The Professional

Hideki Matsui has reportedly signed a one-year contract with the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. His days in pinstripes are, alas, behind him. I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Despite his 6-RBI performance in the deciding game of the World Series, Matsui is an old 35, with two surgically repaired knees and nearly two full decades of service time under his belt. He just doesn’t fit in with the Yankees' plans for the future. I get it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to miss watching Matsui apply his trade nine months a year.

Since signing with the Yankees in 2002, Matsui averaged 20 home runs, 140 hits, 28 doubles, and 85 RBI per season, while batting .292, with a slugging percentage of .482 and an on-base percentage of .370. What’s more, besides the 2006 and 2008 seasons, when injuries limited him to 51 and 93 games, respectively, Matsui played in no less than 142 games, and drove in no fewer than 90 runs in any given season. It’s one thing to be consistent, quite another to be consistently good—and an almost impossible feat to be consistently good in New York without falling prey to the non-stop yammering of modern sports talk radio.

In sports, you see, there’s always a nauseating amount of talk about whether or not a player is underrated or overrated. Adrian Gonzalez, for instance, or Robinson Cano, can be argued either way, depending on the person or the preferred statistic of the day. Matsui, though, is the rare athlete, the rare New York athlete, valued by fans and baseball people alike at a worth equal to that of his talents.

During his tenure with the Yankees, Matsui played like a professional, and was always appreciated as such. 

Who Do You Say That I Am?

(Originally Posted Here)

Last night, while watching John Wall take over Madison Square Garden, I couldn’t help but wonder, like many others, if Wall isn’t already the most talented college basketball player I’ve seen in my lifetime. He very well might be, even nine games into his collegiate career and albeit still neck-and-neck-tattoo with Allen Iverson. (Shaq remains arguably the most impressive, if only because of his size and freakish athleticism; while LeBron and maybe Garnett would have been equally impressive if they hadn’t jumped right to the NBA).

This morning, the Sporting News’ Dan Shanoff pointed out the very same thing, writing that Wall is already more captivating than Carmelo Anthony, Kevin Durant and Michael Beasley were in their one-and-done Freshman year. While touting Wall, Shanoff also asks an interesting question: Does the Kentucky Wildcat and future overall No. 1 pick need a nickname?

This is a tough one, particularly because John Wall already sounds like a nickname. I doubt very much anyone anywhere will ever refer to him exclusively by his monosyllabic surname, as if Wall and his otherworldly basketball talents could somehow be camouflaged as just another member of a functioning five-man unit. This is unacceptable.

Also unacceptable is JW. Too proper, too close in vicinity to J.D. for a man of Wall’s explosiveness and unpredictability. He’s not a stuffy, practiced man of letters; he’s a budding basketball deity. And deserves better.

In a different era, when college basketball was followed almost exclusively via the radio, some charismatic announcer or Midwest-based, ink-stained wretch would have christened Wall “the Kentucky Waltz” or “Mr. Bluegrass” or some such provincial moniker. Alas, those bygone days have, well, gone by. Gone too are the 1960s, when Earl Monroe and Lew Alcinder rose to form. Back then, Wall would have been known simply as “Black Jesus.” A decade later, he would have been called “Black Power,” while in the 1980s, he would haven been tagged with an unfortunate marketing slogan, like Wall Inc., or the Wall of Honor or, in a less democratic society, the Great Wall.

The 1990s would have bestowed upon him some variation of veracity or divine right: the Truth; the Answer; the One; Diddy. It’s a shame that period is behind us, because Wall’s high school, Word of God, fits him like a suit.

Today, in the age of Obama, I’m inclined to label Wall with some post-millennial, post-racial nickname, something entirely new. Something onomatopoeic. Something like Crunk or Zwar or Zounds. Or maybe he could do like Prince and go with an unpronounceable symbol, like the Nike swoosh, which somehow seems appropriate.

The name I keep coming back to, though, is e pluribus unum. In fact, I'm now convinced of it.

He Stoops to Conquer

I just read this Times’ profile of Jesus Leonardo, a stooper who makes a pretty good living cashing in discarded betting slips at local OTBs.

Mr. Leonardo, who is married with two teenagers, is hardly living on the fringes. He said that stooping brings him $100 to $300 a day, and more than $45,000 a year. Last month, he cashed in a winning ticket from bets made on races at Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, Calif., for $8,040. His largest purse came in 2006, when he received $9,500 from a Pick 4 wager (choosing the winners of four consecutive races) at Retama Park Race Track in Selma, Tex.

I didn’t realize this was even a viable career path. My high school guidance counselor, a Jesuit septuagenarian, failed to mention it during our two semesters together. A model of academic excellence, my ass.

Blogger On Blogger Violence

Over at my other site, a semi-anonymous commenter made a last-ditch plea for Ben and me to stop jawing at one another before we end up mortgaging our friendship for a few cheap shots: 

you guys are going to hate each other on a very, very personal level if you keep this blog going.

A close friend also recently told me our blog posts don’t read as if we’re having any fun, which was--and is-- the point of the entire enterprise. The two criticisms, if you could even call them that, go hand in hand. I’ve come to realize tone is tricky, and our particular type of humor, while admittedly caustic, loses some of its nuance in print. In trying to write authoritatively, we’ve inadvertently come off as more combative than he or I ever intended, splashing the waters a bit too forcefully for others who might be inclined to dip their toes.

Suffice it to say, Ben and I are not in any danger of one day taking a hatchet to each another. At least I’m not. I shouldn’t speak for him. It’s always the quiet ones, isn't it? 

Jarret Jack, Your Shoe's Untied

Down by 27 points in the third quarter, the Chicago Bulls wanted nothing to do with the Toronto Raptors. Or Jarett Jack, apparently. Jack was allowed to tie his right shoe, as the final seconds of the quarter ticked down. After he finished lacing up his right boot, Bulls center Brad Miller then fouled third-string center Patrick O'Bryant 22 feet from the basket. Good lord. Even the Knicks' defense isn't that charitable.  

Donnie Walsh's Teachable Moment

Avert your eyes, Knicks fans. This isn't pretty. 

"When I saw [Brandon Jennings] play in Vegas, I did go to our scouts and I told them, 'Look, if you knew he was that good you should have come to me every day in my office and said, 'You've got to look at this guy,'" said Walsh. "I said, 'I listened to you. You said, 'He's good,' but that was about it."

