Unlike the ladies' side of the tournament, where two not in the Top 25 Italians made it to the Finals, the men's side wound up featuring #1 against #2. Novac Djokovic vs Roger Federer in a highly anticipated match-up. A Serb and a Swiss.
Few would doubt Federer has been playing fantastic tennis of late. In the apparent twilight of a legendary career, Roger has seen a resurgence of greatness. His serve is better than ever, the foot speed is still there, and he still has all the shots in his repertoire. To boot, he rolled through the first six rounds of this year's US Open. Dominant play indeed.
But then there's Djokovic. He's the #1 player in the world for a reason. The man has a formidable tennis game. Some have playfully dubbed him the Joker, but there's nothing comical once he takes the court. He trashed the competition along the way and rolled into the Finals as well.
And then something very strange happened. While Novac played his usual cyborg brand of tennis, Roger appeared to come unglued. Being the consummate pro he is, Federer would never give it away with facial expressions, screaming, official berating, racket throwing, and other childish tantrums many others have exhibited on the court. But it had to be driving him crazy.
Over and over again, he missed shots that are normally gimmes for a player of his stature. There goes one wide left, another wide right, and another long. And not by just a little -- they weren't even close. He ham-fisted relatively simple volleys into the net. It wasn't like Djokovic was running him ragged and repeatedly getting him out of position, but more like Roger's game had suddenly deserted him on the highest of stages.
Errant shots and unforced errors galore. This won't work against a top caliber opponent and is certainly a recipe for disaster against the likes of Djokovic. Novac played well, like he always does, but was hardly magnificent. It seemed all he had to do was keep the ball in play and wait for Roger to make another bad shot.
True, the final score might not reflect it. Djokovic bested Federer 3-1 in four hard-fought sets to win his tenth major and is a worthy champion indeed.
But deep down, Roger knows he blew it. So many gimmes he muffed. So many decidedly unFedererish mental errors along the way. So many routine strokes that went horribly awry. Novac wasn't at his best, and it was there for the taking for Federer. The Swiss had played so magnificently of late -- and then the wheels fell off.
Very baffling indeed.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Flavia Pennetta. Tasty stuff
Big time congrats to Flavia Pennetta, the newly crowned champ of the US ladies' tennis open. In a delicious twist of sports irony, the lovely Ms. P found herself pitted against her friend and competitor since childhood in the finals -- one Roberta Vinci.
da Vinci had cracked the Serena code, but couldn't seal the deal and get past her countrywoman. Nevertheless, an Italian was going to win it, and it turned out to be Pennetta.
To everyone's great surprise, after participating in her first major final -- let alone winning it -- Flavia promptly announced her retirement from tennis. This was very cool stuff. Nothing like going out on top. And that $3.3 million winner's check will likely pay the bills for at least a few months.
Yet yours truly has a confession to make. Before this US Open, I had never heard of Flavia. Turns out, she's 33, a bit long-toothish in the pro tennis world, and has a fiance named Fabio Fognini. He's a handsome rascal. Love has a way of being much grander when an attractive young couple has 3 million bucks to spend on an exotic honeymoon.
Still -- Flavia and Fabio. Somehow those names rang a bell from the past, but I couldn't quite place them. Were they singers from the 1950's? Two of the original Disney Mouseketeers? Characters from a Shakespeare play?
And then it finally dawned on me. Baskin-Robbins ice cream, from when I was a little boy. The 31 flavor thing was only a tagline meaning you could get a different flavor every day of the month. Actually, they had a variety of hundreds.
If memory serves me correctly, I tried a double dip cone of Flavia once, topped with Fabio sprinkles. Very tasty stuff.
Not as good as daiquiri -- those would also come in the adult form years later -- and I loved that green ice cream as a kid -- but who the hell wanted to risk spending their paper route money on something called Bear Claw, or Moose Jaw, or Grand Maw? I didn't want to lick something named after a wild animal, and surely didn't want to tickle my palate with the flavor of grandma. Ewww.
But for now, all hail Flavia Pennetta, the worthy champion of the US Open. May her and Fabio ride off into the sunset and partake of the best things life has to offer.
And who knows? Maybe you or I will run into them at an ice cream joint someday. They have three million bucks and we don't. The least they could do is buy. Hold the Grand Maw -- please.
da Vinci had cracked the Serena code, but couldn't seal the deal and get past her countrywoman. Nevertheless, an Italian was going to win it, and it turned out to be Pennetta.
To everyone's great surprise, after participating in her first major final -- let alone winning it -- Flavia promptly announced her retirement from tennis. This was very cool stuff. Nothing like going out on top. And that $3.3 million winner's check will likely pay the bills for at least a few months.
