January 28, 2008
Temperature in hell continues to drop
Chris Webber prays for a reunion with his favorite coach.
The headline today read “Webber Returns to Warriors.” Some of you will know what that means and why it’s making my head spin. For the rest, here’s a little history to help you understand just how weird this is:
Back in the early 90s, I was captivated by a dynamic young basketball team called the Golden State Warriors. Coached by NBA legend Don Nelson and led by a trio of up-and-coming stars known by the acronym Run-TMC (Tim Hardaway, Mitch Richmond, and Chris Mullin), the Warriors played an uptempo style of ball that made them both entertaining and successful.
But there was a problem: The team lacked size, and so while they were good enough to make the playoffs, they couldn’t match up with a bigger team over the course of a series. This prompted Coach Nelson to trade Richmond for a rookie named Billy Owens, whose combination of size and skills made him look like a surefire superstar.
This turned out to be a huge mistake: Richmond was a perennial all-star for the Sacramento Kings, while Owens never translated his talents into success on the court. But then the Warriors caught a couple of breaks. First they drafted guard Latrell Sprewell from Alabama. Known primarily as a defensive player, Sprewell unexpectedly turned out to be a legitimate NBA scorer and all-around catalyst. Then, in 1993, the Warriors lucked into the first pick in the draft. There was never much question who they’d select: Chris Webber, a 6-9 forward from Michigan with great hands, superior passing skills, and apparently limitless potential.
In Webber’s rookie year, the W’s won 50 games and although they were swept in the first round of the playoffs by the Phoenix Suns, they looked ready to mature into a real contender. In the offseason, they addressed their one glaring weakness—lack of an honest-to-God center—by trading Owens for Rony Seikaly.
Then disaster struck. Webber had been signed to an unusual contract that allowed him to opt out after his first year. This was considered to be merely a formality, but it turned out he and Nelson didn’t care for each other. So much so that Webber was prepared to walk away from a big pile of money rather than play another season for his nemesis.
So the Warriors started the season without Webber, and they didn’t seem to miss him, going 7-1 in their first 8 games. There was great optimism is Warriorland: once Webber came back or was traded for a quality player, we were going to dominate the league. I have a clip in my mental YouTube from this time of Tim Hardaway throwing a baseball pass the length of the court to Sprewell, who finished with a tomahawk dunk as announcer Greg Papa yelled “Hardaway…Sprewell…touchdown!”
But once Webber was indeed traded to Washington for forward Tom Gugliotta—a solid player who should have improved the team—nothing worked anymore. The team chemistry had turned poisonous, and before long, the Warriors were a dismal 26-56 and Nelson and Gugliotta were both gone. This was the beginning of 13 years of misery that had many, many low points, including Hardaway being traded for a guy named “Bimbo” and Sprewell trying to strangle coach P.J. Carlesimo.
Most of that time is a blur of players coming and going, coaches being hired and fired, with the only constant being failure. By 2006, the Warriors—now run by former player Chris Mullin—had apparently gone through every coach on the market, and so the only alternative was to give Nelson another try. It seemed like a crazy idea, but somehow it worked. Playing once again an uptempo style, led now by Baron Davis, Jason Richardson, and after a trade with Indiana, Stephen Jackson, the Warriors squeaked into the playoffs and knocked off the mighty Dallas Mavericks in a first-round upset.
I’ve written about this before, though I certainly never get tired of it. But lately things have taken some odd turns. One is that Jason Richardson, a franchise centerpiece, was traded for rookie Brandan Wright. This seemed so much like a replay of the Richmond/Owens debacle that it really worried me, but even though Wright has played very little the W’s have improved from last year, compiling a 27-18 record up to this point.
But the same problem as in the 90s has come up again: the Warriors lack size. And the team’s answer is again the same: Chris Webber.
Yes, after bouncing around the league for 13 seasons—Washington, Sacramento, Philly, Detroit—putting up good numbers but never winning much, getting loudly booed every time he comes to Oakland, Webber has decided to get back, get back to where he once belonged. Today he officially announced he’ll be signing to play the rest of the season for the Warriors at the veteran’s minimum salary.
So will Webb redeem himself in my and my fellow fans’ eyes by contributing to a Warriors march to the Finals? It’s unlikely, but don’t bet against it. Because if Chris Webber and Don Nelson can both come back to Oakland at the same time, anything is possible.
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May 16, 2007
The dream is over
The dream is over—what can I say?
The dream is over—yesterday
I was the dreamweaver, now I’m reborn
I was the Walrus…now I’m John
And so my friends, you’ll just have to carry on
The dream is over…
--John Lennon
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May 11, 2007
Who Believes?
These are the times that try men’s souls (and some women’s): The Warriors find themselves down two games to none heading into tonight’s Game 3 in Oakland. Call it what you will—crucial, pivotal, decisive, essential, a must-win—this is flat-out A Big Game. Win and we’re back in business; lose and you can pretty much forget about it.
Not that I’m worried. I feel serenely confident that all will transpire as it must, and grateful for the privilege of experiencing this present moment as a conscious being here on planet Earth. I ask for nothing more than a good, clean, entertaining game. That, and maybe a few calls from the referees to make up for all the ones that went against us in Utah. Is that too much to ask? Am I talking to myself here? In the immortal words of the Butthole Surfers, are you freaking with me?
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May 2, 2007
Wild, wild west
The roof is, like, on fire.
These are weird, wild times here in the city some call “Golden State.” We had a major conflagration this weekend when a tanker truck exploded in the Macarthur maze, causing one major freeway to collapse onto another major freeway. Despite the massive fireball, no one was killed, and the only injury was to the truck driver, who walked away and took a cab to the hospital. My favorite detail from this story: despite having substantial second-degree burns, he actually tried to pay the cabbie for the ride before going inside for treatment.
