A Moment Of Perfection

"I'm open," I realized as I sped down the cold gray parking lot surface. "But does he see it?"

Growing up a boy on the Jersey Shore in the early 1970's, baseball was our summer passion. We'd play all day long on a sandlot and then go home and put our uniforms on for that night's Little League game. In the fall, it was football, of course. No helmets, no pads, barely any rules. However, in the winter, we played street hockey.

I first became aware of street hockey when three local boys, Andy, Jay and Gary, were playing outside early one winter morning waiting for the school bus. I had seen ice hockey, of course. I loved the Philadelphia Flyers and Bobby Clarke was my hero. But this was something new. There was no ice, no skates and no puck. Just a hard plastic, orange Day-glo ball and a net. When I got to school, I couldn't wait to tell my best friend, Bobby, a diehard Boston Bruins fan, what I'd seen. That weekend, we pestered our moms to take us to the nearby sporting goods store to buy our first street hockey sticks.

"We got a two on none here. Does he see how open I am or is he going to shoot with his backhand?"

Bobby and I spent the next several weeks playing non-stop out in front of my house. We were both right-handed in everything we did but for some odd and yes, soon-to-be-fateful reason, I picked up and held my stick left-handed. Bobby soon developed a hard right-handed slap shot. With power and accuracy, his cannon shot struck fear in every goalie he faced. I never could get the hang of that big shot so I concentrated instead on a swift and deadly left-handed wrister. I learned how to flick the ball and hit open spots like a sniper. Upper corners, lower corners, underneath the blocker, between the legs, near side, far side, it didn't matter. If I could see twine, I could kiss it.

"These guys are the local kings. We're a new team and we're challenging them. This first score is critical. I'm so open. God, I hope he sees it."

When we got good enough, Bobby and I asked Andy, Jay and Gary if we could play with them. They were better than us because they had been playing a little longer than we had been. But we all decided to try playing together and maybe find other neighborhood kids and play their teams. We added Dieter and then we asked Neil to be our goalie. Neil had never played goalie before but, after a few weeks and a few thousand shots fired at him, Neil was good to go. And we indeed did find other teams to play including a very good group who went to another school in the next town over.

Before long, lots of other kids wanted to play too. My younger brother, Joe, wanted in. So did some other local boys, Kevin, Mike and two brothers, Donny and Bobby. Soon enough, Bobby and I approached Andy, Jay and Gary and told them we were going to leave to form our own team. Our first order of business, naturally, was choosing a team name. We both knew we couldn't use Flyers or Bruins so we chose the most distant, neutral team name we could find. And so the Canucks were born.

Bobby and Kevin alternated between left wing and center. The two brothers, Donny and Bobby, played defense. And together we all put Mike through the same goalie "training" program we had previously used with Neil. My brother, Joe, three years younger than all of us, was our super sub. And with my funky but lethal off-handed, lefty wrist shot, I manned the right wing.

"This is incredible. I can see it all slowing down beautifully. Just tap it over here and I'll put it home. Please."

And so we scheduled our first game. Against Andy, Jay and Gary. And Dieter and Neil, of course. Our old teammates. The original gang. They were good and they knew it. They had been playing longer than us and, more importantly, they had been playing as a team longer than anybody. They were the gang to beat. We were the upstarts.

"Do it. Slide it over. I won't miss. I can't miss."

Admiral Farragut Academy was a private boarding school in our little town and it had the most perfect parking lot for street hockey. On weekdays when school was in session, the teachers filled it but it was totally empty on weekends. The school owners didn't care for us using their parking lot though. Something about liability insurance should one of us get hurt. So we had to keep an eye out for the town police cruiser they'd send to chase us off. But on this day, we weren't getting hassled. It was a cold but clear and crisp winter Saturday and it was game on.

Neither team could get much going at first. Andy and Jay had a few good shots but Mike turned them aside. I don't recall why but Gary was in goal for them that day and he was just as good as their usual goalie, Neil. We also took some shots at Gary but he had no trouble blocking them. We had been playing for about half an hour and the score was still tied at 0-0 when it happened.

Breakaway.

Bobby broke loose down the left side of the parking lot and I took off after him about ten yards to his right. A two on none. The game's first real scoring chance. He had the orange ball on his backhand and he had a head of steam bearing down on Gary. But when Gary shaded over to cut down Bobby's shooting angle, he left the right side of his net yawning wide open.

And here's where the hockey gods intervened. Bobby had a strong backhand but it wasn't nearly as strong as his cannonball slapshot. He had no time to pull up for one though. Gary wasn't going to let that net stay open for long. But as fate would have it, that strange decision I had made earlier that year to shoot left-handed was about to pay off in solid gold. By coming down the right side, with my stick facing inwards, I had both the open net and the perfect angle. If Bobby saw it, the Canucks would go up 1-0 on the big boys.

Fifteen yards away. Ten yards away. Five, four, three ... And there it was. He saw it.

I hardly noticed Bobby nudge the ball my way and he never made a sound but I could see that lovely, beautiful little orange ball coming toward me in a perfect line with perfect timing. Not a pebble or a pothole in sight to knock it off stride. Nothing but a timeless moment of perfection. It was the perfect pass. And with one quick flick of my wrists, that little orange ball was nestled safely in the back of their net.

Bobby and I both ran past the goal and then pulled up in unison, turned around and casually jogged back to the center line for the ensuing face-off. We touched gloves to acknowledge the 1-0 score but neither of us said a word. We didn't have to. Perfection doesn't need words. The moment was all that mattered. He had seen it.

A few hours later, the cops drove by and chased us off the lot. And wouldn't you know it, those brash upstart Canucks were ahead at the time, 4-3.

Bobby and I are both in our mid-50's now. We don't see each other often but we keep in touch by phone and social media. And without fail, I always remember to thank him for that pass. It's a moment frozen in time for both of us. A moment of perfection.

Fear

Fear.

Of all the four-letter words in the English language, "fear" might be the worst. It's certainly the most terrifying. Everyone knows fear and no one escapes it. There's a special kind of fear that youngsters confront though. Fear of yourself. Fear of discovering who you might be and what you might be able to do. It's the great unknown that young kids face every day. Some conquer that fear spectacularly. Some find different ways of coping with it. And some get crushed by it.

I could play baseball. My father started me early and instilled a love for the game and helped me find the joy in playing it. After seven years of Little and Senior League, I made the Toms River South (Toms River, NJ) high school freshmen team as the backup catcher. About midway through that first season, our coach put me in for the remainder of the schedule. I even got a late season call up to the junior varsity. All in all, I was happy with that first year of high school ball.

But I wanted to be in better shape for my sophomore year and the junior varsity. So I came up with the brilliant idea of trying out for the wrestling team. I figured I could get stronger, quicker and have better endurance if I wrestled. I had dabbled in wrestling in eighth grade but nothing serious. Serious however was exactly what I was about to see firsthand.

He was a squat little man. He was a fire hydrant with short legs that looked like tree trunks. He was balding on top and he had awful looking "cauliflower ears" from years of wrestling. His name was John DeMarco. It was the fall of 1973, he was the new wrestling coach at Toms River South and my life was about to change forever.

On the first day of practice, Coach D blew his whistle and gathered everyone in a circle. And the first thing he said was, "I will not cut anyone from my team. No one will be asked to leave. The only one who can make you quit is you. Now line up for calisthenics." And with that I entered a world of pain. After about 10 minutes of various exercises, I was gassed. But somewhere in that first practice, a light bulb went on. It might have been the first revelation this 15-year-old boy ever had. Coach DeMarco said he won't cut anyone. That means he won't cut me. All I have to do is not quit.

I will not quit. It was the first time I actually made up my mind to do something I didn't know I could do. Baseball was easy compared to this. Studies were easy too. Girls were impossible but that was a fear best put off for a while. Maybe a long while. This wasn't easy. Wrestling was hard and Coach D was going to make it even harder. I now understood what he meant by his no-cut policy. It was up to me. I will not quit.