Yet yours truly has a confession to make. Before this US Open, I had never heard of Flavia. Turns out, she's 33, a bit long-toothish in the pro tennis world, and has a fiance named Fabio Fognini. He's a handsome rascal. Love has a way of being much grander when an attractive young couple has 3 million bucks to spend on an exotic honeymoon.
Still -- Flavia and Fabio. Somehow those names rang a bell from the past, but I couldn't quite place them. Were they singers from the 1950's? Two of the original Disney Mouseketeers? Characters from a Shakespeare play?
And then it finally dawned on me. Baskin-Robbins ice cream, from when I was a little boy. The 31 flavor thing was only a tagline meaning you could get a different flavor every day of the month. Actually, they had a variety of hundreds.
If memory serves me correctly, I tried a double dip cone of Flavia once, topped with Fabio sprinkles. Very tasty stuff.
Not as good as daiquiri -- those would also come in the adult form years later -- and I loved that green ice cream as a kid -- but who the hell wanted to risk spending their paper route money on something called Bear Claw, or Moose Jaw, or Grand Maw? I didn't want to lick something named after a wild animal, and surely didn't want to tickle my palate with the flavor of grandma. Ewww.
But for now, all hail Flavia Pennetta, the worthy champion of the US Open. May her and Fabio ride off into the sunset and partake of the best things life has to offer.
And who knows? Maybe you or I will run into them at an ice cream joint someday. They have three million bucks and we don't. The least they could do is buy. Hold the Grand Maw -- please.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
MSU vs Oregon. The epic that wasn't
Since even before the season started, college football fans (at least in the Michigan area -- maybe not so much in Oregon) have heard the hype. The game in Week 2 pitting Oregon against Michigan State was sure to be an epic, the pundits crowed. After all, it was a rematch of Top Ten ranked teams. Last year, MSU held their own in Eugene for the first half before getting run out of the building in the second. But this time it was in East Lansing, home of the Spartans. A clash of the titans that might rattle the football world to its core, suggested the usual suspects.
Common sense dictated otherwise all along. Regardless of the outcome, this would not be an earth-shaking occasion. It was a #5 team (MSU) playing a home game against #7 (Oregon). Michigan State was a predictable 4 point favorite. Typically, the bookies consider home field worth 3 points, and the Sparties got an extra one for being ranked a mere two slots higher. Sounded about right. In the end, MSU prevailed 31-28. They didn't cover. The over/under was 65 and the two teams scored 59. Some bettors won, some lost, but the aggregate score was hardly noteworthy. It wasn't like it was a 6-3 game, or 72-65. Either would have raised a few eyebrows.
But one thing this game was certainly not was "epic". Both teams had their fair share of miscues. WAY too many stupid penalties and bone-head plays.
As a senior, MSU quarterback Connor Cook is supposed to be a seasoned college veteran. Instead, he made several poor decisions and a few horrific throws. This will not help his NFL draft stock. The scouts are surely watching. Cook could have "came out" last year and maybe been a first round pick, or certainly a second. To be sure, most of the attention was on Jameis Winston and Marcus Mariotta, who went 1-2. Regardless, Cook would have been drafted fairly high by somebody and been a multi-millionaire by now. But he chose to go back to MSU to be the Big Man On Campus for one more year. This was a foolish move. Cook and MSU will certainly go to a bowl game in January, but have little chance at winning the national title. And if he blows out a knee or suffers another serious injury along the way, his draft stock will plummet. In other words, Cook had little to gain and a whole lot to possibly lose.
Conversely, Oregon QB Vernon Adams looked like a deer in the headlights at times. Sure, nobody expected him to completely fill Mariotta's shoes as a "rookie" QB, but a starting quarterback at a major college football power is supposed to be able to process information quickly as it happens on the field. When an obvious blitz is coming from the defense, one doesn't get to drop back and count a-thousand one to a-thousand five before throwing the ball. And trying to scramble with 6-7 defenders swarming around him is a recipe for disaster every time. Adams needs to learn to see the obvious before it happens, and adjust according. A-thousand one, and throw it NOW. To boot, he overthrew a wide-open receiver late in the game for an easy touchdown that may well have made the difference in the outcome. He's going to hate watching that play on film.
So OK. Some will say it was an exciting game. In the respect that the final outcome was in doubt until the closing seconds -- they have a point. Yet the same could be said of Podunk U playing a down to the wire nail-biter against Hoodat State. Such contests happen every week in the world of college football, but go unnoticed. And hey, those games are everybody bit as important to the Podunk and Hoodat faithful as this game was to the Duck and Spartan fans.
Bottom line? #5 played #7. Number five won at home -- barely -- in a game that was sloppily played by both to boot.
