't see Playboy doing pictorials on "Girls of the State University of New York."

According to reports out of Denver, Carmelo Anthony has Barry Manilow on his iPod.

I commend him. I just want to know which baller is going to be man enough to admit he's down with Neil Sedaka.

Just curious: what would CC Sabathia be worth if he could actually win a playoff game?

Just for the record: he's allowed 20 runs over 19 innings in his last four postseason starts.

Brock Lesnar could beat up Michigan. All of them. At once.

Fedor could go though the entire Big Ten.

Would liked to have seen the end of the Steelers-Chargers point-spread game from the sportsbook of the MGM Grand. I bet there hasn't been that kind of fun in Vegas since the last Tyson fight.

I don't think Keyshawn Johnson is a "b----," as Warren Sapp has called him. Just that his decorating show could be called "Give Me The Damn Drapes."

One more win and the Garden will start printing playoff tickets for the Knicks.

Can't imagine what Angelo Dundee is doing in Oscar De La Hoya's camp. Unless he's explaining the finer points of Ali's famous "Anchor Punch."

Question for John Madden: what would you do if you found out you were getting shortchanged on the proceeds of your namesake video game?

And what if you really needed the money?

Fearless prediction: President Obama will have an easier time with the economy than the BCS.

Personally, I think Hillary Clinton could still come up with some fresh ideas for this administration. Like personal seat licenses for the inauguration.

Jim Fassel contacted Al Davis regarding the soon-to-be vacant Raiders head coaching job.

Suffice it to say that we now know the true identity of the most desperate man in sports.

Going in for surgery this week.

"Prostate?" asks the kid on the desk.

"No. Knee."

"See? The glass is half full."

Yeah, well, it's no fun getting on in years. I mean, I'm so old I remember SportsCenter without the porn soundtrack in the background.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Madden Can Be Agent for Change in NFL Union

Mark Kriegel — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 07:13:50 -0500

Where's Madden?

Sounds like a new game. If only it were that amusing.

Five days have passed since a federal jury in San Francisco determined that the NFL Players Association should pay retired members an astounding $28.1 million in damages ($7.1 million, compensatory; $21 million, punitive).

Basically, the late Gene Upshaw's union conspired to cheat these men out of proceeds from use of their likenesses in the phenomenally successful "Madden" video games.

One union official actually advised the manufacturer, EA Sports, to "scramble" the ex-players' identifying names and numbers so as not to pay them. But John Madden himself has managed to remain silent.

And that's just wrong. I'm not arguing that Madden is responsible for the union's conduct, or that he knew of it. But, ultimately, endorsers should be held accountable for the harm that is camouflaged by their names.

When activists charged that Nike was manufacturing basketball shoes under deplorable conditions in Indonesian factories, it became Michael Jordan's problem. Kathie Lee Gifford was pilloried—a bit unjustly, it turned out—when it was learned that her clothing line was made by underage children in Honduran sweatshops.

Madden's situation is a little different. Madden was a Raiders assistant from 1967 to 1968, and the head coach from 1969 to 1978. The people exploited in this case weren't on the other side of the world. They weren't faceless abstractions. They were Madden's contemporaries. Some he coached against. Others played their hearts out for him. They helped him make his bones.

The class-action lawsuit was filed in 2007 on behalf of 2,062 former NFL players, about 570 of whom were found to have appeared in various versions of "Madden" without compensation. The games include 142 vintage teams, among them the '66 Packers, the '71 Cowboys, and a seemingly inordinate number of Raider teams.

According to a plaintiff's exhibit, the Madden '05 Collector's Edition for PlayStation Two includes every Raiders team from 1967-1977 except '73. Anyone who played for Oakland in those years played for Madden. In fact, the plaintiffs include any number of storied Raiders, guys like Ken Stabler, Jim Otto, Dave Casper, and Ben Davidson.

"If John Madden knew that they were scrambling us, it's a disgrace," said Herb Adderley, the Hall of Fame defensive back who initiated the suit. "If he didn't know, well, no blame to him...But I'm sure he's seen some of these video games himself. I mean, I played against the Raiders in the Super Bowl. He can obviously see that the guy on '66 Packers and the '71 Cowboys is Herb Adderley.

"He should say something. It would really help if he would come out and say something to heal the animosity between the current and the retired players. It's been a real bad thing."

"It's time for a change in this union," said Peter Parcher, the lead trial lawyer for the retired players. "John Madden can be a constructive, positive force. Given that his name is on the game, and that everybody in football looks up to him, it would be wonderful for all the players—active and retired—if he came forward as a unifying force."

Then again, before any of that can happen, Madden has to surface.

I called NBC, which employs Madden as an announcer for Sunday Night Football. The PR guy at NBC tells me this has nothing to do with NBC. This is a job for the PR guy at EA Sports, he says.

"It's not really a 'Madden' story," says Rob Semsey, the PR guy at EA Sports, which had revenues of $3.67 billion last fiscal year. "It's a dispute between the retired players and the NFLPA."

I always love when they tell me what the story is.

What are my chances of speaking with John Madden, I ask.

"Slim and none," he says.

An hour or so later, Rob Semsey's boss calls me. His name is Jeff Brown and he tells me to call Madden's agent.

Sandy Montag, of IMG, was out to lunch. Let me be fair, though. Sandy Montag is an incredibly important man. He's so important, in fact, that his lunches must last five, six hours.

Again, no Madden. Of course, if I wanted to talk about the tailgating recipes in his cookbook or the foot cream he swears by, I bet I could've gotten him on the phone.

The more I thought about it, though, the more culpable I considered him to be.

I'd say Madden didn't know what the union was doing to the retired players, who were, after all, his kind of people, his guys. But after that lawsuit was filed, it became his business to know. And now that a jury has come back with such a damning verdict, it's his business to say something.

It would be a shame for Madden to end up another endorsement hustler, as he enjoyed great respect among those who played for him.

"He speaks a common language every man understands," Jim Otto, the Raiders Hall of Fame center and, more recently, a class-action plaintiff, once wrote. "John's down-to-earth personality was one reason why the Raiders players liked him. He seemed to understand what we were going through."

Jack Youngblood, another tough guy plaintiff, also professes an undying admiration for the former coach. Madden once said that Youngblood, a Rams defensive end who once played with a broken leg, "personified the All-Madden team."

"Trying to say that John has some responsibility, I think, is stretching it," said Youngblood. "It's EA's responsibility. It's on the union."

I didn't say Madden was in any way responsible for the swindle. I said he should address the issues in the suit.

"At some point in time," said Youngblood, "John Madden will stand up and do the right thing. I trust him as one of the great coaches in the league, and a great man. I firmly believe he will do what's honorable."

I hope John Madden justifies an endorsement like that. I hope he has it in him to make the All-Youngblood team.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Forget Jets-Pats, It's Bill Vs. Brett

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 05:30:10 -0500

It is the NFL's conspicuous good fortune to have the Jets and the Patriots playing this Thursday night on the league's very own network. It's more than a battle for first place in the AFC East. It's more than the latest installment in the dreadfully familiar rivalry between coaches, the monotone mentor and his equally glib ex-apprentice. Rather, it's an opportunity to see the game's most outsized and controversial figures match wits and skills.

It's a team game. I've heard that somewhere before. But let's be serious: This one comes down to Brett Favre vs. Bill Belichick. Going back to the beginning of last season, they are the most dramatic protagonists in the pro football narrative. And given what's happened through 10 weeks of the regular season, the burden of proof, and the pressure that goes with it, is on Favre.