Meanwhile, the basketball team some call “the Warriors” continued their crazy ride. In Game 4, they decisively dismantled the dudes from Dallas to take a 3-1 series lead. With a chance to clinch the series in Texas last night, they played horribly in the first half, came storming back from a 21-point deficit to lead by nine with 3:21 left, then fell apart down the stretch. It’s time to get a little nervous now, because suddenly the Mavericks have the momentum, and our boys really, really need to win Game 6 at home. I mean, who wants to make a third trip to Dallas? One’s enough for anybody.
But on the bright side, this has been amazing, exciting basketball, and having the series continue isn’t the worst thing in the world. We Who Root have to remind ourselves that just a couple weeks ago, we were still the fans of a loser basketball team that hadn’t made the playoffs in 13 years. I fear that in recent days we may have become a but hubristic, unaccustomed as we are to the air at these altitudes.
B-ball gods, if you are listening, I’d like to say officially and for the record: We are not worthy. I mean, sure, we suffered for many moons, but now we’ve had our fun; if your will is to smite us, so be it. We can’t really ask for more.
Did I sound convincing?
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April 24, 2007
New Ice Age in Hell?
This photo of Devin Harris’ apparently lifeless body pretty much says it all.
It’s taken two days for it to start to sink in. On Sunday, the Warriors — that’s the Golden State Warriors, my favorite basketball team and possibly yours — faced the #1-seeded Dallas Mavericks in Game 1 of the Western Conference Quarterfinals. The Mavs, who went to the NBA Finals last year and won 67 games this year, were playing in front of a rabid home crowd. The Warriors, meanwhile, were happy just to be in the playoffs for the first time since 1994.
Then a funny thing happened. After a slow first half that ended 38-38, the W’s surged ahead in the third quarter behind 19 cold-blooded points from Baron “Boom Dizzle” Davis. And in the fourth, instead of pulling an el collapso like the playoff novices they are, the Warriors kept control of the game. One memorable sequence featured Jason Richardson losing the ball to Dallas’ Devin Harris, then racing downcourt to swat Harris’ layup attempt off the backboard. Harris lay sprawled on the floor, clinging to Richardson like a baby koala, as the Dallas bench whined for a foul. Meanwhile, the ball found its way to Warrior Matt Barnes, who drained an unlikely, soul-crushing 3-pointer from the corner.
There was no more drama after that. The Mavs failed to mount a comeback, throwing up brick after brick as owner Mark Cuban sat looking alternately forlorn and enraged. My friends and I watched in a stunned silence; we Warriors fans are simply not accustomed to this kind of success. It’s a shock to the system, but given half a chance I think we could get used to it.
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April 19, 2007
Hell Freezes Over
Oh happy day. Oh happy, happy day.
Anything is possible now. Pigs can fly. Fish can ride bicycles. Alberto Gonzalez can start telling the truth. You can tug on Superman’s cape, if you want to. Trust me, it’s OK.
The Golden State Warriors have made the playoffs.
The last time that happened, back in 1994, well…we were all a lot younger, for one thing. Monta Ellis and Andris Biedrins, second-year players who made key contributions this year, were 8 years old. Kurt Cobain had just blown his head off with a shotgun (supposedly), and O.J. Simpson had not yet killed anyone (allegedly). We were listening to albums like Teenager of the Year, Kerosene Hat, and Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain. The phrase “presidential knee pads” had yet to enter the lexicon, and we still believed in a place called Hope.
And other blather to that effect. That’s the distant past, and for the moment I am concerned about the near future. Beginning on Sunday the Warriors will face the Dallas Mavericks, whom they swept the season series from this year and just generally match up well against. It’s not totally crazy to believe that, even though the Mavs are a #1 seed and the W’s a #8, our boys can play them to a standstill, if not actually beat them.
And then, maybe, the Warriors will ride their momentum through upsets of the Suns and Spurs, going on to meet the Pistons in the NBA Finals. We’ll be watching the game one day and the “Breaking News” graphic will flash. ABC News will cut away just in time to catch an enormous spaceship landing on the roof of the White House. America will watch in stunned amazement as a squad of Black Lectroids distintegrates Bush, Cheney, and Rove with their ray guns. Having secured the area, they will return to the mothership and emerge once again in the company of our new leader…George Clinton, the Funky President.
It could happen. Because reality has cracked wide open. The Golden State Warriors have made the playoffs.
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October 23, 2006
Inside the Schneid
I’ve always wondered in a vague, half-assed way about the origin of the term “the schneid,” which crops up mostly in the context of sports. You don’t often hear about someone being “on the schneid” (i.e. stuck on zero, scoreless, winless); more commonly, when a team posts its first point of the game or wins its first game of the series, you are notified that they are now “off the schneid.”
I was inspired to do a little research by a headline in today’s Oakland Tribune, which declared the hapless Raiders “off the schnide” after having defeated the even haplesser Arizona Cardinals. Seeing this, I realized that I’d never actually seen the word written down before; I’d always assumed it was spelled “schneid” and somehow related to the surname “Schneider,” perhaps the tragic legacy of some poor bastard who never got any. (See also: “Munsoned.”)
This proved to be more difficult than I expected. Nothing in Webster’s, either print or online. No Wikipedia entry. A Google search turned up many examples of usage (all favoring the more intuitive “schneid” over the Trib’s bizarre “schnide”), but no exegesis. Finally I found the following on word-detective.com:
“Schneid” is actually short for “schneider,” a term originally used in the card game of gin, meaning to prevent an opponent from scoring any points. “Schneider” entered the vocabulary of gin from German (probably via Yiddish), where it means “tailor.” Apparently the original sense was that if you were “schneidered” in gin you were “cut” (as if by a tailor) from contention in the game. “Schneider” first appeared in the literature of card-playing about 1886, but the shortened form “schneid” used in other sports is probably of fairly recent vintage.
