SportClips Sucks

ESPN.com presented me a SportClips ad this morning, which is almost as annoying as seeing the latest Budweiser ad in which a grown man has a romantic relationship with a Clydesdale (while we listen whistfully to Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. Note to SNL – this ad is a skit 99% pre-written.)

Putting aside for a moment the fact that SportClips is pandering — in concept — to fear of homosexuality, the service itself is annoying. You can’t get in line without enduring a questionnaire designed to bury you in SportClips marketing. They’ll ask everything but your blood type, which they should probably know because you very well might suffer a head injury with their club fisted “stylists”. And before you can pay and leave, you’ll be reminded that you should get a haircut every other week. What kind of person gets that many haircuts? And they will, of course, try to sell you about thousand different kinds of hair products. In short, SportClips would like you spend a lot of time and money on your hair, which is ironic, because the concept they promote is the opposite. They offer the haircut with no girlie frills, an easy get in and get out. That’s how men like it, right?

But about the concept, they all look like a cross between a sports bar and locker room. ESPN is on everywhere and the “stylists” are dressed like FootLocker employees. Now, maybe I’ve seen too many films about locker room “romances” and maybe I’m oversensitive to women wetting my head and massaging my scalp and leaning over me with partially exposed breasts with a potentially lethal weapon, but I’d prefer to not be watching a hockey game while it happens. I’d like it to be quiet, and if the woman cutting my hair is going to wear a uniform, I’d prefer it be something less butch. Laker Girl would be fine, if I had to choose a sports theme. Or maybe a Birmingham Phillie (USFL Cheerleader in sateen with smokin’ 80s hair). This isn’t to pass judgement on the man who’d like to have his hair done by Ed Hochuli. If that’s your thing, god bless, as Tony Soprano liked to say. All I’m saying is that a haircut, like all other goods and services, is best had in privately owned business, not a cookie cutter franchise, and there is no need to garb the whole experience in jock denial. A man walks into a beauty salon filled with perfume, manicurists, Elle and O magazines in the waiting area and owns it and then that same man walks out with a good haircut.

Budweiser Superbowl Ad Continues to Baffle

If any beer drinker has “built their life around” this swill, they deserve an Oedipalized barnyard romance. That’s what this is, right?

Fans Hallucinate Miracle on Ice

Virginia beat duke 109-66 in the 1983 ACC tournament. After the game UVA Coach Terry Holland complained that Jay Bilas threw an elbow at Ralph Sampson. Coach K said that it was Sampson who threw the elbow and what’s more, it was bad form to bitch about it after your team won by 43 points. As John Feinstein wrote in A March to Madness, Coach K vowed to “never forget” that loss and then proceeded to beat Virginia 16 straight times over the course of following seven years.

So maybe when Coach K complained about the court storming after the game he was feeling a bit of that history, but I think his point is apt. It is dangerous for the losing team and the fans (anyone who remember’s Kermit Washington’s punch knows how dangerous very large, adrenaline-filled athletes can be) particularly when the team involved is as unpopular as Duke.

And is it really a court storming occasion for any major conference team to win a regular season game against anyone save the Miami Heat? The act almost always seems desparate these days, a self-conscious admission of inferiority made spastically explicit. Just as players need to act like they’ve been there before when they do unremarkable things (like score), so do fans.

All-Time Great Italian-American Baseball Team

Catcher
The list of good catchers is long: Mike Scioscia, Joe Girardi, Sal Bando, Joe Garagiola, Mike Napoli, Rick Cerone, and Gene Tenace for example, but there are just three great ones: Yogi Berra, Roy Campanella, and Mike Piazza. I love Piazza and Campanella, but Yogi is my favorite player of all-time and in my opinion one of the five quintessential Yankees, right there beside Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, and Mantle.

Yogi is my catcher, mio filosofo poco, my team captain.

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First Base
Joe Pepitone posed for Foxy Lady in 1975, making him the first baseball player to show his johnson to the world in the pages of a magazine. He also won three gold gloves and made three all-star teams. His career numbers lag behind Jason Giambi’s, but you have to admire Pepitone’s balls.

All that said, I don’t like either player as well as I like Joe Torre, who played over 700 games at first. I’m going with Joe here because he’s blocked at his other positions, catcher and third, by better players and he’s got to play somewhere.