Oy. The Knicks, in case you haven't been paying attention, are pretty thin at the point guard position, and really could have used a player of Jennings caliber, even if almost nobody projected him as worthy of the lottery. (Full disclosure). "Jennings to Gallo for three" or "Jennings to Lee for the easy stuff" sound a hell of a lot more promising than "Duhon turns it over again" or "another wild shot by Robinson."

I have to give Walsh, though, some credit for admitting he and his staff screwed the pooch on Jennings. A certain general manager can't even cop to that. But let's not get carried away here. A mistake is a mistake, after all, and the total breakdown in player evaluation leading up to the draft, when it's most pressing, mind you, doesn't exactly paint the organization in the most positive of lights. 

Look, this isn't exactly the Blazers passing on Michael Jordan. The Knicks, despite their many flaws, will survive this. But that doesn't mean passing on Jennings doesn't sting, especially this season. Or next. It does. And it will. Missing out on Jennings also ratchets up the pressure on Mike D'Antoni and his staff to bring out the best in Jordan Hill and Toney Douglas, two promising but salmonella-raw players drafted in lieu of Jennings. 

Walsh still has this summer to rectify his mistake. I just hope he learns from it sooner rather than later, and his draft night misfire was truly an aberration and not a harbinger of things to come. 

"He Ain't Never Coming Back."

The Onion hits a little too close to home. 

Secret Service agents later confirmed that a half-tearing, half-smiling Obama was greeted by Vice President Joe Biden in the White House Rose Garden. Kneeling on the lawn, Obama reportedly told "Big Joe" that he would be in charge of the country for a while, and that the vice president should keep an eye on Iraq and Iran while he was out.

Andrew Bogut's Brilliant Squad 6

I've always liked Andrew Bogut. I have no idea why. Maybe it's the 26 double-doubles he compiled at the University of Utah. Maybe it's his crazy Australian/Croatian roots. Maybe it's because he showed up to his pre-Draft interview with Bucks owner Herb Kohl dressed in a suit, polished resume in hand. Or maybe it's just because of this. Regardless, I've enjoyed, albeit from a distance, Bogut's evolution from touted prospect to a potential All-Star, at least according to one overzealous Aussie blogger. 

But it's Bogut's recent philanthropic work in Milwaukee that pretty much ensures him of my continued support. (You're welcome.) Fed up with the lackluster atmosphere of the Bradley Center, the Bucks' home arena, Bogut purchased 100 tickets for each home game and distributed them to the most enthusiastic and energetic Bucks fans, as determined by American Idol-like auditions, which Bogut set up through the team's public relations department. The winners, who have since started calling themselves Squad 6, largely in recognition of Bogut's uniform number, all sound as if they are all clinically insane. 

Some shake cowbells. Some take shirts off to display numbers painted on their chests of favorite Bucks players. Many drink beer. After all, this is Milwaukee. The fans, mostly young men ranging from college age into their 30s, pay homage to Bogut being from Australia. Woelfel, a Marquette senior, has brought a didgeridoo, a long, wooden Australian instrument, to games. The fans regularly chant, "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi, Oi, Oi

Forgive me, but I can't help picturing the crowd on hand for the battle between Mad Max and Master Blaster at Thunderdome. Which is just all kinds of incredible. That, plus Brandon Jennings? On an awesomeness scale of 10, I have to give the Bucks' home game experience a 15. Maybe 20.  

Tweet of the Night

"There was just a proposal at the Nets game probably because the guy's shy and didn't want to do it in front of a crowd." -- Russ Bengtson.

Who Dat?

My god, Drew Brees is good. Behind a season-high 371 yards, Brees threw five touchdowns (three in the second quarter) to five different receivers in a total N'awlins beat down of the Patriots, who looked about as prepared and up for this game as FEMA. Brees tossed as many touchdowns as he did incompletions, finishing with a perfect quarterback rating of 158.3. The average time of the Saints' four touchdown drives was, as the Boston Globe points out, 2 minutes and 44 seconds. The Saints also racked up 480 total yards of offense and completed plays of 25 yards or more seven times. The offensive beat down was so complete, so precise, Bill Belichick even went out of his way to congratulate Brees. How often does that happen?

Vince Young

While I was busy knocking the recent spat of poor play in the National Football League, Ta-Nehisi Coates stepped up to remind the rest of the world how sports continue to surprise, delight and inspire. Here he is on Vince Young's truly remarkable 99-yard touchdown drive yesterday against the Arizona Cardinals. 

I love the Cowboys and my son loves the Giants, and my Dad loved the Eagles. (Except when Doug Williams played for the Redskins.) But I don't just remember Troy Aikman hitting Alvin Harper in the 92 championship. I remember Steve Young hitting Terrell Owens in the divisional playoffs against Green Bay. I remember Randall Cunningham hitting Fred Barnett for 95 yards, with Bruce Smith breathing down his neck. And every time I think of those moments, I get warm and happy. Vince Young gave me, my partner and my kid one of those moments yesterday. I swear it makes living a little easier.

I'm still trying to get an accurate read on football. The game just doesn't grab me, or resonate with me, the way baseball and basketball do. More specifically, football's varied cover schemes and myriad strategies and game plans don't always reveal themselves to me. Viscerally, sure, I get it. I mean, I was as geeked as anyone when Eli Manning found David Tryee, but in general the NFL for me is like hearing kettle drums when expecting guitar. But, if my other site proves anything, I can at least say I'm trying and I can admit that Vince's drive remains a thing of orchestrated beauty.

   

“Hovering Is Never Good.”

The other big story this Thanksgiving was Tiger Woods’ “car accident,” which occurred early Friday morning, around 2:30 a.m., outside of his Florida compound. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what really happened. Rumors of infidelity. Bloodied lip. Facial abrasions. Shattered back window. We all know what happened, but so far only Wanda Sykes has had the balls to say it publicly.

Parity Begins At Home

Believe it or not, the New York Jets, losers of six of their last eight games, still have a puncher’s chance at making the playoffs. Granted, this isn’t because the Jets have distinguished themselves on the gridiron; the team's barely beating playoff chances are in reality a byproduct of an AFC-wide level of mediocrity. 

As of this morning, there are as many AFC teams with losing records (8) as there are teams with winning records—and two of those teams (the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Baltimore Ravens) are sitting at 6-5, one tenuous game over .500. Only the Indianapolis Colts (10-0), the Cincinnati Bengals (8-3), the San Diego Chargers (8-3), the New England Patriots (7-3) and the Denver Broncos (7-4) seem assured of a spot in the NFL’s postseason. (The undefeated Colts clinched a division title with last night’s win against the 5-6 Houston Texans).