I'm not exactly sure how this could be happening. Twice this season I sat in the San Diego press box and watched the Chargers—an inexcusably soft team that needed help to survive the Chiefs at home—demolish first the Jets, then the Pats. Week Three saw Favre throw a couple of interceptions (would've been three if Antonio Cromartie didn't let a ball go through his hands) as the Jets lost 48-29. Some weeks later, the Patriots lost by 20. There was no way, I declared, that New England could get by with Matt Cassel at quarterback.

Now, with the Patriots at 6-3 and their woefully inexperienced quarterback coming off a fine, mistake-free game against the Bills, my chagrin is equal to the credit due Cassel. Still, even more credit is due Belichick. To this point he's gotten more out of a guy who hadn't started since high school than Eric Mangini has gotten out of the NFL's career leader in touchdowns, yards, completions, and attempts.

By now you've heard a lot about Favre's difficult transition into Eric Mangini's offense. But, really, who had the tougher adjustment: Mangenius and Favre, or Belichick and Cassel?

The Jets are coming off a big win, 47-3 over the Rams. But it shouldn't come as such a shock. At 6-3 themselves, the Jets have some talent, not to mention a Hall of Fame quarterback. More shocking was that the quarterback went without an interception for the first time since Week One.

Favre has 12 interceptions to go with his 16 touchdown passes. Cassel, who has thrown for only 179 fewer yards, has thrown seven touchdowns, but also, only seven interceptions. He hasn't been well protected either. Cassel has been sacked 29 times, 13 more than Favre.

Belichick isn't a nice guy; he's a proven cheater. But he's also having the best season of any coach or player in the league, including the Titans' Jeff Fisher. Consider the injuries he's had to work through:

He lost the best quarterback in football. He lost his best running back, Laurence Maroney. Actually, the entire backfield has been decimated. Sammy Morris has missed three games. Lamont Jordan has missed five straight. Kevin Faulk, who's 32, has missed a game. No matter. Belichick comes up with somebody named BenJarvus Green-Ellis.

What's more, the guys who are supposed to protect Cassel can't seem to protect themselves. Three offensive linemen that signed as free agents in the offseason were hurt before they could ever play in a game. Right tackle Nick Kaczur missed a couple of games. Right guard Stephen Neal was out until Week Seven.

That would be the same week that safety Rodney Harrison was lost for the season.

Now comes more good news for the Jets: Adalius Thomas is gone with a broken forearm.

In other words, Belichick has Favre right where he wants him.

On the Mark

By now, you've probably heard of the astounding $28.1 million verdict against the NFL Players Association.

A federal jury in San Francisco has ruled that the union sold out retired players by failing to market their images to Electronic Arts, which manufactures Madden NFL.

In other words, not only did Gene Upshaw and his cronies make life miserable for retirees with disability claims, they were ripping off their own.

So, I'm thinking maybe those "GU 63" patches the players have been wearing should be changed to "GU 28.1."

I'm sure to be overcome with emotion when Jimmie Johnson wins another Sprint Cup next Sunday in Miami.

Kind of how I felt when Vijay Singh won the FedEx Cup.

Who says golf misses Tiger Woods?

A friend asks how I saw the Roy Jones-Joe Calzaghe fight.

"The end of Jones," I say.

"Gee," he says. "Didn't that happen, like, five years ago?"

The guy has a point. But the problem with Jones isn't what he tried to do on Saturday.

It's what he didn't do 10 years ago, when he was the most physically gifted fighter of his era.

You don't earn much love fighting off-duty cops.

By the way, did you see the way Calzaghe was shimmying and taunting his opponent?

It made for great TV. But I have to wonder, if the racial equation was reversed—if Calzaghe was the black fighter—would he have gotten grief for embarrassing a game but aged champion?

Just asking.

If I'd just bet Texas Tech and the over each week, I'd already have enough to send my kid through college.

Now, even as you read this, a concerned father is calling his bookie.

By the way, where do these Big 12 coaches get their playbooks, the Arena League?

I'm sure the President-Elect was touched to learn that Brandon Marshall was willing to take a 15-yard penalty for a gloved salute to honor his victory.

Good to know that McCain didn't have a lock on the knucklehead vote.

Giants tight end Kevin Boss caught six balls for 69 yards and a touchdown on Sunday.

Jeremy Shockey, who makes about three times more, had two catches, 16 yards, and a round of embarrassing words with his quarterback.

All of which makes me think that Shockey will be evacuated from New Orleans before the next hurricane.

If the Clippers were an automaker, Donald Sterling could get some relief on Capitol Hill.

The question isn't how Randy Moss—who mentioned some "iffy calls" against the Bills—had his $20,000 fine rescinded.

It's how the NFL ever fined him in the first place.

If you ask me, though, the league got what it wanted. Bottom line: For most guys the mere threat of a $20,000 fine is enough to have a chilling effect on postgame locker room speech.

Stephon Marbury, who's getting $22 million to do absolutely nothing, says he wants to own the Knicks.

I say he already does.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

JoePa's Not Going Anywhere, Just Ask His Son

Mark Kriegel — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 06:10:06 -0500

I ask Jay Paterno, the Penn State quarterbacks coach who campaigned for Barack Obama, whether his support put the President-elect over the top in Pennsylvania.

"No," he says. "But being 9-0 didn't hurt."

Perhaps Obama owes a bigger debt to Jay's boss and father, the gridiron patriarch known as JoePa. A staunch Republican who once seconded the nomination of his friend, George H.W. Bush, the elder Paterno—whose backing could in fact have changed things in the Keystone State—sat this one out. The point here is not a partisan one. Rather, it's about a man just a month from his 82nd birthday, and his ability to acknowledge and adapt.

Obama visited State College last spring. Jay noticed that his father was not nearly as dismissive of the candidate's pitch as he'd been of other Democrats in years past. "I'm really intrigued," he told his son.

It wasn't an endorsement. But it wasn't business as usual, either.

A couple of weeks ago, Jay asked his father who he'd be voting for.

"Don't get me started," he said.

"He'll probably never tell me," says Jay.

Of course, with the election now past and a bye week concluded, it'll probably never come up again. Penn State has more important business, starting with Iowa in Iowa City tomorrow. Let's table, at least for the moment, any discussion of the Big Ten and its relative merits vs. other conferences. For now, it is enough to accept that a program once thought passé is undefeated, ranked third in the country, and, given the schedule, a favorite to appear in the BCS title game.

Penn State didn't get here by playing typical Penn State football. Last year, in the weeks before the Alamo Bowl, Joe Paterno gathered his coaches, telling them "we're going to need to score some points next year."

The new offense would be designed around a quarterback, Daryll Clark, whom Jay Paterno had recruited out of Youngstown, Ohio. Jay recalls first seeing him at Ursuline High School, where visitors were warned about gun shots being fired during the game. Clark had a powerful, if erratic arm. "He could run, too," says Jay. "I remember him going about 65 yards for a touchdown. Made about six or seven guys miss."

Four years later, as a junior, Clark would come on in relief of Anthony Morelli in the Alamo Bowl. Penn State, down 14-0, would come away with a 24-17 win. It was a victorious debut for JoePa's new offense.

Conceptually, the scheme was a collaborative effort, with facets designed by the offensive coordinator, Galen Hall, the line coach, Dick Anderson, and of course, the quarterback coach who, knowing that everyone wants an HD television, christened it "Spread HD."

"It's a hybrid," says Jay Paterno. "We still do the traditional Penn State two-back running game. But we can also go with five wideouts and spread the ball around the field."

Considering the way the offense has evolved and that so much of it revolves around the quarterback and his coach (Jay had to talk Clark into staying at prep school), Jay Paterno finds himself in an unusual circumstance, working in a place where blood meets ambition. He's not coaching so much as defending the dynasty, ensuring its legacy, protecting the family name.

"I don't know if I ever thought about it like that," he says. "That would be putting too much pressure on me."