There was nothing epic about it.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Serena Williams. Still classless/clueless
This is not to doubt Serena Williams has been, and is, a terrific tennis player. She's won a lot of stuff over the years. Indeed, after having won the first 3 "majors" this year, Serena was on pace to complete the first calendar grand slam for a female tennis player since Steffi Graf pulled it off in 1988. Some guy named Reagan was still in the White House. Let's just say that was a while back. But when it came to class, and certainly humility, Ms. Williams has always been sorely lacking as a professional.
On the rare occasions she lost, there was always an excuse forthcoming. Maybe it was cramps -- or a headache -- or her back/toe/knee/shoulder/eyeballs -- pick your body part -- hurt. Or perhaps Mother Nature had conspired against her. It was too hot/cold/humid/windy/cloudy -- pick your weather condition. At any rate, it was always something. Serena could never bring herself to say the other player beat her fair and square.
This time around at the US Open, only unranked and mostly unheard of Italian Roberta Vinci stood in her way in the semi-finals. The bookies had Serena as somewhere around a 300:1 favorite. It was supposed to be a cakewalk, but it didn't turn out that way.
Undaunted, Vinci methodically, and convincingly defeated Williams in three sets. Though it may have been considered a monumental upset in the betting world, anybody that watched the match clearly saw this was no fluke. Serena indeed got beat fair and square in front of a world-wide audience. Every time Williams would rally, the pundits thought the end was inevitable. But then back would come Vinci.
What was comical was listening to some of the aghast Serena favoring talking heads that were looking for a way to explain it. The wind was blowing a bit. There was a shadow on the court -- maybe. Never mind this was during broad daylight, and both players obviously have to play on the same court, often switching ends -- this was not supposed to happen. But it did. The big muscle bound goof had gone down to defeat. Break out the prosciutto, pop a bottle of the finest red, and bring on the linguine. The Italian Stallionette had moved into the Finals.
Further telling was Williams' post match press conference. Far be it from Serena to ever compliment an opposing player, especially after she's been bested by such an adversary. Sure, no losing player looks forward to facing the press after getting beat, but some handle it with class. Not Serena.
In an incredibly obtuse statement, on a couple different fronts, Serena said Roberta Vinci, at the "advanced" age of 33, was going for it. Well, no kidding. Don't most players in tournaments try to win their matches? Hello??? Besides, the fact that Vinci had waded through a world-class field to win her first five matches should have been a hint that she's playing pretty well.
And here's the kicker(s). If, according to Serena, Vinci is at the "advanced age" of 33, then what does that make Serena herself? She'll turn 34 in a couple weeks. BTW, Serena even had Vinci's age wrong,. Roberta is 32. So if Roberta is "advanced", then Serena must a veritable geezer. Evidently, that little tidbit of irony was lost on the clueless Ms. Williams. It leaves one to wonder what she thinks of her sister Venus, who is a decrepit 35.
So after all the hype, there will be no grand slam for Serena Williams this year. She could scream and grunt all she wanted, destroy and throw a racket, and otherwise act like a spoiled child that was denied what they thought they were "entitled" to. In the end, she just got outsmarted and outplayed by a superior opponent on a particular day. It happens.
But Serena will never ever admit to such a thing, much less offer genuine congratulations and best wishes to one that has dispatched her.
Oh no. That requires class. Serena Williams may have a roomful of trophies and go down as one of the best players of all time -- but being a class act in defeat has always been beyond her capabilities.
For that matter, jumping up and down like a chimpanzee chock full of 'roids on the court after a victory has never been exactly lady-like either. Alas, some things and people just are what they are.
An all Italian ladies US Open tennis final, neither player being ranked in the top 25 in the world.
Dang. Who would have thunk it?
On the rare occasions she lost, there was always an excuse forthcoming. Maybe it was cramps -- or a headache -- or her back/toe/knee/shoulder/eyeballs -- pick your body part -- hurt. Or perhaps Mother Nature had conspired against her. It was too hot/cold/humid/windy/cloudy -- pick your weather condition. At any rate, it was always something. Serena could never bring herself to say the other player beat her fair and square.
This time around at the US Open, only unranked and mostly unheard of Italian Roberta Vinci stood in her way in the semi-finals. The bookies had Serena as somewhere around a 300:1 favorite. It was supposed to be a cakewalk, but it didn't turn out that way.
Undaunted, Vinci methodically, and convincingly defeated Williams in three sets. Though it may have been considered a monumental upset in the betting world, anybody that watched the match clearly saw this was no fluke. Serena indeed got beat fair and square in front of a world-wide audience. Every time Williams would rally, the pundits thought the end was inevitable. But then back would come Vinci.