This, I guess, is the NFL’s vision of parity. A few really good teams, mixed in with a bunch of middling-to-flat-out-terrible teams. Most of the AFC's franchises are mired in prolonged periods of mediocrity, which doesn’t really reflect well on the NFL's decade-long attempt at leveling the playing field, not to mention the often sad quality of play exhibited around the league on any given Sunday. 

Nate Robinson

When all is said and done, I believe Robinson will probably be remembered as much for this incident than anything else he’ll ever accomplish in the National Basketball Association. Sad, but true.

The Hand of Henry

Merde a dieu. Historically, the Irish national football team has had a rough go of it in international competition. In 1990, for instance, the Irish qualified for their first World Cup, advancing to the quarterfinals, largely behind the stellar play of keeper Patrick "Packie" Bonner, who saved Romanian Daniel Timofte's penalty shot during the knockout stage, famously depicted in the film adaptation of Roddy Doyle's "The Van." 

The country's glee was short-lived, however, as in the Round of 8, Ireland drew Italy, the host team, in Rome. The Irish, playing in front of about 75,000 hostile Italians, played well before falling 1-0, behind a cheap goal in the 38th minute by Salvatore Schillaci, a name that ranks right up there with Cromwell, as far as some Irish are concerned. It was a brutal loss, almost unfair in its letdown. 

Yesterday's World Cup qualifying match against France, though, has to sting even more. In the match's 104th minute, Frenchman Thierry Henry, one of the best players in the world, settled, practically caught in his hands, an errant pass along the Irish back line, before passing the ball to a streaking William Gallas, who headed it into the back of the net. Henry's handball is, shockingly, even more blatant than it sounds-- and, arguably, as egregious as Diego Maradona's "Hand of God."  

The equalizing goal (2-1 aggregate) assured France a place in the World Cup and eliminated the Irish from contention. The Irish are understandably upset. Their coach, God bless 'em, has gone so far to say Henry, who admitted he handled the ball, and his countrymen have a moral obligation to replay the match. That ain't gonna happen. The French team is off to South Africa, while the Irish are headed home. 

Merde happens, I suppose.  

When Smart People Say Dumb Sh*t

I've said my share over at my other site. There's just something about the Patriots--and their fans--that gets under my skin. Maybe it's the organization's arrogance, or the head coach's smugness. Either way, both traits seem to have rubbed off on their fan base, like an incurable contagion. I'm a Jets fan, which means I'm infected with hostility and delusion, and a virulent strain of self-defeating perversity. Ours, then, is a symbiotic relationship, entirely dysfunctional and borderline hostile. The sickly Ying and gangrenous Yang of sports. At least it makes for good copy.    

The 100 Best Quotes from The Wire

The Yankees are on hiatus. The Knicks stink, and the Jets are nearly irrelevant. What's a New York sports fan to do? How about enjoying this extended collection of the 100 best quotes from "The Wire," the greatest show in the history of television. Stringer Bell's right: there's games beyond the game. 

Seriously, What Happened to Yesterday?

Last year, after Doc Ellis passed away, I wrote about his no-hitter against the San Diego Padres in 1970, while high as a kite. Well, over at No Mas, artist-in-residence James Blagden cobbled together a pretty entertaining animated clip of Ellis recounting his psychedelic no-no. Blagden's four-minute video has been getting a lot of hits, but that doesn't mean it's not worth checking out, or passing mentioning here. Pass it on.   

Who's Next

Buried deep in SI.com’s “Hot Clicks” page is the totally awesome news that the Who, the greatest rock band ever assembled, is scheduled to play the Super Bowl. Fuck. Yeah. If this is true, it just kicks the crap out of the alternative, Bon Jovi, whose worldwide fame continues to confound. Speaking of which, even at Pete's and Roger's advanced ages, the Who should put on a better show than Springsteen's embarrassing debacle last year. Here's the band, which now features Zach Starkey, Ringo's kid, on drums, rocking out last March to "Won't Get Fooled Again" in Brisbane, Australia.  

Fat Chance

It's nice to see Eddy Curry finally get back down to his fighting weight, particularly after all he's been through in recent years. But I can't really get too excited about it, one way or another. Once considered the centerpiece of the Knicks, Curry has been nothing short of a disaster ever since he arrived in New York, practically dogging it from day one. He alienated fans and members of the Knicks' front office to such an extent people started to seriously question his desire to play professional basketball. His off-the-court issues didn't exactly help dispel this perception. To his credit, though, Curry's always said he wants to have a long career in the NBA. Judging by his appearance alone, he's finally doing something to help him reach his stated goal, even if it's way too late to make good on the promise he once demonstrated as a teenager. 

I doubt very much Curry can make much of difference this season. A bad team is a bad team, after all. Ironically, Curry's only real chance of helping the team that basically mortgaged its future for him is to show the rest of the NBA that he can still perform on the court, so the Knicks can trade him and his salary to make a real run at LeBron or any other free agent from the celebrated class of 2010. Regardless of his body shape, Curry's playing days in New York are probably numbered. 

Good As Gold

As if winning the World Series weren't enough, Derek Jeter and Mark Teixeira each also got themselves an American League Gold Glove. The awards, voted on by league managers and coaches, were well deserved. This season, Teixeira made only four errors in 1,275 chances, while saving about two or three dozen other Yankee errors with his nifty glove work at first. The Gold Glove is Tex's third overall, and the first since 2006, when he was still working cheap for the Texas Rangers.

Jeter, who committed only eight errors in 554 chances, picked up his fourth Gold Glove, the first since he won the award three years' straight, from 2004-2006. Of the two, I'm more pleased with Jeter's win. Tex is a phenomenal defender; everybody knows that. Jeter, on the other hand, has been knocked for his play at short for years. Sabermetrics, baseball's answer to the Cato Institute, seems to have it in for him, even going so far as to label him the worst defensive short stop in the league. Total nonsense. Jeter, though, took this criticism to heart, and spent this past offseason working on his footwork, speed and agility. 

I have to say, I wouldn't have had the discipline, especially if Minka had been waiting for me at home. But Jeter put in his work, and produced one of his best seasons to date.

San Francisco, Chronicled

I spent last week in San Francisco. I’ve visited the city a number of times, but never experienced it through the eyes of a native. The experience is vastly different and much more rewarding. For four days, I knocked around the Richmond District, which runs along Golden Gate Park until the Pacific, and is home to one of the best sushi places in the Western world. I also ate my weight in Mexican food at a tacqueria in the Mission and stopped by City Lights, where I picked up a copy of William Carlos William's In the American Grain and Ron Hansen's Desperadoes. Two solid purchases. 