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Second Base
People who like baseball statistics more than they like actual baseball, will no doubt ridicule my selecting Tony Lazzeri at second over Craig Biggio. Do you choose a Houston Astro who never played on a world championship team, or the guy who won five titles and was capable of hitting .354 (1929), of driving in 11 runs in one game, or hitting six homeruns in three games (both in 1936). For what it’s worth, Biggio has a lower career average, and drove in fewer runs even though he played six more years than Lazzeri.

Another reason to select Lazzeri? The huckleberries at Bleacher Report made a list of the 10 greatest second baseman of all-time and didn’t include Lazzeri (or Frank White), but did include the amazing Jeff Kent who plays second base on my all-time clubhouse-cancer team.

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Shortstop
Phil Rizzuto plays short and he is also my announcer, which is saying something considering I could have chose Harry Caray (born Carabina), or Joe Garagiola. Phil was great fielder and good hitter, but more than all of it – a great guy. He didn’t think he deserved to be in the hall of fame and said as much, which is a big reason why I think he deserves to be in the hall of fame. The hall isn’t about statistics, it’s about our heroes, our most loved ballplayers, the one’s we most wanted to watch and remember.

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Third Base
Joe Torre or Ron Santo? The came up the same year, 1960, but Joe played three more seasons retiring in 1977. Santo had much better hitting numbers. Santo also won five gold gloves at third and Torre’s best position was catcher. Ron Santo is the easy choice.

Ron was voted into the hall of fame in 2012, two years after he died. Great job hall voters, you wouldn’t have wanted to rush it for the heart and soul of one of America’s great baseball franchises.

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Outfield
One is tempted to run all three DiMaggio brothers in the outfield. All were good, with Dom being the best defensive player among them, at least according to Joe. I played with the notion of playing Yogi Berra in right, where he did play a little, so I could put Piazza or Campanella behind the plate, but in the end I figured Berra had to be the guy behind the plate, calling the game. He was just too smart. So, I was left with either Vince DiMaggio or Carl Furillo in right. Furillo had a great arm and was a natural right fielder who could really hit, winning the 1954 batting title with a .344 average. I have to go with Carl Furillo.

Dom DiMaggio is in center and Joe DiMaggio in left. It’s not optimal, defensively, and Mr. Coffee will no doubt sulk playing out of position, but it’s just the way it has to be.

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Starting Pitchers

Vic Raschi – Growing up playing Strat-O-Matic Baseball Vic always won for me. He’s my number one.

Barry Zito – Zito writes songs. An excellent talent to have on the team.

Andy Pettitte – Second most world series starts all-time.

Frank Viola- Career 3.73 ERA and he pitched in the Metrodome.

John Smoltz – Smolz is an idiot who actively worked for Ralph Reed for Lt. Gov. of Georgia. He was also a great pitcher. Nonetheless, he is NOT included in my rotation. I wouldn’t want the rest of guys to have to deal with this clown strike. So if my four man rotation throws their arms off, they can thank John Smoltz the asshole.

Maybe I should have added Larry Gura? He was better than most people realize.

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Bullpen
John Franco
Ralph Branca
Jason Grilli

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Coaches
Dugout – Tommy Lasorda
First Base – Tony La Russa
Third Base – Billy Martin

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Bench
C Mike Piazza
C Roy Campanella
1B Joe Pepitone
2B Craig Biggio
OF Rocky Calavito
OF Vince DiMaggio

Death Threats Halt Vick Book Tour

It’s hard to say which publishing niche is most putrid: inspirational Christian books, or sports books. Thankfully Worthy Publishing has rendered the point mute by publishing Michael Vick’s book,Finally Free, an inspirational Christian sports book. The book says it’s an autobiography but it credits two additional writers, Brett Honeycutt and Stephen Copeland, both associated with Sports Spectrum, a publication dedicated to conservative Christian values and sports. A natural combination because wealth, fame, playing games for money, and making idols of the rich and famous were such important parts of Christ’s message.

Finally Free begins with high drama — enjambed sentences — that paint a metaphor à la Thomas Kinkade, of Mike Vick as a kind of winged predator plucked from the aether:

“Hokies.
Falcons.
Eagles.
I’ve always been a bird.”

But, alas, the Hokie is not a bird. Vick seems to have mistaken the Hokie mascot, a birdish creature, for a Hokie. (Note to the editors at Worthy Publishing – the San Diego Padre is not a chicken.) Maybe if he’d stayed more than two years at Virginia Tech Vick might have learned that a Hokie is just a nonsense word devised in 1896 to fill in gaps in the school cheer. On the other hand it’s the rare student athlete that takes a course as difficult as “Dictionary Definitions 101: How to Discover and Decipher the Meaning of Words.”