I am willing to buy this explanation for the most part, though I still suspect that the term may derive from some actual Schneider who was a really sucky card player, similar to baseball’s Mendoza Line. But in any case, I am now off the schneid for the week of October 23.
Posted by bill at 5:06 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
June 29, 2006
A small something
This blog has been neglected lately—partly due to mysterious technical problems that just as mysteriously went away—and is likely to be neglected more in the upcoming days. But I wanted to post a small something just to plant a flag that says I’m still here.
After a sluggish start, I’ve finally started getting into the World Cup. I was fairly amazed watching Brazil play Ghana the other day. Ghana manhandled the U.S. team and continued to play well against Brazil, yet still lost 3-0. Brazil could just as easily have scored 10 goals if they’d shared the ball and, you know, focused a little bit. They carved up Ghana’s defense like that Ronco knife carves up tomatoes.
The upcoming holiday weekend presents a quandary: wholesome outdoor activities versus the rare harmonic convergence of the World Cup and the Tour de France. Wiffle ball & hot dogs versus semi-understood European sporting events. What oh what shall I choose?
Meanwhile, I wanted to share this WC anecdote from correspondent Stewart, for no other reason than it amused me:
I wouldn’t miss a match—but as we don’t have cable, we have to watch it on the Mexican channels—which means you don’t have to listen to commentators. Although, during the Portugal/Holland game—containing the most fouls in the history of the WC—the Mexican commentator said, “Welcome to the jungle!” in English. Very funny.
Which reminds me, Axl Rose—now sporting what appears to be a headful of yarn—was arrested this week for biting a security guard. Amazingly, it appears that alcohol was involved.
Posted by bill at 4:15 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 15, 2005
Kobe and Phil, (Temporarily) Together Again
I’ve been watching and reading the coverage of Phil Jackson’s return to the Lakers over the last 18 hours or so, and everyone’s making a big deal of how he’s going to coexist with Kobe. Which is a good question, given that after leaving the Lake Show Phil went public with his low opinion of Kobe as a human being. But the possibility everyone seems to ignore is that they won’t have to coexist, because the Lakers will trade Kobe’s ass.
Think about it: By dumping Kobe the Lakers could get rid of a cancer and bring in some serious talent in one fell swoop. Because of his marquee value, a lot of teams would be willing to ignore what a chump he is. How about…
• Kobe to the Sixers for Allen Iverson (probably won’t happen, given Philly’s attachment to Iverson and Iverson’s man-love for Mo Cheeks; but then again, Kobe’s a Philly guy)
• Kobe to the Cavs for LeBron James (sounds crazy, but Larry Brown’s about to take over in Cleveland, and he has a reputation for loving to make big deals)
• Kobe to Houston for T-Mac (that whole T-Mac/Yao thing isn’t working out so fantastic, is it?)
• Kobe to Denver for Carmelo, Nen�, and Earl Boykins (just as a real “fuck you” to the Kobester on his way out the door)
• Kobe to Sacramento for Mike Bibby and Peja (Sac gets some box office, the Lakers get two options to work into the triangle)
So that’s my prediction: Kobe will not be a Laker at the start of next season. Remember you heard it here first.
Posted by bill at 1:52 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
August 19, 2002
Six-Syllable Samoan Superstar
These are truly the dog days for the non-baseball-loving sports fan. The NBA season is but a gleam in David Stern’s eye at this point, and that leaves us with the NFL preseason, which has to be the single most pointless exercise in all of professional athletics.
Here’s what you get in a typical preseason game: The starters play for a series or two, taking it easy so as not to risk injury. Then the second-stringers play out the half, giving us a chance to see exactly why they’re second-stringers. In the second half we get the third-stringers, followed by some guys picked out of the crowd who have always wanted to play pro football. That’s not my idea of entertainment.
I suppose that the preseason games must be useful for the teams themselves in some way, or they wouldn’t bother to play them, but those few dedicated fans who actually watch are left with a lot of time to twiddle their thumbs and get nervous.
And Raiders fans have been getting very nervous, because their team has been stuggling in the preseason, to put it mildly. The offense has been inconsistent, the defense has been porous, and kicker Sebastian Janikowski has looked like the jumpy Janikowski of old, missing field goals left and right, literally.
But your thinking fan reminds him or herself that preseason is meaningless and concentrates on the positive. The biggest bright spot for the Raiders this preseason has been my new favorite football player: second-year quarterback Marques Tuiasosopo. Why am I so high on this kid?
• I was a big fan of his dad, Manu Tuiasosopo, who played tackle for the Seahawks and 49ers. He was a big man with a big name, which I taught myself to pronounce over the course of several NFL seasons (for those of you keeping score at home, that’s six syllables: Too-ee-ah-soh-soh-poh).
• The Tuiasosopos are of Samoan extraction, and Samoans in the NFL have typically played on the line because they are, generally speaking, quite large people. It’s cool to see Manu’s son come up playing not just a skill position, but the #1 skill position, quarterback.
• In high school, Marques not only played offense and defense (playing at safety, he once returned a fumble recovery 95 yards for a touchdown), but was a standout on the basketball and baseball teams as well. He was even drafted by the Minnesota Twins in 1997, but chose instead to play football at Washington, where he was the first quarterback to pass for more than 300 yards and run for more than 200 yards in the same game.
• Marques is mobile, durable, has a strong arm. So far, he has completed 75% of his NFL passes. (OK, so he’s 3 for 4. It still augurs good things for the future.) He plays the game with an enthusiasm that puts me in mind of Brett Favre—the kind of guy who gets pounded into the turf, then jumps up and congratulates the defender on a nice hit.
Marques probably won’t see much playing time this year unless the current starter—dependable, 98-year-old Rich Gannon—gets hurt. And I’m not saying I’m rooting for that to happen, because Marques could use another year of seasoning, but it would be interesting to see him get a chance to play before Jerry Rice and Tim Brown hang it up.