The next day wasn't any easier. But there was no turning back. I was not going to walk out of that practice room until each day was done. I was not dabbling any more. I was in all the way no matter what. As each day went by, Coach started teaching us his favorite simple basic moves. We were not going to be a fancy wrestling team. We were going to be in better shape than anyone else and we were going to master the basics until no one could stop us. We did hundreds and hundreds of double leg takedowns, single leg takedowns, half nelsons, bar arms, arm drags, gut crunches and ankle rides. These are not exotic wrestling moves. These are fundamental power and quickness moves. And Coach was drilling them into us harder than a boot camp drill instructor.

I was not a talented wrestler and we had plenty of talent on our young team. Simply put, my role that first year was to be a crash test dummy for the starters. In fact, I didn't wrestle in any matches that year, not one. After the season was over, I did go on to have a good year on the junior varsity baseball team. I was in great shape and started every game that spring 1974 season. But something was different. I was different. I was still a better baseball player than a wrestler but Coach D had put me through hell and back and I hadn't quit. I had stood up to his challenge. And I couldn't wait to do it again.

Coach gave the same speech on the first day of practice the next fall. I was a junior now and I was not about to waste that first year of hard work. I was long past the idea of quitting. And so we practiced as hard as ever. We threw a few more hundreds of those basic moves and even learned some new ones. There was nothing easy about that second year but there was a difference. I was nervous about the idea of wrestling a real match against a real opponent but nervous is not the same as afraid. I had crossed that bridge and burned it. Being worked to death and getting tossed around by the better wrestlers has a way of replacing fear with determination.

And so about midway through the season, I finally had my first match, a JV bout against a neighboring rival. I remember two things about it. First, my hearing completely shut down as soon as the match started. And my opponent must have been equally new to this because we both flopped around like fish out of water. It was not pretty wrestling but I did manage to finally pin him late in the third period. And as I walked off that first mat with my hand in the air, there was Coach D smiling at me. He whispered something in my ear. He said, "It's worth it, isn't it?"

You're darn right it is.

I wrestled several more JV matches that year. I won a few and lost a few. I still wasn't very good but that no longer mattered. Coach had turned me into a dedicated, focused young kid who had dumped a truckload of fear behind him. And then came the real reward. Coach D entered me into the year-end Ocean County JV tournament. Each weight class had eight JV wrestlers from the eight county schools. I was the #7 seed and so faced the #2 seed to start things off.

That #2 seed kid didn't stand a chance. By now, I could hear just fine out on the mat and, as I was beating my opponent, I heard Coach call out my name. I looked over to him and he was making hand motions to throw a special move he had taught us. I nodded back and a few seconds later, I heard the ref slap the mat for the upset pin. On to the #3 seed.

I beat him too. He was bigger and stronger but that didn't matter anymore. I even threw some fancy stuff I wasn't supposed to throw and ended the match by judo flipping him over my hip and sticking him good. Another mat slap and another hand raise. I lost the final to the #1 seed. He was just better and quicker and, truth be known, I was a little nervous going in but there was no doubt I had crossed a major threshold. Not only could I survive, I could thrive on my terms.

And there was one more reward. Our varsity team had turned into a fearsome juggernaut that year. In addition to winning our division, we also took the first ever Jersey Shore Conference Tournament and we won our District tournament too. The Toms River South wrestling team was about to become legendary and I was a small but rock steady part of it. I was not leaving now.

I made the varsity baseball team that year, the spring of 1975. It was okay. I played in about maybe half the games. We won most of our games but we didn't win any titles or tournaments. And that's really all I remember about it.

The 1975-76 Toms River South wrestling team, my senior year, went 18-0 and finished tied for the best record in New Jersey. We were unstoppable. An opposing coach said we "were one bruiser after another". We knew we would win and win big every time we went out there. We weren't overconfident. We were just that good.

I still couldn't crack the starting lineup. That just wasn't going to happen. Hard work and dedication are wonderful things but talent counts too and the guys in front of me were just so much better. But I didn't care. I got to wrestle a few varsity "B" matches and won most of them but I was just happy to be a part of that tremendous team. And then I got a phone call at home on a Friday night in February from Coach D. He told me I was going to wrestle varsity at a four-team dual meet in North Jersey the next day. Gulp. Three varsity "A" matches in one day. Wait a minute, what? Click went the phone.

My first of three matches did not go well. I was a bundle of nerves. Okay, it was fear. Varsity was serious stuff and I shrank from it and lost badly. My second match didn't go any better. Same fear, same passive wrestling, same loss. Fortunately, my team didn't need me to win but I was a mess.

I was actually crying alone in the locker room hiding from my teammates. And that's when I heard the door slam open and Coach D roaring "Where is he?" When he, along with our team captains, found me crying, I stood up and looked down into the fury of hell staring up at me. Coach noticed I was still wearing my headgear and he slapped me hard on my left ear. I don't remember exactly what he said but it sure wasn't a love poem. He wanted to know if I was quitting. Quitting on him. Quitting on my team. Quitting on myself. He wanted to know if all that work, all that sweat, all those moves, all that time and effort was all just a waste. Coach D wanted to know if he was coaching a little boy or a young man. So did I.

I lost that third match that day but I gave the other guy a fight to the last second. As I walked off a three-time loser, I was disappointed but I knew I had once again followed that man to the very end and back. He looked me in the eye and said "That's better." And he was right. I had faced the fear and dealt with it.

Bad coaches fail to reach their players on any level and they don't last long. Good coaches can get a team to play hard and they usually meet their expectations. Great coaches get you to play hard but mostly what they do is they get you to find yourself and reach levels you never thought possible. They're not easy to play for but they leave lasting impressions. They make you a better player and a better person. The playing ends when adult responsibilities crowd it out. But you never stop being a better person.

I wrestled one more time that year. It was a varsity "B" match. Coach didn't tell us in advance who would be wrestling at my weight. The choice was between me and an underclassman. When it came time for the match, he looked at both of us and said to me, "You're the senior, Bob. It's your choice." I looked at my younger teammate. I looked at Coach. And I said to both of them, "Get out of my way. This guy is mine."

The whistle blew. I threw an arm drag, my favorite takedown move. After throwing it about a thousand times in practice over the years, I was pretty sure it was going to work. I could even hear my teammates laughing behind me because they knew how much I loved that move. I then threw a half nelson, another member of the 1,000 move club, and pinned that guy solid. He never had a chance. And as I walked off a high school wrestling mat for the last time, I got one more little smile from Coach John DeMarco, the finest coach I've ever known.

As a senior, I was given the honor and privilege of dressing for the rest of the season with the varsity. I never wrestled again but we swept everything. After we repeated as Shore Conference Tournament champions, we had a team photo taken. I'm in it. Back row, far right. Many years later, that legendary 1976 Toms River South wrestling team was inducted into the Toms River Regional Schools Hall of Fame. That same team photo was used for our induction. I'm still in it. And that 76 South team is still talked about with whispered reverence and hushed awe in New Jersey wrestling circles.

I did not quit.

I love Coach John DeMarco. Other than my own late father, no one helped me grow up more than him. I wasn't one of his stars. He may not even remember me. But I owe more to him than he'll ever know.

I don't remember what the baseball team did my senior year.

Ground Ball To You, I Got The Throw

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

I joined a Greek fraternity at the University of Virginia in the fall of 1976. Like most large schools with dozens of different houses, an incoming freshman had a lot to choose from. There were old Southern houses that dated back to the Civil War. There were heavy drinking houses. Other houses preferred the "herbal" life. Beach music houses, Grateful Dead houses, preppy houses, Jewish houses, bookworm houses, African-American houses, zoo houses and yeah, there were jock houses.

