Breaking Down Wimbledon

There’s been a less-than-pleasant bed bug infestation at the humble chateau de Bisbee/Duah. It began as a minor disturbance, a hole in the screen we thought, undoubtedly allowing in some pesky mosquitos. But my negligence to nip the problem at the bud resulted in the realization of great bed bug civilizations and a few nights ago I was roundly bludgeoned into a schizophrenic mess. I’ve remained this way since, basically– sleeping on the living room floor while visions of human-sized arthropods and Hanley Ramirez batting lines dance through my head…

Anyway, I’ve gotten about three hours of sleep over the past two nights. With this being said, here are some thoughts on Wimbledon:

As I lounged on the sofa today awaiting the arrival of an unreliable exterminator, I had the good fortune of stumbling upon Wimbledon tennis on NBC. I watched parts of four matches: V. Williams vs. Safina, S. Williams vs. Dementieva, Roddick vs. Hewitt and a bit of a re-run from yesterday’s Federer/Karlovic match. I was struck by the mind-boggling contrast between the men’s and women’s game. Women’s tennis is so much more enjoyable to watch!

Williams/Dementieva was a three-set classic that, with some different wind patterns or a slightly adjusted net height, could have gone Dementieva’s way just as easily. Each player consistently hit well-placed, deep ground strokes. Granted, there was the occasional unforced error but, compared to the men, Williams and Dementieva were paragons of steadiness.

V. Williams’ match was, admittedly, not much of a classic. Venus thoroughly shellacked Safina 6-1, 6-0 using a combination of powerful forehand winners and the reliability of Safina’s timely blunders. Despite Safina’s miscues, though, and the constant lambasting by the folks in the NBC booth, I thought the match was enjoyable enough to watch. They had some good points, Safina just ended up blowing all of them.

Bringing me to my point… do I have a point?… yes… tennis is only fun to watch if the points go on for more than a fraction of a second. I was almost bored to tears watching Karlovic ace his way to a game, then Federer, then back and forth until the match was over and the entire stadium was aroused to wipe the spittle from their lips. Roddick and Hewitt had slightly better rallies but on average I would guess each point lasted no more than four shots back and forth. These are all incredible players whose serves could strip the varnish off a flagstaff but I would rather watch a Sandra Bullock romance/comedy than sit through another two hour serving clinic.

Another Disappointing Finals

Phil summons his saviors

Almost exactly a year ago I wrote and published my first blog in this here forum of journalistic excellence and opinionated sports debate. I recounted the pitfalls of a thoroughly disappointing Lakers-Celtics Finals, one that should have been steeped in drama, history and haymakers but was instead hampered by flops, bricks, and poor decision-making. I find it fitting to sit here on this most unceremonious of anniversaries (does anyone still read this? if you’re out there, send money) and begrudgingly opine on yet another, equally disappointing Finals.

The Lakers thoroughly shellacked the Magic the other night to seal their 15^th championship and catapult Phil Jackson, that opportunist of opportunists, past Red Auerbach on the all-time, championship list. I’d be remiss not to briefly point out what an insufferable pickle-eater Jackson is. The guy carved a hall of fame career by loitering around the likes of Michael, Shaq and Kobe (a trio you’d have to think a blind donkey could coach to some degree of success) and then he rewards himself by donning a yellow cap, highlighted with a self-righteous Roman numeral “X”. God..

Enough Phil-a-bashing, though. Lets break down the Finals, i.e. lets break down the two most glaring examples of Orlando’s staggering incompetence in the clutch.

1. Courtney Lee??
In the closing seconds of game 2, with a chance to steal one on the Laker’s floor, the ball somehow rotates to Courtney “Iron Fingers” Lee. Instead of passing to a teammate with a more considerable pedigree (read: anyone), the rookie from Western Kentucky drives the lane as time expires and hoists a contested floater which clangs off the rim, forcing the game into an overtime period in which the Lakers would dominate for an all-too-easy W. In these situations you’d have to expect a Rashard Lewis or Hedo Turkoglu to get the final shot, right? Granted, neither has built an overwhelming “last-shot resume” but you have to go with what you’ve got. Courtney Lee? Really?