Also, I’m eager to see what sportscasters are going to do when they have to say “Tuiasosopo” in every other sentence. Raiders’ play-by-play man Greg Papa is a comsummate pro and will be able to handle it; but the league’s lesser lights are going to tie themselves in knots. And before you ask—yes, that is my idea of entertainment.
Posted by bill at 9:43 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 5, 2002
Sex and Sports, and Sex Again
That got your attention, didn’t it? I’m not above using the occasional cheap ploy to grab eyeballs. These are competitive times we live in.
Also, I’ve had sex on the brain a lot this last week—more than usual, I mean. Something about this time of year, when the weather turns crisp, gets me all keyed up. I think that’s how I ended up planted in front of the TV on Saturday afternoon, watching Anna Kournikova play tennis.
She wasn’t alone, of course. There was also an opponent: similarly blond, statuesque, and ponytailed Jelena Dokic. Both players wore short skirts, glistened with sweat, and grunted animalistically every time they struck the ball. I enjoyed watching this so much that I am now going to punish myself by making several embarrassing admissions:
• My interest in tennis as a sport is approximately zero. It’s never been clear to me what’s supposed to be so thrilling about watching two people bat a little green ball back and forth, over and over and over again. There can be exciting moments toward the end of a close contest, but I don’t think I’ve ever watched an entire tennis match in my life.
• And that includes this one. I watched most of the second set, during which Kournikova had several chances to close out the match, all of which she squandered. I was interested for a while, then very interested, then suddenly lost interest right around when Kournikova choked in the second-set tiebreaker. I read the next day that Dokic had come back to win the third set and the match.
• I was surprised to find myself reflexively rooting for Kournikova. At one point, I yelled out something to the effect of “Come on, Anna!” and did a double take, looking around the room to see who had said that. I wish I could say there was some reason for this—some reason other than the fact that she’s so damn gorgeous—but I’d be lying.
Before this match, I had never really seen what the big deal was about Anna. I thought she was just another of the good-looking, not especially talented women who can often be found on the pages of magazines like Maxim. But on the court, it was a while different deal: Kournikova wasn’t just beautiful, she radiated a golden glow that made it seem as if the sun shined only for and on her. You don’t see that every day.
So where am I going with this? I’m not sure. I’m not thinking very clearly, which will tend to happen when sex comes into the equation.
What I do know is this: Kournikova has so beguiled the male population of planet Earth that, even though she’s not a very good player, she’s become the biggest draw in women’s tennis. She eclipses even the Williams sisters, who are not only sexy in a powerful, Amazonian, too-much-woman-for-you, buddy kind of way, but also the most dominant players in the game.
This has annoyed a lot of people, especially a lot of women, and I have to admit they have a point. It’s unfair, sexist, and wrong. But men don’t have a monopoly on mixing sports and sex. One of my female co-workers this week, upon picking up the sports section, had this insightful comment on A’s third baseman Eric Chavez: “Look at that ass!” And while I know several women who are knowledgeable, die-hard football fans, I also know several who watch football games because they like the pants they players wear.
Which leads me to ask, do they wear those tight pants because they’re comfortable? It seems unlikely. You gotta give the people what they want. Note to self: In future columns, fewer words, more pictures of Anna Kournikova.
Posted by bill at 9:39 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
July 22, 2002
Wiffle to the People—Right On
I’m composing this week’s column in a bit of a daze because I just returned from my annual pilgrimage to Fight Club.
What is Fight Club, you ask? Well, I can’t tell you that, because the first rule is that you don’t talk about Fight Club. But I can tell you what it’s not: It’s not a half-brilliant, half-moronic movie with Brad Pitt and Ed Norton. It’s not a cult, a gang, or a club. It’s not a drum circle. It’s not the Bohemian Grove (although there are bohemians and there is a grove). It’s not organized crime or organized religion (though it is organized—and very well—by a certain local businessman). And’s it certainly not just an excuse to drink, smoke, and eat meat for a couple days. No, Fight Club isn’t easily understood, but I can tell you one thing: Every man who walks away from Fight Club thinks of himself as the winner.
But enough about that. I’m here today to honor one of America’s great underappreciated games. I’m talking about a game that is played in backyards and corner parks across the USA, a game of the people, a game that is the humble cousin of our national pastime. The game I’m talking about is wiffle ball. I came under fire in some quarters for ragging on baseball in my last column, so I would now like to sing the praises of this scaled-down, user-friendly version.
Baseball is, to be truthful, a fun game to play, but it’s awfully hard, in more ways than one. First off, it’s hard to get organized, because you need 18 players and a nice grass field. And of course the ball itself is hard and travels at a high rate of speed, so you need a lot of protective equipment like gloves (expensive), helmets (unwieldy), and possibly cups (uncomfortable). And finally the game is just plain hard—you know, difficult—and filled with opportunities to make game-changing mistakes that will not be soon forgotten by one’s teammates (at least one local columnist has a tragic high-school baseball experience of which he still will not speak). So not many people actually play it.
In wiffle ball, on the other hand, the only equipment you need is the ball, the bat, a little three-dimensional space, and some number of human beings. You can set up the field however you like. You can pick and choose which rules to use. You can take out your aggressions by hitting people with the ball. You can use “ghost runners” to occupy bases. You can swagger, spit, style, and profile just like you would in a “real” baseball game. You can play with a beer in one hand, if that’s something you enjoy doing. And you can participate whether you’re young, middle-aged, over the hill, out-of-shape, or just plain uncoordinated. This makes it an excellent choice for picnics, camping trips, and other family-style activities.
And best of all, because the name of the game is “wiffle ball,” you can’t take it too seriously. Nobody’s life is going to be ruined by a mistake they made in wiffle ball.
