I realized, as the week went by, and the Worldwide Leader (among others) bombarded us with yet more coverage on the story, that we forgot to address one of the New Year’s most intriguing events in the catch-up post – our boy Michael Phelps’ little mary jane mishap.
(If you missed out on this contentious little bit of news, just Google “Phelps and Bong”. Kinda fun.)
There seem to be two prevailing sets of opinions on the story and subsequent media hissy-fit, and since we’re all about fairness and balance here at 65TPT, let’s give them both some thought.
Opinion set #1: Phelps deserves every bit of criticism and censure he gets from both his sponsorship and the ruling body of his sport – not to mention the disappointment of fans everywhere. The fact that the photo was news in the first place is the natural and necessary side-effect of worldwide fame and millions in sponsorship dollars.
Once a person of Phelps’ stature decides to trade on his personal image by accepting unGodly amounts of compensation in advertising contracts, it is the public’s right (some would call it duty) to scrutinize said image using the facts at hand. The photo was published responsibly and legally because Phelps is a public figure and has no reasonable expectation of privacy at a college party in South Carolina*.
*I don’t think either side of the argument would dispute this point. Any editor in his or her right mind would publish the photo without much hesitation. Personally, we don’t blame agents of the media for acting on this definition of “news” – we blame YOU, the consumer, for caring. (We would also appreciate it if YOU, the consumer, ignored the fact that WE, the publisher, are only fueling this fire by contradicting ourselves and continuing the discussion. But hey, YOU started it.)
The idea that Phelps - an iconic role model for young people throughout the world - would use an illegal substance is shocking, and his personal decisions regarding recreational drug use represent an important issue for public discourse.
Opinion set #2: Regardless of his status as a record-setting athlete and marketing mammoth, Phelps deserves the same amount of privacy and respect as the rest of us Triple-A’s (Anonymous Average Americans). Why should he be penalized for his monumental success in both competition and business? Ignore the fact that he’s the face of the American Olympic team, and the photo would just be one more of the millions depicting toasted-ass, bong-ripping college students on Facebook and MySpace. Therefore, it deserves just as much press as those photos.
[This set of opinions is almost always attached to a rant about someone’s personal stance on American drug policy (marijuana especially) – a subject we’re neither qualified nor interested enough to broach here. The way we look at it, the law’s the law, and there’s little to accomplish debating it in this forum. Got a problem? Write your senator.]
Our biggest issue with the voluminous coverage and subsequent public-opinion overload related to these types of stories is not the reactions themselves, but that the size and scope of the reactions seem to be directly proportional to the achievements and stature of the offender in question. To us, it suggests that the transgression is far less relevant than the individual who committed it – contradicting the reasoning behind its importance in the first place.
It’s like this: If any other swimmer (besides maybe Dana Torres or Mark Spitz) got caught in a similar fashion, we wouldn’t give a damn. We wouldn’t even know the person by sight, name, or biography, and if someone showed us the photo or took the time to Email it to us, we would very likely disregard it immediately. We’re not interested in healthy discourse about the effects of marijuana on society, or even sports – we simply use those premises as thin veils to disguise our hero-worship and obsession with celebrity.
There’s nothing we love more in this country than a good ol’ fashioned fall from grace. We actually enjoy watching the slow, torturous deaths of the Golden Boys (and Girls), because deep down, we know they never existed in the first place. We’re transfixed by the gory beauty of the melting façade.
Jordan, Jones, A-Rod, Rose, Lawrence Taylor and even Derrick Thomas – the list of battered reputations and shattered public personas grows on us each and every day. And why do we love these stories of loss, transgression, and mistake? Because they make our heroes say, “Sorry.” Make them apologize to us.
It’s better than a rookie-card autograph with a personal note. We love these little circuses, ‘cause they flip the script on the traditional player-fan relationship -- empowering us, the ever-forgiving fans, to do our inevitable duty in the infinite cycle of news-media scandal.
And don’t we do it well? Draw up that mental list of disgraced superstars and ask yourself: How many of them have we forgiven? The answer, of course, is every single one who asked for it. Gamblers and cheaters, ‘Roiders and dope-smokers -- drive-home drinkers, wife-beaters, liars, and just plain weasely characters – we’ve forgiven them all at some point or another. But why?
Simple: Innocence is power. We, the innocent consumers, fans, admirers and bystanders basically just love judging people – especially those who have it so much better than we do. We feel empowered by the fact that they ask our forgiveness. And all one must do is ask. Perhaps it’s our overwhelmingly Christian heritage, but Americans tend to grant that forgiveness unquestioningly and, usually, without much hesitation.