2. Offensive defensive indifference!
Although Dwight Howard threw up enough clutch-time bricks from the line to build an estate, it was Jameer Nelson’s mind-numbing mind-numbness that truly cost Orlando down the stretch. To recap, the Magic cling to a three-point lead with seconds remaining. Derek Fisher brings the ball across half-court. Nelson, who by this point should have lodged his way into Fisher’s shorts, inexplicably remains behind the three point line, wearing a sort of “did-I-leave-the-gas-on?” expression. Fisher calmly nails a game-tying three, forcing the game into an overtime period and causing Stan Van Gundy to lose a lung on the sideline. Mother..

When was the last truly compelling Finals? Pistons-Lakers in 04 went to seven games but I don’t recall being particularly enthralled. The Spurs have been in a few Finals but for most fans the sight of Pop and Timmy on the same court is coma-inducing. Really, I think you’d have to go back to Jordan and the Bulls. Man, we are due…. Anyway, see you next year for a third installment of “The NBA Finals: Where Prolonged Ulcers Happen”..

Baseball, the Media and PEDs

Call me soft but I am really getting tired of the all-forgiving, Mannywood-worshiping, “baseball realists” infecting the airwaves and newspapers of late. Earlier today, Jon Heyman of si.com published an article measuring the merits, Hall of Fame credentials and perspective eligibility of such noted sleazebags as ARoid, Manny, Barry and (God-help-us-all) Roger Clemens. He created his own convenient and self-righteous gauge, judging players on the extent and longevity of actualized or alleged sleaziness. Luckily, I wasn’t the only reader with a “what the deuce!?” reaction. Mole57 from New Jersey:

Steroid use should be looked at on the same level as cheating. It doesn’t matter if they didn’t need to cheat to be great — they still chose to cheat and ultimately they have disgraced the game and made a mockery of many hallowed records for purely selfish reasons. If Joe Jackson and Pete Rose aren’t allowed in, these guys shouldn’t be allowed in either.

Hear hear! Heyman represents a frighteningly simple-minded contingency of Hall of Fame voters. Erroneous postulations and beliefs that Bonds “was a Hall of Famer long before he took his first steroid,” should hold no water in this argument. These players knowingly cheated to satisfy their egos and wallets and each and every one unlucky enough to get caught, regardless of the extent or period of use, needs to be banished permanently. This isn’t to suggest that blame should not be spread to the commissioner, the owners and the fans but, really, let’s start with the guys who were sticking the needles in their asses. And anyone who suggests, due to the pervading culture of sleaziness and corruption at the time, that we should disregard a steadily expanding and overwhelming string of asterisks should go about recalibrating his or her moral compass.

Fenway, Frankly

I went to Fenway for the first time in a dog’s age the other night and watched the Sox lose to Cleveland on a series of Jed Lowrie missed-opportunities. While the outcome was unfavorable, it seems Fenway has not lost any of its charms or ambiance.

I was stashed with a comrade up in the right field grandstands, under a pall of the upper deck (which did nothing to warm an already frigid evening). No cup holders up in section 5, no heated seats, no fan-friendly, turn-of-the-century amenities like those that soothe the spoiled bosoms of the “fans” in Arizona or St. Petersburg. Denizens are satisfied with a cocktail of baseball, bellowed obscenities and the rank perfume of spilled beer.

By the fifth inning my neck felt like an un-greased door hinge and my arse, which I had painstakingly managed to coerce into a plank of wood designed for an anorexic toddler, had assumed the properties of a cast iron bowling ball.