So when baseball goes away later this summer in yet another dispute over owners’ megaprofits versus players’ enormous salaries, let’s all play wiffle ball instead. In the immortal words of Allen Toussaint, it will make this land a better land than the world in which we live.
Posted by bill at 9:32 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
July 8, 2002
Baseball, Think Baseball
Both of you who follow this space have noticed that there isn’t much baseball coverage. There’s a reason for this: It’s because I can’t watch, discuss, or think about baseball without falling into a powerful slumber. Baseball is so slow, so profoundly unsexy, that some men use thoughts of it to delay orgasm.
But at the moment it’s the only game in town. The Raiders are just starting to think about getting revved up; the Warriors are in the middle of the most successful part of their year, which is the offseason; and the World Cup is gone, not to return till 2006. So baseball will be today’s topic. I have just downed a large cup of Peet’s finest and will valiantly strive to fill my allotted space before being overcome by unconsciousness.
Apparently, while I was staying up till the middle of the night to watch the World Cup, the A’s went on a tremendous tear. Who knew? Last I remember, they were in a baffling tailspin. Now they’re only 5 games out of first place, with a very reasonable chance of making the playoffs. In the name of investigating this phenomenon, I sat down Friday night to watch my first inning of baseball in more than a month.
This turned out to be the ideal baseball experience. As I kicked off my shoes and settled onto the couch, the game was entering the ninth inning with the A’s and Kansas City Royals tied 1–1. In the top of the inning, we had what appeared to be tragedy: A’s left fielder Adam Piatt gruesomely misplayed a fly ball, allowing it to roll under his glove and all the way to the wall. One runner scored and the batter went to third, where he was quickly brought home by a sacrifice fly.
So the home team was down 3-1 as it entered its last at-bat in the shadow of Mount Davis. The 53,000 fans lured by the promise of post-game fireworks were apprehensive, but were brought to life by Miguel Tejada, who beat out an infield single and advanced to second base on an error. After David Justice walked, a single by Jermaine Dye brought in Tejada. That made it 3-2 with one out and two on as John Mabry came to the plate.
And then came a moment of real baseball poetry. Mabry, a left-handed hitter, sliced the ball off the end of his bat down the left-field line. Tejada scored easily to tie the game, but it appeared that the Royals’ Michael Tucker would reach the ball in time to hold Eric Byrnes, who was running for Justice, at third. This was when something truly odd happened: The ball got hung up behind an electric heater that had been placed in the foul area where the A’s pitchers were warming up.
Time slowed down as Tucker attempted to circumnavigate the heater to retrieve the ball. Meanwhile, the security guard and the A’s pitchers scattered to avoid touching the ball or obstructing Tucker; had they done so, the umpire would have stopped Byrnes at third. After a very long moment Tucker got to the ball, but by then it was too late—Byrnes had crossed the plate with the winning run. The game was over, Mabry was mobbed by his teammates, and the crowd went wild. And then there were fireworks.
Every baseball game should be like this: 20 minutes long, loaded with drama, and decided by a bizarre force majeure. But it ain’t gonna happen, so that concludes our baseball coverage for the time being. That ought to hold us for a couple weeks, anyway.
Posted by bill at 9:20 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 26, 2002
How to Win the World Cup in 3 Easy Steps
It’s difficult, sometimes, to be burdened with so much knowledge.
For instance, I know how the U.S. can win the next World Cup. So now I am faced with a quandary: Do I go public with this valuable information or keep it to myself?
On the one hand, we have the largesse that would be bestowed upon me by a grateful nation. Ladies, you know what I mean. On the other hand, I’m not so sure I want us to win the Cup. The thrill of victory really should go to a country that lives and dies with its team—not to a country where the World Cup is at best just a distraction that occupies time between the NBA playoffs and the opening of NFL training camp.
On the other other hand, I have some column inches to fill. So here it is: How we can bring the World Cup to the U.S., where it will no doubt gather dust in someone’s attic for four years.
Step 1: Do Something About That Name
What is this “soccer” business, anyway? I mean, really. How is America supposed to embrace a sport with such a silly name?
This should be easy to fix, because the sport we currently call “football” is inappropriately named. Yes, feet are in some way involved in every play, and every dozen plays or so some random little dude comes on to the field and kicks the ball; but on the whole hands are much more important to the game than feet.
So this sport has to change its name to something appropriately all-American and hyperbolic, something like “Superball” or “Destructoball.” Or maybe it could just sell its name to a corporate sponsor—how do you like the sound of “Bud Ball,” “Chevy Truck Ball,” or maybe just “McBall”? (Another possibility, “Microsoft Ball,” just doesn’t have the right ring to it.)
Then we can change “soccer” to “football,” bringing us in line with the rest of the world. That’s a good start, and we move on to…
Step 2: Bring in Athletes from Other Sports
In countries where football is paramount, all the best athletes play it. We are at a disadvantage because many of our best athletes play other sports. The solution is simple: Start preparing athletes from other sports to play in the 2006 World Cup. Four years should be long enough for them to get the hang of it.
Three words: Shaquille O’Neal, goalie. With his ridiculous combination of size and agility, how could anyone get the ball past him? Imagine the tough and speedy Allen Iverson at striker, or Vince Carter rising easily above the pack to head in a corner kick. From Bud Ball, we’ll bring in Charles Woodson, Randy Moss, Edgerrin James, and Junior Seau for tryouts (sorry, no quarterbacks). Baseball players can’t run for 90 minutes and hockey players are all Canadian, but we’ll throw Tiger Woods in there just for the heck of it.
Now we’re getting somewhere. On to…
Step 3: Kill Ourselves
To really compete internationally, the U.S. must close the gap in fan fervor. For instance, a dedicated South Korea fan recently burned himself alive for his team, promising in his suicide note that he would be the “12th man” for the Korean team. Extreme, you say? Perhaps…but you’ll notice that South Korea made it to the semifinals (and perhaps, by the time you read this, to the finals). There’s no arguing with those kind of results.