I joined Pi Lambda Phi, a mutt house. We had a little bit of everything. An "Island of Misfit Toys", if you will. We had pre-meds and pre-laws, Young Republicans and Young Democrats, some "toolies" (engineers) and more than a few English and psych majors. We had long distance runners and couch potatoes both. Boozers, stoners and straight arrows. Some Casanovas but mostly wallflowers. Foosball aces and air guitar shredders. What we didn't have was athletes.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

The fraternity intramural program at Virginia was cutthroat. Everyone knew who the jock houses were. Some of them even recruited new members based on what sports they were good at. We weren't one of those houses. But I was happy there. It was a good bunch of guys and I made some new friends fairly quickly. We got crushed in intramurals though. Football, basketball, soccer, volleyball, softball, the scores were always the same. Them many, us few.

I had played baseball from a very young age all the way through high school varsity. To be honest, that was a lot more baseball than any other brother had played. The jock houses would rarely if ever allow their freshmen to play but our house let me, still a spring pledge, play wherever I wanted on the softball team. So I headed right for shortstop, my favorite position.

Our pitcher was Jimmy Joe Townsend. Jimmy Joe was everybody's favorite brother, a natural leader and a certified party animal. Jimmy Joe had also graduated two years earlier. So he was now about to start his sixth season as the house team pitcher. Obviously, he was ineligible but nobody cared. We were the cupcake on everybody's schedule. When Nebraska plays football against Eastern Michigan, we were Eastern Michigan. The other houses couldn't wait to feast on us so a sixth-year pitcher didn't bother them a bit.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

I was a young, 19-year-old, hotheaded punk and I wanted to show these guys what "real" softball looked like. In the first inning of our first game, we gave up a single. Man on first, the double play is in force. So this punk freshman calls time, jogs to the pitcher's mound and says ...

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

"Get out of my face, pledge, and go back to your position", Jimmy Joe snarled.

Okay, then.

Next inning, same thing. Man on first, the double play is there again. This time though, I stayed where I was and called out to him ...

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

Now, it was Jimmy Joe's turn to call time and wave me to the mound for a chat. "Ground ball back to me? What are you talking about?", he asked.

I told him, "Okay, look, we can get a double play here. If this batter hits a sharp grounder back to you, just turn around and fire it at the second base bag. Don't worry, I'll be there. Just throw it."

Now it was Jimmy Joe's turn to laugh. "We're not going to turn a double play. Not now, not ever. So let's get back to playing, okay?"

Next inning, same thing.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

Now he was upset. He turned around to face me and yelled, "Are you going to remind me every time?"

"Yes, I am. Every time."

We lost that game. Pounded into dust as usual.

Back at the house, Jimmy Joe still wanted to know if I was going to remind him every time a man got on first. I assured him that's exactly what was going to happen. Every time. Baseball (or intramural softball in this case) is a game of repetition. You do the same things the same way every time. Everything. That's how you react so you can make a play automatically. Baseball requires persistence, perseverance and rivers of infinite patience. Jimmy Joe was in for four more years of an earful.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

All year long, I reminded Jimmy Joe what to do. Once he understood I was not going to stop reminding him, he just stood there facing the plate with his back to me and nodded in silence. Every time. Persistence.

We lost every game that year. Nobody hit a grounder back to him. Not one. And yes, I was still a hothead. Bat slamming, glove tossing, ball throwing, yelling and screaming at my teammates, arguing with umpires, pouting at the house afterwards and so on. I was your typical obnoxious freshman with a serious hatred for losing.

We didn't win the next year either. Same story. We were overmatched and there were no mercy rules. The other teams poured it on and beat us every way possible. But I still persisted with Jimmy Joe, now in his seventh year as our "ineligible" pitcher. Still no ground balls back to him with a man on first though.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

Over and over again. Game after game after game. Inning after inning. Runner on first after runner on first. I had mellowed somewhat from the previous year but not all that much. I still hated losing but it didn't seem worth being a complete jerk about it.

Next year, my third year, no change. Same games, same jock houses, same painful losses. But I didn't let up on Jimmy Joe.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

Still no grounders. Three years of reminding him and not a thing to show for it.

For our first game of my fourth and final year, we played Sigma Phi Epsilon, SPE, the "Spees", a noted jock house. I still kept yapping at Jimmy Joe, he still kept nodding at me in silence and we still didn't get a grounder back to him. The Spees killed us. 17-0. It was my worst game ever. I booted easy grounders, threw the ball away for errors, got thrown out foolishly trying to take an extra base and threw bats and raged at everyone including Jimmy Joe, now in his ninth year on the mound. I had had it with all the losing and took it out on everyone. Just an awful awful performance. But I kept reminding him. That rotten day and every other day.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."
"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

Our last game of the year arrived and we still hadn't won one. We were actually 0-for-4 years. And we were playing the Spees again. Lovely.

As long as I've played and followed sports, I'm still amazed when weird and strange things happen for no reason. That day, in the rematch against the powerful Spees, someone somewhere had thrown a whole bucket of magic fairy pixie dust on our misfit nine. We couldn't do anything wrong. Every ball we hit fell in for a base hit. We made every catch and every throw. We scored runs in bunches. Every time you looked up, our guys were wheeling around the bases one right after another. It made no sense. There was nothing to suggest this could ever happen. But to our amazement, and they couldn't believe it either, we were destroying the Spees.

And then it happened.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

I can't explain why but I was already moving as the batter swung and hit a sharp, one-hopper, chest high right at Jimmy Joe. This was it. Without a word, Jimmy Joe whirled and threw a perfect strike at the second base bag. Belt high, in an arrow-straight line as hard as he could throw it. Four years of persistent reminders, four years of patient nods, four years of waiting, planning and getting ready for this one moment in time. Jimmy Joe was ready and Jimmy Joe let out all his frustration by firing the ball at the bag.

I caught the ball just as it arrived, kicked the bag and then sizzled a bullet to first base. Smack, smack. Double play. It was so quick, so fast, so sudden that the Spee runners froze in their tracks. The umpire, with a shocked look on his face, didn't even bother with an out call. And then we all just jogged off the field in silence as if we had been turning double plays forever. Nothing needed to be said. Jimmy Joe's infinite patience with me had paid off at the perfect time. On the sideline, he and I just nodded and smiled at each other.

A few innings later, after the Spees made their last out, we all celebrated with Jimmy Joe at the mound. Final score was 19-3. It was our first and only win. When we got back to the house to continue the celebration, the other brothers there laughed when we told them the score. The very idea we could even stay close to the Spees was hilarious. Kicking their asses was too much for them to believe. But we tapped a keg anyway and continued celebrating until they finally realized we had actually won. And then everybody joined in for an epic all-night kegger.

"Jimmy Joe, ground ball back to you, I got the throw at second."

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 2, Issue 3

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Hole in the track, hole in the track. Lookin' like a fool with a hole in your track ... Yes, that was a real pothole that twice red flagged the red-faced Daytona 500 and delayed the race for more than two hours before Jamie "Jabeep" McMurray finally took the checkered flag this past Sunday. I dunno why it took so long to fix the hole though ... All they had to do was put a cone on it and drive around it. Hell, that's how potholes get fixed on my street.

How come the music for pairs figure skating always sounds like somebody died? Is there a rule in skating that says they simply have to be so serious all the time? What would be so wrong with skating to like a Beatles or a KISS medley? Anyway, congratulations to the Chinese pair, husband Zhao Hongbo and wife Shen Xue, who took gold. Afterwards, Zhao said they'd most likely retire now and try something easier like start a family. Whoa, Zhao, not so fast there. You haven't changed a baby after it's done a double Salchow in its diaper yet. That ain't easy, champ.

I'm confused ... Is a Double McTwist 1260 a rad new snowboard halfpipe trick that Shaun White just stomped ... Did I get that right? Stomped? ... on his way to a repeat gold medal? Or is it the latest new menu item at a McDonald's drive-thru? And when a snowboarder just misses finishing a Double McTwist 1260, do the other snowboarders say things to him like ... Dude, you suck. That was so 900, bro.

