June 2008 Archives
Now that Floyd Landis has lost his appeal, the Swiss-based Court of Arbitration for Sport finding Monday -- as it had to, because the evidence is overwhelming -- that Landis used synthetic testosterone in the 2006 Tour de France, it would seem the Landis affair is, finally, mercifully, over.
It's not.
Because while the legal proceedings may have come to an end, can any of us say with certainty that we are genuinely closer -- two years and millions of dollars in legal expenses later -- to the truth of what happened after Stage 16 of the Tour de France?
Not me.
Here, then, is my invitation to Floyd:
Call.
You've got the number. You've been to my house, sat at my kitchen table.
Let's talk about what really, truly happened. I'd like to hear about any and all stories about testosterone, in particular about any gel patches, if there were any, and where on your body they might have gone, maybe even on sensitive parts, and whether the Jack Daniels that you've acknowledged you drank in some quantity that night after bonking that day because the Tour title seemed hopeless -- did that play any role in possibly leaving a patch on too long?
Three-time Wimbledon champion Chris Evert, 53, wed former PGA Tour golfer Greg Norman, also 53, on Saturday evening. Between the two of them they must own more emblazoned-with-a-country-club-crest collared shirts than any couple on the planet.
The nuptials were the second for Norman, who got a divorce after 26 years of marriage last year, and the third for Evert….Lloyd….Mill. Reportedly, the wedding cost $2 million. I guess we could refer to the couple as lovebirdies. (Fozzy Bear face...."Waka Waka Waka")
Greetings from Studio 4 of the Wimbledon Broadcast Center, which abuts Court 18 (that's a real live window behind Jimmy Roberts, not a blue-screen background) and is pretty much my home for the next eight days. Beret and I are in the studio all day long, tossing facts at Jimmy Roberts during the day and Mary Carillo and John McEnroe in the evening. Occasionally, the facts are correct.
We'll have less reporting and observations from around the grounds, but I've enlisted our talented team of ambitious runners to help out with the "Things I Fancy" segment and hopefully we'll still cook up some cracklin' good blogs.
Last night I took a solitary stroll (after taking a solitary 45-minute run through the GREATEST PARK IN THE WORLD, where I happened upon a warren of bunnies, like dozens of them...thank God they were not of the Killer Bunny family from Monty Python's Holy Grail). Ended up at a pub along the Thames with the distinctly British name of Slug and Lettuce. Or is that just a homonym? Be a slug and let us?
The sandwich board out front advertised (or "adverted") Cheeky Hour from 5-8 p.m. Those of you who've been reading this blog since the beginning of Wimby know that every hour is Cheeky Hour on Centre Court.
But there I was, out by my lonesome on a Friday night in London and it hit me, as it probably has you, that I was a living and breathing character from one of the great rock songs of this or any era, Bryan Adams' "Friday Night In London":
When it's Friday night in London City
From Leicester Square right down to Chelsea
There's parties happening everywhere
But it don't feel the same without you
This is a tune that includes the line "I drank champagne by the Seine...". Bryan Adams. Wanker.
On the way back I passed a Carphone Warehouse, which you fans of Extras will recognize as the final place of employ of habitually foggy Darren and equally daft Barry (from "East Enders"...which is a real show here on BBC1)
Did anyone at USA Basketball learn a thing from the debacle in Athens? The Team USA roster was announced earlier this week and once again the priority seemed to be fame instead of game. Here, in case you missed it, is the roster, one that Madison Avenue will adore:
Kobe Bryant, G, Lakers
Jason Kidd, G, Mavericks
Chris Paul, G, Hornets
Deron Williams, G, Jazz
Dwyane Wade, G, Heat
Carmelo Anthony, G/F, Nuggets
Michael Redd, F, Bucks
Tayshaun Prince, F, Pistons
LeBron James, F, Cavaliers
Carlos Boozer, F/C, Jazz
Chris Bosh, C, Raptors
Dwight Howard, C, Magic
Sure, they are talented. And only two of them, as far as I know, have demanded to be traded in-season in the past year. But once again the powers-that-be, Messrs. Colangelo and Krzyzewski and the rest, have neglected a primary aspect of the international game, and that is 3-point shooting.