As the coach's son, he's been on the receiving end of some hurtful criticism. "I'm an easy target," he says.

But he remains an assistant under his father, whom he calls "Joe" when it pertains to football, and "dad" at family functions. Sons of other famous coaches—the Bowden boys and Skip Holtz come to mind—have left to run programs of their own. But after 14 seasons working for Joe, Jay Paterno has no such plans.

"It would have to be the right opportunity," he says. "This is home."

As far back as he can remember, Jay Paterno wanted to be a football coach. "Most of the kids," he says, "thought I was kind of a dork." At seven and eight years old, he'd be diagramming plays. He'd creep into his father's den to watch tape of game film.

The university was central in his scheme of the world. His playing career would end with him as Penn State's backup quarterback. I wonder, though, if he ever saw himself coaching for his father.

No, he says: "I figured my dad would be retired. I mean, I'd be out of college when he was 65."

Still, there's another issue to consider: Did he want to coach for his father?

"Probably not," he says. "As a kid, I probably figured I couldn't coach for the guy. You know how fathers and sons are."

The Paterno family dinners which did not begin until Joe got home—were famously argumentative. After the dishes were cleared, the debates would rage, the subjects being history, politics, even occasionally, football. The father would sometimes take a position he did not believe, just for sport.

"It's a family trait," says Jay. "We love to argue."

It's funny, though, they don't argue as much anymore. "The older you get, the smarter your father gets," he says. "Or maybe I'm just getting dumber. Either way, I'm starting to agree with him more."

Of course, JoePa is old, not obstinate. His inclinations in both football and politics are conservative. Still, he can see the virtues in Barack Obama and the spread offense.

I remind Jay of a recent remark by the broadcaster Brent Musberger. The elder Paterno, he said, "looks back at Bear Bryant as the example. He is fearful that he would not be with us if he stepped away. He is a man that doesn't fish, doesn't play golf. He has no interests other than his family and football."

Bryant, it's worth noting, died in 1982, just 28 days after coaching his last game.

"I do know he's very aware of Coach Bryant," says Jay. "He has said he wondered how much longer Bryant could have lived...But Joe's never said, 'If I don't coach I'm afraid I'll drop dead in a few months...Believe me, he'd find something to do. He has great intellectual curiosity. He's a voracious reader."

College football's winningest coach has a bad hip and an ailing right leg. He's been coaching games from the press box. Still, none of that means he's retiring anytime soon.

"Joe's going to be here another couple years," says Jay Paterno.

The way he says it, I get the feeling a couple years could last longer than Obama's first term.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Stars Not Shining for Cowboys (and Other Thoughts)

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 05:05:39 -0500

Biggest disappointment of the season?

The choice shouldn't be this easy, not with the perennially underachieving San Diego Chargers already at 3-5. But the Dallas Cowboys get my vote, a clear-cut winner in the loser category.

They've had their injuries, of course. And they're still a game over .500. What's more, with Tony Romo due to return after a fortuitously timed bye week, you can expect them to make a run in the second half.

But so what? With a record 13 Pro Bowlers returning from last year's squad, there was talk—most of it entirely reasonable—that this was Dallas' most talented team ever. The Cowboys were the consensus pick, not just to represent the NFC, but to win the Super Bowl.

Nevertheless, midway though the season, "America's Team" has begun to resemble America's economy, which is to say it smells of a scam.

At the helm of this caper is—what else?—an erstwhile oilman. Jerry Jones has succeeded George Steinbrenner as the star owner of American sports: an aggressive huckster, a post-modern Barnum, a procurer of talents that reflect well on his own.

Truth be told, he's not a bad general manager. Unlike Steinbrenner, he played the game he professes to know and knows it intimately. But he's also addicted to the high-profile play at the expense of more sensible solutions.

He re-signs Tony Romo and Terrell Owens to lucrative contracts. He signs Pacman Jones (a foregone conclusion, right?) He gets himself a new $1.3 billion stadium. And he invites HBO to training camp.

You think he might've had time to get a backup quarterback?

Gus Frerotte maybe? Or Mark Brunell? How about Byron Leftwich? Whatever. The Cowboys are lucky to be 1-2 since Romo busted his pinkie. At this point, you have to wonder whether the offensive coordinator is a better backup quarterback than the backup quarterback.

Brad Johnson was 5-for-11 with 71 yards and two interceptions before he was benched against the Giants on Sunday. In their last two games, the Cowboys managed to generate only 232 yards of offense with eight turnovers.

"If you've got Brad Johnson's experience, you give up some things," Jones said after the game. "On a guy with a lot of years, you don't know what you might give up in the skill level until it jumps out at you."

Wait up. Jumps out at whom? It's not for me to know that Brad Johnson had nothing left. But it was for Jerry Jones. Unlike Steinbrenner, he doesn't have a general manager at his disposal, ready to fire. If Jones gets the glory, he's also due for the blame.

Besides, this team is missing more than Tony Romo. You think it's the coach? Well, that's Jones' coach. He picked Wade Phillips, who's supposed to be first and foremost a defensive guy. Still, for all their talent, the Cowboys are ranked ninth in defense, allowing 309 yards per game. They've intercepted a single pass in the last three weeks. In fact, according to STATS Inc., the Cowboys are tied for 29th in interceptions.

To be sure, the secondary is depleted, with cornerback Terence Newman out on account of groin surgery and Pacman Jones out on account of being Pacman Jones. But the injuries obscure a larger truth.

You don't need to be a general manager or even an owner to know what you saw on Sunday. As Jones might say, it jumped out at you. The Cowboys, now in sole possession of last place in the NFC East, were demolished and demystified. The stars have lost their swagger. And more.

By 8:20 of the fourth quarter, when Derrick Ward ran 17 yards unmolested for a touchdown, they had stopped competing. No one wanted to tackle Derrick Ward.

Maybe the Cowboys' defense had been softened by Brandon Jacobs. Or maybe the Giants' offensive line, conspicuously lacking of Pro Bowlers, did the softening. Whatever the case, it's now clear that Jerry Jones' collection of stars was already softer than anybody knew.

On the Mark

Even as I write this, there are guys waiting for Chris Berman to interview the presidential candidates so they can figure out how to vote.

Maybe that's a good thing, that a man suffering from Tourette's-like symptoms can screen the candidates.

More likely, however, it's the most convincing argument against democracy since Shakespeare wrote Coriolanus.

Need evidence that New York remains the sports talk capital of America? A first-time, long-time recently called WFAN to argue that the Yankees should sign Manny Ramirez.

And platoon him.

The guys on WIP in Philly said I wasn't fair to the locals.

Then I see a piece in the Inquirer offering tips for Rays fans who wanted to get out of town "with nothing worse than a fractured clavicle."

The home team won 19 of the 20 games in the second round of last year's NBA playoffs. Eight times the home team took a dozen more free throws than the visitors. In three games, the free throw disparity was 19 or more.

Confronted with these numbers on a recent conference call, NBA commissioner David Stern scolded a reporter for falling victim to "the tyranny of statistics."

Didn't know the commish had it in him. I mean, such a poetic euphemism for the truth.

According to The New York Times, Syracuse has hired a search firm to help find a new football coach.

A search firm?

Isn't that Nike's job?

I never thought Pacman had a case—until I saw how light Larry Johnson got off.

Then again, there is no justice in the NFL. If there were, Donovan McNabb would be giving Brian Westbrook a piece of his Chunky Soup deal.

Bud Selig took a bad rap for saying that the World Series would be played at Thanksgiving, if need be.

I mean, wouldn't you rather see the Phillies and the Rays than the Lions and anybody?

From The Associated Press:

"Golfer John Daly was taken into custody Sunday morning by Winston-Salem police after he was found drunk outside an area Hooters restaurant."