Sigh ... I miss those old school Winter Olympics back in the Cold War days when, if the Russians had won just 3 medals to this point like they have in Vancouver, I mean, you just knew some Minister of Sport wearing one of those big Russian bear fur hats was gonna get shot about ten minutes after the team got back in the U-S, back in the U-S, back in the USSR. Man, nobody brought the grump to the Olympics like the old CCCP.

Hey, we got the America's Cup back again. That's right, the US and A are kings of the sailing world once more. Sailing. In the ocean. In February. While the Winter Olympics are going on. Meanwhile, we're hip deep into basketball season, a Summer Olympics sport played indoors in the winter. Hello, McFly?

Rest in peace, Nodar Kumaritashvili.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 2, Issue 2

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

One day many years ago, when my youngest sister was in grade school and doing her homework, she asked me how to spell the word "pneumonia".

Me: Oh, that's easy ... "p-n-e-u-" ...
Her: No, no, that can't be right. Don't tease me.
Me: But that really is how you spell "pneumonia" ... "p-n-e-u-" ...
Her: I don't believe you. No word starts with "p-n-e-u-". I'm gonna go get my dictionary.
Me: Go right ahead ......
Me: Well?
Her: I can't believe it. That doesn't make any sense at all. Who came up with that crazy idea?

Ladies and gentlemen, the New Orleans Saints are Super Bowl champions ... "p-n-e-u-"

Dear NFL, please I'm begging you. Enough with the geriatric halftime shows. Any act eligible for an AARP card should be ineligible for the Super Bowl. Look, I love The Who. They were the party band back in their glory days but that was 30+ years ago. It's time to get some younger bands out there. Hell, I'd rather watch an 'N Sync reunion over another geezer show. Oh wait, bad example. I forgot Justin Timberlake is on the bad boy list.

Daddy? Yes, Peyton, what is it, son? All the kids at school talk about you, Daddy. They say Archie Manning will never win a Super Bowl for the Saints. Gee, Peyton, the Saints are pretty bad right now so I guess it ain't looking too good for us. Well, when I grow up, I'm going to make it to the Super Bowl, Daddy. And when I'm there, I'm going to throw the pass that wins it for the Saints. I'm sure you will, son. Now go outside and play because Daddy has to go over this week's game plan against the Colts.

Super Bowl commercials were a mixed bag as usual. I loved the little kid who protected his mama and his salty, fatty corn chips. The Snickers spot ... more junk food ... with Betty White and Abe Vigoda was good too. And although the CareerBuilder ad featuring casual Fridays in underwear was funny, I'm not sure they realize people will do pretty much anything to keep their jobs these days. Hell, they'd probably watch The Who all over again ... In their underwear.

Boy, isn't it amazing what a great coach ol' Roy Williams is when his Tar Heel roster is all full of next year's shiny happy NBA draft picks? Almost as amazing as how sucky he is when it isn't. Welcome to the low rent district, coach. Say it loud, say it proud ... N-I-T.

The Vancouver Winter Olympics begin this weekend and, as usual, there are several compelling stories sandwiched in between breathless figure skating hysteria. Lindsey Vonn was on the verge of being the superstar skier no one will remember in two weeks. But because of a painful shin bruise, now she might be the superstar skier no one ever heard of. In other Lindsey news, Lindsey Jacobellis is back for another try at snowboard cross. Let's hope she leaves her hot dog moves back at the Village this time. Let the drug tests begin.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 2, Issue 1

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

With the two camps haggling over drug testing protocols, it's not looking good for the proposed March 13 superbout between Manny Pacquiao and Floyd Mayweather Jr. Now they're going to try and let a mediator work it all out but there's a much simpler solution ... I say we get these two fighters in a ring. We get 'em some gloves, a ref, three judges and a timekeeper. Twelve rounds, three minutes each. Winner wins the testing argument. There, done. Now let's get it on so we can get it on.

Ladies and gentlemen, here to present the Oscar for the Best NFL Team in a Supporting Role is last year's award winner, the Detroit Lions. And the nominees are ...

-- The Denver Broncos for starting out a 6-0 tease and finishing up 8-8,
-- The St Louis Rams for going 1-15 so they can draft yet another defensive lineman,
-- The Buffalo Bills for doing the impossible by making Terrell Owens boring,
-- The Tampa Bay Buccaneers for finally realizing it isn't 2002 any more and finally,
-- The New York Giants for playing a throwback 14-game season instead of 16.

... and the Oscar goes to ... the New York Giants. Here to accept the award is Tom Coughlin.

The NBA is currently investigating a recent locker room incident where Washington Wizards teammates Gilbert Arenas and Javaris Crittenton supposedly drew guns on each other over an in-flight card game dispute from the night before. I dunno but it shouldn't take the league long to figure out that nothing really serious happened here. I mean, everybody knows the Wizards are terrible at man-to-man defense.

For the first time anyone can remember, a local affiliate in the Redskins market decided not to televise the woeful Skins game against San Diego last Sunday and chose to show the Eagles-Cowboys NFC East title tilt instead. Said Bruce Rader, sports director at WVBT Fox 43 in Hampton Roads, VA, of his decision ... "Honestly, the Redskins are just unwatchable." Unquote. On the contrary, my dear Bruce, I find the Washington Redskins to be must see TV. Hell, I haven't seen a train wreck this compelling since "The Fugitive" when Harrison Ford's prison ride ate a mountain.

Just curious but now that the Steelers have missed the playoffs and won't be able to defend their Super Bowl title, will James Harrison be expecting an invitation to the White House?

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 47

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Two days after Vikings star RB Adrian Peterson was pulled over for going 109 in a 55, teammate Bernard Berrian was stopped and ticketed for doing 104 in a 60. Say whatever you want about the Vikes but that's great team speed right there. No truth to the rumor Brett Favre was also pulled over but he was doing 35 in a 60 while weaving from lane to lane with his turn signal on.

The 2010 World Cup draw was announced this week and we got ourselves a 1776 rematch in Group C. It's Redcoats vs Bluecoats all over again. Cornwallis vs Washington. Chips against Fries. Colour vs Color. Beatles and Elvis. Mirren-Streep. Left lane-Right lane. £ vs $. "God Save The Queen" up against "My Country, 'Tis of Thee". Beckham-Donovan. Crown against Colonies. Brits against Yanks. Bring it, England.

Bath time is a special time between you and your newborn. When the two of you are bonding, there's no room for tears. That's why Johnson's together with the NCAA and the Florida Gators are pleased to announce ... Tim Tebow's No More Tears baby shampoo. Just wet your little quarterback's hair and gently apply a small dab of shampoo. Lather, rinse and enjoy this special moment together. Keep out of reach of children. Do not use if BCS title hopes are broken.

And speaking of tears, Allen Iverson got a little verklempt at a presser announcing his return to the Sixers last week. Which is odd cause most players shed happy tears when they finally get out of Philadelphia, not back to it. Meanwhile, in other Association news, Ron Artest admitted he used to take sips of Hennessey at halftime when he was with Chicago ... Hey, at least he drank the good stuff ... And commish David Stern said he could envision a woman playing in the NBA before long. So there you have it ... Wine, women and a (redemption) song.

One of these years, the NFL is really gonna hafta get over Janet Jackson's infamous boob flash and get back to scheduling relevant acts for Super Bowl halftime shows. Look, I love The Who. They were *the* party band of my college years. But that was 30 years ago and now they're just Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend with a backup band. Hell, I'm worried Pete's gonna throw his shoulder out any time he tries his patented windmill move. Clearly, the league doesn't wanna take any more chances but somebody needs to hack into Roger Goodell's iTunes and download him some new bands. Preferably those who aren't collecting Social Security yet.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 46

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Hey, Tiger, how was your Thanksgiving? Yeah, I know, saw it on the tube. We all did. So have you picked out the Kobe Special you're gonna give to Elin? If you don't remember, Kobe gave Vanessa an 8-karat purple stone worth a cool $4 mill after his little Colorado misadventure a few years back. When a golfer shoots a double bogey "8" on a par 4 hole, that's a snowman, right? Yeah, I'm thinking Elin won't mind a little Frosty The Snowman riding high on her ring finger. Lucky for you, you're just in time for the Christmas shopping season. Ho-ho-ho.

