I'm a big fan of tradition in sports. Whether it be growing beards for the playoffs, throwing back the opposition's home run ball or having the Lions and Cowboys play on Thanksgiving, i like it. But there are some traditions that become, say, outdated. So, when the Los Angeles Angles of Anaheim poured champaigne over Nick Adenhart's jersey to celebrate a playoff birth, they weren't being ironic or mocking, they were covering their teammate in champagne just like they would if he was still there, as is the tradition. Instead of questioning the Angles players (as many have done), it's the champagne celebration we should take a harder look at.
Seems there has always been a relationship between alcohol and professional sports. Beer and a hot dog, right. But, as we take a closer look at the connection, it goes far beyond beer and a dog. The tradition of celebrating with champagne pushes the message that celebrations have to include alcohol. When you win, you drink. Sure, Adenhart's family was OK with the celebration. Sure, players gave money to Mothers Against Drunk Driving, but when it came down to it, they kept the path of the status quo. You know, Donte Stallworth was celebrating his new contract the night he hit and killed Mario Reyes.
We shouldn't only point the finger at the Angles. After clinching, after the first and second playoff rounds and after the World Series, whoever wins will celebrate with champaigne. If Bud Selig is paying attention to anything other than weather radar this post-season, he will ban alcohol during post-game celebrations. If not for any other reason, Bud should place the ban out of respect for Adenhart's family or for Cardinal Josh Hancock, who was killed in a drunk driving accident in 2007. Or, how about because the alcohol problem in professional sports has become (or probably always was, right Mickey?) epidemic.
The problem with alcohol and professional sports isn't just with players, it's with fans and advertisers too. I'm sure tailgating is a blast, but thousands getting sloshed before a game does little for fan safety, especially after the game. Meger attempts to limit drunkeness like stopping the sale of alcohol after the third quarter are pointless if fans have been drinking since 9 a.m. And, you are telling me the NFL couldn't restrict the content of alcohol commercials? Maybe show ads that don't feature Average Joe football fan getting lap dances from super models because he has a Coors Light in his hand?
Professional sports should, but realistically won't, reform it's policies when it comes to alcohol. Bud Selig could, but won't, set a precedent. As long as it's still $10 a beer and Coors pays $10 million to advertise, no one will.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Say it ain't so, Stan
A few weeks before the International League season began, I had the pleasure of meeting Rochester Red Wings manager Stan Cliburn. If you've met him, you know a few things: he's a baseball man. It's not just his religion, it's his ethnicity. Baseball isn't a second language, it's the only language. Stan might as well have been pulled straight from Bull Durham, minus the "one day at a time" speech, that's just not his style. Stan's style is honest, hard-working, old school.
Spending a few minutes with Stan, I couldn't help but think he could have been in the dugout in any era. Connie Mack, Sparky Anderson or Leo Durocher, you can easilly picture him managing in the 1890s or 1990s. What makes Stan a transcendent-type figure isn't just his baseball saavy, it's his ability to spin a great yarn (or in English, tell a story). Trust me, Stan tells the best.
Stan still has a tape of the radio broadcast of his first home run in the major leagues (one of only two he hit). But, as Stan told us, his motives for hanging onto the tape were more than just for the keepsake. Years later, the pitcher who gave up the bomb was working as a pitching coach for a club in the same league as Stan. When the two teams played, Stan played the tape over the stadium loud speaker. To which the pitching coach yelled, "Oh, shut that off."
If you are a baseball guy, you are a Stan Cliburn guy. If you are a baseball city, you are a Cliburn city. And Rochester is a Cliburn city. Though he has a Southern drawl like Dr. Phil and can be a crude as Larry the Cable Guy, Stan's blue collar attitude, honesty and effort to make a connection to fans made him the guy to root for in Rochester.
Unfortunately, we now have to talk past-tense about Cliburn in Rochester. After a sub-.500 finish, the Rochester Red Wings decided to let Stan go after four seasons as manager. It wasn't the below average finish that got Stan canned, it was a season full of behind the scenes drama stemming from the decision to demote Stan's twin brother Stu from Red Wings pitching coach to the same position at double-A affiliate New Britain.