I don't mean to be telling the AP how to do its job, but what, exactly, is the news here?

After spending six rain-soaked days in Philadelphia, I'd like to thank the guy who made it all possible.

Marlins second baseman Dan Uggla.

If not for the three errors, three strikeouts and the double-play he hit into, we could've been in sunny St. Pete.

I don't know if Isiah Thomas tried to kill himself by overdosing on Lunesta. But after implicating his daughter in a mess of his own making, he might want to start thinking about it.

First, Rasheed Wallace, and now, Allen Iverson. Pistons coach Michael Curry should get a raise.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Phillies' Championship Is Vindicating for Some

Mark Kriegel — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 05:45:46 -0400

For the record: The last pitch of 2008 was a slider thrown to Eric Hinske.

"I saw him swing over the top of the ball," Brad Lidge, the Phillies' closer, would recall. "Then I guess I kind of dropped down."

Never has dropping to one's knees been such a gesture of triumph. Lidge raised his arms to the night sky. The celebration had begun. Carlos Ruiz, the catcher, ran to the mound. Then Ryan Howard, the first baseman, hurtled into the rapidly expanding pile. In the next moment, a squadron of motorcycle cops drove into the outfield and established a makeshift perimeter on the warning track.

By the time the press trekked onto the field, the ballpark was warm with good feeling, which is saying something on a night when the temperature had dropped to 40 degrees, not accounting for wind chill. It was a blissful bedlam, a wall of sound emanating from the stands. Howard was sprinting across foul territory with a banner, proclaiming Philadelphia's first major-sport championship in a quarter-century, the second ever for the Phillies and their first since 1980.

That 1980 team is recalled, fondly and forever, for its reliever, Tug McGraw, and the slogan he popularized, "Ya Gotta Believe." McGraw died of cancer in January 2004. But as the Series arrived in this city, his son—the country singer Tim McGraw—sprinkled his ashes on the mound at Citizens Bank Park. If the ashes were washed away by the several storms since, McGraw's spirit was not.

The Philadelphia Phillies believed. In fact, it was their belief that transformed them into something few predicted—the best team in baseball.

It's been almost two years since shortstop Jimmy Rollins declared the Phillies "the team to beat" in the N.L. East. It turned out, contrary to the prevailing wisdom, that they were, coming from seven games down with 17 to play to win the division. But going into this season—in which the Phillies found themselves a mere three-and-a-half games back on Sept. 10—Rollins saw no need for such a statement.

"This year was different," he said a couple of weeks ago, after beating the Dodgers for the N.L pennant. "This year, we came in believing."

And none more so than the closer who took the mound to begin the ninth inning. Not so long ago, however, Brad Lidge was a castoff from the Houston Astros. He had lost the closer's job. He'd get booed when he warmed up. After the 2007 season, Houston traded him with Eric Buntlett for the likes of Michael Bourn, Geoff Geary and a minor leaguer named Mike Costanzo.

"I don't give a crap about Houston, honestly," he said, "because this is the pinnacle of my life."

There was no beer or champagne on the field. Apparently, there is no need when the home team wins the Series. It was a great thing, too, as it meant there was no phony celebration, no benchwarmers intent on demonstrating their prowess at dousing. Without the suds and the goggles and the practiced rituals, the real emotions became apparent.

"I'm just thinking of how lucky I am," said Lidge. "How blessed I am."

He had 19 saves in 27 chances that last season with the Astros. He was 41-for-41 as a Phillie, and another seven for seven in the postseason. What ended with Hinske swinging over the slider was Lidge's second save of the series.

Maybe he thought it could be like this. But listening to him after the strange suspension of Game Five didn't inspire much belief. Lidge kept talking about how anything could happen in a three-inning game.

To be sure, what happened Thursday was a thrill. 46 hours after Bud Selig called it on account of rain, pinch-hitter Geoff Jenkins came to the plate and knocked a double, his first hit of the postseason. Jenkins would score. Then, the next inning, the Rays' Rocco Baldelli would homer. In the eighth, Pat Burrell doubled off the center-field fence, and two batters later, a Pedro Feliz single would score the winning run.

If Thursday night was any indication, baseball might want to try a couple more three-inning games. The significance of each pitch and each swing was magnified.

"A lot of nerves," said Lidge. "A lot of adrenaline."

But nothing that Lidge, or the rest of the Phillies, couldn't handle. Lidge has been the Phillies' closer almost from the day he arrived. For whatever reason, Charlie Manuel believed in him in a way that Astros manager Phil Garner could not. Then again, Manuel himself was a castoff, having been fired by Cleveland in 2002.

"Do you think you proved anything to the people back in Cleveland?" Manuel was asked.

"I wasn't working on trying to prove nothing. Don't take this in a cocky way, I already knew how good I was."

Apparently, so did his team.

"It had to be won here," said Lidge, looking out from the infield.

Here. Fans in the stands. Ashes on the mound. Belief in the air.

This article was originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Could Rain Delay Indefinitely Delay Phillies' Title?

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 12:54:09 -0400

PHILADELPHIA - Human nature being what it is, the Phillies were counting the outs.

They were down to 12. With a one-run lead going into the sixth, and the postseason's undisputed best starter on the mound, there were a dozen outs between them and history. If they weren't a lock to win the 104th World Series, then they were pretty damn close. I don't care what they say now. They had already begun to consider an improbably glorious conclusion to their season. You know at least one guy in that dugout had begun to ask himself, Champagne or beer?

But now?

Now you have a different kind of series. If you accept the idea—as I do, and even some Phillies might—that this is a game of momentum, then you also believe it has shifted. The reality of the situation is that the Rays, who managed to tie the game in the top of the sixth, have caught a considerable, if unavoidable, break. Suddenly, Philadelphia isn't a lock.

"You never know what can happen in a three-inning game," said Brad Lidge.

When play is resumed, probably Wednesday night, manager Charlie Manuel will go to his bullpen. You might think this works for the Phillies, as they are known for their skilled and versatile core of relievers, Lidge first among them. But considering his team remains up three games to one in the World Series, the closer didn't look or sound too happy. For any pitcher used to coming out of the 'pen, he said, the rhythms will be unnatural. Somebody—probably Ryan Madson—will find himself in the unaccustomed role as the starter of a short game.

"I wish it would've been called when we were winning," Lidge said glumly.

He's not alone, at least in this town. Let's acknowledge, as Manuel said in his conference call Tuesday, that the Phillies have "been resilient now for the last couple of years." Very resilient. Just ask the Mets. On the other hand, regret and disappointment are not therapeutic emotions here. And the Phillies have cause to feel both.

None of the assorted questions posed by the suspension of play work to their benefit. If it hadn't been pouring, would Jimmy Rollins have fielded the ball that got B.J. Upton to first?

Probably.

Did they wait too long to suspend play?

"They could've stopped the game when the field started showing water," said Manuel.

"What were some of the things that upset you?" Manuel was asked.

"We left a lot of guys on base," he said.

Did you want to be going to your bullpen in the sixth?

Hell no. "I liked Hamels being out there," the manager said. "He definitely was on course to go seven innings, maybe eight."

So, you see, the Phillies have lost more than mere momentum. They've lost their best pitcher, too.

And Philly's loss is Tampa's gain. Not only do the Rays not have to worry about Hamels, they don't have to worry about their own heretofore powerless power hitters. Evan Longoria and Carlos Pena were 0-for-29 with 16 strikeouts going into Game Five. And guess what? They each knocked in a run in the game in progress. That's got to help the Rays' heads, as does the fact that wunderkind reliever David Price is now fully rested.

Perhaps that's not enough for the Philly to blow a three-games-to-one lead. Certainly, it shouldn't be. But nothing that's happened since the top of the sixth inning is good for Manuel's team.