What was comical was listening to some of the aghast Serena favoring talking heads that were looking for a way to explain it. The wind was blowing a bit. There was a shadow on the court -- maybe. Never mind this was during broad daylight, and both players obviously have to play on the same court, often switching ends -- this was not supposed to happen. But it did. The big muscle bound goof had gone down to defeat. Break out the prosciutto, pop a bottle of the finest red, and bring on the linguine. The Italian Stallionette had moved into the Finals.
Further telling was Williams' post match press conference. Far be it from Serena to ever compliment an opposing player, especially after she's been bested by such an adversary. Sure, no losing player looks forward to facing the press after getting beat, but some handle it with class. Not Serena.
In an incredibly obtuse statement, on a couple different fronts, Serena said Roberta Vinci, at the "advanced" age of 33, was going for it. Well, no kidding. Don't most players in tournaments try to win their matches? Hello??? Besides, the fact that Vinci had waded through a world-class field to win her first five matches should have been a hint that she's playing pretty well.
And here's the kicker(s). If, according to Serena, Vinci is at the "advanced age" of 33, then what does that make Serena herself? She'll turn 34 in a couple weeks. BTW, Serena even had Vinci's age wrong,. Roberta is 32. So if Roberta is "advanced", then Serena must a veritable geezer. Evidently, that little tidbit of irony was lost on the clueless Ms. Williams. It leaves one to wonder what she thinks of her sister Venus, who is a decrepit 35.
So after all the hype, there will be no grand slam for Serena Williams this year. She could scream and grunt all she wanted, destroy and throw a racket, and otherwise act like a spoiled child that was denied what they thought they were "entitled" to. In the end, she just got outsmarted and outplayed by a superior opponent on a particular day. It happens.
But Serena will never ever admit to such a thing, much less offer genuine congratulations and best wishes to one that has dispatched her.
Oh no. That requires class. Serena Williams may have a roomful of trophies and go down as one of the best players of all time -- but being a class act in defeat has always been beyond her capabilities.
For that matter, jumping up and down like a chimpanzee chock full of 'roids on the court after a victory has never been exactly lady-like either. Alas, some things and people just are what they are.
An all Italian ladies US Open tennis final, neither player being ranked in the top 25 in the world.
Dang. Who would have thunk it?
Thursday, September 10, 2015
The NBC slap in the face
I'm pretty sure NBC stands for National Broadcasting Company. In my area, they're on channel 4. Have been since forever. Remember the word "national".
Well OK. Yours truly freely admits he's not the brightest star in the sky, the elevator typically struggles to make it to the top floor, and I've been called a lot of things over the years, many which I can't mention in this forum. And they might well have a point. Let's just say opinions vary.
And on top of being a hack writer, I have a geek side as well. I'm a Jeopardy! addict. Have been since I was a little boy. My mom got me hooked on it. Even as an adult, when I couldn't be home to watch it, I'd program the VCR/DVD to tape/record it.
During the last week and a half, Alex Trebek and Co. have been showing a teachers' tournament. After 8 days of whittling down the field to the final 3, the two-day cumulative finals were to begin earlier tonight. Promptly at 7:30, I turned on the flat screen, clicked on channel 4, and ----- what the hell?
It's a pre-game show, a whole hour's worth, before Thursday night football kicks off. The Patriots hosting the Steelers. Sure, I planned to watch that game, but it didn't start until 8:30, so what kind of sadistic network lunatics decided to give us Jeopardy! fans an hour's worth of breathless announcers spewing worthless hype, stats, and predictions instead of our beloved trivia show?
Yeah, I get it. The NFL is a HUGE deal, the veritable gorilla in the room of America sports, and yours truly is as hard-core a fan as anybody else. I couldn't wait for the season to begin. Let's also remember the NFL stands for "National" Football League. There's that word again. The name itself is certainly appropriate, given all 32 franchises are located in the continental United States. As American as it gets.
And if the game started at 7:30 instead of 8:30, no problem. Preempt the quiz show. But it didn't.
So what did we see? Some band nobody ever heard of singing a song on a makeshift stage in a parking lot. Then back to the talking sports heads. Oops, here comes another band. Never heard of them either. Then another dose of the hypesters still blathering on. Hey, we don't need all this. The opening act of the 2015 NFL season is coming up in a few minutes. We get it and will be watching it.
There was absolutely no reason -- ZERO -- to zap Jeopardy! only to force-feed the viewing audience a couple bands and the usual gang of chatterboxes trying to pump up a TV audience that was already geeked.
Back to the magic word. National. The National Broadcasting Company was about to show the debut of the National Football League. This was big news, so they brought in the big guns. Even Mr. Toupee himself, sometimes known as Bob Costas, was on hand to stir the football masses yet further into a frenzy with his thundering words from on high. Break out the red, white, and blue, let loose the dogs of the gridiron, and God bless America. The only thing missing were whips and chains with the fans flogging themselves in pure ecstasy.