"I must have rubbed somebody the wrong way," Stan said. Likely so, but off-field issues or not, the city of Rochester and the Red Wings organization was lucky to have Stan Cliburn at the helm.
Spending a few minutes with Stan, I couldn't help but think he could have been in the dugout in any era. Connie Mack, Sparky Anderson or Leo Durocher, you can easilly picture him managing in the 1890s or 1990s. What makes Stan a transcendent-type figure isn't just his baseball saavy, it's his ability to spin a great yarn (or in English, tell a story). Trust me, Stan tells the best.
Stan still has a tape of the radio broadcast of his first home run in the major leagues (one of only two he hit). But, as Stan told us, his motives for hanging onto the tape were more than just for the keepsake. Years later, the pitcher who gave up the bomb was working as a pitching coach for a club in the same league as Stan. When the two teams played, Stan played the tape over the stadium loud speaker. To which the pitching coach yelled, "Oh, shut that off."
If you are a baseball guy, you are a Stan Cliburn guy. If you are a baseball city, you are a Cliburn city. And Rochester is a Cliburn city. Though he has a Southern drawl like Dr. Phil and can be a crude as Larry the Cable Guy, Stan's blue collar attitude, honesty and effort to make a connection to fans made him the guy to root for in Rochester.
Unfortunately, we now have to talk past-tense about Cliburn in Rochester. After a sub-.500 finish, the Rochester Red Wings decided to let Stan go after four seasons as manager. It wasn't the below average finish that got Stan canned, it was a season full of behind the scenes drama stemming from the decision to demote Stan's twin brother Stu from Red Wings pitching coach to the same position at double-A affiliate New Britain.
"I must have rubbed somebody the wrong way," Stan said. Likely so, but off-field issues or not, the city of Rochester and the Red Wings organization was lucky to have Stan Cliburn at the helm.
Monday, September 14, 2009
What could have been for Serena
After columnist Jason Whitlock bashed Serena Williams's booty earlier this year, he endured a downpour of flack. Feminists acted as if he'd spit on Susan B. Anthony and fellow columnists kicked it into attack mode like Whitlock was an extra and they were Steven Segal. Yes, they were harsh on Whitlock, but it wasn't his backside bashing of Serena that was bothersome, it was that Whitlock misdiagnosed Serena's problem.
In his column, Whitlock said Serena could be the Tiger Woods or Michael Jordan of her sport. This is true, but what's holding her back isn't her bottom, it's her top. Get your mind out of the gutter, I mean her brain. Her attitude. The unwavering cockyness and arrogance that cost her the U.S. Open.
During Saturday's match against Kim Clijsters, Serena threw a temper tantrum that made John McEnroe look tame. It made Dennis Green's famous "they are who we thought they were" speech look somber. After being hit with a foul, Serena looked at the line judge and said, "If I could, I would take this ball and stuff it down your throat." Of course, her quote is minus the explatives. After she went wacky, Serena was immediately penalized a point for her tirade. The point turned out to be match point and Serena was eliminated.
Serena's insincere, public-relations-company-written, day-later response said it was the competition, the heat of passion that caused her to go bizerk. OK, I could see it if this was the first example of Serena actling like she's the prodigal princess of the court, but it isn't. Before the Italian Open, Serena pronounced herself No. 1 in the world, though Dinara Safina held that title. "We all know who the real No. 1 is," Serena said. "Quite frankly, I'm the best in the world."
Before we delve into the shear arrogance of her statement, we have to ask: would Tiger Woods say that? Would Tiger threaten to bash an official's brains in with a four iron? Can you picture Tiger leaning back in his chair with a sly smile saying "screw Vijay, screw Phil, I'm No. 1."
Serena's actions Saturday and her comments about Safina prove she respects no one. She doesn't respect the game, her competitors, it's officials or her fans. She could care less about young female athletes. She scoffs at those who work their entire lives toward the pinnacle moment of facing her like they are trash she must kick aside in order to maintain her super stardom. And when she loses, she couldn't have been outplayed, no no, just ask her. When the press inquired about who she feared most, she said "probably myself. I always beat myself."
Well, I can't help but agree with her. But she doesn't beat herself with unforced errors, she beats herself by acting like an over-privlidged little leaguer whose dad coaches the team. She beats herself by trying to be Meghan Fox and not Serena Williams. During the same press conference that she announced she was better than everyone, she also said she wanted to get into more off-court activities, though she is already into fashion and acting. Maybe that's where she belongs.