"We get to bat four times, they get to bat three," he said. "We get 12 outs, they get nine."

That's a pretty good spin. But then there's this: The Rays were done, now they're not.

Someone asked Manuel about a scenario in which Hamels could come back and pitch in a Game Seven. The question might as well have been, champagne or beer?

The manager didn't answer, of course. But you wonder if any of his players were asking themselves the same thing. If they're thinking Hamels can come back for a Game Seven, they've already lost.

This article was originally published in FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

This Time, Selig Got It Right

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 06:37:37 -0400

Bud Selig did the right thing.

As unaccustomed as I am to writing those words, it's a fact.

"Tonight's game has been suspended," he told reporters shortly before midnight, ET. "It will be resumed when I believe that weather conditions are appropriate."

You think it should've been called an inning or so earlier? Like, maybe, after Phillies shortstop Jimmy Rollins dropped a pop fly? You have an argument, though nothing more than that.

You want to knock the commissioner for Game Three, for starting a championship event at 10:06 on the East Coast? Be my guest. Saturday's game wasn't just an embarrassment, but a warning that had to be heeded. This is what happens when you play a summer game in winter conditions. Selig might want to think about that, what with next year's World Series scheduled to go into November.

But as it concerns what happened on Monday night at Citizens Bank Park, the commissioner did the best he could with what he had. He was informed that the weather would be bad, but probably playable. He took that bet, as did the Phillies and the Rays, without complaint. Turns out, he lost. But on the fundamental issue—fairness, integrity of the game, whatever you want to call it—he did OK.

Whatever were to happen Monday, both teams had been assured beforehand that, no matter the weather conditions, the game would go nine innings. Whatever the score, Selig would have sent the game into indefinite rain-delay mode before calling it after five.

But let someone else lecture on the distinction between a "rain delay" and a "suspended game." That's not the issue.

"I would not have allowed the World Series to end that way," he said. "This was always going to be a nine-inning game."

He didn't commit to a bogus timetable for finishing the game, either. Tuesday's forecast is lousy. Wednesday's is even worse, with predictions of snow. "I don't want to speculate," he said. "But we're not going to resume until we have decent weather conditions."

In the fourth inning, Selig went down from his box to consult with the groundskeeper, who told him the field was holding up. He went down again in the fifth and spoke again with the groundskeeper and the umpire crew chief, Tim Welke.

"What we look for as umpires is the integrity of the mound and the batter's box, and that was never compromised," said Welke. "Guys weren't falling off the mound pitching, delivering, and the hitters weren't slipping out of the box. So we felt comfortable going."

But by the sixth inning, according to Selig and the umps, that was no longer the case, because of a shift in the swirling winds. All the Quick Dry clay in the world wasn't going to help.

Actually, the conditions had been dreadful for at least an inning. Rollins dropped the popup in the fifth. It says here he makes that play if not for the swirling rain. By then, the flags in center field had become heavy and slick with rain. People were drenched and cold. It was 45 degrees. In the bottom of the inning, Scott Kazmir left the game after walking the first two batters. His cleats were clogged with red clumps of mound mud.

It was wet for both teams, sure. And calling a game is not an exact science. Still, you wonder if the game should have been called before the sixth. It's an arguable point, especially if you're Jimmy Rollins. He booted a ball in the fifth and couldn't handle another ball hit by B.J. Upton in the next inning. Upton then stole second, and made it home on a single by Carlos Peña. Upton could see the tentative way Pat Burrell fielded the ball.

"I knew he couldn't charge it the way he wanted to and he knew I couldn't run the way I wanted to," said Upton, whose run tied the game.

You have to think that the Phillies are the losers here. After 25 years without a championship of any kind, this city was primed for a Bacchanalian coronation of new baseball heroes. Now the Phillies have lost at least some momentum, and more important, their best starter, Cole Hamels, who looked to be on his way to Series MVP honors.

"It hurts us because we lost Cole," said Phillies closer Brad Lidge. "And because of the way it ended..."

"My guess is if we stayed winning, they would have kept on playing... All of a sudden it was tied, and boom, the tarp came on. I don't know that for sure, but it just seemed like..."

Perhaps the conspiracy theorists will expand on that in the coming days. But for now, I think the commissioner did the best he could.

Still, there's one unanticipated benefit to Selig's decision. All of a sudden, people might actually start talking about this World Series.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Howard's Awakening Has Phils on Verge of Title

Mark Kriegel — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 06:35:06 -0400

So now, after a quarter-century without a championship, Philadelphia is poised to rejoice. There will never be a better chance. A town that fancies itself a luckless hardscabble metropolis suddenly looks like a lock.

The Phillies begin tonight with Cole Hamels on the mound at home at Citizens Bank Park, where they are undefeated in the postseason. What's more, Ryan Howard, the most prolific power hitter of the post-steroid era, has returned to his finest form.

Between September 26 and October 25, Howard had been without a home run. Between the sixth inning of Game Three and the eighth inning of Game Four, he hit three. He's gotten on base in five of his last seven at-bats and driven in six runs. The Phillies were dangerous enough without his bat—hey, they got here, didn't they?—but a hot Howard portends doom for the Tampa Bay Rays.

He hit two home runs Sunday night. The second was pretty standard stuff, as he sent a Trever Miller fastball over the right-field fence.

"Just crushed it," said the Rays' manager, Joe Maddon, who has been this postseason's most honest and articulate voice.

Miller, who has been in the big leagues since '96, knew all just from the way the ball came off the bat. He didn't need to follow the trajectory. Miller just looked down, defeated. That made the score 10-2. The Rays—easily the best team in baseball, if you had asked me a week ago—suddenly looked helpless.

Howard's first shot, however, was a subtler announcement, a warning that he was again seeing the ball. In the fourth inning, with two runners on, Andy Sonnanstine—who had been 2-0 this October—threw him curveball after curveball. It was the kind of stuff that had fooled Howard for the past month. But no more. This time, he went with the pitch, poking it over the left-field fence.

"Did a nice job on the breaking ball," Maddon conceded.

As it happened, Howard knocked in five runs Sunday night, tying a franchise World Series record (Milt Howard, Game Four, October 29, 1993). The slump was gone, as mysteriously as it arrived. This is exactly what Maddon must have been fearing.

"Those big power guys, when they hit them, it normally comes in bunches," said the manager. "They get the feel working and all of a sudden every ball looks big, and it's in the right spot."

"Ryan Howard, he's a carrier," said Charlie Manuel. "A carrier is somebody that can take your team and get the big hits and knock in runs, and he can put you on your back ... He might strike out four times in a row, but he's always dangerous."

Maybe the key is believing you always are dangerous. The slumps and streaks will even out, unless you allow the bad stretches to injure your confidence. A month is a long time. Baseball's best power hitter didn't have much opportunity to hide in October. Manuel kept proclaiming his faith in Howard. But what of Howard himself? Hadn't he begun to doubt himself?

"No," he said. "We were winning ... I don't care if I went 0-for-4 or 0-for-the entire postseason."

It was the right answer, though I'm not sure that Howard—or anyone in his position—can really believe it.

"I'm mortal," he said. "I bleed...It's just one of those things...Everybody goes through hot streaks and cool streaks and it's just making the adjustments to be able to get out of them."

But those adjustments, inevitably, are in your head. A man in Howard's position carries a distinct burden—especially in a city frustrated by 100 seasons (25 years, four major teams) without a championship. If Ryan Howard got hot again, it was only because he believed he could.

And now you wonder if the Rays—whose third and fourth hitters, Carlos Peña and Evan Longoria, are 0-for-29—can recover in time. It seems unlikely on the road against Hamels.