Speaking of literature, while cutting across Haight Street, I came up with a short story about a gang of affluent kids who go around beating up hippies. If I ever get around to writing it, I'm going to call it "Nixon's Holiday." 

Later, my mind once again clear, I took in this stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge at Baker Beach, which I captured on my cell phone, before reluctantly heading back to New York Saturday evening. 

This was my fourth trip to San Francisco, and it really is an amazing, beautiful city. It's such a calm, inviting place. A fact that was further illuminated almost immediately after I landed, when I was scrunched in the back of a smelly New York City cab, while the driver, screaming into his headset, raced on adrenaline, instinct and blind luck across the Belt Parkway through Queens. 

I can't say I missed New York, at least not entirely. Although I would have liked to have been in town during the World Series. I did manage to catch Game 6 in San Francisco. I have to say, having a World Series game wrapped up before 9 p.m. is an odd feeling. I honestly didn’t know what to do after the final out. I felt a little bit cheated when I couldn’t turn to the YES’s postgame show to see the locker room celebration. I got over it, though, and spent the rest of the evening enjoying my new favorite city. The next morning, still on East Coast time, I fired a final salvo at my co-conspirator. My post elicited the desired response. 

Afterward, enshrouded in fog and heavily caffeinated, I started to feel like blogging, particularly blogging about sports, is undignified, and a total waste of time and energy. It probably is, and silly, too. I’ve come to terms with this. I expect to get back into a regular schedule this week.

You Know He Ain’t Gonna Die

I recently made a not-so-friendly wager with my buddy and co-blogger about Danilo Gallinari’s scoring average. Somewhere along the way, (Ed. a bar, probably), I confidently predicted that the man known as “The Rooster,” or “The Cock,” depending on where your seats are located, would finish the season averaging no less than 16 points per game. Last night, he scored a healthy 22 in the Knicks’ horrible loss to the Miami Heat.

Yes, it’s come to this as a Knicks fan. My interests in the team exists almost exclusively in the offensive progress of a 21-year-old, semi-walled-eyed kid from Sant’Angelo Lodigiano.

Incidentally, Sant’Angelo Lodigiano is also the native home of Mother Cabrini, the Vatican’s favorite American saint.

Isn’t that interesting?

Anyway, in honor of my new favorite Knickerbocker, here’s the studio clip of Alice in Chains’ “The Rooster,” which was recorded in 1992, when Gallinari was four.

“I Sure Ended Up With My Name in Yankee Stadium.”

Marshall Fogel is one of the top sports memorabilia collectors in the country. His collection includes a mirror from the home of Joe DiMaggio, Ty Cobb’s passport, Lou Gehrig’s watch, and a mint 1952 Mickey Mantle baseball card, worth an estimated $2 million, among countless other historical gems.

Fogel, a Denver attorney, started collecting in 1989, right around the same time a nascent sports memorabilia industry caught fire, and in this four-minute clip from CNBC.com, he explains how buying high-end, one-of-kind pieces helped make him one of the most successful—and wealthy—collectors in the industry.

And helped earn him a place in the new Yankee Stadium.

No, New York, No, New York, No

I'm not going to lie. This year's Knicks team doesn't really excite me. I watched a number of their preseason games, including the bizarre exhibition against Maccabi Tel Aviv, and to borrow a phrase, this team don't look too f*cking good. 

Although they do work hard on both ends of the court, the team lacks a go-to offensive weapon, a reliable defensive presence, a consistent shooter and a vocal, veteran leader. In theory, Al Harrington is supposed to fill these various roles, but if anyone expects Harrington to do this, they haven't exactly been paying close attention to Al throughout his career.   

Headed into the season, the Knicks have a ton more questions than they do answers: Is David Lee worth the long-term investment? Is Wilson Chandler a foundational piece, or is he just a role player? Can Danilo Gallinari play in the NBA? Is Nate Robinson anything more than a sideshow? Has Darko Milicic finally figured it out? Was Jordan Hill worth drafting? Is Toney Douglas any good? Is there any team desperate enough to want Jared Jeffries and/or Eddy Curry?

If the Knicks can answer half of these questions in the affirmative, I'll consider the season a resounding success. Going forward, though, the future fortunes of the Knicks, no matter how much progress they show on the court, will rise and fall based on one question and one question only: Will they land LeBron? 

Billiards and Bombers

Last night, during the locker room celebration, YES reporter Kimberly Jones asked Mariano Rivera when he knew this Yankees team could win the American League pennant. Without missing a beat, Rivers pointed to Spring Training, specifically the team’s daylong outing to a local pool hall.

I laughed because, back in February, a few days after the team’s trip to Peabody’s, I wrote this about the field trip:

While I'm all for team-building exercises, I wouldn't put too much stock in yesterday's pool outing. The baseball season is long and grueling. No matter how many field trips the Yankees schedule between now and October, it won't make a lick of difference if the starting rotation fails to deliver, or A-Rod once again withers under the intense media spotlight.

Well, nearly 10 months later, the Yankees reached the World Series behind a stellar starting rotation and an amazing performance from A-Rod. But I also don't want to discount the role chemistry played in the team's successes in the regular season and the first two rounds of the postseason. That the 2009 Yankees seemed—and played—more relaxed than they have in recent years was a running theme in their season-long narrative, cited by many, from Michael Kay to John Heyman: the pies in the face; the championship belt; kangaroo court; fantasy football leagues; fishing trips. This year's Yankees team actually got along and came together much more cohesively than in the past. And, at least according to Mo, the Hammer of God, the team's chemistry all started back in February, when Joe Girardi gave his team a day off and took his players to a pool hall in Florida. 

Chicks Dig the Long Goals

On Wednesday night, Southern Methodist University defender Ryan Rosenbaum scored a 70-yard goal against the nationally ranked Tulsa Golden Hurricane en route to a 3-1 victory. Rosenbaum took an errant Tulsa pass and cleared the ball out of his defensive end. The ball travelled the length of the fielf and bounced off the artificial turf, rocketing over keeper Andy Aguilar’s head into the back of the net.



As if that weren’t cool enough, last night, Washington Capitals defenseman Jeff Schultz scored a 175-foot bouncing goal against Atlanta Thrashers goalie Ondrej Pavelec, who then quickly let in two more goals in the next 88 seconds before finally, mercifully being pulled.