So in preparation for the 2006 tournament, we must begin developing a specially trained suicide squad. Advanced CIA brainwashing techniques will help. If we could get, say, a dozen citizens to immolate themselves, thus becoming the 12th through 23rd men for the U.S. team, we’d certainly have a leg up. Yes, the flower of American manhood wiping itself out for its country…what could be more touching?
Posted by bill at 3:49 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 12, 2002
World Cup Dos and Don’ts
We, as Americans, do not understand the World Cup. People all over the world live and die with their country’s teams, but to us it’s just another sporting event.
I include myself in this. However, out of a combination of boredom and a desire to be cosmopolitan and sophisticated, I have decided to take an interest in this year’s tournament. From my observations I have gathered the following tips for proper enjoyment of the World Cup.
Do have somebody to root for. Having a rooting interest puts the whole thing in a context and gives you a perspective from which to view the proceedings. You can root for the U.S. team if you’re so inclined, but it’s much more satisfying to pull for a country that really cares about the World Cup. If there’s no country in the tournament that you have a spiritual or ethnic connection to, try adopting a friend or co-worker’s team, or one whose name you enjoy saying (such as Senegal or Cameroon).
Don’t count on commercial breaks. This is a key point for fans reared on sports like baseball or football, where frequent commercial breaks provide numerous opportunities to run to the bathroom or kitchen. This enables you to get away with little or no advance planning. In soccer, that approach won’t work—once they start the half, they just keep going until it’s over, which takes at least 45 minutes. So be sure to have your snacks prepared and your bladder emptied before sitting down for the game.
Do watch games on the Spanish channel, even if you don’t speak Spanish. I’ve found that being unable to understand what the broadcasters are saying in no way distracts from enjoyment of the event. In fact, given what idiots most sportscasters are, it may well be a bonus. And you will certainly understand what it means when they shout “Gol!” (“Goal!”) at the tops of their lungs, stretching the vowel sound out for five minutes or more.
Don’t blow it for somebody. Because these games are happening at such inconvenient hours, many people are taping/TiVoing the games for later viewing. In many cases, they won’t get to watch their recording until they get home from work on the day after the match is played. Respect people’s right to not know the outcome of the games until they want to. Don’t, for instance, barge into your friend Willem’s office shouting the name of a team that just pulled off a major upset, as I recently did.
Do celebrate. Because a goal is such a rare event, you are duty bound to go absolutely freaking nuts when your chosen team scores. At a bare minimum, jump up from the couch, run around the room whooping, tear your shirt off, then fall to your knees in a prayerlike posture. If you can do seven backflips like the guy from Nigeria did when he scored, then bonus points for you.
Don’t sweat the details. Don’t let it discourage you that you don’t understand what constitutes offsides or a penalty. I’m not sure that the referees do either; I’m pretty sure they just make it up as they go along based on their perception of how the game should be played (much like NBA referees).
Do skip work to watch the games. Everyone in Europe does it, so why shouldn’t we? Summer’s just around the corner and there’s no better time to slack off. Stay up all night watching, then call in sick the next day, or just disappear around lunchtime to catch the afternoon broadcast. The choice is yours.
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May 8, 2002
Cricket, Baseball, Gin, and Beer
“Everyone knows which comes first when it’s a question of cricket or sex—all discerning people recognise that. Anyway, don’t forget one doesn’t have to do two things at the same time. You can either have sex before cricket or after cricket—the fundamental fact is that cricket must be there at the center of things.” –Harold Pinter
Dateline: Barming, Maidstone, Kent, England
It has taken me only a few days to learn that the English are quite mad, and I say this with affection, because they are very much like us. Thus, if you apply the transitive theorem, you learn that we, too, are crazy—which, quite frankly, I had always suspected.
For instance, though this whole country is organized around drinking—you can scarcely walk a hundred yards without stumbling upon a pub, while food is an afterthought, which explains its quality, or lack thereof—the pubs in fact close promptly at 11. And so when the English drink they do it quickly, and with gusto.
Thus, as we sat outside the Glasshouse near Gloucester, we were a pint and a half in before I was able to ask our host Johnny if he might be willing and able to explain the game of cricket to me. Being an obliging sort, he was quite willing, and mostly able. Though he was a bit fuzzy on the mechanics, Johnny apparently had a firm grasp on the essence of the thing, which was after all what I was looking for. Much of what he told me was blurred by the evening’s libations, but I have done a bit of subsequent reseach and will now attempt to summarize for you what I have learned.
Cricket, of course, is a direct ancestor of baseball—either its maternal grandfather or its genial but slightly dotty great-uncle, I’m not sure which. The actual rules of the two games are quite different, but fundamentally they each involve two groups of players who throw, hit, and catch a ball while running (or standing) around on a grassy field.
Both games have a ritual quality that tends to make them move extremely slowly. But while even a particularly long baseball game is wrapped up in four hours, five tops, a regulation cricket “Test match” absorbs six hours a day (not including a 40-minute lunch break and 20-minute tea break) for five days.
That in itself is remarkable enough, but here’s the kicker: If, on the last day of the match, play cannot be completed for any reason—if there’s not enough time for one team to finish its innings, or it rains—the match is declared a draw and the previous four days are rendered null and void.
This part was quite difficult for me to wrap my American brain around until Johnny explained to me that, in his view, cricket’s primary function is to serve as a backdrop for the real English national pastime—which is, of course, drinking. Then it all made sense. After you’ve spent five days lounging pleasantly around the cricket pitch drinking gin, why should you care if anyone wins? And if the match ends in a draw and you all have to reconvene later and do it again, why should that bother you?