As for Tiger Cheetah Woods himself, what's really surprising is why he felt the need to go off the reservation when the reservation is a blond Swedish nanny. Seriously, as a lifelong, card-carrying member of the knuckle-dragging, open-mouthed male gender, I can categorically state that the words "blond", "Swedish" and "nanny" are pretty much the Kentucky Derby, Preakness and Belmont. I'm sorry but whatever else he might've had going on ... the Santa Anita Derby, Travers and Haskell ... They're just not in the same league. Let's just hope he wasn't entered in the Breeder's Cup.

Buh-bye, Charlie Weis. See ya, Al Groh. Adios muchachos, Mark Mangino. But of all the college football coaches who are now no longer college football coaches, I think I'll miss you most of all, Diddy. Yeah, the ol' college game just won't be the same without ol' Bobby Bowden. It's been several years since his Florida State Seminoles were the holy terrors of the sport. And it's also been several years since his players were the holy terrors of the Tallahassee police station. Coincidence? I dunno but I do know this ... Nobody had a better WTF face than Diddy when his kickers went wide right.

Going out on a limb here but I don't think the New Jersey Nets, a blemished 0-17 to start the season, are gonna make the NBA playoffs. Call it a hunch.

Next time you need an example of business "synergy", that is, the interaction of different business operations whose combined effect is greater than the sum of those businesses by themselves, just consider Magic Johnson's thriving empire. Magic has long been an astute businessman but now he's bordering on just pure genius. That's because his Magic Johnson Enterprises owns well over a hundred Starbucks ... and ... about a dozen 24 Hour Fitness gyms. That's how it's done, folks. First you fatten 'em up and then you slim 'em down. Lather, rinse, repeat.

See ya next time.

(h/t to reader Dan'l Medvid for "Cheetah")

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 45

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

All right, I'll admit it, I have no idea who Manny Pacquiao is. Hell, I had never heard of Miguel Cotto either. It would seem though that Mr Pacquiao picked a bad time to be born because the good old days of boxing are just that. We used to be on a last name-only basis with the best fighters ... Ali, Frazier, Foreman, Leonard, Duran, Hagler, Hearns and so on. And then I guess around Mike Tyson's time, we switched back to first and last names ... Evander Holyfield, Lennox Lewis, Oscar de la Hoya ... I mean, even Foreman was George Foreman when he made his grill-selling comeback. We need last name boxers again. And ones that don't require spell check would be nice too.

Did you see the handball that French football star Thierry Henry used to rob hose bone beat Ireland in last week's World Cup qualifier? Wow, now we know where the baseball umps get their training. Anyway, Henry's bogus play is now being called "Hand of God II" ... Note: In French, that would be "Le Hand of God II" ... in reference to Diego Maradona's legendary original handjob that led Argentina over England in the 86 World Cup. You know, you gotta hand it (groan) to soccer for coming up with much better names for their all-time plays. No one ever lays down the Bunt of Doom or shoots the Free Throw of Agony or scores on the 65 Toss Power Trap of Peril. And maybe they should.

According to SI's most recent "Sign of the Apocalypse" note, a Japanese lingerie company is selling a new bra that unrolls to form a 5-foot putting mat. Personally, I prefer the 6-foot model although any length is fine provided it's got good cup size. No truth to the rumor though that Kevin Costner is now in talks with the company to reprise his Roy McAvoy role in a sequel called ... wait for it ... "Tin Cups".

I'm probably gonna regret this but of all the so-called minor sports, nothing in my opinion is more pointless than women's college basketball. All college sports have their own self-fulfilling recruiting imbalances ... The best football players always choose one of the big heavies like Florida, Texas, Southern Cal, Ohio State and so on. Likewise, the best lacrosse players go to Hopkins, Syracuse, Virginia and a few others. But if you're on a chick hoops team other than UConn or maybe Tennessee, you might as well be on the Washington Generals. And you better get used to hearing "Sweet Georgia Brown" play while you're at it.

Rest in peace, Abe Pollin.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 44

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Last Sunday, as the Saints offense started to get rolling in the second half against my Panthers, former Ravens bossman Brian Billick, who was doing the color commentary, said ... "Now we're finally going to see New Orleans show us The Full Monty". Unquote. And I thought to myself ... Um, he either saw a completely different movie or I'm about to change this channel real quick.

Got an e-mail from Amazon this morning. It read ... We've noticed that customers who have purchased 2008 Philadelphia Phillies: The Official World Series Film have also purchased 2009 World Series Highlights on DVD. You can now pre-order yours at a savings of $5.00 off by following the link below ... click on Reply ... Dear Amazon, we've noticed that customers who have purchased stuff from Amazon have also purchased stuff from Borders and Barnes & Noble. You can now pre-bite me at a savings of $5.00 off by following the link below.

I have a theory about Bengals WR Chad "Ya Doesn't Have To Call Me Johnson" Ochocinco. I think the NFL secretly loves his antics and can't wait to see what he does next. Chad's latest stunt took place last week against Baltimore when he offered a $1 bill to a ref during a replay challenge. On Friday, he was fined $20,000 for attempting to "bribe" the official but I still think the league doesn't mind all that much. I mean, 20 large buys a lotta coffee packs, juice bottles and microwave popcorn back at Park Avenue headquarters.

Does anyone know why Raiders coach Tom Cable still has a job? I mean, first he broke an assistant coach's jaw during a training camp spat. Then he was accused by not one but two women, his first wife and a former girlfriend, of physical abuse which delighted the ladies at NOW, the National Organization for Women, so much they want Cable suspended right NOW. Meanwhile, he's 2-6 this year and 6-14 overall. QB JaMarcus Russell is a massive bust, the other players are either playing poorly or bitching about not playing poorly and the only one having a great season is the punter. And yet, Tom Cable is still not collecting unemployment. Must be nice.

Uh-oh, Cleveland, this is not good. The Cavs' ubersuperdupermegastar LeBron James says he'll switch from wearing No. 23 to No. 6 next season as a tribute to Michael Jordan. Ah, but what James doesn't say is exactly whose No. 6 he'll be wearing. LBJ is eligible for unrestricted free agency next summer and desperate teams (Hi, Knicks!) have been clearing huge swathes of cap space just for him. So next year, either every kid in Cleveland will be bugging mom for a new Cavaliers "JAMES 6" jersey or every kid in some other NBA city will be. Enjoy the rest of the year, Cleveland.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 43

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Hats off to the New York Yankees for their ... What was it? Oh yeah ... their 27th World Series title. They deserved it. They beat my beloved Phillies fair and square. I just have one small little gripe though. I really don't mind the whole $ thing. The Yankees have more coin than God and they spend it. Good for them. But please, can we stop with all the drama about their guts and glory and overcoming adversity and nobody believed in us and such? There are no Rudy's in the New York dugout. When you're supposed to win a world champeenship, it's just a job well done. Well done.

Speaking of Rudy, let's do a little comparison shopping, shall we? Notre Dame, Stanford and Northwestern are all prestigious private schools with superb academic reputations and long lists of successful alumni. Notre Dame, however, is the only one of the three with a historic and legendary, nationally-followed, Hollywood-adored football program. So will the school that beat a Top 10 team last weekend while not honking at home to a service academy, please take one step forward ... All right, Stanford ... Okay, Northwestern ... Wait, not so fast there, Irish.

Final score ... Twitter 1, Larry Johnson 0.