(Both Via)

Big Bats, Bigger Stage

Since the sixth inning of the Yankees’ regular season game against the Tampa Rays, when Alex Rodriguez hit two home runs and drove in 7 RBI to bring his season total to 30 home runs and 100 RBI, respectively, I’ve been texting my friends every time A-Rod hits one out or drives in another run. It’s starting to get expensive. 

So far in the postseason, A-Rod has five homers and 11 RBI. With three more hits last night, including a monster home run into the left field bleachers, Rodriguez is now batting .407 in the first two rounds of the playoffs.

The man is on fire.

Believe it or not, though, A-Rod is, arguably, only the second best player of the 2009 postseason. That honor might just go to Ryan Howard, who’s driven in an amazing 14 in eight games, more RBI than he had in 17 playoff games over the past two years. Although he’s only homered twice, compared to A-Rod’s five, Howard does have four doubles and triple, while batting a cool .379, with seven runs scored.

This after a regular season in which he launched 45 home runs, drove in 141, while batting .279, his highest average since 2006, when he hit .313 on way to picking up the National League Most Valuable Player award.

Both Rodriguez and Howard are putting on a display, matching Lou Gehrig’s postseason record of driving in at least one RBI in eight straight playoff games. Not too shabby, that. 

If the Yankees meet the Phillies in the World Series, a match up that suddenly seems inevitable, Major League Baseball will get to showcase, on its biggest stage, two of the sports biggest-- and most prolific-- sluggers.

Play ball. 

Crisco. Bardal. Vagisil

It seems even the great Mariano Rivera feels the need for some trickeration from time to time. 



As far as I'm concerned, this is just another reason to love Mo. 

(Via Halos Heaven)

UPDATE: I can't believe people are actually taking this video seriously. It's gone so far that Major League Baseball had to open and quickly close an investigation into the matter. Via Joel Sherman's Hardball:

The Major League Baseball Commissioners Office reviewed available video and still photography from Mariano Rivera spitting toward a baseball in ALCS Game 3 and “found no evidence that Rivera spit on the ball,” a spokesman for the commissioner told the Post.

The initial reaction by the league had been that the video plus still pictures they have of the incident were inconclusive if Rivera actually spit on or near the ball. But after further review of what it had, the Commissioners Office determined that Rivera was not spitting directly on the ball.

On still pictures in MLB's possession, it apparently looks as if Rivera is spitting near, but not on, the ball. Also, as even the league office is aware, Rivera is a player who spits constantly while in action.

Come on. This is Mariano Rivera we're talking about here. The guy's been dominating the league for years. If he had been throwing a spitter for the past 15 years, I'm pretty sure someone would have spotted him spitting on the ball at least once in his 900 + career appearances.

Los Angeles Dodgers coach and former Yankees coach Larry Bowa sums it up best:

I have never ever, ever heard anyone say anything about Mo doing something like that. That is totally bogus. If that was true I would have heard about it from somebody and I have never heard anything like that.

Leggo My Logo

Cool story from the Times’ City Room blog. The famous Yankees logo, which has long been credited to Henry Alonzo Keller, a sports illustrator from Bronxville, might actually be the product of a portraitist, Sam Friedman, who used to sketch patrons of the 21 Club. According to Friedman’s family, Friedman drew the logo in 1947 for Dan Topping, a co-owner of the Yankees who had just sidled up to the bar at the 21 Club.

One day, Mr. Topping — who was a regular patron, along with his second wife, Sonja Henie, the Norwegian figure skater and actress — told Sam Friedman he wanted a logo that included the Yankees name, a bat, a ball and patriotic-themed top hat, but that the ad agencies he had already asked had produced nothing satisfactory. So goes the Friedman family story.

Sam Friedman took out a pen and swiftly sketched a design on a cocktail napkin. He elongated a leg of the K in the word Yankees and made it a bat with a top hat on top. He drew the circumference of a baseball around it, said Jack Friedman, who provided a copy of a scrap upon which his great-uncle wrote the word “Yanks,” which he says strongly resembles the cursive of the logo.

When reached for comment, Tony Morante, the Yankees’ director of stadium tours, said Henry Keller has always been recognized as the logo’s creator.

Interestingly, Keller’s family claims the Mets later stole Henry’s logo, which he designed for the team and is still used today. And, since they are the Mets, a team spokesperson said they had no idea who designed the logo, even though, as one Times’ commenter pointed out, the Mets own website gives credit to cartoonist Ray Gatto.

Only in New York. 

Hockey Can Be Awesome, Part II

Not only are the Rangers on a six-game winning streak, but nine-year-old Oliver Wahlstrom, a winger for the Portland Junior Pirate Pee-Wee Major 97s-- and the greatest kid hockey player since Gordon Bombay-- demonstrates how to light the lamp, during the first intermission of the Bruins' recent game against the New Jersey Devils. 



Again, if the sport showcased more stuff like this, hockey would be much more popular than it is now: somewhere between reruns of American Gladiator and women's tennis.

Your Lying Eyes

"Slate" takes a closer look at baseball's warped camera angle.



This is somewhat elementary for regular baseball fans, but "Slate," like TBS, is seemingly going out of its way to introduce baseball this month to civilians. (Actually, in the case of TBS, I'm not even sure the network has explained the basics of the game to their lead announcer). As for "Slate," I know it's fairly typical of the magazine to take a contrarian stance-- puppies, are not, in fact, cute-- but claiming that Mets pitcher Pedro Feliciano has a good slider is a ridiculous claim even for them. 

Cheap Seats

On Saturday night, I went to the Rangers home opener against the Ottawa Senators. A friend has season tickets, which, in previous years, were located 8 rows behind the net, on the 7th Avenue side of the Garden. This year, however, he downgraded his two seats to the 400s, all the way up on the ninth floor of the Garden, where smoking is not necessarily discouraged, the roof leaks, and the nearest bathroom is one flight down, two sections over. 

This is the only place to watch a hockey game. 

The fans, most of whom sported a Rangers jersey and/or a mullet, were completely into every aspect of the game, from before the team introductions to well beyond the final buzzer. You haven’t experienced a hockey game until a zaftig woman in a Jeff Beukeboom road jersey a few rows over starts yelling about the waning efficiency of a team’s line change from period to period. She was right, too, and if the NHL had enough sense to broadcast every hockey game from the cheap seats, sports fans would flock to hockey faster than an Alex Ovechkin slap shot.