Which brings us right back to baseball. I’m not saying that there aren’t a lot of genuine and passionate baseball fans out there, but in my experience baseball is often as not—and I hope I’m not giving out any state secrets here—just an excuse to get out of the house and drink beer. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
This is why I’ve come to believe that baseball is not really a different game from cricket, but in fact the same game, poorly remembered. We know that Abner Doubleday was a myth—baseball was most likely invented by a group of aging immigrants who got together on a summer’s eve and, under the influence of some particularly strong home-brewed cider, decided to re-create the beloved game of their youth. Though a bit fuzzy on the mechanics, they apparently had a firm grasp on the essence of the thing, which was after all what they were looking for.
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March 25, 2002
Problems with the Truth
I don’t enjoy restating the obvious, but recent events have compelled me to do so. First, though, let’s take a little quiz.
1. You are an all-star baseball player who likes to ride motorcycles, despite the fact that you are contractually forbidden to do so. One day, while popping a wheelie, you fall off your bike and break your wrist. Do you:
a. Admit what happened and take responsibility for your actions b. Make up a story about falling off your truck while washing it c. Pretend not to be injured and play the rest of the season with one hand
2. You are a retired basketball player who enjoys playing with guns, despite the fact that you once nearly beheaded a fellow athlete with an errant blast. One day, while twirling your shotgun in the air during a party at your home, you accidentally shoot and kill the chauffeur who brought one of your guests. Do you:
a. Admit what happened and take responsibility for your actions b. Put the gun in the chauffeur’s hand and claim that he shot himself c. Blame it on a one-armed, bushy-haired stranger
3. You are a president of the United States who has a weakness for the ladies, despite the fact that it’s gotten you into trouble over and over again. One day, while you are going about your business, your affair with a young intern is discovered and aired in the national press. Do you:
a. Admit what happened and take responsibility for your actions b. Go on national TV and stonewall c. Resign from office, retire from public life, and spend the rest of your days wandering shirtless on the beach with a metal detector, muttering about how you were screwed.
Did you answer “a” to any of these questions? If so, congratulations. You’re one up on the people who these things really happened to—San Francisco Giant Jeff Kent, former New Jersey Net Jayson Williams, and then-President of the United States Bill Clinton, respectively. All three men chose “b,” and it did not work out too well for them.
The pain in Kent’s wrist is as nothing to his embarrassment. Sportswriters across the land have ridiculed him as both a clutzy motorcyclist and an ineffective liar. However, though he has made things more difficult for himself by fibbing, Kent is unlikely to suffer long-term repercussions from his actions. While it is true that his contract, like most baseball players’, contains a clause enjoining him from participating in dangerous leisure activities, in practice these clauses are generally winked at by the teams. Since he is a key player and a former MVP, Kent will likely receive no more than a (metaphorical) slap on the wrist.
Williams is in far more serious jeopardy. Though he would have been charged with manslaughter in any case, his clumsy attempts at a coverup have badly exacerbated the situation. By trying to hide what happened, he has not only caused additonal charges to be brought against him, but damaged his credibility with potential jurors.
And as for Clinton, I know this is old news, but geez. If he’d just had the guts to stand up and say “I did have sexual relations with that woman,” the whole thing would have blown over fairly quickly and we’d all have been spared years of annoying Republican moralizing.
Do you see the pattern emerging here? Everyody makes mistakes, but most mistakes can be fixed and/or forgiven if you just tell the truth about them. Yes, the truth hurts—but in most cases, not as much as the alternative.
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March 11, 2002
There’s a Bat in the House
One month ago in this space, I vowed not to write about the Warriors again until they won three games in a row. I am now going to break that promise, for a number of reasons, but mostly because I just can’t help myself. I’ve been trying to wean myself off the soap opera that is the Golden State Warriors for several years now, but every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in.
Over the last couple years, I’ve gotten into numerous discussions about whether or not the Warriors are cursed. I strongly believe that they are, and the evidence in favor of this belief continues to mount. Consider the events in Warriorland over just the past few weeks:
The Marc Jackson Fiasco: This little drama actually began in the offseason when the Warriors exercised their option to keep Jackson, who had received a six-year, $24.375 million offer from the Houston Rockets, despite the fact that they didn’t really want him. Jackson, the reasoning went, was as asset whom the W’s would not let walk away for nothing. And so Jackson languished on the bench in the NBA equivalent of cryogenic stasis, waiting for 90 days to pass so the Warriors could trade him. The 90 days came and went, and still Jackson sat, looking spiffy but disgruntled in his unsoiled electric blue sweats.
With the trade deadline approaching, the Warriors were said to be fielding several offers for Jackson. And on the last possible day, they did indeed deal Jackson to the Minnesota Timberwolves. Here’s what they got: little-used, 35-year-old center Dean Garrett and a second-round draft pick in 2007. That’s what I said, 2007.
In the interest of fairness, I must point out that Garrett’s contract will expire at the end of the year, which may have salary-cap advantages that my tiny monkey brain cannot grasp. But I don’t care. This whole thing was a catastrophe from the beginning, yet another example of inevitable disaster that befalls everything the Warriors undertake.
And to top it all off, a few days later papers around the country carried this quote from Minnesota’s Wally Szczerbiak: “[Jackson is] a really big guy who plays the game like it’s supposed to be played…He’s not built for a bunch of clowns like they have in Golden State.”
The Madness of Antawn Jamison: Just last year, it appeared that forward Antawn Jamison was on his way to becoming the player the Warriors had expected him to be when they gave up Vince Carter to get him. He averaged 24.9 points per game and displayed a jump-shooting prowess that was as unexpected as it was welcome.
This season, Jamison has regressed noticeably. He’s still putting up almost 20 points a game, but his jump shot has deserted him. The weird part is that Jamison refuses to admit that this has happened. He goes on nonchalantly launching up 22-footers when he would be much better served by sticking with his bread and butter, which is putbacks and floaters from the painted area around the basket. In a recent game against Houston, Jamison at one point was 7-for-19 from the floor: 7-for-7 from the paint, and 0-for-12 from everywhere else. And yet he went on firing away from deep! Excuse my italics, but it was very frustrating! I shouted at the screen, “What is wrong with you?”, but really I knew the answer: The curse has driven him insane in the membrane.