Did you see where San Antonio guard Manu Ginobili swatted a stray bat out of the air during the Spurs' Halloween home game? As the other players scattered, the little fellow flew around the court until Manu snagged him and carried him away. Of course, no good deed goes unpunished cause the Argentine star now has to get rabies shots to make sure he's okay. No truth to the rumor Ginobili also lives in a stately manor and drives an illegal but seriously cool, rocket-powered car while keeping a fictitious city safe from a cackling maniac in bad makeup using nothing more than a beltful of wonderful toys.

NFL Week 9 notes ... The Bengals look like they're maybe kinda sorta for real while Duh Bears most definitely do not. The Jints are in a serious swoon while the Titans are out of theirs courtesy of putting Kerry Collins back in mothballs in favor of Vince "I'll Try Not To Pout This Time" Young. Meanwhile, them Saints keep finding interesting ways to win and the Iggles keep finding interesting ways not to. The Dead$kins are truly awful and that oughta keep the deliciously sour quotes from perturbed ex-Skin John Riggins still coming. And finally, the Bucs ended their long winless streak after reverting to their old comical Bucco Bruce creamsicle unis. Nicely done, Bucs, and let me say this ... You looked *fabulous*.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 42

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Boy, it sure was quiet at times in new Yankee Stadium during the World Series this week. You'd think by now owners would've figured out that higher ticket prices mean lower decibels. Also, I really don't understand why they ditched the old Yankee Stadium, the self-proclaimed "Cathedral of Baseball". I mean, you'll never hear the Pope say the Vatican needs a spiffy new St Peter's with club seats and valet parking, right? Seems like that $1.2 billion coulda gone a long way toward sprucing up the old church. Not to mention keeping Yankee fans in full-throated roar.

Hello, you have reached Gary Bettman, commissioner of the NHL. I'm sorry but I can't come to the phone right now. Press 1 if you'd like to pretty please buy the Phoenix Coyotes. Press 2 if you'd like to broadcast our games and your cable channel isn't up there like at 206 or something. Press 3 if you still don't understand the icing rule. And if you're Wayne Gretzky, just leave a message at the beep and I'll get back to you whenever I come up with a good reason why we don't want you anymore. Because clearly all my business decisions have been perfect and I just don't need the game's greatest scorer and one of its most decorated stars of all time involved in the sport. Beep.

Wow, what are the odds that the cast of a hit show on FOX like Glee would sing the national anthem before a World Series game on FOX? Probably about the same as the baseball umpires blowing still more crucial calls. Boy, are they having a tough time of it this post-season. As it is, disgraced ex-NBA ref Tim Donaghy is probably sitting there in his jail cell wondering why he didn't like baseball more.

Excerpts from retired tennis star Andre Agassi's new autobiography were released this week and in it Andre admits he likes warm milk and cookies before bedtime, listens to Pat Boone records and that 15 minutes can indeed save you 15% or more on your car insurance. Nah, what Andre really said is his father was a royal pain in the racket, his classic early-90's puffy mullet was actually a hairpiece and he lied his way out of a failed crystal meth drug test. Wait, what? A fake mullet? Oh no, say it ain't so, Andre.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 41

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

It takes a very special organization, one almost totally devoid of football talent and imagination, to make Terrell Owens irrelevant to all but the most desperate fantasy owners. Ladies and gentlemen, your Buffalo Bills. Golf clap.

Philadelphia police on Tuesday arrested Susan Finkelstein, 43, a devoted Phillies fan in way more ways than one, on prostitution charges for offering her, um, "services" on Craigslist in exchange for coveted World Series tickets. She was nabbed after describing her "offer" in detail to the undercover officer who answered the ad. Susan, Susan, Susan, you got it all wrong, girl. First you get the tickets ... Then you negotiate the price. Priorities, my dear, priorities.

Speaking of naughtiness, what in the worldwide leader of sports is going on at ESPN? Former Met GM Steve Phillips lost his baseball analyst gig this week after a 22-year-old production assistant he'd had a fling with went all Glenn Close on him. Don't worry, no bunnies got boiled. Just a routine stalking. Also in the last few years, Rich Eisen, Sean Salisbury and Harold Reynolds each got tangled up in various and sundry steamy scandals. Hell, at the rate they're getting some in Bristol, I wouldn't be surprised if www.espnxxx.com will be up and running soon.

Hey, is a Bronx Cheer redundant if it's in The Bronx?

Whoever came up with the idea of sending New England over to England is a genius on two levels. One, thank you for putting the Patriots on a plane and getting them out of the country for a week. Let Fleet Street slobber all over Tom Brady for a change and give us all a much-needed break. But more importantly, I can't think of a better "away" team to send back to Merry Old than the Pats. You know, just to remind them ... again ... who won that little intrasquad scrimmage back in 1776. Hopefully somewhere, wherever he is, King George III is muttering to himself ... Sod it all, I should have sent more redcoats over there and taught those cheeky colonies some proper manners.

Dear Charlie Manuel, I like your decision to start Pedro Martinez in Game 2 of the World Series at Yankee Stadium. Just one small piece of advice though ... Don't leave him in too long. Your friend, Grady Little.

One last nudge nudge wink wink item ... Some of the Tampa Bay Lightning players admitted this week they sometimes play a game after practice they call "naked shootout". Yep, that's right, the players take turns trying to make penalty shots and if you miss, you hafta lose a piece of practice gear until you make one. Apparently one day recently, Martin St Louis lost his jersey, arm pads, leg pads, leggings and even his skates before he finally put a biscuit in the basket. You know, there might be a few sports that could work if played in the buff. I mean, the ancient Greeks were masters of that idea. But ice hockey is definitely not one of them. Hell, I don't even want to think about 2:00 minutes for slashing. No, thank you.

See ya next time.

Footnote: She is going to get her World Series tickets after all. A local Philadelphia radio station says they've invited Susan Finkelstein to go on air where they'll present her with tickets ... and with no strings attached either. Wait, what? You mean it worked? Hard to believe, Harry.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 40

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

With just half a mile to go in Sunday's Des Moines Marathon, Simon Sawe had a comfortable 10-second lead over fellow Kenyan David Tuwei. And then he didn't. And then the third-place runner caught up too ... All thanks to an Iowa freight train that apparently didn't get the memo. Good news is Sawe still won the race with a sprint to the finish once the train had passed. Bad news is nobody bothered to tell the runners this was just a ... wait for it ... training exercise. Ooh, rim shot!

The New Jersey Nets are offering a fun new promotion this NBA season called "Your Ticket To A Player". For just a mere $25,000, you get four courtside seats, free food and drinks plus parking for 10 home games. But that's not all ... You also get one (1) hour with the Nets player of your choice. He can come to your birthday party or an office social or even your kid's Bar Mitzvah, whatever you want. Me personally, I got some ceiling fans I need dusted plus some light bulbs to change.

In other hoops news, looks like the Detroit Shock are moving to Tulsa. Fine, whatever. But take a close look at the AP news item where this story first broke ...

The WNBA's Detroit Shock are moving to Tulsa, OK, a team official told The Associated Press. The official spoke on the condition of anonymity Monday because he was not authorized to make the announcement ...

What the hell does that mean? If you're not authorized to make the announcement, then why are you making the announcement? You see this all the time and nobody ever seems to suffer for it. You never hear later on that Team So-and-So fired Joe Schmoe because Joe leaked something he shouldn't have. And why all the secrecy? I mean, it's the WNBA where "We Got Next" apparently now applies to cities, not just games. Look, the Shock is either moving to Tulsa or it's not. When did chick hoops become a spy novel?