It's the "All England", not the "All Britain", after all: This morning's Independent notes that Britain's top remaining player, No. 11 seed Andy Murray of Scotland, has yet to draw the same warmth from the locals as Tim Henman once did. Playing on Centre Court yesterday, Murray received cheers of "C'mon, Murray" as opposed to "We love you, Andy" early in the match. Maybe it has something to do with having been born north of Hadrian's Wall. (It just occurred to me that I'll be covering sporting events this summer in the world's two top "wall" nations, Great Britain and China, the latter in the likely company of Grant Wahl. I do hope my friend, a talented young writer at Sports Illustrated, is already pitching a "Grant Wahl of China" blog to his bosses.
Worth noting: Henman, now a BBC commentator, submitted to a lengthy interview for the Independent yesterday. The pull-quote from Great Britain's favorite son of tennis, known as the kindest of fellows even if he never did win a Grand Slam: "IT'S A SACK OF CRAP TO SAY THAT I WAS TOO NICE TO WIN."
Yet another day of sumptious sunshine in SW19. The locals assure me that this sublime clime cannot last, that the London skies will soon give our umbrellas a good rogering, as if we are Wimby pigeons and the clouds All-England hired mercenaries gunning them down.
Through four days, though, the All England has more closely resembled the WTA tour stop at Indian Wells (no relation to Dawn). Ideal weather for gardening, or seeing Radiohead, or lawn tennis.
A dark day for Serbian tennis fans was nearly a nightmare here in SW 19 this afternoon. First, men's No. 3 seed Novak Djokovic fell to Marat Safin of Russia in straight sets on Centre Court. Beret and I watched the action from about six rows behind the Royal Box, wondering as we sat if the Earl of Sandwich was confined to a middle seat.
Funny thing about the seating. There are no armrests between the seats here and so there's no shortage of cheek-to-cheek action while watching the match. Beret is no Beyonce, but to my other side I always seem to find myself seated next to a dowdy British bird munching a boar sandwich. Rump-us, indeed.
Two years ago at this very time of year I was traveling in Scotland. One Sunday afternoon, after a brief visit to Loch Ness, I spent an hour or two in a pub in Inverness where I befriended three locals (our amity might have had something to do with my buying a round). The conversation turned to two distinctly passionate Scottish topics: sports -- the World Cup was on -- and resentment of the English.
"Did you ever notice," one of my new friends said, "that when a bloke is from England, they say he's English, but when he's from Scotland, they say he's British? What's up with that?"
(I may have added the "What's up with that?" I mean, I doubt these Scots were Seinfeld fanatics.)
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Andy Murray of Dunblane, Scotland, described in a headline on the tournament's opening day as "Britain's only realistic hope".
Pardon a slight technical glitch that caused me to abort that previous entry ("He's Federer, He's Betterer") following an unforced error (hardly my first of the tournament). Here are a few more musings from the first day at Wimbledon, and parts yonder:
-- England and the USA, as you've heard it put, are two nations separated by a common language. Tis true. Yesterday I was amused by the signs posted on the ground, such as "Please Keep Off The Hoarding" and "Used Championship Balls". As to the latter, it seems that you can buy a can of balls that were used in a Wimbledon match for just 3 pounds.
-- The Independent, one of the tabloids here, has a sports columnist named Paul Newman. Today he wrote about Serena Williams, who arrived for her match on Court 1 yesterday wearing a white raincoat even though the day was bathed in sunshine. "I just love coats," Serena said. "I'm always buying Burberry coats. I don't know why, because I live in Florida."
ANA, WILL YOU BE MY PALINDROME?
Some sportswriters fancy Ana Ivanovic because she's the No. 1 seed. Others because she looks like this. Me? I fancy her because she's a fellow blogger. Here she is writing about how she and her Anatourage celebrated her victory in the French Open last month. Check out the photo.
Greetings from The All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club, from the ol' SW 19, from WIMBLEDON!
This is my first visit to Wimbledon, and I am in awe. To ascend to the local vernacular, I quite fancy the place. Intimate and idiosyncratic, Wimbledon belongs in that most rare class of sports cathedrals along with Fenway Park, Churchill Downs and The Octagon at The Palms.
As the Grand Canyon is grand, Great Britain is great. And no spot on this incredible isle is more charming than The All England. Remember that sensation of wonder that overcame you the first time you ever saw a beach or walked through the gates of Disneyland or past the bouncer at the Spearmint Rhino? That's the feeling that overcame me yesterday upon entering the grounds on Monday morning for the first time. This is how Harry Potter must have felt when his eyes first fell upon Hogwarts.
And then, as if this venue were baptizing me, I stepped past security and the first person whom I saw was Boris Becker.