The Plague of Bats: And in what may be the eeriest Warriors-related development ever, the team is being shadowed by bats. In two consecutive road games, one in San Antonio and one in Houston, bats made their way into the arenas where the Warriors were playing. That cinches it, don’t you think? The curse is real—ignore it at your peril.
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February 25, 2002
Springtime State of Mind
“The wise man uses the change of the seasons as the moment for inner change.” –hexagram 49
The calendar says that spring won’t arrive for a few weeks yet, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s already here. The weather’s warm, the birds are singing, and pitchers and catchers have reported for spring training—what else do you want?
Baseball is tricky for me to write about, because I have a long and complicated relationship with it. When I was a kid, baseball was all I cared about—not just in sports, but in life. The Philadelphia Phillies winning the World Series in 1980 was (and still is) one of the high points of my existence. A pro baseball player was the only thing I wanted to be when I grew up, and when I figured out that that wasn’t going to happen, it was both a great heartbreak and a crucial developmental step.
In my late teens I lost touch with baseball and later, once I discovered basketball, it was all over: the fast-moving urban game trumped the slow-moving pastoral one. I couldn’t stand to watch baseball anymore because the pace was so…brutally…glacial. My baseball watching was limited to switching over during a commercial break in a basketball game—and seeing maybe two pitches in three minutes.
Baseball is like a relative from whom I’ve long been estranged, but I think I’m about ready to give it another chance. Football season is gone, and so is Jon Gruden, making it hard to have a real positive attitude about the Raiders’ future. And that other pro team in town—the one that plays basketball and whose name I am forbidden to invoke—has done nothing to warrant further attention. That leaves the A’s, who may have lost Jason Giambi but have every reason to expect to be a contender this year; and anyway, they have as many wins as any team in the major leagues at the moment. So I’m trying to work myself into that baseball state of mind.
The advent of spring reminds me of what I like about baseball—not the geometric perfection that George Will is always going on about, but the fact that it mirrors the seasons so beautifully. Spring is all about hope and optimism. You can finally get out and run around on the field after a long winter of being cooped up inside (this isn’t quite so true in Oakland as it is other places, but work with me here). In the spring, everybody’s a potential champion, and with the whole year ahead of you, there’s plenty of time to enjoy the fresh air and green grass.
Summer is when the action happens. I won’t rhapsodize about the beauty of a summer’s day at the old ballyard, because I’d feel like a hypocrite, but let’s imagine that I did. Fall is harvest time, when you find out whether the year brings a bumper crop (playoffs) or bust (Montreal Expos). And then it’s back to winter again, time to take it easy, plan for next year, and dream of when the springtime comes around again.
Which is where we came in. If you can’t be hopeful now, then when? So let’s be hopeful. Maybe the A’s will win the World Series this year. Maybe my softball team will win more than three games. Maybe that baseball player or fan in your life will have their best year ever. Maybe we have eight months of good vibes and sunshine ahead of us. I can’t think of a good reason to expect otherwise.
Posted by bill at 8:54 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
February 11, 2002
Warriors Beaten by High Schoolers
This week, I took a little baby step outside the hermetically sealed world of pro sports by attending Oakland Tech’s home game against rival Oakland High. It was a like going to a Warriors game in that the teams played basketball with five players on either side. In every other respect, it was quite different:
• Tech charged us $5 to get in. While that still struck me as a bit steep for a high school game, it was a nice break from the $20-plus the Warriors charge for what can only technically be described as “professional” ball.
• Let’s give the pros credit for one thing: Upon entering Your Name Here Arena, you are not handed the following list of behaviors “unacceptable at O.A.L. contests”:
-Berating your opponent’s school or mascot
-Berating opposing players
-Demonstrating obscene cheers or gestures
-Displaying negative signs or symbols
-Using artificial noise makers that interfere with the atmosphere of the game
-Using lasers
-Complaining about officials’ calls (verbal or gestures)
-Playing inappropriate music
Given the wide range of possible interpretations of the words “berating,” “negative,” and “inappropriate,” that wouldn’t seem to leave many options open, although there was no prohibition on berating your own players, a much more likely occurrence at Warriors games these days.
• As you’d expect, there was a big difference in crowd noise. Yes, the several hundred fans in Tech’s gym easily would have drowned out your average Warriors crowd of 10,000+. Of course, they have a much smaller enclosed space to work with, but the quality of play may have had something to do with it.
• Did I mention the quality of play? When we arrived a few minutes into the first quarter, the game was going at an absolutely frantic pace, with the young men racing from end to end like…well, like basketball players, in sharp contrast to the Warriors, who have failed repeatedly in their attempts to implement a running game. That pace kept up through the first half and slackened only a little in the second half, as host Oakland Tech slowly pulled away from Oakland, turning a close game into a 67–51 blowout. Tech appeared to be both more fundamentally sound than the W’s and more spectacular, playing solid defense and throwing down several highlight-quality dunks off alley-oops.
• Also unlike the Warriors, Tech has a dominant player in Leon Powe, who had 27 points, 7 boards, 4 steals, and 2 blocks. Although he was the biggest player on the floor only by an inch or two, Powe at times appeared to be a foot taller than everyone else, repeatedly pulling down tough rebounds in traffic.
• The home team won. This rarely happens at the Arena.
In short, this game provided more entertainment value than the last 17 Warriors games put together. Having said that, I must now confess that I’m tired of picking on the Warriors; I really do want to see them do well, I’m just fed up witha waiting for it to happen. So I hereby vow not to write word one about them until they win…well, let’s set the bar low, and say three games in a row. And then, maybe, I’ll have something nice to say about them.
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