All we really want to hear is our hero say the words. We’re a lot like the four-year-old’s mother, prodding: “What do you say, Mikey?”
Of course, Little Mikey (as most of us would still like to think of him) has alweady said his sowwees, and USA Swimming sentenced him to a three-month time out. Only one of his sponsors, Kellogg’s, has vowed not to renew his contract -- no doubt hoping to protect a generation of Froot Loop-slurping brats from that dreaded gateway into the world of illicit drugs, anonymous sex, senseless crime and militant Islam. (And whatever else we’re scared of at the moment.)
You may get an idea about which set of opinions your humble publishers hold, but that certainly doesn’t discount the other side. Personally, we just don’t like the current trends concerning individual privacy and the media in general – including the media outlets we ourselves choose, like Facebook, MySpace, and myriad others. What does our increasing willingness to publish personal information (and other media i.e. photos, audio and video) mean for the civil rights of the future? Will the law ever step in to stem these ever-deepening tides?
Or, will our generation have to take its lumps – Mikey sure took his last month – and learn our lessons the hard way?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
We're Ba-aak
So yeah, it’s been awhile.
Plenty has gone down since we last palavered, but we’ve got neither the time nor the inclination to rehash every important event and news story of the past six months. There were a few highlights that merit mentioning, however, so let’s get our chores out of the way before returning to business.
Right. So how ‘bout them Chiefs? Yowzah. Turns out you can’t play the Cover 2 without a D- line (Or linebackers. Or safeties.) after all. Aren’t you glad your team got to sponsor that little Pro Football research project? Personally, I thought Herm deserved one more year, but I can’t fault Mr. Hunt for dumping Snarling Carl. The moment that decision was made, Herm’s fate was sealed.
Needless to say, it was time for Peterson to find a new hobby. The former GM (I get goose bumps just typing it) negotiated with players as if free agency never even happened – no doubt a symptom of his swollen superego – and operated under the ridiculous assumption that his feelings were more important to the franchise than those of its players. A certain Pro Bowl defensive end comes to mind, among others.
Peterson was in complete denial about the state of the modern NFL employment market, a long-term trend we may consider in future posts.
Front-office makeover aside, it’s tough to see the ‘08 season as anything other than a monumental waste and utter failure.
Draft day, here we come. (Again)
One development of a much more pleasing nature (at least to your procrastinating publisher) has been the outstanding play of the Missouri men’s basketball team. Mike Anderson is makin’ me look damn good. Truth is, he’s finally got his recruits in place, and the team is as deep as it is defensively aggressive.
The real difference, though, has come on offense. Not since the oft-lauded days of Norm Stewart has a Missouri team worked as hard as this one does in its half-court sets. For years (the Snyder years in particular, as well as Anderson’s first two) the Tigers’ set offense consisted of little more than dribble-drives and three point bombs. No picks, no cuts, and few passes.
Granted, Missouri still shoots more three-pointers than it should. Difference is, this team actually has some natural shooters. Freshmen Kim English and Marcus Denmon (a Hogan Prep grad) can both make a man pay for doubling off of them, and their overall shot selection is good for young players. Throw in Matt Lawrence coming off of ten well-set, hard screens a night and you’re halfway to achieving one of the most crucial elements of good offense: balance -- a concept with which previous Missouri teams have been woefully unfamiliar.
And then there’s the defense. Forcing a good Kansas team into 27 turnovers is one thing (Missouri has forced 15+ TOs in 8 of 11 conference games and hasn’t yet forced fewer than ten), but statistics don't convey all the effects of Anderson’s style of play. For every steal and forced turnover, this team makes two or three traps, deflections, and assaults on the ball-handler. (There were unconfirmed reports last week that Chickenhawk PG Sherron Collins is looking into pressing charges. Luckily, Quin Snyder has agreed to represent JT Tiller in the matter -- that Duke Law degree has got to be worth something...)
But there’s one slight misconception about 40 minutes of hell that most sports journalists (yours truly included) have proliferated over the past three seasons. Every time someone describes this style of play, they inevitably talk about increasing the number of possessions in the game, and it’s true, the Tigers do, but it’s slightly more complicated than that.
See, the Tigers don’t just increase the number of overall possessions in the game, they up the count of their own possessions when compared to their opponents. By pressing the entire game, Missouri increases the amount of time its opponent takes to advance the ball past half-court -- slowing down the offense, wasting shot-clock, and limiting the number of that unfortunate team’s potential possessions.