If this is true, then wow.
The delightfully bizarre Roger Clemens fiasco continues to reach new heights. Last week he was taking Viagra, now he's selling his Bentley to Bret Michaels?? Allegedly to pay off his legal fees??
That reasoning is skeptical, since it came from an unnamed source in Page Six. It's actually preposterous when you consider Clemens made over $140 million over his career in salary alone, not to mention the $28 million pro-rated contract he signed for 2007, or all the endorsements, investments, etc.
But good for Rusty Hardin, we suppose. He's probably making good use of that dough, most likely getting his fix of Texas Tonions and Eye of Prime Ribs at his local LongHorn Steakhouse.
As for Michaels, hopefully we get to see him mackin' one of his classy broads in Rock of Love III.
And we really can't wait to hear what happens next week with Rog. Stay tuned...
Jeff Wilpon - son of owner Fred, trader of Scott Kazmir, mismanager of all things Mets, and, by most accounts, an all-around pretty lousy dude - is making a serious challenge to James Dolan's throne as top dog in the Lucky Sperm Club.
Maybe Willie Randolph made some questionable bullpen decisions or failed to properly discipline Jose Reyes or was guilty of a dozen other offenses that managers get criticized for but probably have minimal impact on wins and losses. But, because of injuries and personnel decisions, he'd been forced to fill out a daily lineup that included a combination of Endy Chavez (.565 OPS), Damion Easley (.615 OPS), and Fernando Tatis (.596 OPS, old). The team is 21st in doubles, 21st in homers, and have only three regular positional players (David Wright, Carlos Beltran, and Reyes) with an OPS+ over 100. This team can't hit.
True to form, Rick Peterson left us with a bizarre metaphor, saying "I'm the hardwood floor that's getting ripped out and they're going to replace it with Tuscany tile." This is also a dude who admitted to reading Eastern philosophy and drawing sketches of his players (the hell??) in the offseason to cope with last year's collapse. While Peterson's body of work never really matched the hype, we'll kind of miss the jacket in 95-degree heat, the curly mullet, and, especially, his habit of always touching the pitchers when he went out for a mound visit. Don't believe me?
The best news to come of the firings? Ken Oberkfell! That's right, a guy who absolutely epitomized 1980's baseball, part of the "Bearded Braves" along with Glenn Hubbard and Bruce Sutter. Just having him around improves their karma. And if you think I'm kidding, then you just don't know me. You honestly wouldn't be happy to have a guy on your bench who used to look like this?
What could poor Tom Nieto possibly have done to get canned?
Assuming Jerry Manuel is only manager on an interim basis, our wish list for 2009 manager: Bobby Valentine, Manny Acta, Wally Backman.
3- number of times FSU has played Miami this season. Today will be the fourth.
1- the number of times FSU has beaten Miami.
While the numbers above don't make FSU's odds for a win today look too good, the situation is perhaps what this team has become used to and where they have learned to play their best. With the fear of losing and being sent home right on the tip of their tongue, freshman Tyler Holt said: "Thats kind of what this team has been built on - fighting back."
The Noles lost the first game of the Regionals to Bucknell. After a moment of "What the hell just happened?" FSU pulled it together and came back to beat Florida, Bucknell and Tulane (twice) to advance. Over those four games the Noles put up 74 runs (the other teams combined came up with 35).
Advance to the Super Regional they did only to turn around and lose the first game (yet again) creating the same story but with a different team. This time victory belonged to Wichita State after the Noles went down 10-7. And yet it when it mattered most, their backs pushed against the wall, somehow this team managed to do it again and win the next two.
Finally, after eight years, a return to the College World Series. A place Mike Martin has visited 13 times in his career but a title he's never won. A game against Stanford and the story repeats, a first game loss. Not of course without some notable records, the third-longest nine-inning game in CWS history and a tied record by Stanford for most runs scored in an inning (11 in a brutal ninth). Seven other teams share that record. Unless you are a Stanford fan, watching that inning sucked. It went on forever and got worse with each batter (or error).
And so it all starts over again. FSU down, facing elimination, going against not only an in-state rival, but a team they have only been able to beat once this season and a favorite by many to win it all, the No. 1 team in the nation.
And I wonder, can they do it again? Can this team, with the best offense in college baseball, manage to win another one and hold off Miami? Or has luck run its course? Which Florida team will be the last one standing?
I've got my fingers crossed that the numbers above read like this at the end of the day:
4- number of times FSU has played Miami.