The sad part is that women's sports need a Tiger Woods. They need a hero who rises above all competition with grace. Women's sports need Serena Williams to show strength and humility instead of pompusness and self-importance. Especially young black female athletes. If Serena wasn't so busy designing jean skirts, she'd realize that she could introduce a new generation of young black girls to tennis the way Tiger Woods introduced black youth to golf.
One can only hope a fine and possible suspension opens Serena's eyes to the bigger picture. If so, she could see her relevance as an athlete can go far beyond winning a bunch of tournamants. But, at age 27, she's past the point of maturation and growing nearer to the the point of being surpassed. And when that day comes, when we are given time to reflect, we will look back and say "if only." If only Serena Williams could have gotten over herself, she could have been great.
In his column, Whitlock said Serena could be the Tiger Woods or Michael Jordan of her sport. This is true, but what's holding her back isn't her bottom, it's her top. Get your mind out of the gutter, I mean her brain. Her attitude. The unwavering cockyness and arrogance that cost her the U.S. Open.
During Saturday's match against Kim Clijsters, Serena threw a temper tantrum that made John McEnroe look tame. It made Dennis Green's famous "they are who we thought they were" speech look somber. After being hit with a foul, Serena looked at the line judge and said, "If I could, I would take this ball and stuff it down your throat." Of course, her quote is minus the explatives. After she went wacky, Serena was immediately penalized a point for her tirade. The point turned out to be match point and Serena was eliminated.
Serena's insincere, public-relations-company-written, day-later response said it was the competition, the heat of passion that caused her to go bizerk. OK, I could see it if this was the first example of Serena actling like she's the prodigal princess of the court, but it isn't. Before the Italian Open, Serena pronounced herself No. 1 in the world, though Dinara Safina held that title. "We all know who the real No. 1 is," Serena said. "Quite frankly, I'm the best in the world."
Before we delve into the shear arrogance of her statement, we have to ask: would Tiger Woods say that? Would Tiger threaten to bash an official's brains in with a four iron? Can you picture Tiger leaning back in his chair with a sly smile saying "screw Vijay, screw Phil, I'm No. 1."
Serena's actions Saturday and her comments about Safina prove she respects no one. She doesn't respect the game, her competitors, it's officials or her fans. She could care less about young female athletes. She scoffs at those who work their entire lives toward the pinnacle moment of facing her like they are trash she must kick aside in order to maintain her super stardom. And when she loses, she couldn't have been outplayed, no no, just ask her. When the press inquired about who she feared most, she said "probably myself. I always beat myself."
Well, I can't help but agree with her. But she doesn't beat herself with unforced errors, she beats herself by acting like an over-privlidged little leaguer whose dad coaches the team. She beats herself by trying to be Meghan Fox and not Serena Williams. During the same press conference that she announced she was better than everyone, she also said she wanted to get into more off-court activities, though she is already into fashion and acting. Maybe that's where she belongs.
The sad part is that women's sports need a Tiger Woods. They need a hero who rises above all competition with grace. Women's sports need Serena Williams to show strength and humility instead of pompusness and self-importance. Especially young black female athletes. If Serena wasn't so busy designing jean skirts, she'd realize that she could introduce a new generation of young black girls to tennis the way Tiger Woods introduced black youth to golf.
One can only hope a fine and possible suspension opens Serena's eyes to the bigger picture. If so, she could see her relevance as an athlete can go far beyond winning a bunch of tournamants. But, at age 27, she's past the point of maturation and growing nearer to the the point of being surpassed. And when that day comes, when we are given time to reflect, we will look back and say "if only." If only Serena Williams could have gotten over herself, she could have been great.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Man not-so Genius QB move
If Cleveland Browns coach Eric Mangini's idea of living up to his nickname "Man-Genius" was trying to pull one over on the Vikings by playing Guess My Quarterback, then he might think Reggie Jackson was called "Mr. October" because Reg enjoyed the many changing colors of the leaves.