But here’s the key -- by running on EVERY defensive rebound and nearly every turnover, Missouri also shortens its own average possession and multiplies the likelihood that it will take more shots than its opponents.
In conference play, the Tigers have out-shot their opponents in ten of eleven games, and their offensive efficiency (almost three assists per turnover) helps make every extra shot count. It’s kinda like the inverse alley-cat, for all you South grads out there – ball control with the shot-clock in mind. The difference is, Missouri controls the ball on defense – an influence few teams can muster. (See the 2008 Boston Celtics or any Gregg Poppovich team.)
Don’t think for a second that I’m dumb enough to make a prediction about this team, either, ‘cause the minute I do, you know they’ll tank faster than your stock portfolio. That said, an NCAA Tourney berth is extremely exciting and a treat Tiger fans have missed for nearly half a decade.
I think the Scott Pioli/Todd Haley hires deserve their own post, and it’s too early to make any meaningful analysis or predictions about what they might do next year, but let’s note: On the surface, I like both hires. Each is young (relatively), confident, and philosophically aggressive, both in scheme and personality. Both boast impressive pedigrees (though the media over-hypes the fact), and will likely work well together toward the common goal of winning. These are blanket generalizations and blatant assumptions, of course, but hey, it’s the off-season. Look for more on the subject soon.
The NBA regular season is plugging along, and there have been few surprises so far. Boston and LA are great again, as expected, and the Cavaliers are finally realizing some of LBJ’s infinite potential. As the draft deadline approaches, however, Cleveland likely needs help the worst. The ascent of the Magic and Dwight Howard, though expected, has helped the Eastern Conference balance itself with the West, which has been dominant for damn near a decade.
And then, there’s A-Rod. What can one possibly write about this topic that you haven’t already read?
Let’s leave it at this: A-Rod got the long, hard shaft on this one. The Union should have never agreed to “anonymous” testing in an era when unnamed sources outnumber identified ones and your commissioner makes no bones about hanging his players out to dry. The trend in sports journalism (hell, all journalism these days) is to publish first, verify later, and fuck everybody in-between.
So, sorry, Alex -- consider yourself reamed. The fact that Selig insists he deserves none of the blame for the steroid era nor the leak itself gives you a good idea of what kind of fella he is. Pretty scary when you think about it.
Alright, I think we’re about as caught up as we're gonna get for now. We hope to see you again next week – same bat-time, same bat-channel.
Plenty has gone down since we last palavered, but we’ve got neither the time nor the inclination to rehash every important event and news story of the past six months. There were a few highlights that merit mentioning, however, so let’s get our chores out of the way before returning to business.
Right. So how ‘bout them Chiefs? Yowzah. Turns out you can’t play the Cover 2 without a D- line (Or linebackers. Or safeties.) after all. Aren’t you glad your team got to sponsor that little Pro Football research project? Personally, I thought Herm deserved one more year, but I can’t fault Mr. Hunt for dumping Snarling Carl. The moment that decision was made, Herm’s fate was sealed.
Needless to say, it was time for Peterson to find a new hobby. The former GM (I get goose bumps just typing it) negotiated with players as if free agency never even happened – no doubt a symptom of his swollen superego – and operated under the ridiculous assumption that his feelings were more important to the franchise than those of its players. A certain Pro Bowl defensive end comes to mind, among others.
Peterson was in complete denial about the state of the modern NFL employment market, a long-term trend we may consider in future posts.
Front-office makeover aside, it’s tough to see the ‘08 season as anything other than a monumental waste and utter failure.
Draft day, here we come. (Again)
One development of a much more pleasing nature (at least to your procrastinating publisher) has been the outstanding play of the Missouri men’s basketball team. Mike Anderson is makin’ me look damn good. Truth is, he’s finally got his recruits in place, and the team is as deep as it is defensively aggressive.
The real difference, though, has come on offense. Not since the oft-lauded days of Norm Stewart has a Missouri team worked as hard as this one does in its half-court sets. For years (the Snyder years in particular, as well as Anderson’s first two) the Tigers’ set offense consisted of little more than dribble-drives and three point bombs. No picks, no cuts, and few passes.
Granted, Missouri still shoots more three-pointers than it should. Difference is, this team actually has some natural shooters. Freshmen Kim English and Marcus Denmon (a Hogan Prep grad) can both make a man pay for doubling off of them, and their overall shot selection is good for young players. Throw in Matt Lawrence coming off of ten well-set, hard screens a night and you’re halfway to achieving one of the most crucial elements of good offense: balance -- a concept with which previous Missouri teams have been woefully unfamiliar.