2- number of times FSU has beaten Miami.
I was inspired by reading my colleague Matt Casey's blog yesterday. He wrote about sports and the role his dad played in his life that way, and I'm sure so many of us have stories like that we can share. Here are a few brief memories of mine with my dad, Bill Walters, who is 72 and just now discovering the joys of hitting the gym each day:
1) I'm five years old. The Steelers are hosting the heavily favored Raiders in an AFC playoff game. I like the Raiders helmets better, so my dad lets me take Oakland. We bet a dime. The first wager of my life. Terry Bradshaw completes the Immaculate Reception pass to Franco Harris to win the game.
2) My first organized basketball team, in 4th grade, in a Middletown, N.J., rec league. We finish 0-10. My dad does not coach, but attends all the games. In the last game of the season, our coach is absent and my dad steps in. There's a worst kid on the worst team (not me), and our coach rarely played him. He was the classic stand-in-a-corner kid who probably became a poet (or worse, a blogger). But my dad plays the kid and tells him that he wants to see him do something. My dad beseeches the kid just to foul someone. The benchwarmer commits a foul and my dad sings his praises and it was the first time I saw the kid smile all season.
I really don't know how to intro this. It's kind of an incoherent rambling of sports memories and stories I had with my dad over the years. When sports is a big part of your life, your dad is usually the one responsible. And Father's Day seems like the appropriate time to reminisce and thank him for all those good times and all the little things that are actually really big.
- We used to have weekly games of baseball or running bases at my Grandma's house every Sunday, and dad ran the show with about 20 of my cousins scurrying around. Once, I slid into third base, out by a good 10 feet. So, naturally, I threw the base as far as I could and screamed in protest. Some might call me a 9-year old cry baby. I'd say I was competitive. Dad threw me out of the game. I deserved it.
- In the District Round of the Little League World Series, dad was coaching first. One of our best hitters, Gregg, got hit on the ankle with a fastball, and had to be carried to the bench. The home plate ump called him out because he never made it to first, and dad was the first person to see the signal. "THAT'S BULLS***! WE'RE CALLING WILLIAMSPORT RIGHT NOW!" It took 11 years, but I finally heard the man curse. And everyone heard it. Aunt Bethany from Christmas Vacation could've heard it. My teammates loved it - "Your dad is AWESOME!", one of them exclaimed. My mom, who was sitting with my three little sisters, was not as thrilled.
- He never liked to play tennis, but did make good use of the racket, always hitting me pop-ups in the backyard or when we'd be vacationing at Lake St. Catherine in Vermont. On one occasion when a couple of hotties were laying out in the sun nearby, dad was purposely hitting the balls in their vicinity, allowing me to make spectacular diving catches to impress them. If I'd hit puberty by then, I SO would've had a chance with the brunette.
- You saw how Stanford scored 11 runs in the 9th inning against FSU the other day? That's nothin'. Trailing by a run heading into the last inning of a semifinal Little League game one year, dad - always the coach - told us all to take a strike before swinging. We did. There weren't many strikes to take. We put up a 29 spot. Seriously.
- Sunday mornings when we were young, he'd throw BP for an hour, and still have enough gas left for about 15 innings of a simulated game. 95% strikes. And of course, he and Mr. Genova would take us to brunch at Murph's afterwards.
- Was lucky enough to get tickets to Mike Piazza's final home game at Shea, sitting front row. Let's just say it got a little dusty when he came out for all those standing ovations. (That idiot wearing a Pennington jersey - don't ask - is yours truly; Dad is to my left).
1) To echo G.A.'s comment in the previous blog entry, Tim Russert's death was a blow for anyone who enjoyed listening to smart, engaging people on television. What I loved about Russert is that he never backed down from a debate, yet did so with an utter absence of ego and with a twinkle-eyed wit. He liked people. It came across so obviously.
Mr. Russert appeared on our little "Notre Dame Pregame Show" webcast last October before the Boston College. He was attending the Notre Dame game with his son, Luke, then a B.C. senior. I barely did more than shake his hand, but our host, Paula Faris, whom I think is as bright, polished and attractive as any woman on television, conducted a great interview with him.
G.A. made the salient point that it's particularly cruel that Russert, who wrote two bestsellers based on the bonds between fathers and sons, died two days before Father's Day.
If you had the Lakers up by 18 at halftime and Kobe Bryant being without a field goal, you should have my job. Then again I am not sure you'd want it.