Trying to fool an NFL coaching staff by playing mind-warp with Brady Quinn and Derek Anderson is like trying to stump NASA with a sudoku puzzle. Sure, Childress may resemble George Castanza, but I can't exactly see him starting a fake charity, calling in a bomb threat, or pushing old ladies down in a panic over the QB switch-a-roo.
By the way Genius, Childress is so confidant in his game plan, he decided to share it with me: hand off to Adrain Peterson 30 times, blitz 20 and after the Vikings are up by 35 at half, rest the starters.
While in the process of playing David Copperfield with his starting QBs, Mangini must have fogotten that his team runs, catches and blocks like The Little Giants and is as tough on D as a soggy pizza box. If Adrian Peterson runs for 200-plus with 3 TDs, does it really matter who the opposing QB is?
Through trickery, Mangini must still be trying to impress his old boss Belichick. But Bill's moves make a little more sense: taping the other team, that was genius (and illegal, but you have to give him points for innovation.) Putting Brady on the injury list week after week, then taking him off when he was actually injured, OK I can see it. Even having Matt Cassel punt last season, very clever. You have to think Belichick is snickering under his hoodie at his former minion.
By the way, we aren't exactly talking about Young and Montana here, Genius. This pre-season, Anderson and Quinn made Couch and Holcomb look like Len Dawson and Bart Starr. The Browns aren't debating whether Koufax or Drysdale should start game one. Maybe, in the interest of getting Colt McCoy or Sam Bradford, Mangini should start third-stringer Brett Ratliff. Remember how Marlon Brando's character in On The Waterfront regretted taking dives? Well, taking dives might be the only way for the Browns to eventually become a contendaaa.
You have to feel for Brady Quinn. He gets drafted 10 spots lower than expected, has to sit and watch a nobody put together a Pro-Bowl season, then when finally he gets his shot, he's got Five-Hour-drops Edwards and a tight end as mentally stable as Britney Spears. Then he gets hurt. Now he's forced to battle for the prize of leading a team predicted to win two games led by a coach who seems to thinks he's a Jedi.... Maybe Quinn should have joined his Notre Dame pal Jeff Samardzija and played baseball.
Trying to fool an NFL coaching staff by playing mind-warp with Brady Quinn and Derek Anderson is like trying to stump NASA with a sudoku puzzle. Sure, Childress may resemble George Castanza, but I can't exactly see him starting a fake charity, calling in a bomb threat, or pushing old ladies down in a panic over the QB switch-a-roo.
By the way Genius, Childress is so confidant in his game plan, he decided to share it with me: hand off to Adrain Peterson 30 times, blitz 20 and after the Vikings are up by 35 at half, rest the starters.
While in the process of playing David Copperfield with his starting QBs, Mangini must have fogotten that his team runs, catches and blocks like The Little Giants and is as tough on D as a soggy pizza box. If Adrian Peterson runs for 200-plus with 3 TDs, does it really matter who the opposing QB is?
Through trickery, Mangini must still be trying to impress his old boss Belichick. But Bill's moves make a little more sense: taping the other team, that was genius (and illegal, but you have to give him points for innovation.) Putting Brady on the injury list week after week, then taking him off when he was actually injured, OK I can see it. Even having Matt Cassel punt last season, very clever. You have to think Belichick is snickering under his hoodie at his former minion.
By the way, we aren't exactly talking about Young and Montana here, Genius. This pre-season, Anderson and Quinn made Couch and Holcomb look like Len Dawson and Bart Starr. The Browns aren't debating whether Koufax or Drysdale should start game one. Maybe, in the interest of getting Colt McCoy or Sam Bradford, Mangini should start third-stringer Brett Ratliff. Remember how Marlon Brando's character in On The Waterfront regretted taking dives? Well, taking dives might be the only way for the Browns to eventually become a contendaaa.
You have to feel for Brady Quinn. He gets drafted 10 spots lower than expected, has to sit and watch a nobody put together a Pro-Bowl season, then when finally he gets his shot, he's got Five-Hour-drops Edwards and a tight end as mentally stable as Britney Spears. Then he gets hurt. Now he's forced to battle for the prize of leading a team predicted to win two games led by a coach who seems to thinks he's a Jedi.... Maybe Quinn should have joined his Notre Dame pal Jeff Samardzija and played baseball.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
'Roid Rumors Must Go
When we talk about major league candidates for performance enhanced cheating, we have pretty set criteria. We profile a cheater. We put on our George Mitchell hats, pull up stat sheets and start investigating, looking for a glitch, blip or bump in the numbers. Compare age to production. Compare rookie height and weight to current. And if we are really good, we eyeball hat size from our recliner. You can see, our investigations are thorough. And when finished, we work diligently to prove to everyone we know that so-and-so is “a user” or “on the list.”