Eddy Curry is Vestigial

Yesterday, Eddy Curry, the man once considered the cornerstone of the New York Knicks, was diagnosed with a torn right plantaris muscle, a vestigial sheath of tissue located between the calf and the ankle. Only 40 percent of the world's population even has this muscle. Curry, who missed the better part of the past two seasons due to various ailments and poor conditioning, is now injuring parts of his body that are, medically speaking, no more useful than an appendix or a human tail. Which begs the awful, yet inevitable question: how much longer can Eddy Curry last in the National Basketball Association?

Curry's professional career has been a complete disaster. It's sad, but true. Diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat at the end of the 2004-2005 season, Curry was traded to the Knicks for an expensive package of expiring contracts and future draft picks. The trade, compounded by a number of horrendous organizational decisions (See Thomas, Isiah), continues to cripple the franchise. Curry, believe it or not, is still under contract next year, which could very well prevent the Knicks from signing a second free agent in the much-heralded class of 2010. 

I'm not about to put this on Curry, though. I honestly feel bad for the guy. His most recent setback caps off a horrible 2009. In January, Curry's former driver filed a bizarre sexual harassment suit against Curry alleging Curry exposed himself and tried to solicit sex from his former employee. That same month, Curry's former girlfriend was killed in her home, along with the couple's daughter. Their three-year-old son witnessed the murder. In June, Curry's home went into foreclosure, which prompted Curry to ask the Knicks for an advance on his $8 million-salary. The Knicks denied his request. There's nothing funny about his current personal or professional situation. The man obviously needs a lot of help, financially, professionally and emotionally.  

Still, at this point in his career, Curry is quickly running out of time and chances, and is in serious jeopardy of losing everything.  

Mike Blowers Sees All

Before each game, the radio announcers for the Seattle Mariners pick a player they think will have a good game. A somewhat silly, but ultimately harmless pregame ritual. On Sunday, prior to the first pitch of the Mariners-Blue Jays game, color guy Mike Blowers, who played for the Mariners for four seasons, from 1992 to 1995, not only picked rookie Matt Tuiasosopo, he predicted Tuiasosopo would homer to left field in the third inning, during his second at bat, on a 3-1 fastball. Harmless fun, right? Well, guess what Tuiasosopo did? He hit a 3-1 fastball into the left field bleachers in the third inning, during his second at bat. 

Check out Blowers' pregame prediction and his partner's amazing in-game play-by-play here. Seriously, with 9 games left in their season, Mike Blowers is the only thing the Mariners have left going for them. 

(Via)

The Definitive Drinker's Dictionary

In his new book, Drunk: The Definitive Drinker's Dictionary, Paul Dickson, author of The Hidden Language of Baseball and Sputnik, pulls together 2,964 euphemisms for being drunk. The terms range from the obvious ("tipsy," "off his rocker," "blotto") and the not-so-common ("eating dirt," "off me pickle,") to the truly bizarre ("feng schwasted"). My personal favorite? Easy, "talking to Earl on the big white phone," a term I'm sure to use this weekend and, in all likelihood, the rest of my life.  

The Return of IPK Flabbergasts John Sterling

Ian Patrick Kennedy made a surprise appearance yesterday afternoon during the Yankees' series-clinching win over the Angels. Kennedy, who underwent surgery in May to repair an aneurysm in his pitching arm, pitched the 8th inning. Although he recorded one strike out, he also walked two and hit a batter. He escaped the inning, though, without giving up the lead. Not exactly a quality performance, but considering where he was a few months ago, his presence on the mound, however shaky, was a welcome--and unexpected-- sight. How unexpected? Well, I'll let John Sterling, the baritone radio voice of the Yankees, tell you, courtesy of It Is High.

Born to Run

Today is Bruce Springteen's 60th birthday, as the Sports Guy has taken great pains to point out on twitter.  I find it shocking that Springsteen’s only 60. How is he still that young? In recent years, the Boss has seemed kind of ancient; not exactly past his expiration date, but certainly long enough in the tooth to be celebrated as rock’s Methuselah-like patriarch.

Anyway, in honor of Springsteen's 60th, Slate recounts the story behind Bruce's magnus opus, "Born to Run," truly one of the greatest rock albums of all time and certainly the best to come out of the Garden State. I forget sometimes that Springsteen labored over this album, particularly its title track, the Boss’s signature song. I forget, too, that if Springsteen hadn’t come through with a commercially viable album—his third and possibly final one with Sony— he would today most likely be sharing the bill with Southside Johnny on Mike'd Up. 

It’s true. Before the success of "Born to Run," Sony, Springsteen's record label, was set to drop him, which, pre-Internet, would have been, for all intents and purposes, the end of Springsteen's career. The Boss's firing would have changed the trajectory of American music, and, on a more personal note, severely hindered my uncle’s social life throughout the 1980s, when he spent the better part of every summer attending Springsteen concerts, up and down the Jersey shore. Really, we all would have missed out. No album or piece of art impacted my adolescent world view or calibrated my expectations of all that was yet to come than "Born to Run," with the possible exception of Slaughterhouse Five, Pearl Jam’s "Ten," and, at certain moments, The Baltimore Cathechism. I honestly do not know who I would be, or how I would experience the world, without having heard this album. How often do you get to say that about anything?

Which is why the album's backstory is so interesting. Backed into a corner, Springsteen knew he had a good idea in "Born to Run," but he couldn’t quite nail it down, no matter how many times he tried, or how many instruments he introduced, including, oddly, a glockenspiel.

The alternate mixes of "Born To Run" that are available reveal some of the ways in which Springsteen experimented musically. In one, a female chorus joins him in the background when he sings, "get out while we're young," "got to know how it feels," and "walk in the sun." Musically, the strings at various points are more prominent than they would be in the final version. It's easy to see why Bruce rejected this mix: The chorus and strings make the song too ethereal and distance it from the driving force of the beat. In another mix, Springsteen's lead vocal is doubled, the chorus is still intact, and the strings at the end of the song are even more pronounced. Two other mixes play with the balance of strings and bass. At one point, the band experimented with different sound effects such as streetcars and drag racing.

The earliest live version of the song that is available dates from July 13, 1974, at the Bottom Line in New York, more than a year before a string of shows at the same venue that would astonish the industry. While musically the song is almost set, lyrically it is dramatically different from the final version, so much so that its meaning shifts. After "runaway American dream," Springsteen sings, "At night we stop and tremble in the heat/ With murder in our dreams." The song is darker. He is not singing to Wendy, whose name does not appear. The second verse opens, "So close your tired eyes little one/ And crawl within my reach. ... [W]e'll ride tonight on the beach/ Out where the surfers, sad, wet, and cold/ As they watch the skies/ There'll be a silence to match their own."