[Idle thought. If NBC and Costas want even bigger ratings, he should whip off that rug he's been wearing for years on the air and show the world his chrome-dome that lies beneath. The numbers would go through the roof.]
But if one looked closely, guess who was sponsoring the whole works? The sign was prominent behind the bands on stage. Hyundai. You know, the South Korean corporation that has been flooding the USA with cars and other goodies in recent years.
So we have a "national" broadcasting company televising a "national" football league, and some suits in South Korea get to call the shots???? And they decided to zap the Jeopardy! final so we could watch a couple stupid bands and listen to mindless drivel from the talking heads???
Something is very, very wrong with this picture.
And the damn game didn't even start at 8:30. Oh no. They had to trot out yet another bimbo on yet another stage at midfield in Gillette Stadium to sing the National Anthem. And what gives with all these military color-guards always having to be on hand for such spectacles? Aren't we paying them to defend our country? If they're not fighting wars, they should be swabbing decks or painting ships. Or going through various drills. Or practicing in flight simulators. Or getting ready for cold weather hand-to hand combat if the geniuses in the Pentagon ever get bored and decide to invade Canada for some reason. Or at least doing push-ups. They're supposed to be ready -- dammit.
They do not, repeat NOT belong at a football game holding flags. There's plenty of cheerleaders that can handle that duty, and would be a whole lot easier on the eyes to boot. What would you rather see? Grim faced soldiers standing like statues (on tax-payer money), or beautiful cheerleaders (that a team has to pay for) with their various body parts bouncing around?
Such a slap in the face is almost enough to drive a geek/sports nut to watch soccer.
Good Gawd-a-mighty. What am I saying?
Well OK. Yours truly freely admits he's not the brightest star in the sky, the elevator typically struggles to make it to the top floor, and I've been called a lot of things over the years, many which I can't mention in this forum. And they might well have a point. Let's just say opinions vary.
And on top of being a hack writer, I have a geek side as well. I'm a Jeopardy! addict. Have been since I was a little boy. My mom got me hooked on it. Even as an adult, when I couldn't be home to watch it, I'd program the VCR/DVD to tape/record it.
During the last week and a half, Alex Trebek and Co. have been showing a teachers' tournament. After 8 days of whittling down the field to the final 3, the two-day cumulative finals were to begin earlier tonight. Promptly at 7:30, I turned on the flat screen, clicked on channel 4, and ----- what the hell?
It's a pre-game show, a whole hour's worth, before Thursday night football kicks off. The Patriots hosting the Steelers. Sure, I planned to watch that game, but it didn't start until 8:30, so what kind of sadistic network lunatics decided to give us Jeopardy! fans an hour's worth of breathless announcers spewing worthless hype, stats, and predictions instead of our beloved trivia show?
Yeah, I get it. The NFL is a HUGE deal, the veritable gorilla in the room of America sports, and yours truly is as hard-core a fan as anybody else. I couldn't wait for the season to begin. Let's also remember the NFL stands for "National" Football League. There's that word again. The name itself is certainly appropriate, given all 32 franchises are located in the continental United States. As American as it gets.
And if the game started at 7:30 instead of 8:30, no problem. Preempt the quiz show. But it didn't.
So what did we see? Some band nobody ever heard of singing a song on a makeshift stage in a parking lot. Then back to the talking sports heads. Oops, here comes another band. Never heard of them either. Then another dose of the hypesters still blathering on. Hey, we don't need all this. The opening act of the 2015 NFL season is coming up in a few minutes. We get it and will be watching it.
There was absolutely no reason -- ZERO -- to zap Jeopardy! only to force-feed the viewing audience a couple bands and the usual gang of chatterboxes trying to pump up a TV audience that was already geeked.
Back to the magic word. National. The National Broadcasting Company was about to show the debut of the National Football League. This was big news, so they brought in the big guns. Even Mr. Toupee himself, sometimes known as Bob Costas, was on hand to stir the football masses yet further into a frenzy with his thundering words from on high. Break out the red, white, and blue, let loose the dogs of the gridiron, and God bless America. The only thing missing were whips and chains with the fans flogging themselves in pure ecstasy.
[Idle thought. If NBC and Costas want even bigger ratings, he should whip off that rug he's been wearing for years on the air and show the world his chrome-dome that lies beneath. The numbers would go through the roof.]
But if one looked closely, guess who was sponsoring the whole works? The sign was prominent behind the bands on stage. Hyundai. You know, the South Korean corporation that has been flooding the USA with cars and other goodies in recent years.