Some easy examples of how our Woodward-and-Bernstein-like digging illustrate: Barry Bonds goes from hitting 34 home runs at age 34 to hitting 73 at 36. Roger Clemens had an earned run average of 4.60 at age 36, at age 42 it was 1.87. Red flag! The user begins to slip on production, then has a wild resurgence defying nature. Gotcha cheater.
That being said, there is a current ballplayer who fits the profile and should be - but isn’t being - vehemently accused of being a cheater. That player is Derek Jeter. Derek Sanderson Cheater. The Syringe Captain. What? I can’t accuse Derek Jeter of being a steroid user? Why not? Look at the numbers: age 35, batting average .334 home runs 17 slugging percentage .482 stolen bases 23. In 2009, his average is at it’s highest point since ‘06, home runs highest since ‘05, slugging highest since ‘06 and steals highest since ‘06.
For the Yankee lead-off juicer, pop outs are now home runs, ground outs are worm-burners and each steal leaves a trail of smoke on the base paths. Could this explosion by an elder be because of health? No. Could it be hard work, perseverance? No. Steroids, that’s it.
OK, accusing Derek Jeter of using steroids sounds completely ridiculous -and it is, but his 2009 performance doesn’t match a normal statistical curve. Funny thing is Albert Pujols’s, thus far, does. Yet every time Fat Al hits a home run, somebody whispers or tweets or blogs that Pujols is juicing. The chant continued in the last week’s Sports Illustrated where Pujols’s name was dropped in comparison to what Usain Bolt should expect as far as ‘roid questioning. The “Pujols on steroids” mantra keeps coming up no matter how far Albert goes to make clear he’s clean. He even said he’d give back every dime to St. Louis if he ever tested positive.
Pujols is 29-years old. Isn’t 29 about the prime of every pro-athlete’s career? So far, things are going according to nature, he’s hit 42 home runs and is batting .320. Career highs are 49 and .359 in those categories. With less than a month to go, Pujols is 31 home runs behind Bonds’ record. He’s 80 percentage points from .400 and a good 70-plus RBI from Hack Wilson. His numbers are human, the only thing that is super-human is his consistency.
But, perhaps the most consistent player ever Hank Aaron put up similar numbers averaging 37 home runs and 113 RBI per 162 games over 20-plus years. Hammering Hank suffered through constant racism, Pujols will always be barraged with ‘roid rumors.
We’ve gotten to the point where we’re condemning anyone and everyone for the actions of a few. It’s the sports equivalent of putting the Japanese in internment camps or dubbing every Middle Eastern person a terrorist. Of course, he isn’t the only victim of accusation - Raul Ibanez was hit with rumors after a hot first half, but Pujols is on the wrong end of more digs than Osama Bin Laden.
At this point, Pujols is the victim of high school antics. He’s like the innocent cheerleader that all the other girls say sleeps around. Because there’s so much good to say about him (he even won the Roberto Clemente award) some seem to need that “yeah, but.” Yeah, I know she can do a triple back flip and stick the landing. I know she raises money for sick puppies, but, did you know she’s a slut?
I understand the hearts of baseball fans have been broken time and time again, Big Papi's news may have hurt the most (because regardless of those going "I knew it! I knew it! You didn't, shut up) and I get that it becomes a fool-me-once type of situation, but if anyone can heal the wounds, it's Albert Pujols. The man looks into the camera and says, "I respect the game too much to cheat." He doesn't smerk like A-rod. He doesn't scream like Bonds. He stares at us as if even the thought of cheating makes him physically ill. Hearing Pujols speak could make Joseph Stalin feel guilty for thinking anything negative.