Bryant was 0-4 in the first half, but not necessarily because he was working so hard to get his teammates involved. Rather, Paul Pierce was blanketing him and the Lakers were working harder than they have all series to get the ball to the high post and start the offense from there, as opposed to the wing.
The big men? They came up big. Odom had 15 points and 8 boards, while Gasol had 10 and 6.
Trevor Ariza had twice as many points (6) as Kobe did in the first half.
Larry David is here. And he's sitting just four seats down from Phil Jackson. I'll keep an eye out to see if he trips (inadvertently, of course) Kobe or Lamar as they run down to the scorer's table. That would be pretty, pretty, pret-teeee good.
Other US Weekly worthy fans in attendance: Justin Timberlake, Will Smith and Jada Pinkett, David Beckham, Linda Evangelista and Toby Maguire. And Jessica E., of course.
Meanwhile, as I type, the Celtics have completely turned this contest around. Down by 24 at one point in the second quarter, they enter the 4th quarter down by just two after a P.J. Brown slam just before the buzzer. The difference? L.A.'s offense has become stagnant, too much one-on-one action. And the Celtic defense has been monstrous, particularly Paul Pierce, who is blanketing Kobe.
Hey, guess who I just spotted at the NBA Finals? If you answered, "The L.A. Lakers", you are correct, sir.
I'd heard rumors (maybe while watching TMZ) that the Lakers would show up in this series, but except for about an eight-minute stretch during Game 2, Phil Jackson's multi-faceted naut of jugger had not yet been seen. Tonight? It only took 4:24 for all five Lakers to score at least a point -- though, curiously, nearing the end of the first quarter, only Kobe Bryant has yet to score a bucket.
Lamar Odom, who scored 4 points on Tuesday, already has 13 as the Lakers lead 35-14 after one quarter. This was the game I expected to see in Game 3, but apparently L.A.'s legs were not yet back under them after the return flight from Boston.
What do writers do when they have a day to kill in sunny Los Angeles between Games 3 and 4 of the NBA Finals? That is, if they cannot hang with Wilbon and Adande?
Inspired, surely, by the U.S. Open taking place just a 150 miles south or so, I gathered a couple friends for 36 holes of golf amidst the verdant beauty of Sherman Oaks Castle Park.
Our threesome consisted of your humble blogger, our Canadian comrade Moose, and the tall, dark and handsome Bill Cusack (cue Movie Tone Newsreel voice: "Sorry, girls, he's taken."). Being that Bill has a speaking role in his less-chiseled older brother's current film, War, Inc., it seems entirely accurate to describe this as a celebrity pro-am round.
Heading over to play, I incessantly bothered Moose by adapting golf bromides to our particular event: "You know what they say, Moose? Putt for show, and putt for dough." Stuff like that.
Here's a scenario for you:
Picture a competitive situation where you are a vet and a few rookies have just joined your team. Now this doesn't necessarily have to pertain to sports. You can think of perhaps the PTA (you are in charge of Teacher Appreciation Week and newbie is in charge of bringing candy), Girl Scouts (Junior to a Brownie), your job (you have a desk and a window, they have a cubicle. It's simple office hierarchy.), even the school lunch room (you obviously sit at the cool table cause you know people, they just sit). Ok, got it? Competitive situation, you're a vet, they're a rookie... and done. Good. Moving on.
Now this rookie, who has done nothing but be selected to join your crew, has a great deal of potential. A real star this young one! However, don't we all know (as former rookies) everyone must pay their dues? Earn our keep in the club, prove we're worthy. Rule "Suck it up and take it" 101.
And yes we all have been in a situation where we realize our genius is superior to the current leader. We take a moment, glance around and think: "You're kidding? This idiot is running things? Pssshhttt... I could do wayyy better." But most of us know better. We politely smile and nod our head while listening to said leader. We volunteer, ask if we can do more, and bury our complaints. When asked: "Who wants to __________ at 6am?" Our hand involuntarily shoots up and offers. We earn our spot one stupid early morning after another to prove we belong. We keep our mouths closed. Hello. The reason a rookie doesn't get to do it is because there are older much grumpier people who've been around way longer and have rightfully earned their position to complain. If there's one thing that puts a target on a rookie's back, it is the act of speaking. Period.