In a Week 16 game last year, Tennessee beat Pittsburgh to run their record to an NFL best 13-2. After the game though, several Titans celebrated by stomping on a Steeler Terrible Towel. They haven't won since and that includes last week's humiliating 59-0 skunkjob by the Patriots. In 2005, the Bengals did likewise and they tanked too. So is there a Curse of the Towel going on here? I dunno but I propose a rigorous scientific experiment ... First, rip up all the carpet in the visitor's locker room. Same goes for the walkway leading to Heinz Field. And then pull up all the turf on the opponent's sideline too. And then replace everything with towels. Hundreds and hundreds of Terrible Towels. Towels everywhere. And then let's see what happens.

Check this 12-year-old kid out. The dream of a lifetime ...



See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 39

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

A 70-year-old golfer recently lost his arm when he reached into a pond for his ball at a Beaufort, SC golf course and a 10-foot alligator attacked him. No truth to the rumor the one-armed duffer will now mentor an SNL comedian in a Bruins jersey who uses an unorthodox hockey slapshot off the tee but gets his ass kicked by an octogenarian game show host. Of course, if that doesn't work out, he could always captain an imaginary pirate ship against a motley gang of displaced orphan boys.

This is the second year in a row the Dodgers and my beloved Phillies have met in the NLCS. They also met back in 1977 and 78. Larry Bowa played shortstop for the Phils back then. I loved Larry Bowa. Larry Bowa is now the third base coach for the Dodgers. I hate Larry Bowa. Davey Lopes played second base for the Dodgers back then. I hated Davey Lopes. Davey Lopes is now the first base coach for the Phillies. I love Davey Lopes. Jerry Seinfeld is right ... We cheer for laundry.

Note to NASCAR ... When you scrapped the old Cup series points system six years ago for the new playoff-style Chase for the Championship, you said it was cause race fans were bored with the lack of suspense down the stretch. Well, Jimmie Johnson is almost a mortal lock now to win his fourth straight Chase title. Keep up the good work on the crashes and all the nitpicky rules violations. Those are still great fun but the suspense problem is still a little loose in the turns.

Good morning, Coach Jim Zorn's office, may I ask who's calling? Jim, it's Coors Light on the phone. They want to know when you'd like to audition for one of their TV commercials featuring former NFL head coaches giving mock press conferences. Um, yes, hello again, sorry to keep you waiting ... Coach Zorn says the Redskins haven't fired him yet so he doesn't know what you're talking about. Yes, I can put you on hold.

More NASCAR ... Here in Charlotte this week, the inaugural class for the new Hall of Fame was announced. Richard Petty and Dale Earnhardt were gimmes. So was Bill France Sr, the George Halas-type founding father of stock car racing. His son, Bill France Jr, also made it for his work in exploding NASCAR onto the national scene. But my favorite choice, of course, is Junior Johnson, the old legendary backroads moonshiner who ruled the early days. No matter how many California surf gods or Indiana farm boys make their way down South, racin's roots will always be whiskey, tobacky, fried chicken bones and a basket of warm hush puppies. Mmm, pups.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 38

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ..

Hey, I got an idea ... Seeing as how Halloween is coming up soon, let's scare the bejeebers out of the entire city of St Louis, most of the state of Missouri and pretty much the entire flood plain of the upper-middle Mississippi River heartland ... "Pujols in no hurry to talk extension with Cards".

Okay, we're past the quarter pole in the NFL season and one thing is abundantly clear. We are seeing perhaps the worst collection of truly godawful bad pro football teams ever. Seriously, can't anybody here play this game? The Rams, Chiefs, Bucs and Titans are all 0-5 while the Bills, Browns and Raiders are all 1-4. The Dead$kins are awful and my Panthers aren't much better. And then there's the Lions who are 1-4 themselves but at least ended their 0-19 skid. At this pace, Detroit could become the first team to go 4-12 and get the 10th draft pick. Brutal, Juice, brutal.

Speaking of the Browns that be in Cleveland, The Quarterback Formerly Known As Starting, Brady Quinn, has put his house up for sale not so coincidentally after losing his job just days before the NFL trade deadline to Derek "2-for-17" Anderson. You know, I almost feel sorry for The Not So Mighty Quinn. Yeah, he makes a lotta coin but it used to be a lot easier for a holdout backup starting benched quarterback to leave town. In the old days, you just tossed your cleats in the back of your VW and drove off. Now you gotta hire a realtor and get someone to empty the pool plus you need a moving van to haul all your awards and trophies. Well, maybe not a big van for that.

There's really not a whole lot I wanna say about Rush Limbaugh's ill-fated attempt to buy a chunk of the St Louis Rams. Let's just say that Rush is either a genius at self-promotion or completely tone deaf to his ability to create controversy. Yeah, I'm leaning toward genius too. Anyway, he's off the team now because the NFL wants no part of his polarizing persona. I'll tell you though, had he succeeded, his radio show would've been epic. I mean, the Rams are so bad he could've ranted his entire week just about them ...

Monday ... How socialism ruined my offensive line.
Tuesday ... My special teams unit needs a bailout.
Wednesday ... The referees are all liberals.
Thursday ... Never hire a Democrat as head coach.
Friday ... Obama made us lose.

Rest in peace, Capt Lou Albano.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 37

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Terrell Owens said last week he'd like to be an actor after his football career is over. Allright, TO, let's see what kinda chops you got ... In this scene, I wanna see anger. Let's see how mad you can get. Really angry. Okay, quiet on the set and ... Action! Okay, cut. No, that's not quite it, TO. I need rage. Let me see furious. I'll tell you what ... Pretend I'm a quarterback who won't throw you the ball. Ready and ... Action! Cut! That's it! Perfect! Okay, TO, now I wanna see surprise. This time I'll throw you a pass but you drop it. This should be easy. You won't even have to act for this one.

Lakers F Lamar Odom got married over the weekend to reality TV star Khloe Kardashian. Way to be a team player, Lamar. You're the third best Laker and you married the third hottest Kardashian. Good job.

NFL Week 3 Notes ... Washington gave Detroit another bailout. The Titans (Jets) beat the Oilers (Titans). The Colts don't seem to be missing Tony Dungy very much. The Bengals finally beat the Steelers at home, the Dolphins are on their way to an impressive worst-to-first-to-worst season, the Browns are showing more fight in their locker room than on the field and Brett Favre showed us all just one more time why he's so much more enjoyable when he just shuts up and plays.

I really like and appreciate ESPN's impressive new online venture, ESPNBoston.com, a dedicated Web portal that nicely consolidates and organizes a variety of news and information concerning the Boston sports scene. It now makes it so much easier to ignore the variety of news and information concerning the Boston sports scene.

My Phillies, the defending World Series champs, are starring in a new movie, The Year of Lidging Dangerously, as last year's hero closer Brad Lidge continues to pour diesel fuel on this year's save situations. Listen, Brad, seriously, loved what you did last year. 48 saves in 48 attempts can't be topped. But you're blowing saves in the wrong city to be blowing anything in. There's still time since the Phils look safe for a playoff spot but you still might wanna call ahead and get a quote on a moving van. And ask for a fast one. Just in case.

So here's what we know after a month of college football ... Poodle Pete's SoCal Trojans honked their title shot. So did Okie State, Penn State, Cal and Ole Miss. Defending mythical champ Florida is chomping on cupcakes but looked beatable against mouthy Tennessee. Meanwhile, Michigan's got a 19-year-old true freshman, Tate Forcier, running around making storybook quarterback plays in the Big House. Just a hunch but I'm guessing the kid won't have a problem getting a bid to pledge a U-M frat. He probably won't do too bad at the U-M sororities either.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 36

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

Most NFL teams fine players for all kinds of Mickey Mouse stuff. If you're five minutes late to a meeting or forget to wear a tie on the plane, next week's front office doughnuts are on you. Some teams though go the extra mile. After one player left his hotel room without paying for a $3 bottle of water, Cleveland Browns coach Eric Mangini fined him $1,701. He could've just deducted $3 from the player's next game check but instead Mangini carefully calculated the absolute maximum amount he could collect according to league rules. Way to build good chemistry there, coach. And way to get the league's first ever dry Gatorade bath if you ever do win a big game.