Anyway, the opening scene continues. This bird — it had to fly. It flew far from its foundation of God and family into the ego-centered world of football fame and riches (richest rookie contract in NFL history in 2001. Highest paid player in the NFL with second contract in 2004), which ultimately led to the winged-QB being cooped up in the federal cage at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

This would all be hilarious, if it weren’t so sad. I choose to believe, based on the evidence I’ve read at http://www.sportsspectrum.com, as well as the publisher site at worthypublishing.com, that it wasn’t Mike Vick who wrote this saccharin paean to Mike Vick, but his co-authors. (I need to read another christian sports book published by Worthy written by Randall Cunningham, Lay It Down. In addition to the masterful use of adjectives, Cunningham’s “non-fiction” plot pulls you in like a play action pass and then goes deep. The publisher blurb begins, “An astounding prophecy is whispered by a mysterious old woman to a sorrowful mid-40s couple who has just lost their two-year-old son in a hot tub accident.” Is this old woman a witch? Maybe she drowned the kid in the hot tub? Or was there a stronger wizard that gave her a false “prophesy”? And I can’t even imagine those poor parents. No doubt the hot tub was the best purchase they ever made—the magical steamy moments—now turned into a stew of dead child. But I digress….

So why does the caged bird sing? Is it because he wants to save the youth of America from strip clubs and McMansions filled with bloody dogs and high school dropouts, or is it because if he can resurrect his public image, he can make millions of dollars in endorsements? Knowing Michael, I’d say it’s both, but the latter is probably the prime mover.

In spite of the book’s shortcomings and Vick’s questionable motives, I think it’s hard to not feel some sympathy for him. Like many athletes who rise from poverty and strike it rich, he has been lied to and used by a legion of hangers-on and employers, from the clowns who operated the dog fighting ring in his Virginia home, to the Nike Corporation, the Atlanta Falcon’s, and the National Football League. Vick deserves to be free of his past crimes, including his first degree assault on literature. It’s probably good the tour was cancelled. I wouldn’t be surprised if his publisher manufactured the threat (or exaggerated it) to get him off the tour. I can’t imagine the bad press associated with protests would be good for sales.

Is Gus Johnson the Best Sports Announcer in America?

I remember Howard Cosell and Keith Jackson calling the ALCS in 1976. In game five Chambliss hit a walk off homer in the ninth and the fans swarmed the field. Chambliss ended up barrelling over a fan as he neared home plate in a kind of Mad Max scene that helped define the Bronx Zoo in the 1970s. Anyway, Cosell and Jackson were reason enough to tune in, even if you didn’t care about the teams. They lent a certain gravity to the event that ordinary announcers lack and are a big reason I remember the games so vividly.

These days I’ve been seeking out Gus Johnson because whatever game he’s calling sounds better than anything else on tv. Below is his call of last night’s buzzer beater in the Big 10 tournament. I like Johnson’s rythm and use of repetition. He builds drama like a good story teller who understands inflection is as important as the actual words and as far as the latter are concerned, the fewer the better:

“Here’s Brandon Paul.
8 Seconds to go.

Paul
Will go for the winner.
Paul
Crosses over.

15 footer….”

The Book of Basketball by Bill Simmon

If I had pride in such matters, there are a few authors I’d be embarrassed to admit that I’ve read. Ayn Rand, for example, is one I’ve read that is so bad that it’s impossible to say which she debases more — philosophy or literature – but more than that, being among her readers just gives me the creeps. I imagine it’s like hanging out at a child porn swap meet, which if you understand James Joyce’s definition of porn, you understand that Rand’s work is exactly that — child porn.

Bill Simmons is the Ayn Rand of sports book authors with one difference: Rand is hilarious in spite of not trying, and Simmons isn’t funny though he tries very hard to be.

Chapter one begins, “I learned the secret of basketball while lounging at a topless pool in Las Vegas.” This sets the tone for the book and lets me know immediately that it wasn’t written for adults. But would I let my thirteen-year-old son read it? I’m afraid not, but my kid is probably too mature (and sensitive) to want to read Simmons.