Eventually, though, he got it right. Springsteen credits Stevie Van Zandt with saving the song. A simple major/minor chord adjustment, suggested about six months after Springsteen first started writing the tune, made all the difference, according to the Boss. "Steve’s greatest contribution to my music."

Here's a clip of Springsteen explaining the difficulty he had in composing the song and a selection of the song's aborted arrangements. 

And here's an early, somewhat disturbing version of "Thunder Road," which was originally called "Wings for Wheels," a pretty terrible title. 

Backspacer

The four-star reviews are in.

Rolling Stone: 

Fans of Pearl Jam's chest-beating angst mode might look for some metaphorical resonance in 'Amongst the Waves.' Yet the more you listen, the more it just sounds like Vedder's spending a nice day surfing. After toughing out the Bush years, Pearl Jam aren't in the mood for brooding; at long last, surf's up.

Los Angeles Times:

A thousand rock 'n' roll clichés have been built around the idea that guts and glory belong to the young. Pearl Jam's ninth studio album, "Backspacer," due out Sunday (Sept. 20), makes the opposite argument. Its 11 breakneck rockers and candidly emotional ballads, adding up to barely more than a half hour of optimally toned catharsis, gain power from the band's calm but constant awareness of life's ticking clock.

Spin:

For the first time in years, Pearl Jam are seizing the moment rather than wallowing in it.

Chicago Tribune:

But the taut songwriting on “Backspacer” is a bracing reminder of a less-celebrated facet of Pearl Jam’s personality, the step-on-it-and-go attack of “Spin the Black Circle,” “Lukin” or “Do the Evolution.”

I’ve yet to hear the album in full, but what I’ve heard—“The Fixer,” “Got Some,” “Force of Nature,” “The End,”  "Just Breathe" and the below “Unthought Known”—work. It’s not their best effort, but I’m not sure that’s the point. There’s no big message here. It’s simply a record of five guys playing songs together, with a lifetime of experiences at their feet. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Pearl Jam’s never going to scale again the stratospheric levels of success and creativity they reached in the 1990s. They are, thankfully, a vastly different band now. And their fans, myself included, are vastly different people than when we were teenagers. We stopped waiting for Pearl Jam’s “11” years ago.

Wise Words From the Captain

“It’s a bump in the road, but it happens. You just have to work your way through it. If we win, we'll be where we want to be. We’re not chasing anybody.”

So true.

King Rex

I know it's still early in the season, but I like what I've seen from the New York Jets. New coach Rex Ryan has them playing an aggressive, balls-to-the-wall defense. In two games thus far, the Jets' D has yet to give up a single touchdown. In fact, they've held the Texans and the Patriots, two superior offenses, to a total of nine points. They have a long way to go before anyone confuses them with the '86 Bears, but the defense is quickly making a name for itself. The offense, led by rookie quarterback Mark Sanchez, is doing its part, too. Yesterday, Sanchez put up better numbers than Tom Brady, delivering an impressive 16-play, 68-yard scoring drive to start the second half. Turns out, that would be enough, because the defense suffocated Brady and the Patriots for the game's final 30 minutes. No small feat. 

Like all good coaches, Ryan has lit a fire under his team--and its fan base--and it seems both would run through a wall for him, which is really half the battle. If he can keep this up--and that's a pretty big if-- Ryan could very well replace Bill Parcells as New York's favorite head coach. 

For more thoughts on the yesterday's game, please take a look at my other site, You're Wrong About Everything. 

Damn Braves

I’d like to thank the good lord for making me a Yankees fan. If I had to root for the Braves, I’d be an ornery, frustrated bastard. The Braves, winners of seven straight, have run hot and cold all season. They started the year 33-40, losing some pretty brutal games in the season’s first-half, before recovering with an impressive 44-28 run. This season alone, they’ve had four separate four-game losing streaks and two five-game losing streaks to go along with one four-game winning streak and three five-game winning streaks.

They are maddeningly inconsistent.

Take, for instance, their recent seven-game winning streak, extended last night with a come-from-behind victory over the hapless Mets. The recent streak sounds pretty good, particularly down the stretch in a pennant race. Impressive, at least, until you realize the Braves previously dropped six of seven immediately before their current wining streak. 6 down; 7 up. Nautically speaking, there is little difference between the Braves and an ocean buoy. (Ed. Note: Thanks, Bob Sullivan.) 

This morning, the Braves find themselves a season-high 10 games over .500, 4.5 games behind the Colorado Rockies for the Wild Card, with 16 games to play. If the Rockies go 7-8 over their final 15 games, the Braves would have to go 12-4 just to force a tie. Mathematically, the Braves are still in it. If I were a betting man, though, I’d sit this one out, preseason predictions be damned.

IPK

Two seasons ago, when the Minnesota Twins were shopping Johan Santana, the team’s front office reportedly asked Yankees General Manager Brian Cashman for Melky Cabrera, Phil Hughes and Ian Kennedy. For many fans, this was, in the parlance of sports talk radio, a no-brainer. Cashman, though, took his time making his decision. Why give up, Cashman reasoned, a serviceable outfielder and two promising young arms, especially when Santana’s contract was about to expire? Cashman figured he’d end up paying for Santana twice, first with a package of young, cost-controlled talent and, later, with a lengthy, multi-million-dollar contract. Cashman, to the dismay of many, passed, and Santana was shipped to the Mets for, it must be noted, a lesser package.

At first, Cashman’s decision didn’t look too good. Cabrera, predictably so, regressed. Hughes stunk. And Kennedy, a soft tossing, finesse pitcher, got rocked to the tune of an 8.17 ERA and a 1.916 WHIP. Even worse, he didn't care. The Yankees missed the playoffs for the first time in 12 years, and New Yorkers, true to form, spent most of the season ripping Cashman for his decision not to go after Santana.

Cashman, though, rebounded in the winter, signing CC Sabathia, which helped solidify the starting rotation. (The signing of A.J. Burnett and the resigning of Andy Pettitte helped a great deal, too). Meanwhile, two of the players Cashman refused to part with rebounded from a disastrous season. Mellky, pushed by the addition of Brett Gardner, is playing a serviceable outfiled, and Hughes has been a revelation since moving to the 8th inning.

But what about the third, Ian Patrick Kennedy?

After spending most of the second half of the 2008 season in Scranton, Kennedy was sent to play in the Puerto Rican Winter League, where he posted a league-low 1.56 ERA, seemingly rediscovering the better-than-average control that inspired the Yankees to select him in the first round of the 2006 MLB Draft. By the middle of Spring Training, Kennedy, still only 24, had regained the respect of his manager, and was back in the team’s plans for the future.