So we have a "national" broadcasting company televising a "national" football league, and some suits in South Korea get to call the shots???? And they decided to zap the Jeopardy! final so we could watch a couple stupid bands and listen to mindless drivel from the talking heads???
Something is very, very wrong with this picture.
And the damn game didn't even start at 8:30. Oh no. They had to trot out yet another bimbo on yet another stage at midfield in Gillette Stadium to sing the National Anthem. And what gives with all these military color-guards always having to be on hand for such spectacles? Aren't we paying them to defend our country? If they're not fighting wars, they should be swabbing decks or painting ships. Or going through various drills. Or practicing in flight simulators. Or getting ready for cold weather hand-to hand combat if the geniuses in the Pentagon ever get bored and decide to invade Canada for some reason. Or at least doing push-ups. They're supposed to be ready -- dammit.
They do not, repeat NOT belong at a football game holding flags. There's plenty of cheerleaders that can handle that duty, and would be a whole lot easier on the eyes to boot. What would you rather see? Grim faced soldiers standing like statues (on tax-payer money), or beautiful cheerleaders (that a team has to pay for) with their various body parts bouncing around?
Such a slap in the face is almost enough to drive a geek/sports nut to watch soccer.
Good Gawd-a-mighty. What am I saying?
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
The Detroit Lions and the usual hype
It's certainly predictable, and actually quite comical. The local hype surrounding the Detroit Lions is back in full bloom.
Let's not forget the Lions have only ever won one playoff game since Super Bowls started 50 years ago, and THAT game was way back when some guy named George Bush Sr. occupied the White House. Two terms of Slick Willy, another two of W, and the Obamameister is winding down HIS second term -- but all the while, the Lions have gone without winning another postseason contest, much less come within sniffing distance of the Super Bowl. It's an incredible record of futility.
But never fear. With another season about to start, the Lions and their ever-gullible fans think this just might be the year. Of course, they are helped along by their equally ever-koolaided homer media that keep peddling the snake oil.
One article said General Manager Martin Mayhew thinks this year's team will be better than last year's. Well, OF COURSE he does. I mean, what is the dude going to say? With the loss of our best two defensive linemen, a brand new offensive line to be sorted out, and a running game that remains very much in flux, his team likely won't perform as well as they did last year? Such a statement is not likely forthcoming from a company man, though it would more closely resemble the truth.
Another worthy home-town journalist said all the experts predicting the Lions to win only 6 to 8 games this year made sure he put quotes around the word "experts". As if they don't know what they're talking about. For whatever reason, said scribe has evidently concluded he thinks on a much higher plane than all the other pundits. Perhaps the word "worthy" mentioned earlier in this paragraph should have been in quotes as well. All the experts are wrong. Only the home town guru fully grasps how great the Lions will be this year. Right.
Even given their woeful record over the decades, the Lions can count on one thing. The suckers will keep coming back. The team even had the audacity to raise ticket prices yet again. The Ford family that owns them are worth countless billions, and get huge revenue from TV, advertisers, and sales of team paraphernalia. If they never sold a single ticket to a Lion's game -- they'd STILL make money. But they raised the prices anyway. And the fools continue to rush in.
Here's a question. Why would the average family of four want to drop a house payment to go see a Lion's game -- remember it's in Detroit -- not exactly the safest place in the world to get into and out of -- when they could either sit home and watch it for free or go to a fancy sports bar in the burbs at a fraction of the price? Atmosphere? Please. Let's add in parking, grossly overpriced nasty food and watered down drinks. This is atmosphere? To boot, at the stadium, even in good seats, one only gets one view of the action from far away, and there's a very good chance some screaming idiots will be sitting nearby. They don't know why they scream incoherently -- they just do. And maybe your vehicle will still be there undamaged when you get out. Or maybe not. It's Detroit.
So carry on, ye Honolulu blue and silver faithful. Let the hype begin once again. There is always hope, right? Sure. Maybe everybody in the Middle East kisses and makes up tomorrow. Maybe Halley's comet makes a U-turn and comes back next year. Maybe the Republicans and Democrats drop their partisan squabbles and go to work for the American people. And maybe yours truly has a Pulitzer heading his way for my brilliance writing this blog.
But I wouldn't count on any of that happening. Nor would I count on the Lions even making the playoffs this year, let alone going deep into them. Matthew Stafford will rack up his usual gaudy passing stats, the Megatron will take another beating catching a lot of his throws in double coverage, and the Lions will have their share of high and low lights during the season. But in the end, there's nothing special about these guys. It's just another year of the same old Lions.
Hype and hope are one thing. Reality is quite another.
A difference.