The reality is that until any evidence surfaces, we must assume innocence because, well, what else can we do? Unfounded accusations get you as far in journalism as fantasy football does toward being a tailback. Thing is, even John Dowd can’t go into the clubhouse, trainers room or follow players home. We have the choice between marveling at Pujols the way people did at Aaron or being cynical. Call me naïve, but for now, I’m choosing a state of awe.
Some easy examples of how our Woodward-and-Bernstein-like digging illustrate: Barry Bonds goes from hitting 34 home runs at age 34 to hitting 73 at 36. Roger Clemens had an earned run average of 4.60 at age 36, at age 42 it was 1.87. Red flag! The user begins to slip on production, then has a wild resurgence defying nature. Gotcha cheater.
That being said, there is a current ballplayer who fits the profile and should be - but isn’t being - vehemently accused of being a cheater. That player is Derek Jeter. Derek Sanderson Cheater. The Syringe Captain. What? I can’t accuse Derek Jeter of being a steroid user? Why not? Look at the numbers: age 35, batting average .334 home runs 17 slugging percentage .482 stolen bases 23. In 2009, his average is at it’s highest point since ‘06, home runs highest since ‘05, slugging highest since ‘06 and steals highest since ‘06.
For the Yankee lead-off juicer, pop outs are now home runs, ground outs are worm-burners and each steal leaves a trail of smoke on the base paths. Could this explosion by an elder be because of health? No. Could it be hard work, perseverance? No. Steroids, that’s it.
OK, accusing Derek Jeter of using steroids sounds completely ridiculous -and it is, but his 2009 performance doesn’t match a normal statistical curve. Funny thing is Albert Pujols’s, thus far, does. Yet every time Fat Al hits a home run, somebody whispers or tweets or blogs that Pujols is juicing. The chant continued in the last week’s Sports Illustrated where Pujols’s name was dropped in comparison to what Usain Bolt should expect as far as ‘roid questioning. The “Pujols on steroids” mantra keeps coming up no matter how far Albert goes to make clear he’s clean. He even said he’d give back every dime to St. Louis if he ever tested positive.
Pujols is 29-years old. Isn’t 29 about the prime of every pro-athlete’s career? So far, things are going according to nature, he’s hit 42 home runs and is batting .320. Career highs are 49 and .359 in those categories. With less than a month to go, Pujols is 31 home runs behind Bonds’ record. He’s 80 percentage points from .400 and a good 70-plus RBI from Hack Wilson. His numbers are human, the only thing that is super-human is his consistency.
But, perhaps the most consistent player ever Hank Aaron put up similar numbers averaging 37 home runs and 113 RBI per 162 games over 20-plus years. Hammering Hank suffered through constant racism, Pujols will always be barraged with ‘roid rumors.
We’ve gotten to the point where we’re condemning anyone and everyone for the actions of a few. It’s the sports equivalent of putting the Japanese in internment camps or dubbing every Middle Eastern person a terrorist. Of course, he isn’t the only victim of accusation - Raul Ibanez was hit with rumors after a hot first half, but Pujols is on the wrong end of more digs than Osama Bin Laden.
At this point, Pujols is the victim of high school antics. He’s like the innocent cheerleader that all the other girls say sleeps around. Because there’s so much good to say about him (he even won the Roberto Clemente award) some seem to need that “yeah, but.” Yeah, I know she can do a triple back flip and stick the landing. I know she raises money for sick puppies, but, did you know she’s a slut?
I understand the hearts of baseball fans have been broken time and time again, Big Papi's news may have hurt the most (because regardless of those going "I knew it! I knew it! You didn't, shut up) and I get that it becomes a fool-me-once type of situation, but if anyone can heal the wounds, it's Albert Pujols. The man looks into the camera and says, "I respect the game too much to cheat." He doesn't smerk like A-rod. He doesn't scream like Bonds. He stares at us as if even the thought of cheating makes him physically ill. Hearing Pujols speak could make Joseph Stalin feel guilty for thinking anything negative.
The reality is that until any evidence surfaces, we must assume innocence because, well, what else can we do? Unfounded accusations get you as far in journalism as fantasy football does toward being a tailback. Thing is, even John Dowd can’t go into the clubhouse, trainers room or follow players home. We have the choice between marveling at Pujols the way people did at Aaron or being cynical. Call me naïve, but for now, I’m choosing a state of awe.
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