And then there’s the defense. Forcing a good Kansas team into 27 turnovers is one thing (Missouri has forced 15+ TOs in 8 of 11 conference games and hasn’t yet forced fewer than ten), but statistics don't convey all the effects of Anderson’s style of play. For every steal and forced turnover, this team makes two or three traps, deflections, and assaults on the ball-handler. (There were unconfirmed reports last week that Chickenhawk PG Sherron Collins is looking into pressing charges. Luckily, Quin Snyder has agreed to represent JT Tiller in the matter -- that Duke Law degree has got to be worth something...)
But there’s one slight misconception about 40 minutes of hell that most sports journalists (yours truly included) have proliferated over the past three seasons. Every time someone describes this style of play, they inevitably talk about increasing the number of possessions in the game, and it’s true, the Tigers do, but it’s slightly more complicated than that.
See, the Tigers don’t just increase the number of overall possessions in the game, they up the count of their own possessions when compared to their opponents. By pressing the entire game, Missouri increases the amount of time its opponent takes to advance the ball past half-court -- slowing down the offense, wasting shot-clock, and limiting the number of that unfortunate team’s potential possessions.
But here’s the key -- by running on EVERY defensive rebound and nearly every turnover, Missouri also shortens its own average possession and multiplies the likelihood that it will take more shots than its opponents.
In conference play, the Tigers have out-shot their opponents in ten of eleven games, and their offensive efficiency (almost three assists per turnover) helps make every extra shot count. It’s kinda like the inverse alley-cat, for all you South grads out there – ball control with the shot-clock in mind. The difference is, Missouri controls the ball on defense – an influence few teams can muster. (See the 2008 Boston Celtics or any Gregg Poppovich team.)
Don’t think for a second that I’m dumb enough to make a prediction about this team, either, ‘cause the minute I do, you know they’ll tank faster than your stock portfolio. That said, an NCAA Tourney berth is extremely exciting and a treat Tiger fans have missed for nearly half a decade.
I think the Scott Pioli/Todd Haley hires deserve their own post, and it’s too early to make any meaningful analysis or predictions about what they might do next year, but let’s note: On the surface, I like both hires. Each is young (relatively), confident, and philosophically aggressive, both in scheme and personality. Both boast impressive pedigrees (though the media over-hypes the fact), and will likely work well together toward the common goal of winning. These are blanket generalizations and blatant assumptions, of course, but hey, it’s the off-season. Look for more on the subject soon.
The NBA regular season is plugging along, and there have been few surprises so far. Boston and LA are great again, as expected, and the Cavaliers are finally realizing some of LBJ’s infinite potential. As the draft deadline approaches, however, Cleveland likely needs help the worst. The ascent of the Magic and Dwight Howard, though expected, has helped the Eastern Conference balance itself with the West, which has been dominant for damn near a decade.
And then, there’s A-Rod. What can one possibly write about this topic that you haven’t already read?
Let’s leave it at this: A-Rod got the long, hard shaft on this one. The Union should have never agreed to “anonymous” testing in an era when unnamed sources outnumber identified ones and your commissioner makes no bones about hanging his players out to dry. The trend in sports journalism (hell, all journalism these days) is to publish first, verify later, and fuck everybody in-between.
So, sorry, Alex -- consider yourself reamed. The fact that Selig insists he deserves none of the blame for the steroid era nor the leak itself gives you a good idea of what kind of fella he is. Pretty scary when you think about it.
Alright, I think we’re about as caught up as we're gonna get for now. We hope to see you again next week – same bat-time, same bat-channel.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
The "Hall of Fame" opening preseason game last Sunday marked the end of the NFL offseason, and it's a welcome end for those of us who have been scratching our pigskin track-marks since the draft. The game itself is meaningless, of course, but even a short glimpse of first-string football is enough to blunt the edge of the stone junkie's withdrawal.
And we sure are NFL junkies in this country, aren't we? If the sports-media are any indication of the common fan's addiction, we're Tyrone Biggums, Eddie Dean, and Kurt Cobain combined. Four months without any substanative football action have left most of us so frazzled, we're easily tricked into avidly watching three and a half quarters of pointless punt-fests, whose few exciting plays are nullified by the men in striped suits.
And then there's the offseason's so-called drama of training-camp holdouts, QB controversies, and, of course, the neverending waffle saga of Brett Favre. Personally, I wasn't the least bit surprised when #4 proclaimed his return to the game, but I was shocked, however, by the accuracy of ESPN's infinitely anonymous sources on the story. Seriously, what happened to transparency in journalism?