In the middle of the inning, mostly in an attempt to stave off paralysis, I decided to embark on a mission into the bowels of Fenway in search of a cold brew and a hotdog. I flopped and cajoled my way down aisles, across motley assortments of hooligans. I stepped on a little girl’s toes and earned a look from her 300-pound mother that would’ve made Tek blush. And as I made my way down the cement steps, hitting holes like a disoriented tailback, I remembered again why I love Fenway. There is no place like it. In a baloney-infested world, Fenway is a preserved slice of raw authenticity.

Screw the new-frangled, imitation, retro faux-parks. Screw the new Yankee Stadium with its 5 kruzillion luxury suites. And screw Hank Steinbrenner on general principle. Long live Fenway, with its cramped seats, smelly patrons, and overpriced dogs.

Brady Goes Down

Well, it appears Tom Brady will be out for the season. I think I speak for all of Patriot Nation when I say, ‘dang’.

To call the loss of Brady a blow would be an understatement. This is something more along the lines of a cataclysmic bazooka blast from outer space. Kamikaze Pollard, as the Chief’s safety shall from now on be known, took out the central nervous system of the finely tuned Patriot machine and reduced the team to a motley assortment of loose parts.

Enter Matt Cassel, the stately quarterback from USC, who at best can be called unproven but who more realistically should be labeled a greenhorn (Cassel hasn’t started at quarterback since his senior year at Chatsworth High School in 1999). A bit wet behind the ears? Perhaps. But certainly up to the challenge? Lets hope so.

Fans are already flocking to the Tobin Bridge, waiting for their turn to jump. I say give the kid a chance. Where’s the old can-do attitude, New England? Have we already forgotten how Brady began his short trip to stardom? Lets view the unfortunate situation in a positive light- as a fantastic opportunity for a veteran team to rally around its young quarterback in a show of team solidarity. We shall fortify Cassel’s castle! We shall prove that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts! We shall… oh, who the hell am I kidding. The Patriots are screwed.

Olympic Gymnastics– Holy Cow!

When you think Olympics, you think Michael Phelps. Phelps has been plastered all over the past ten issues of Sports Illustrated. He has TV commercials on seemingly every channel. The guy is everywhere.

I simply don’t care for swimming, and not only because I’ve always sunk like a lead balloon. I just find it a terribly dull sport to watch. Ultimately, swimming (albeit quickly) back and forth in a pool and breaking some record previously held by a guy named Spitz doesn’t do it for me. You want tizzy-inducing, Olympic material? Lets talk about women’s gymnastics.

I had never watched gymnastics for more than two minutes before watching the women’s all-around competition. This is insane stuff! Shawn Johnson, Nastia Liuken and a couple of pre-pubescent Chinese girls flipped and bounced over a 4-inch balance beam as though it were a 4-lane freeway. Have you ever tried to stand on a balance beam, let alone attempt a backflip on one? I tried once (to stand on one) during a 4^th grade P.E. class and my cajones are still paying for it.

Gymnasts should be recognized as some of the greatest athletes in the world, but they aren’t. And the problem perhaps lies in the Barbie-doll image cultivated within the sport’s culture. The athletes are world-class, but they appear as caricatures taken from the same vein as the beauty contest winners from Little Miss Sunshine. This image, further accentuated by Johnson’s cuddly-chipmunk appearance throughout the Olympics, prevents many people from taking the sport seriously or from seeing the athletes as the impressive packages of power and grace that they are. What gymnastics really needs is a Dennis Rodman, someone with a little extra dose of bravado. A fiery, in-your-face gymnast could raise public awareness and simultaneously help to diminish the cute-as-a-button image the sport has acquired over the years. While we’re at it, can’t you imagine Rodman in a pink leotard attempting a series of back flips off the uneven bars? Somehow, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched…

I’ll be on vacation until I find a way to get internet access in my apt. Until then, toil away, try to make due with run-of-the-mill sports information sites such as ESPN and SI.com. A few subjects to consider in my absence:

Brett Favre’s devolution from iconic sports hero to prima-donna idiot.
Paul Byrd’s impact on the Sox rotation.
Olympic Gymnasts. How the deuce do they go flipping around like that?

