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.