Everything is coming up right for the Phillies. Even their starter, Joe Blanton, smashed a home run. Blanton recalls his last homer as a senior in high school.

"That's probably the last time I hit," he said. "As far as the batting goes, I just close my eyes and swing hard in case I make contact."

It's not Blanton's job, hitting home runs. But it is Howard's. His swing can change a series, a season, and even more. He can change, at least in some minor way, the way this city is seen.

He doesn't want to be known as a loser. "I don't think anybody in that locker room upstairs wanted to be associated with that type of label," he said. "We're in a position to change the label."

Never a better chance than tonight. As Maddon might say, it's in the right spot.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Ruiz Emerges As Phils' Hero in Game 3 Win

Mark Kriegel — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 06:46:30 -0400

Carlos Ruiz stands about 5-foot-8, max. He's built like a fire hydrant and answers to the nickname "Chooch."

He can catch. "Always been a good defensive catcher," said his manager, Charlie Manuel. "He throws good."

The problem has been hitting. Or lack thereof. Chooch, who hails from David Chiriqui, Panama, hit .219 this season. Still, Manuel had a feeling earlier in the year. "That's why I stuck with Ruiz," he said. "Our team got hot."

And what do you know? As Ryan Howard's homer–less streak threatened to enter its second month, Ruiz found himself carrying Philadelphia at the plate. Tampa Bay could deal with Howard, Jimmy Rollins and Chase Utley.

Through the first two games of the Series, the Phillies were 1-for-28—and without an RBI with runners in scoring position. But they couldn't keep Chooch off the bases.

He had been 2-for-2 with a pair of walks in the second game in Tampa. Saturday would be more of the same. In the second inning, he put Matt Garza's 94-mph fastball over the left-field fence. He walked again in the fifth. But the game's defining moment didn't come until Sunday morning, when October's newest hero strode to the plate.

I've never seen an infield configured quite like that, and I'm not sure the ballplayers had, either. The bases were loaded, nobody out, when Rays manager Joe Maddon went to a five-man infield.

Grant Balfour threw Ruiz five straight fastballs, between 94 and 96 mph. The count was 2-2 when he threw the sixth. Chooch swung like a .219 hitter. "I know I didn't hit the ball hard," he said. "But I knew we had a good chance to score."

Running to first, he couldn't see it, a weak chopper that barely stayed fair.

Eric Bruntlett, sprinting down the third-base line, didn't see it, either—not until the ball was sailing over his head. Evan Longoria had made a vain attempt at a shovel pass, trying to reach his catcher. But it was too late.

As he got close to first, Ruiz could hear what his weakly hit ball had done. He looked back to see his teammates and the fans erupt in celebration.

It felt better than the home run. "I'll take this every time," he said. "I'll remember this for the rest of my life."

And so, at 1:47 a.m. EST, the most improbable game of an improbable World Series came to its highly improbable conclusion.

Jamie Moyer, 0-2 with a 13.50 ERA this October, pitched masterfully in his World Series debut, not bad for a 45-year-old who made his major league debut during the Reagan administration.

Howard finally homered.

But most notably and least likely, the Rays had given away a game the Phillies tried to give away just an inning before. What's more, it was Ruiz who might have been cast as the culprit.

In the eighth, B.J. Upton singled and stole second. Then he stole third and scored on Ruiz's errant throw. The score was tied at four—the Rays having knocked in their runs on two ground balls, a sac fly and an error — as the press box readied itself for yet another installment on the Phillies' failures with runners in scoring position.

And then, J.P. Howell hit Eric Bruntlett with his fourth pitch of the ninth inning. "I was surprised," said Bruntlett, a late-inning defensive replacement. "He's got pretty good control."

In these circumstances that pass for irony, Bruntlett went to second on Balfour's wild pitch and then to third on a throwing error by the Rays' catcher, Dioner Navarro. With nobody out, Maddon decided to load the bases and try five infielders.

As it ended, with Ruiz coming to the plate, there were 17 players, umps and coaches strewn across the infield.

Bruntlett, who ran on contact, would recall his sprint down the line: "I feel like I should be running faster, but I can't."

Jamie Moyer was in the clubhouse, watching on TV with reliever Scott Eyre. "When Chooch hit that ball I think I went from my seat to the ceiling," he said.

It seemed as if everybody in Citizens Bank Park hit the ceiling.

Not long after that, Carlos Ruiz was asked about his error. Did he feel he had to make amends? Did he take it with him to the plate?

"I try not to think too much about the error," he said. "I don't want the pressure to go up."

Spoken like a true October hero.

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Philly Fans Will Be Singing the Blues

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 08:43:06 -0400

Sarah Palin, billed as "America's best known hockey mom," was roundly booed upon her introduction at the Wachovia Center, where she recently dropped the ceremonial first puck for the Philadelphia Flyers.

At long last, then: legitimate cause to believe in the media's liberal bias. The real wonder (and here goes a shoutout to our boys in the Secret Service) is that she wasn't hit with a double-A battery. But booing? That's not a story. Everybody gets booed in Philadelphia. Even Santa.

Actually, Santa was more than booed. He was pelted with snowballs. You will no doubt be reminded of this fact as the World Series heads to the unsuitably-monikered City of Brotherly Love.

Philadelphians have been dealing with the Santa stigma for years. Glen Macnow and Anthony Gargano (a dear friend, I'm obliged to add), authors of The Great Philadelphia Fan Book argue that, "No event has been used to tar-and-feather Philadelphia fans as much."

It was Dec. 15, 1968. The Eagles, on their way to a 2-12 season, were playing the Vikings. The halftime show, advertised as a Christmas pageant, was scrapped due to inclement weather. Instead, fans got a hastily conscripted Santa. Their reaction, the authors argue, owed not to Philadelphians' odium of St. Nick, but to their frustration with Eagles management.

This argument does not constitute a denial. Fact: Santa was booed and pelted. Actually, Gargano once went so far as to tell me (scream at me, really) that "that was a raggedy Santa."

As if raggedy-ness were justification to abuse a 19-year-old kid in a red-velvet fat suit.

But that's Philly. It's not like the other cities. Philadelphians don't have a chip on their collective shoulder. It's more like a case of Schmidt's. That may not be an entirely bad thing—pelters and booers might actually provide a counterbalance in the era of luxury boxes.

But to pretend that the fans are, well, normal, is folly. It doesn't help that a city with four major sports hasn't won a championship in a quarter of a century. The Phillies aren't likely to buck the trend, either.

The fans' belligerence is documented across generations. In 1983, they set upon Chief Zee, the Washington Redskins unofficial mascot, sending him to the hospital with a broken leg. In 1997, a municipal court judge had to be assigned to Veterans Stadium for football Sundays.

I had read about this malignant phylum—the indigenous strain of Crazy White Guy—in the work of Pete Dexter, who himself was almost killed by a bat-and-crowbar-wielding mob in the aptly-named neighborhood of Devil's Pocket.

The reader is well-advised to procure Dexter's novels of course (especially Brotherly Love), but also his collection of columns, Paper Trails. On page 56 of the hardcover, you will find his famous account of Mummers Day and its aftermath. It begins with a chorus of young girls examining the fallen body of a man in a pink dress pulled up around his neck. Before losing consciousness, he had painted himself green.

"That's Mark's brother," one of the girls says nonchalantly. "I think he's dead."

I recall a comparable moment—the worst thing I've ever seen at a ballgame—right after Game Three of the 2001 NBA Finals. I had just begun a column about the Lakers' beat down of Allen Iverson when authentic violence broke out a few feet from the press section. It was a horrific, old-school stomping, just several rows off the floor. This poor guy kept getting kicked in the head. You didn't see this kind of carnage in the money seats at high-end events in other cities.