Let's not forget the Lions have only ever won one playoff game since Super Bowls started 50 years ago, and THAT game was way back when some guy named George Bush Sr. occupied the White House. Two terms of Slick Willy, another two of W, and the Obamameister is winding down HIS second term -- but all the while, the Lions have gone without winning another postseason contest, much less come within sniffing distance of the Super Bowl. It's an incredible record of futility.
But never fear. With another season about to start, the Lions and their ever-gullible fans think this just might be the year. Of course, they are helped along by their equally ever-koolaided homer media that keep peddling the snake oil.
One article said General Manager Martin Mayhew thinks this year's team will be better than last year's. Well, OF COURSE he does. I mean, what is the dude going to say? With the loss of our best two defensive linemen, a brand new offensive line to be sorted out, and a running game that remains very much in flux, his team likely won't perform as well as they did last year? Such a statement is not likely forthcoming from a company man, though it would more closely resemble the truth.
Another worthy home-town journalist said all the experts predicting the Lions to win only 6 to 8 games this year made sure he put quotes around the word "experts". As if they don't know what they're talking about. For whatever reason, said scribe has evidently concluded he thinks on a much higher plane than all the other pundits. Perhaps the word "worthy" mentioned earlier in this paragraph should have been in quotes as well. All the experts are wrong. Only the home town guru fully grasps how great the Lions will be this year. Right.
Even given their woeful record over the decades, the Lions can count on one thing. The suckers will keep coming back. The team even had the audacity to raise ticket prices yet again. The Ford family that owns them are worth countless billions, and get huge revenue from TV, advertisers, and sales of team paraphernalia. If they never sold a single ticket to a Lion's game -- they'd STILL make money. But they raised the prices anyway. And the fools continue to rush in.
Here's a question. Why would the average family of four want to drop a house payment to go see a Lion's game -- remember it's in Detroit -- not exactly the safest place in the world to get into and out of -- when they could either sit home and watch it for free or go to a fancy sports bar in the burbs at a fraction of the price? Atmosphere? Please. Let's add in parking, grossly overpriced nasty food and watered down drinks. This is atmosphere? To boot, at the stadium, even in good seats, one only gets one view of the action from far away, and there's a very good chance some screaming idiots will be sitting nearby. They don't know why they scream incoherently -- they just do. And maybe your vehicle will still be there undamaged when you get out. Or maybe not. It's Detroit.
So carry on, ye Honolulu blue and silver faithful. Let the hype begin once again. There is always hope, right? Sure. Maybe everybody in the Middle East kisses and makes up tomorrow. Maybe Halley's comet makes a U-turn and comes back next year. Maybe the Republicans and Democrats drop their partisan squabbles and go to work for the American people. And maybe yours truly has a Pulitzer heading his way for my brilliance writing this blog.
But I wouldn't count on any of that happening. Nor would I count on the Lions even making the playoffs this year, let alone going deep into them. Matthew Stafford will rack up his usual gaudy passing stats, the Megatron will take another beating catching a lot of his throws in double coverage, and the Lions will have their share of high and low lights during the season. But in the end, there's nothing special about these guys. It's just another year of the same old Lions.
Hype and hope are one thing. Reality is quite another.
A difference.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
The Jason Pierre-Paul scam
Idle thoughts: It was big news that Johnny Manzeil finally threw a, gasp, pass in a preseason game? Shut up. Who cares? He's a back up QB on a bad Cleveland Browns team that is going nowhere this year, except for the basement of the AFC Central. And isn't this the same team whose GM got suspended for 4 games for sending texts to the sidelines? How stupid was that in this day and age, when all such communications are monitored? Lebron may be back, but a lot of idiocy is still very much alive and well in the city of shitty, or the flake by the lake -- take your pick. Still think it would be pretty cool if Tampa Bay Ray player James Loney changed his first name to Buh. It would dovetail nicely with their playoff chances -- and their ballpark, for that matter.
And then there's the mysterious, or maybe not, case of Jason Pierre-Paul. JPP was a ferocious defensive lineman for the NY Giants, routinely leading them in sacks, tackles for losses, and very strange on-field antics after making a good play. Frere PeePee could be an absolute beast at times, though maybe not wrapped too tight.
But as we know, Pierre Paul experienced a minor inconvenience during the last off-season. Seems he was playing with fireworks and somehow managed to maim his right index finger. Most of us know to throw the firecracker before the fuse gets short, but perhaps this concept was lost on JPP. In any case, it went bang and his own doctors tried to save the finger, but could not. It was amputated. Ouch. Can JPP now only count to nine?