So imagine how the vets of the Indianapolis Colts, the XLI Super Bowl Champions mind you, must have felt after hearing what their prized new little rookie Mike Hart said about them! From Profootballtalk.com
“Indianapolis is a different organization. You watch ‘Hard Knocks’ on HBO and you expect to be hazed and a lot of those things, but the Colts are a lot different. It’s not as bad as I thought — we don’t get taped, we don’t get hazed with the Colts.”
Oh that's nice. Wait, he keeps going.
Lakers win, 87-81, and David Stern gets his first good news of the day. And because L.A. held Boston to below 100 points (why are we watching a Spurs-Cavs Finals again, by the way?), we all get two free tacos from Jack in the Box. Even if you were not at the game, you should visit and demand yours.
Derek Fisher, 2 points.
Lamar Odom, 4 points.
Vladimir Radmanovic, 3 points.
Pau Gasol, 4 points.
Laker reserve Sasha Vujacic has 17 points, or four more points than the four L.A. starters not named Kobe. And I've got to think that, on this night at least, he is Bryant's favorite teammate. Vujacic is the only other Laker besides Kobe--30 points--who seems to be savoring the moment. Living to compete. In short, he's a gamer.
Sasha opened the fourth quarter by burying a three, and he and Kobe have willed Los Angeles deep into this game. Boston led 66-62 a few minutes ago but now L.A. is up by five, 75-70.
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NBA "There Can Only Be One" ads I wanna see:
1) The one featuring a split screen of the two faces of Laker Girl Whitney, who only last year was a Boston Celtics cheerleader.
2) The one featuring a split screen of Tim Donaghy and David Stern.
Trevor Ariza just scored. Trevor Ariza is outscoring Lamar Odom at the moment, 2 points to 0. And he has just as many points as Kevin Garnett.
At the half I skulked around the courtside seats and found myself standing just a jab away from the world's best fighter pound-for-pound, Floyd Mayweather. Or make that world's best retired fighter. I wanted to say, "Floyd, there are some very nice people back at HBO Sports in New York who are quite flustered at the moment."
Mayweather, you may know, announced his retirement on Friday even though he is scheduled to fight Oscar De La Hoya in September. Mayweather is either walking away from an eight-figure payday (what the rest of us would describe as, "More money than we'll earn in a lifetime") or he's angling for a desperation offer from the HBO suits.
Also within knockout distance: Hillary Duff, Hugh Hefner and Brandi,the last of whom begs an "over-rated!" cheer when viewed in person.
Guys, by the way, if you're big enough to play freshman football, you're big enough to take down Duff's boyfriend. He looks like Matt Leinart, age 12.
They just did the celebrity-cam here at Staples (Dustin Hoffman, Eddie Murphy, Sly Stallone, Hef, Hillary and Spielberg). And early on, from among that august group, they included Byron Allen. And even he had a look on his face that registered, "Me? Ha! Right."
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At 4:14 of the3rd quarter, Lamar Odom is at last on the board. But the Celtics lead 54-52. Where was this Boston team at Atlanta and Cleveland earlier this spring?
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Odom is beginning to assert himself, which is absolutely vital since the biggest disparity in this game, in this series, is the Celtics' exploiting the Lakers' lack of size underneath. Gasol may be a seven-footer, and Odom 6-11, but Garnett and Kendrick Perkins are dominating them in the paint.
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After one quarter Boston is 8 of 25 from the field, has only taken two free throws, and has its two leading scorers, Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce, without a point. And yet the Celtics and Lakers are tied at 20. Bad sign for LA. Worse? Very early in the second quarter Lamar Odom picked up his second foul.
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Lakers now lead 34-25, which I believe is their largest lead of the series. KG and Pierce are a combined 0-11 for Boston (Garnett is 0-7). And as I type that, KG just slams down an alley oop for his first bucket of the game at about 5:54 of the second quarter. Phil Jackson quickly calls a timeout. You know why, Sarah? Because "Phil Jackson is the best timeout taker in the game!"
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Luke Walton needs a cold slap in the face. He's playing too nervous. I wonder if his daddy told him that he lost his first two NBA Finals games as well. Oh, by the way, Dr. J. is in the house. As is Magic. Jordan is not here. MJ does a good job of not being too visible. Of course, the Charlotte Bobcats might have some issues with that.
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Here's my question: Does the juxtaposition of the green and yellow uniforms look classic simply because it does or because there's so much history behind these uniforms? And how cool that they're basically the same designs as they were four decades ago?
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Sasha Vujacic has officially arrived at the series, with 10 points. We're still waiting for Gasol to show tonight.