A few weeks later, though, Kennedy, pitching well in the minors, left a game with numbness in the middle finger of his right hand, which was diagnosed a vasospasm in his right middle finger. Doctors later discovered an aneurysm in an artery near his right shoulder. His season—and, quite possibly, his career—was thought to be over.

But Kennedy fought back, working his way back to professional baseball. Last night, he pitched three hitless innings in his first Triple-A start since his surgery in May. Kennedy struck out the side in the first inning (Ed. Note: the Durham Bulls made contact on one of his first 15 pitches) and struck out two in the second. He racked up his sixth and final strikeout in the third, sandwiched between a flyout and groundout. After 50 very good pitches, Kennedy’s night was through.

“Everything felt good,” Kennedy said. “I got ahead of guys. My fastball command was better than in my first [rehab] outing. I felt back to normal again, and it’s much more comfortable pitching at that adrenalin rush rather than like my first outing when I couldn’t control it.”

This could be a big boost for the Yankees next season, as Kennedy still projects as a reliable back-of-the-rotation starter. Even if he doesn't crack the rotation, though, it's nice to see the kid pitching again. 

The Tao of Swayze

Last night, my friend Ben texted me about the Patriots' come-from-behind win against the hapless Bills. He wanted to share with me the many wonders of Tom Brady. I texted back: "Can't talk right now. Patrick Swayze died." The news hit me kind of hard, although it wasn't exactly a surprise. Swayze had been battling Stage IV pancreatic cancer for more than a year. 

It was impossible to avoid Swayze as a kid. The man was practically everywhere, starring in such classics as "Red Dawn," "Youngblood," "Road House," "Dirty Dancing," "Point Break," and "Ghost," among other quality flicks. Like just about every other person of my generation, I've probably seen every Patrick Swayze movie ever made. Well, not all of them. This strikes me as odd for a number of reasons. Most notably, his movies centered around ridiculous plots, and he was kind of a bad actor, which is why almost all of his films were, in a word, fucking awesome. 

Patrick Swayze was probably the best bad actor of his generation. Although he earned three Golden Globes nominations for “Dirty Dancing,” “Ghost,” and “To Wang Fu, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar,” Swayze seemed to conquer Hollywood, however briefly his reign, in spite of his limited range as an actor. His celluloid success didn’t exactly stem from a keen sense of craft. I can’t exactly envision him, for instance, creating a back story for Bodhi or Dalton or Jed Eckert, probably because these characters were there for one reason and one reason only: to kick some ass. No, Swayze's talent existed almost exclusively in his ability to look past the underlying silliness of his characters, and just go for it. Swayze, at least for a moment, believed he was Bodhi. He believed he was Dalton. And you damn well know he believed he was Johnny Castle.

How else can you explain pulling off the following lines?

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”

“Pain don’t hurt.”

“Ditto.”

“100 percent pure adrenaline.”

An actor better commit to these lines, or the scene's going to end up an absolute train wreck. Which other actor could have made a career out of these unmistakably terrible lines? Each one, though, shoots right to heart of each movie: a young girl’s coming-of-age; one man’s fight for justice (and an honest bartender); everlasting love; to thine own self be true, brah. As disposable and risible as these lines are on the page, Swayze somehow made them believable, palpable, classic. 

Bad and Worse, Meet Worst

I stumbled across this piece of news a few weeks ago, but it’s taken me this long to come to grips with the unholy trinity of Warren Zevon, Mitch Albom and Kevin Smith. A year before he died, Zevon, the most overrated songwriter of his generation, collaborated with Albom on the song, “Hit Somebody,” about a Canadian farm boy who grows up to be an enforcer for a professional hockey team. Albom, a lifelong hockey fan and master of smaltz, penned the lyrics, while Zevon composed the music. I'm sorry, but you have to hear it for yourself.  



As if this weren’t bad enough, Kevin Smith, arguably the worst filmmaker of his generation, is currently in talks with Albom to produce a movie based on the five-minutes-and-thirty-three-second-too-long tune. Theoretically, a movie about a 1970s Canadian hockey goon could be a lot of fun, but this ain’t no "Slapshot." Smith said he envisions the film as being more dramatic in nature, and possibly entering into awards season chatter down the road.

“I never once thought about winning awards or anything, but that movie I think can do it,” Smith said. “If I play my cards right and we get the right people in it, it could be an award-type movie. This the one I really want to do in a big, bad way.”

I've been racking my brains about a worst collaboration. A Tyler Perry-Jason Whitlock-Darius Rucker joint would probably beat this one out. But only barely. 

Big Fan

I'm excited about “Big Fan,” Robert Siegel's new film about an obsessed New York Giants fan who equates the team's win-loss record with his own lot in life. The film, which opens this weekend, stars Patton Oswalt, one of the funniest mother fuckers working today. It's getting some good early reviews, and Oswalt is plugging the hell out of it. The other day, he spoke with Bill Simmons on one of the Sports Guy’s podcasts. During their hour-long conversation, Oswalt touched on just about everything, from his new film, his career, sports films, Comic-Con, comedy and, around the 13-minute mark, how "Friday Night Lights" is arguably one of the best television shows ever written. (“My wife and I were just feeding the DVDs. You can’t stop watching it. It’s just so amazing. Connie Britton and Kyle Chandler. I don’t know why they just don’t give them the Emmys. Just give it to them.”)

"Big Fan" isn’t a sports movie, per se. At its heart, it’s a film about obsession, and how the obsessed—whether it’s sports enthusiasts, foodies, comic book geeks, or as Oswalt told the Sports guys, cinemaphiles, want to disappear completely in their hobbies. “Unlike a Travis Bickle,” Oswalt said of his character, “he’s not desperately trying to reach out and connect to the world. He’s actually built such a comfortable and complete shell, his battle is with the people who are trying to get him to come out of it.”

I think that’s exactly right. If a fan's not careful, sports can take over your life. A point made almost daily on New York's sports radio. The other afternoon a caller phoned in to Mike Francesa to talk about Joba Chamberlain. Before he made his point, he offhandedly mentioned that he was in between trips to the hospital, where his wife, the poor girl, was delivering their first child. The caller figured he had time to offer his two cents on Joba’s recent pitching performances, in between contractions, I guess.

"We all have these passions, and most of us use them to enhance our lives," Oswalt recently told the "Los Angeles Times." "But for some people, they replace a life. When it takes over and you start wanting to exclude people, you've gone to an ugly place."