He fell, as I recall, near retractable aluminum steps. An actual pool of blood formed, an uneven circumference around his head. He just lay there, motionless. I remember calling for a cop. And I remember the cop couldn't do anything.

I was sure the guy was dead.

Eventually, though, he got up. Under his own power, I might add. His face was a ghastly crimson mask. But he brushed himself off, and went on his way.

If I didn't see it myself, I'd sooner believe in Santa Claus.

On the Mark

First, Brett Favre advises the Cowboys' Tony Romo how to play with a broken pinkie.

Now, according to Jay Glazer, we find out he's consulting with the Lions.

And from what I saw of the Jets game, he's got to be working for the Raiders, too.

Good thing Janikowski hit that winning field goal. The way I'm hearing it, Tom the Cable Guy was about to be replaced by Joe the Plumber.

Speaking of politics, Obama has raised so much money, I'm thinking Scott Boras is working for the Democrats.

If this managing thing doesn't work out, Charlie Manuel could star in a remake of "The Bear Bryant Story."

Baseball players still think these titanium necklaces can ward off stress and pain.

"Oh," says the L.A. Woman. "You mean like Harry Winston for guys?"

Exactly. And while we're at it, honey, that bag is So Toguchi.

The Rays' Carl Crawford tells the New York Times: "It gets kind of tough in high school — it seems like, that's where all the black kids get weeded out. It seems like they don't want black kids to play in high school, like they do everything to try to run them off the field."

Hold up. It seems like? Who's they? And what's the everything they do to run black kids off the field?

If you're going to throw out stuff like that, back it up.

In the meantime, I have an idea: How about a white middleweight?

Bernard Hopkins schools Kelly Pavlik, and you're hearing that American boxing has lost another white hope.

Truth is, it's lost any hope.

When the 43-year-old beats the 26-year-old, that's a pretty good indication that your farm system sucks.

Eddy Curry is taking a lot of grief for bursting an exercise ball.

But the real question is: Did he do it in seven seconds or less?

Adam Jones finally went into rehab. In other words, by Thanksgiving, Dr. Jerry Jones will proclaim him to be miraculously healed.

By the way, when do we get to call him Pacman again?

Can't believe all these financial guys want taxpayer bailouts. You'd think they ran ballclubs.

Doesn't bother me that Terrell Owens only caught two balls on Sunday. But I am a bit let down that he didn't continue with his postgame Elton John theme.

This is how I see it ending for the Cowboys, with a teary-eyed T.O. at a karaoke bar in Fort Worth:

"Romo, my Q-B, you are younger than me, do you still feel the pain ... "

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Matt Stairs Emerges as Phillies' Unsung Hero in Game Four

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 05:32:32 -0400

Chances are, even the most devout seamheads among you wouldn't know Matt Stairs if you bumped into him.

Even in uniform—even in the post-game interview room after the Phillies went up 3-1 over the Dodgers in the NLCS—he wore a pleasantly anonymous look.

Matt Stairs doesn't look like a player—certainly not one who'd hit the game-winning home run—so much as a coach.

He's middle-aged and thick, not muscular in the way of the previous generation of steroid superstars. The hair protruding from his cap is gray. He's Canadian, which is to say that if you've ever heard him speak (and, again, most of us have not), he sounds kind of funny. "About" comes out "aboot."

At 40, Matt Stairs has been playing baseball for money half his life. Starting in 1989: West Palm Beach, Jamestown, Rockford, Jacksonville, Harrisburg, Indianapolis, Montreal, Ottawa, Chunichi, New Britain, Pawtucket, Boston, Edmonton, Oakland, Chicago, Milwaukee, Nashville, Pittsburgh, Kansas City, Texas, Detroit, Toronto and, as of August 30, Philadelphia.

After passing through waivers, the Phillies acquired him for a player to be named later (a player whose name turned out to be Fabio Castro). Stairs said he'd be glad to pinch-hit. Of course. What else was he going to do?

"It's something I look forward to," he said. "To get an opportunity in a situation where it's an important time in the game."

Then again, it's not as if coming in off the bench late in a game necessitates modifications in his hitting style. With Stairs, the goal remains delightfully consistent, whether it's the bottom of the ninth or batting practice.

"My whole career, even back in the early days when I signed back whenever with Montreal, my approach was to hit the ball out of the ballpark," he said.

So much for the science of hitting, the craft of contact. Even in batting practice, said Stairs, "I try to hit every ball out ... I'm not going to lie, it's fun."

In other words, his guiding precepts are the same as the guy attired in polyester BIKE shorts and knee pads for softball Saturdays. Difference is, this wasn't a keg league in Central Park.

As it happened, Matt Stairs came to the plate with two out in the eighth inning of a 5-5 tie in the fourth game of the series at Dodgers Stadium. Jonathan Broxton, Joe Torre's new ace closer, was brought in to face him. Broxton's fastball has been clocked at 101 mph.

As Stairs recalled the at-bat: "Fastball inside. Fastball away. I guess he threw it behind me. Threw me a slider down and underneath. Threw me a two-seamer to the right."

Now the count was 3-1. Another fastball, bearing down on him at 95 mph.

"Charlie always says, throw the head and get it out there," said Stairs.

The head of the bat, he meant—"Charlie" being Phillies manager Charlie Manuel.

"He was able to catch up to Broxton," said Manuel. "Which is quite a feat."

Speaking of feet, the ball traveled well over 400, landing midway up the right field bleachers.

The crowd was silent. Not quiet. Silent. None of the 56,800 in attendance — even the well-known Dodger aficionado Barbra Streisand — knew what to do.

This being Hollywood, the evening had been built around a single star. And as everyone with even a passing interest in the Dodgers now knows, that star's name is Manny Ramirez.

His at-bats have become events in Chavez Ravine. Monday night was no exception, either, as each of his plate appearances delivered the crowd from its natural lethargy. (This isn't meant as a cheap shot at Dodgers fans, not at all. But just understand that they give you the impression that Xanax has been approved for over-the-counter use.)

Manny didn't disappoint: three walks, two of them intentional, an RBI base hit, and a double. The fans were happy. Barbra was happy. The home team would not lose.

But on a night for the star, in a town of stars, it was the perennial understudy who took the final bow.

Matt Stairs made it look as easy as batting practice. You could read the crowd's mind, the fans asking themselves, "Who was that guy?"

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Pats-Chargers a Bore, Like Much of NFL

Mark Kriegel — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 09:17:10 -0400

With fourth and goal at the one-yard line, Matt Cassel dropped back to pass. "It's a progression read," he would recall. "We went through it, and I didn't see anybody open."

And therein lies the difference between Cassel and the man he replaced, between this season and last. Tom Brady would've seen something. Certainly one assumes he'd have noticed Benjamin Watson, the New England tight end, open and waving his arms in the back of the end zone.

But Brady, of course, had knee surgery last week. In his stead, Cassell tried to run. "I was hoping to make a play with my legs," he said. "It didn't happen."

As it happened, San Diego's Ryon Bingham put him down for a loss. The Chargers began to celebrate. The crowd erupted. The score was 17-3. There was still 9:12 left in the third quarter. But the game was over. Everybody knew it, even the Patriots.

As Cassel came into the season having last started in high school—his senior season at Chatsworth High, back in the last millennium—you can't really fault him. Nor can you fault Bill Belichick for not kicking a field goal. At that point in the evening, it was even money that the Phillies would score more than the Patriots.

What's more, after seeing just how bad his team can be, it's a wonder how Belichick ever got them to 3-1. But now he's coming up against the limits of his vaunted game-planning skills. He can't make Matt Cassell a legit starting quarterback. He can't replace Brady.