Give credit to the Celtic defense. All spring we've been watching Kobe use the pick-and-roll to drive the lane and then alley oop to the spindly Spaniard (I'm not certain you can describe Gasol as "spindly", but I'm going with the alliteration, m'kay?) for an easy deuce. The Celtics are not giving Kobe the middle and that play just isn't there. And that Garnett dude has a habit of messing up your plans in the paint.
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I'm sure your commercials at home are quite entertaining, but we've got the Still Hyperlinkable Laker Girls and what's funnier is that on the jumbotron, they focus on one dancer gyrating in slow motion. All we need is a sax in the background and a dude with a bad mullett knocking on the door claiming to be the plumber.
"24"
In Los Angeles, the integer represents a hit Fox television show, the best player in the NBA, and the deficit the hometown Lakers found themselves down by with 8:02 remaining in Game 2 Sunday night in Boston. That the Lakers failed to come all the way back is good news for Celtic fans, the league and Disney, as this series might have been emotionally over had L.A. pulled a game out that by all rights had a DNR tag on it.
Only three teams have ever recovered from 0-2 deficits to win the NBA Finals. The Celtics did so versus these very Lakers in a historic seven-game series in 1969, winning Game 7 in L.A. as balloons sat in a net in the rafters waiting to be deployed. The Portland Trail Blazers, led by Luke Walton's dad, Bill, won four in a row against the heavily favored 76ers in 1977 after trailing 0-2. And two years ago former Laker center Shaquille O'Neal (3 rings with L.A.) and former Laker head coach Pat Riley (five rings, four as head coach) led Miami to four straight wins over Dallas after falling behind 0-2.
Remember this?
For our generation, this card was the hottest commodity possible, assuming the transition from He-Man to sports had fully completed (much to the relief of fathers everywhere, including my own). A new company called Upper Deck had a fresh, sleek look, and the first one in its initial complete set was Ken Griffey Jr's rookie card. You know how your parents talk about remembering seeing Willie Mays or Mickey Mantle play in person? Griffey Jr. was gonna be our version of that - the guy we'd be telling our kids about.
It's now almost 20 years since that card was released (which is terrifying, particularly for those of us who remember mimicking his stance and legendary swing in our backyard), and Ken Griffey Jr. has just hit his 600th home run, sliding up to 6th all-time. Under most circumstances, this would be a huge occasion. Instead, we've been treated to one of the more ho-hum celebrations of a remarkable feat that we can remember. It didn't help that a pathetic crowd of 16,000 was in attendance on a Monday afternoon in Miami, and, like most hitters on the brink of a milestone, it took awhile - it's been over a week since he had hit 599.
But it also seems like this moment was an inevitability that occurred about five years later than we expected. All of Griffey's injuries - particularly with the Reds - have been well-documented, plenty of people have said that he'd probably be the home run king right now if he'd managed to say healthy (probably true), and a popular argument is that he's one of the few from his generation who never did steroids (hopefully true, although we really don't know).
Michael Strahan retires and another NFL Man in Full is lost to old age/"other interests."
There were times Strahan did ridiculous things - verbally hammering a reporter in the Giants locker room in 2006 comes to mind. There were times he seemed a little self-absorbed. OK, tremendously self-absorbed. He banged his tin cup against the bars of his cell for more money and greater respect and made life difficult for Tom Coughlin but all-in-all, the NFL was a better place with Strahan in it than it will be with him out of it.
He was candid. He had a sense of humor. Professional football was important to him but he realized that it's really just getting paid for knocking grown men onto the ground before the run too far.
And he enjoyed himself. I remember in early 2002 when I was covering the Patriots for a suburban paper in Massachusetts. Somehow, I wound up at Pat O'Brien's in New Orleans' French Quarter (yeah, I was as surprised as anyone).
There were plenty of former and current players there, plenty of recognizable national media. I don't recall any of them being aloof to the "commoners" but neither did I see any of them engage fans. Strahan did. Not just the ones that were nice to look at either. He posed for pictures and snapped pictures and threw his arm around people and enjoyed himself in a way that I recalled at the time as being Barkleyesque.
And there was no "show" to it. Nobody would have known if he was a jerk or a good guy and yet, he chose to be a good guy.
Does that make him God's gift to mankind? No. But it does at least show his nature.