For example, in what Simmons describes as an anology in support of his claim that the 1997 MVP should have gone to Jordon, not Karl Malone, he writes, “For my buddy House’s bachelor party in 2008, a group of us trekked to Vegas for four days and landed at the world-renowned Olympic Garden one night. Normally in strip joints, I suggest we find a corner and surround ourselves with those big comfy chairs— I call it the ‘Chair Armada’— so we aren’t continually approached by below-average strippers trying to pull the ‘maybe if I plop right down on his lap, he’ll feel bad for me and buy a lap dance’ routine.”

Simmons then goes on to describe a “mediocre Asian with fake cans” who circled them for some time and ultimately landed with one of his “buddies” who settled for her out of desperation.

The strip club scene occurs on page 258. It was the last page I read and if I have to tell you why you might as well stop reading now.

Lest you think I’m a prude, I will tell you that I’ve read and appreciated Masoch, Nabokov, William Burroughs and many others who wrote about sex and depravity. I’ve written about it myself. But, the fact is, Simmons’ sexual references aren’t depraved, or even interesting. They are just undignified. A normal response to women who work strip clubs would be sadness, pity, even anger. (I will also add that, like Simmons, I was born in 1969, so I don’t think I’m experiencing any generational divide.)

All of this aside, The Book of Basketball doesn’t bring anything to the table that any junior high school kid who has memorized a bunch of records and stats and watched a lot of ESPN might regurgitate. Simmons prattles on endlessly about the history of the NBA MVP award, as if it determined anything more legitimate than a Grammy, or an Academy Award.

The book uses the footnote as a kind of lower level of hell. They are constant and generally used as a more intense mode of self-indulgence where Bill exposes his artisanal quality observations.

Referring to Jason Kidd in one particularly baffling footnote, Simmons writes, “Anytime ‘he smacked his wife. Let’s get him the hell out of here’ is the only reason for dealing one of the best-top-ten point guards ever, I’m sorry, that’s a shitty reason. By the way, this footnote was written by Ike Turner.”

No Bill, it was written by an asshole.

On the same page as the Ike Turner footnote, Bill writes, “I hated English majors in college and I hate movies that are vehemently defended by English majors now.” Who hates English majors other than hack-wanna-be-writers?

In addition to the footnote diversions, Simmons regals us with extended (b)analogies such as the injustice done to Shawshank Redemption at the 1994 Academy Awards when it lost to Forest Gump. He is right, Shawshank Redemption was better than Forest Gump, but this is like saying Bill Simmons is a better writer than Glenn Beck — they were both bad and anyone willing to make a distinction has too much time on their hands (yeah, I know — the mirror. I’m looking.) Anyway, Ed Gonzalez writing in Slant described Shawshank as film for sensitive heterosexual men (a buddy flick) filled with a series of Halmark moments that make a cartoon of prison life. That about sums it up and Simmons is exactly that audience. (For my own amusement I made a quick list of films I saw in 1994 that were more enjoyable and better art than either of these films: Quiz Show, Caro diario, Clerks, and Hoop Dreams. And yes, Bill, I was an English major in college.)

I’ll spare you the fascinating “what if” game Bill plays with “Boogie Nights”.

So with all of this garbage in print, how do we account for Simmons’ popularity? Is it his Joe Sixpack approach, his comforting pop culture references, his heteronormative cock associations scattered at regular intervals with strip club fantasy? I really don’t know, but I do know that Simmons lends support to all of those who think of sports fans as little more than emotionally stunted couch potatoes.

Hooters is Awesome Baby!

Is Dick Vitale really that enthusiastic about the Hooters franchise, or is it just the cash he gets for tweeting these absurd lines? (This just in, ESPN is now serving me Hooters ads. Dicky V must have a tweet robot licking the word “baby” like stamps and pasting them onto tweetAds.)

Message to Dick: Have some dignity, baby! I guess we can be thankful he got the verb form right. Though “Hooters are awesome baby!” would have at least made more sense because Hooters (the “restaurant”) is anything but “awesome baby!”

Now that I think about it, I bet former NE Patroiot Wes Welker thinks Hooters is awesome baby! He married Hooters Hall of Fame member, Anna Burns. Oh, you didn’t know Hooters has a Hall of Fame? Of course it does, and each lovely Hooter person is framed in a classy gold frame. How would I describe the aesthetic? Ironic Tampa Bay Strip Joint, maybe. And no, the irony doesn’t make it any more palatable.