This and more next time….

I’m Out

Manny Trade Restores Team Concept

I write for a website called the “Boston Red Sox Fan Site” and so it is with a considerable degree of shame and embarrassment that I sit here and confess that, for the past few years, I haven’t been much of a Sox fan. I’ve retained my Sox memorabilia and paraphernalia, I’ve watched the games here and there, I’ve carried the company card (not literally, of course–anyone who purchases a “Red Sox Nation” card to validate his or her fandom should be bashed over the head with a wiffle bat). But my heart and my soul, the heart and soul I used to pour into every pitch of every inning, were off taking an extended, seventh-inning stretch.

What a difference a trade makes.

I was more into last night’s 2-1 victory over the Oakland A’s than I was into any of the Sox’ World Series games this past October. All of a sudden the Sox spunk was back. The hustle, the grit, the team dynamic; the intangibles that, I always used to fancy, separated us from the heart-less Yankees; all this came as the result of exchanging Manny Ramirez for Jason Bay.

The Sox are no longer a collection of talented ballplayers held hostage under the prima-donna swagger of a millionaire gun-for-hire. By replacing Manny with his natural antithesis, (Bay, an unassuming, team-first ballplayer), the Sox restored their dignity and dropped the traveling circus routine. They became a team again. And a baseball team is what I’ve been waiting and hoping to root for.

Deadline Deal Ratings

Last week I droned on about the mind-numbing dullness of baseball’s mid-season. This week I’m eating my words.

Lets break down the two biggest trade deadline deals.

Teixeira to the Halos: Braves trade Teixeira, who will become a free agent after this season, for Casey Kotchman (he of the .280 batting average, 12 dingers and 55 RBI). How did the Braves get fleeced here? They get a legitimate, starting first baseman who is excited about playing in Atlanta and who should hang round for a while. In return, they surrender a three-month rental player. Immediate advantage: Halos. Long-term advantage: Braves.
Manny to Dodgers: This is ludicrous, the biggest coup of Theo’s tenure. The Sox are instantly improved by obliterating the biggest team distraction this side of the Marlins’ Manatees. As a bonus, they get Bay, a consummate professional who will bolster team chemistry and bring similar numbers to the table. Harp all you want about the “presence” Manny brought to the lineup. Presence shmesence. Manny’s numbers dont elevate him above the field anymore. Sure, he has superior career numbers, but he isn’t the fearsome hitter he once was. I’ll take Bay with his hustle, superior range in leftfield, and similar if not better offensive numbers. Winners: Sox. Loser: Joe Torre.

Mid-season Boringdomness

Apologies for my negligence. I’ve been down in Boston the past week-and-a-half looking for a “real job”.

The job hunt is frustrating and I’m afraid it’s sullied my mood a bit this rainy, Wednesday evening. Nonetheless, I’ll plug away for you, my faithful readers (if I’m not mistaken, there are between two and five of you—ahoy there Jaíme!).

Ehh.. baseball… trades…injuries.. We’re in the belly of the doldrums, my friends. Mid-July rolls through like a vat of hardened molasses. Oooo, Joe Blanton went to the Phils! Mark Teixeira might just go about anywhere west of the Mississippi! Stars above, Tony Clark went back to the D-Backs!

Last week the Sox were shellacked by The Los Angeles Halos of Southern California, Residing near Anaheim, Or At Least Playing In the General Vicinity (this never gets old). Then the Sox headed up north and promptly spanked the pants off the Double-A squad posing as the Seattle Mariners. It’s all so ho-hum, right? In the end, everything comes out in the wash. The Mariners will finish somewhere below the cellar, between the sewage canal and the compost heap, the Sox and Angels will probably face each other in the playoffs, and, if history is any indication, the Sox will probably win.

Mid-July is the giraffe’s neck of an interminably long baseball season. Every team takes a few shots to the chin, then administers a few in turn, but in the end the baseball universe tends to keep turning, as it should.

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