As for the football side of things, you might as well get your tickets now for Canton, Ohio in 2013 when Strahan and his buddy Brett Favre will be inducted to the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
Both guys set their records (Strahan the single-season sack mark courtesy of Favre's laydown job in), both guys got their rings, both guys were emblematic of their franchises. And both franchises are going to feel the void these well-developed player/people leave.
...and a Triple Crown race broke out.
That's right, I got my hair cut at Belmont Park on Saturday. It only cost $10, or half of what I blew by taking Big Brown to win. But it has been a long weekend and my brain is full, so I'm just going to unleash these thoughts with even less continuity than normal. Here goes:
--I loved when Jeff Van Gundy, during Game 1 of the NBA Finals, said that Phil Jackson is "the best timeout-taker in the NBA!" Yes, he is. Now, who's the best "Okay, guys, bring it in...'Together' on three!" coach in the NBA?
--While tendencies should be studied in baseball more than most sports (what's his batting average with RISP?, etc.), you have to account for the fact that so much that transpires is inexplicable. For example, the Yankees scored 9 runs on Thursday and 12 on Saturday. However, on Friday, while facing Clay Davies (the forgotten Kink?) of the Royals, who just happens to have the highest ERA of any Major League pitcher with 50 or more decisions, they managed just one run. And when they scored 12 on Saturday, they did so without Hideki Matsui, who just happens to lead the AL in batting, in the lineup.
Cedric Benson is pretty much dangling by fibers in Chicago, it appears.
The Bears running back - arrested a month ago on a drunken boating charge in Texas - took to the open road in Austin Friday night and got arrested on a drunken driving charge after zipping through a red light between 3 and 4 a.m. in the heart of downtown Austin.
Bears GM Jerry Angelo had the quote of the offseason when asked Saturday about Benson's arrest, saying in the Chicago Tribune, "Disappointment is a too-often used word when you're talking about Cedric. The No. 1 lesson for every player is to protect your job."
After his arrest May 3 for piloting a party boat while tipsy, Benson got a fair amount of sympathy because the spin was that he wasn't drunk and authorities were overly aggressive in taking him into custody. Kinda hard to feel much sympathy for Benson now.
As of 4 p.m. Saturday, a Tribune poll accompanying the story about Benson's arrest had 88 percent of readers voting to cut the former first-round pick.
My cousin Maryann Luciano has always been there for me. So I was glad today that for what is likely the final game she'll be seeing at Yankee Stadium, Jason Giambi could be there for her.
This is a somewhat personal blog entry, so if you've come here in search of ten reasons why I think the Lakers bench "has the edge" on the Celtics bench (Is it even a question? Ridonkulous!), I'm sorry. But hopefully you will keep reading.
Maryann is a lifelong New Yorker: she was born in the Bronx, did her twenties in Queens, and has been an Upper East Sider ever since. She is relocating to Phoenix at the end of June. And so, as a going-away and belated birthday present (and to begin making up for all the birthday presents I've failed to give her over the years), I took her to the Blue Jay-Yankee game on Thursday afternoon.
I appreciate the athleticism, the speed, the contact, everything that the casual fan can appreciate about hockey. But I don't want to be a poser. I'm no hockey die-hard.
I can tell you the difference between Don Cherry and Neneh Cherry, between Sidney Crosby and Norm Crosby, even between Petr Sykora and Peter Cetera (one is a man who will fight for your honor, the other a man who will score a game-winner). But two months from now I'll have to give myself a refresher course on what constitutes icing and I still am not completely sure what constitutes "slew-footing", though it may be my favorite-sounding penalty in all of sport.
Bruce Springsteen, Madonna, way before Nirvana
There was U2 and Blondie, and music still on MTV
Her two kids in high school, they tell her that she’s uncool
But she still preoccupies, with 19, 19, 1985
--"1985", Bowling For Soup
ESPN will be having an "I Love the '80s" lovefest over the next four days as they hype the heck out of the upcoming Celtics-Lakers series ("Coming Up: Mo Rocca on Jerry Sichting") . For the record, the Lakers appeared in the NBA Finals eight times that decade, winning five championships. The Celtics appeared five times, winning three. L.A. met Boston three times, losing to the Celtics in seven games in 1984 and then beating them in six in both 1985 and 1987. And all of those numbers might have been different if Len Bias hadn't snorted blow, but that's another story.
There were better contests between the two, but the game that always stands out for me was Game 1 of the 1985 Finals, a.k.a., the Memorial Day Massacre. The Celtics, at Boston Garden, absolutely annihilated Magic & Co., winning 148-114.
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