Hate Brady and the Patriots all you want, but acknowledge what this season has become without a team most people loved to hate. Since beating the whiny Chargers last January—ending San Diego's hopes for the second consecutive year—the Patriots are merely a .500 team.

So much for that progression of which Cassel spoke. In fact, that play signified a regression—for the Patriots, sure, but also for the National Football League.

What happened Sunday night at Qualcomm Stadium had been anticipated as a nationally televised grudge match between Super Bowl contenders. Problem was, it lacked grudge. It lacked drama. What was billed as a preview of the AFC championship wasn't fit for prime time.

Don't be fooled by the Chargers, either. I have seen them play twice at home this year. They've won by a combined score of 78-39. So what? They're 3-3, another .500 team. Figure they'll lose in Buffalo next week.

In a sense, this game was a microcosm of an underwhelming season. Consider the so-called elite teams. There aren't any. Or rather, there are two, both of them surprises of varying degree—the undefeated Giants, and more surprising, the undefeated Titans. Meanwhile, the Cowboys are 4-2. The Colts are 3-2. The Redskins, last week's darlings, just lost to the Rams. On any given Sunday, mediocrity reigns.

But back to New England, which lost 30-10, its second blowout loss of the season. Belichick was asked to assess the state of the Patriots: Was it a case of missing Brady, or was there more to it?

"San Diego played better than we did," he said. "They did a better job than we did in all three phases of the game. That's how I would assess it."

Brady's injury changed the balance of power, in the division and the AFC, for sure. But the Patriots seem diminished on defense, too, their aura of invincibility gone. They seem old and slow, especially in the secondary. Deltha O'Neal was burned twice, first by Malcolm Floyd and later by Vincent Jackson. Philip Rivers threw for three touchdowns— without getting sacked.

Cassel—22 of 38, 203 yards and an interception—was sacked four times.

It also bears mention that, on Belichick's command, he called a timeout with two seconds left. How do you assess that?

Brady's replacement said something about watching the game on film. Wonder what they'll see?

Not progression, that's for sure.

This article originally published on NFL?WRIPAR&promocode=101308BRRSWRILNKNNMK" target="_blank" title="Kriegel - NFL">FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.

Rays Debunking the Myth of Postseason Experience

Mark Kriegel — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 07:50:18 -0400

The Division Series between the Angels and the Red Sox ended, appropriately enough, with Jason Bay, who had toiled in obscurity as a member of the Pirates, scoring on a base hit by Jed Lowrie, a rookie who'd been called up after only 40 games in Triple-A.

These men were strangers to playoff baseball. But then, so what?

The time has come to expose the great ruse of October: postseason experience.

Who needs it?

Certainly not the team that will soon face Boston in the ALCS. In the coming days, you will be reminded with annoying frequency that the Tampa Bay Rays are strangers to October baseball. That much is basically true.

Though seven players on their ALDS roster had postseason experience with other teams, none of their starting position players or starting pitchers have, to use the infuriatingly prevalent cliche, been there before.

Nevertheless, you are hereby instructed to disregard such warnings.

The Angels, who left 46 men on base against the Red Sox, have been there. So have the Yankees, the Cubs and the Mets, all of whom will be watching on television.

Not long after crossing the plate Monday night, Jason Bay—5-for-14 with five RBIs in the ALDS—was asked how he had ever gotten himself ready for the series, what with the utter lack of postseason experience.

"I can't prepare for it," he said.

No one can. Being there before hasn't helped A-Rod. I don't care what the sabermetric geeks do with their calculators; the heroically clutch athlete—the one who elevates his game under pressure—is the foundation of all sportswriting.

Therefore, I'm bound to insist that players who distinguish themselves in October are born, not made.

That's the difference between an Alfonso Soriano and a B.J. Upton, who homered twice Monday afternoon, between a Francisco Rodriguez—whose record 62 regular-season saves didn't stop him from taking a loss in Game 2 of the ALDS, and a Jonathan Papelbon, whose career postseason ERA remains 0.00.

Teams are the same way. Lack of postseason experience didn't hurt the 2007 Colorado Rockies, or the 2003 Florida Marlins.

It certainly won't hurt the Rays.

Unlike other teams that have surprised the experts in October, the Rays didn't exactly sneak up on anybody. Their demise had been predicted throughout the season, but it never came to pass.

With 97 wins in baseball's toughest division, the Rays beat back the two most formidable and well-endowed organizations in baseball, the Yankees and the Red Sox.

As it happened, they were 10-8 against Boston in the regular season. I know what you are saying: that the Angels were 8-1 against Boston, and look how that turned out.

Maybe, but I like the way the Rays evidenced a knack for winning the close ones, not to mention big games in September when they were without Carl Crawford and Evan Longoria.

They were 4-2 against Boston last month, including their win in a thrilling 14-inning game. Twice the Rays and Red Sox went into extra innings and twice Tampa won. Six of the Rays' 10 wins over Boston were by a single run.

The Red Sox are a great postseason team, not because of experience, but because every year they come up with another guy or two who has no fear of October. Last year it was Jacoby Ellsbury and Jon Lester. This year it may be Jason Bay and Jed Lowrie.

Still, the Red Sox are not what they were a year ago. They miss their best blogger, Curt Schilling. Josh Beckett —baseball's best postseason starter —is ailing. Mike Lowell has been scratched from the ALCS with a bad hip.

Tampa, meanwhile, is more confident and healthy than a month ago. What's more, their guys are still playing with house money. They're supposed to lose, remember?

I've been shilling for Tampa since the All-Star break. No reason to stop now.

Besides, I don't get to be right that often.

Rays in seven.

On the Mark

Being the romantic type, me and the girlfriend watched the Kimbo Slice extravaganza on Youtube.

"It's fixed," she said.

"No," I told her. "The problem is, it's not."

"Couldn't they have gotten that guy from the '70s? The one who always lost."

"Who?"

"Quarry, is that him?"

"Jerry Quarry. He's dead."

Then again, the point is well-taken. A dead Jerry Quarry would put up more of a fight than a live Kimbo Slice.

I mean, Kimbo was so bad Tyson will offer to fight him.

Don't want to go out on a limb here, but I think the Giants just might be able to go on without Jeremy Shockey.

No truth to the rumor that Hank Steinbrenner has volunteered to replace the Philly Fanatic for the upcoming series against Joe Torre and the Dodgers.

OK, it wasn't much of a vice-presidential debate, but Palin and Biden were still better prepared than the Rams.

Seems that Hefner has informed all three of his girlfriends that it's time to move out.

Something tells me they won't pass through waivers unclaimed.

Get after it. There may be a stupider phrase in the English language...but I don't know what it is.

Good news, Cubs fans: Your team only stranded 23 runners in this year's sweep, down from 27 last year against Arizona.

Talk about progress.

So here's looking forward to the next 100 years.

Quick, what do Kyle Busch, Arizona State and the AFC have in common?

They all went down quicker than David Duchovny in the season premiere of "Californication."

Why do they even bother calling Tom the Cable Guy an "interim" head coach?

Aren't all Raider coaches interim?

I'm telling you, though, now more than ever: Christopher Walken as Al Davis.

It's the role of a lifetime.

According to the New York Times magazine, congressman Tom Davis is sick and tired of all the partisan politics in Washington.

This from the guy who split the Roger Clemens hearing down party lines.

Speaking of which, how's that career in the private sector coming along for old Roger?

Kimbo Slice's 13 seconds of infamy is the biggest embarrassment for CBS since the network sent LaToya Jackson, Erik Estrada and Wee-Man to Muncie, Ind. to become cops in "Armed and Famous."

I know. I'd be jealous, too.

I mean, how many guys ever meet a girl cool enough to throw in a Jerry Quarry reference?

This article originally published on FOXSports.com.

Read more of Mark's columns here.