So OK, stuff happens. But Pierre-Paul's behavior since that incident has been quite baffling. He wouldn't allow the Giants and their team doctors to examine him. Did the team have an absolute right to do so? Maybe not, but it's usually a good idea for an employee to keep his employer up to date on his medical condition -- especially when said employee stands to keep making millions of dollars.
But not Jason. He kept the Giants in the dark all through summer camp and the preseason games. Further, he has yet to sign the $14.8 million contract tender the Giants placed on him. That WAS a team right contractually. Put another way, if JPP doesn't sign the deal with the Giants, he doesn't play for anybody this year. If he doesn't know that, his agent surely does. And let's face it. Almost 15 million bucks isn't exactly chump change.
So now with the regular season about to begin, Jason has finally decided to report. No doubt, the team doctors and coaching staff are eager to find out just how much the loss of his index finger might affect his production. If he was a concert piano player or a sign language teacher, this might well be a catastrophe, but being a defensive end -- who knows?
Yet here's the real deal. JPP has long been healed up. His hand is what it is. Of course he has to sign the $14.8 M contract. He has no choice. But in prolonging it until the dawn of the regular season, Paul was able to skip out on all the drills, workouts and practices that come with the training camp and preseason regimen for any other player.
He just wants to show up at the last second, jump into the starting line-up when the REAL season starts, and start collecting his hefty game checks.
This is wrong. If the Giants had any cajones, this is what they would tell dear JPP.
OK, if our doctors even clear you, you're back on the team, but you're not starting just yet. You have to prove to US you're still in shape after your disappearing act. You're going to run, run, and run some more. When you're not doing gassers, you'll be in the weight room pumping iron. After that, welcome back to the tackling dummies. Hundred of reps. Let's see what you've got. Yeah, we'll feed and pay you along the way, and maybe, just maybe, if everything works out, you could be back in the starting line-up in Week 3 or 4. But for now, you have some serious work to do and a whole lot to prove. It didn't have to be this way, but it was of your making, not ours. If that's not good enough, then fine. Sit on the bench until we find a way to trade you. How does Cleveland sound?
And then there's the mysterious, or maybe not, case of Jason Pierre-Paul. JPP was a ferocious defensive lineman for the NY Giants, routinely leading them in sacks, tackles for losses, and very strange on-field antics after making a good play. Frere PeePee could be an absolute beast at times, though maybe not wrapped too tight.
But as we know, Pierre Paul experienced a minor inconvenience during the last off-season. Seems he was playing with fireworks and somehow managed to maim his right index finger. Most of us know to throw the firecracker before the fuse gets short, but perhaps this concept was lost on JPP. In any case, it went bang and his own doctors tried to save the finger, but could not. It was amputated. Ouch. Can JPP now only count to nine?
So OK, stuff happens. But Pierre-Paul's behavior since that incident has been quite baffling. He wouldn't allow the Giants and their team doctors to examine him. Did the team have an absolute right to do so? Maybe not, but it's usually a good idea for an employee to keep his employer up to date on his medical condition -- especially when said employee stands to keep making millions of dollars.
But not Jason. He kept the Giants in the dark all through summer camp and the preseason games. Further, he has yet to sign the $14.8 million contract tender the Giants placed on him. That WAS a team right contractually. Put another way, if JPP doesn't sign the deal with the Giants, he doesn't play for anybody this year. If he doesn't know that, his agent surely does. And let's face it. Almost 15 million bucks isn't exactly chump change.
So now with the regular season about to begin, Jason has finally decided to report. No doubt, the team doctors and coaching staff are eager to find out just how much the loss of his index finger might affect his production. If he was a concert piano player or a sign language teacher, this might well be a catastrophe, but being a defensive end -- who knows?
Yet here's the real deal. JPP has long been healed up. His hand is what it is. Of course he has to sign the $14.8 M contract. He has no choice. But in prolonging it until the dawn of the regular season, Paul was able to skip out on all the drills, workouts and practices that come with the training camp and preseason regimen for any other player.
He just wants to show up at the last second, jump into the starting line-up when the REAL season starts, and start collecting his hefty game checks.
This is wrong. If the Giants had any cajones, this is what they would tell dear JPP.
OK, if our doctors even clear you, you're back on the team, but you're not starting just yet. You have to prove to US you're still in shape after your disappearing act. You're going to run, run, and run some more. When you're not doing gassers, you'll be in the weight room pumping iron. After that, welcome back to the tackling dummies. Hundred of reps. Let's see what you've got. Yeah, we'll feed and pay you along the way, and maybe, just maybe, if everything works out, you could be back in the starting line-up in Week 3 or 4. But for now, you have some serious work to do and a whole lot to prove. It didn't have to be this way, but it was of your making, not ours. If that's not good enough, then fine. Sit on the bench until we find a way to trade you. How does Cleveland sound?
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