Actually, there's probably a better reason why Eric Mangini is cracking down on unpaid bottles of acqua. Seeing as how the league docked the ex-Jets coach 25 boxes of ziti for hiding Brett Favre's arm injury last year, the new Don in Cleveland must need to skim a little more vig from some of his big earners so he can make his nut and pay off New York. A fanabla.

After the double embarrassment of losing to Boise State and then suspending their star running back, the Oregon Ducks couldn't sink much lower. And now they're out $439 too. One unhappy Duck alum wrote a scathing letter to coach Chip Kelly and even included an invoice for his travel expenses up to Idaho. To which Kelly attached his personal check and sent it back. Honestly, I didn't think that would work but all right then ...

Dear Eagles, enclosed please find an invoice for eleventy three gazillion dollars to cover tickets, parking, tolls, gas, concessions and personal anguish with interest for coughing up that 23-0 lead with 8:27 to play in the 4th quarter and losing 28-23 to the Vikings at The Vet back on December 1, 1985. No, I haven't forgotten. There's no effing way Jaworski should've run that naked boot ... which he fumbled for one score ... and I still don't understand how Anthony Carter got behind the deep prevent twice for two more scores. Please make check payable to Section 719, Row 14, Seats 19-20. Thank you. P.S. Just in case you've forgotten ...

http://www.pro-football-reference.com/boxscores/198512010phi.htm

Dear New Cowboys Stadium, congratulations on setting an NFL regular season attendance record of 105,121 at your debut this past Sunday night against the Jints. We've been sitting that many college fans for decades and without 30,000 SRO's who couldn't see anything but stetsons and shoulders in every direction too. Best regards, Penn State Beaver Stadium, Michigan Stadium, Ohio State Stadium, Tennessee Neyland Stadium and Texas Longhorn Stadium.

NFL Week 2 Notes ... The J-E-T-S won Super Bowl 43 1/8th with a self-proclaimed epic regular season win over their hated rival Patriots. Tony Romo pretended the Pokes home opener was a playoff game. The Jagwires unveiled new home uniforms in front of old empty seats. Ray Lewis demonstrated just how easy it is to tackle a back when nobody blocks him. And Chad "Child, Please" Ochocinco did the Lambeau Leap right into a seething pit of Lambeau middle fingers. Straight up, yo.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 35

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

That was quite the slobberfest that broke out last week after Derek Jeter tied and then passed Lou Gehrig for most career hits as a New York Yankee. Jeter's new pinstripe record is 2,722 and counting. Let's see now, that's 1,178 fewer hits than Ty Cobb had with the Tigers, 908 fewer hits than Stan Musial had with the Cards and 697 fewer hits than Carl Yastrzemski had with the Red Sox. Nah, there wasn't any media hype over Jeter's new mark. Okay, maybe a little. I'm sure the fact Derek plays in New York is just a coincidence, right?

For his own personal safety, I wonder if Jamie Foxx is now rethinking that whole "Serena, let me be your tennis ball" thing. Look, I think Serena Williams is all that and a bag of chips. But she's gonna hafta take her lady lumps for nearly scaring that poor lineswoman half to death in the US Open semis against eventual champ Kim Clijsters. From the replay, it looked like a bad call but I wouldn't blame her if she never called another foot fault again in her life. Serena, please don't hurt me with that ball.

Speaking of tennis, that was a sweet upset win by Argentina's Juan Martin del Potro over 5-time defending US Open champ and tennis machine Roger Federer. And if you had unseeded comeback mommy Kim Clijsters and sixth-seeded del Potro in your US Open fantasy pool, I'd really like to sit down and have a talk with you. I got some lottery tickets here that need help.

Here's a nice little story ... For 43 years, Bob Fulton was South Carolina's "Voice of the Gamecocks". Fulton, who retired in 1995, is 88 now and recently spent two weeks in a physical rehab clinic after a fall at home. His roommate there, a fellow Gamecock fan, was blind and asked Bob if he could call the game on TV against NC State for him. And so he did. Just like old times. Pretty soon a crowd of nurses, visitors and other patients gathered around the set to listen to the legend. The Cocks won that game but Bob was discharged from the center before the next game, last Saturday's loss to No. 23 Georgia. Which is just as well, I suppose. Even a blind man could see that one coming.

Hi, honey, I'm home and I brought the pizza. Oh hi, Eric, what kind did you get? I can't say. It's a secret that I will reveal to the entire family just as we sit down to eat. Okay, Eric, that's fine, sweetie, but let me ask you something. Last week, you refused to announce your pick to start for the Browns at QB, Brady Quinn or Derek Anderson. Remember you said you wanted to keep the Vikings guessing right up until game time? Well, they didn't really care and I don't either. So just put whatever crappy pizza you got, Papa Johns or Pizza Hut, on the table and wash up. Thanks, honey.

NFL Week 1 Notes ... The Bungles bungled. The Dead$kins went right back to last place. The Lions did not win. Jake Delhomme imploded, exploded and deploded. The Cardinals fouled their nest. The Texans took another significant step toward 8-8. Jay Cutler showed he knows how to play quarterback for the Bears. Nobody cares about the Rams. And TO now understands what playing for the Bills is all about. In other words, not a whole helluva lot has changed in the Enn Eff Ell. Welcome back.

See ya next time.

The Sports Noter, Version 4, Volume 1, Issue 34

Spurious thoughts and idle musings from the world of sports ...

How come home team fans always boo and yell "Balk!" when the opposing pitcher fakes a pickoff throw? Any time, any base, any move. If the bad guy fakes a throw, fans holler for the balk. Every time without fail. Has this ever worked? Has any paid professional umpire, in the recorded history of organized baseball, ever said to himself ... "You know what, these 35,000 fans, even the ones way up there in the cheap seats, can see this game much better than me and my fellow bluemen. They're right, that was a balk. Runners advance."

A group called Main Line Animal Rescue put an ad in the Washington Post this week offering to donate five bags of dog food to a local DC animal shelter for each time the Redskins sack Michael Vick during the Skins home game against the Iggles in October. Man, I love meaningless symbolic gestures like this. I mean, the dogs don't have a clue where dog food comes from, Vick certainly doesn't care and yet the animal lovers still have something to feel good about. Oh yeah, coming out, puppy needs a new bowl of food.

Here's a new rule Bill Maher-style ... New Rule: Stay away from any celebrity chick who changes her last name to a hard liquor. Yep, that means you, Shawne Merriman. I admit I don't know who Tila Tequila is but that name says all you need to know. I mean, if you just gotta hang with booze babes, try spending quality time with Betty Budweiser or Zoe Zinfandel instead. Those ladies typically don't get you arrested for battery and false imprisonment a week before the NFL season kicks off. Better yet, Shawne, have some Wendy Water or Paula Pepsi.

And speaking of Shawne, we need another new rule. There are too many athletes with too many different ways of spelling that name. Besides Merriman, there's gymnast Shawn Johnson, snowboarder Shaun White, hockey player Shean Donovan, Saints coach Sean Payton and an assortment of lesser known Shons, Seanns and Shaans. And then of course there's Angels 3B Chone Figgins. I'll admit when he first came up I thought it was "Chone" as in "phone" but n'uh-uh, Chone is a Sean. Or a Shaun. Or whatever.

Teenage sensation Melanie Oudin's upset run at the US Open ended in a quarterfinals loss to some Danish babe (bjabe?) but perhaps that's a good thing for the New York City hospitality industry. Seems Miss Oudin hadn't expected to make it as far as the Open's second week so her reservations at the Manhattan Marriott Marquis were for one week only. When they asked her to leave, she had to move to another hotel leaving embarrassed Marriott staffers with chicken embryos on their corporate faces. The lesson as always ... Don't count your check-ins before the match. Sorry, couldn't resist.

See ya next time.