Now, I know that most sports fans are fat, stupid sheep. [Sorry, fellas, but it's a fact. Most of us are dumber than preschoolers at naptime. And seriously, how cut can you be if you don't leave the couch during the entirety of the 18-day Olympic games?] But even we have no trouble detecting the laziness in the Worldwide Leader's reporting when roughly two-thirds of its "Breaking News" elements are credited to unnamed sources. It doesn't take much to see through this nonsense.
But I'll hold off on the detailed [read: boring] journalistic critique for today. Thank me later. The success of professional football in this country is on par with European soccer -- hell, we don't even have a problem staying up til midnight and shelling out 60 bucks just to play the latest version of computer-generated football on our XBOXes and PS3s. [Maddenites, you know who you are.]
And that's not even counting our growing obsession with Fantasy Football. And I'm no innocent there either -- our Raytonia Beach League is in its third season, we're holding our live draft Sunday at the 65TPT World Headquarters/Secret Lair. I'll do my best to keep you updated.
And we sure are NFL junkies in this country, aren't we? If the sports-media are any indication of the common fan's addiction, we're Tyrone Biggums, Eddie Dean, and Kurt Cobain combined. Four months without any substanative football action have left most of us so frazzled, we're easily tricked into avidly watching three and a half quarters of pointless punt-fests, whose few exciting plays are nullified by the men in striped suits.
And then there's the offseason's so-called drama of training-camp holdouts, QB controversies, and, of course, the neverending waffle saga of Brett Favre. Personally, I wasn't the least bit surprised when #4 proclaimed his return to the game, but I was shocked, however, by the accuracy of ESPN's infinitely anonymous sources on the story. Seriously, what happened to transparency in journalism?
Now, I know that most sports fans are fat, stupid sheep. [Sorry, fellas, but it's a fact. Most of us are dumber than preschoolers at naptime. And seriously, how cut can you be if you don't leave the couch during the entirety of the 18-day Olympic games?] But even we have no trouble detecting the laziness in the Worldwide Leader's reporting when roughly two-thirds of its "Breaking News" elements are credited to unnamed sources. It doesn't take much to see through this nonsense.
But I'll hold off on the detailed [read: boring] journalistic critique for today. Thank me later. The success of professional football in this country is on par with European soccer -- hell, we don't even have a problem staying up til midnight and shelling out 60 bucks just to play the latest version of computer-generated football on our XBOXes and PS3s. [Maddenites, you know who you are.]
And that's not even counting our growing obsession with Fantasy Football. And I'm no innocent there either -- our Raytonia Beach League is in its third season, we're holding our live draft Sunday at the 65TPT World Headquarters/Secret Lair. I'll do my best to keep you updated.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Tiger vs Rocco: At the Turn
Tiger's first grimace -- first show of possible humanity -- came on his tee shot at the Par 5 9th. He's protecting a one-shot lead after nine, and you have to wonder how much that left knee will effect his play on the back nine.
Rocco Mediate is playing solid golf at +1, and I think he's the perfect guy to face Tiger in this type of situation. He's utterly unfazed by the mystique surrounding the World's #1: He's playing his game, chatting. fidgeting, and hitting it close.
There's no doubt Tiger's got his putter going -- everything he's put in so far has been dead center -- but the outcome here is certainly still in question. He has hit a couple of shots that no other man alive could even attempt -- a lazer beam 8-iron from 190 yards setting up an easy five-footer for his second-consecutive birdie on the front.
Thank God for the switch to NBC at 1pm here, and we just got to see Rocco chunk an easy four-footer for par on the 9th in HD. Golf is a completely different sport to watch in High Def, and as the professional couch surfer I am, you can trust my opinion on that. Mediate will make the turn down two shots -- a seemingly sufficient lead for even an ailing Tiger.
The difficulty of this course really precludes any precise predictions, so I won't venture any.
But my money's on Tiger, if you can believe it.
Rocco Mediate is playing solid golf at +1, and I think he's the perfect guy to face Tiger in this type of situation. He's utterly unfazed by the mystique surrounding the World's #1: He's playing his game, chatting. fidgeting, and hitting it close.
There's no doubt Tiger's got his putter going -- everything he's put in so far has been dead center -- but the outcome here is certainly still in question. He has hit a couple of shots that no other man alive could even attempt -- a lazer beam 8-iron from 190 yards setting up an easy five-footer for his second-consecutive birdie on the front.
Thank God for the switch to NBC at 1pm here, and we just got to see Rocco chunk an easy four-footer for par on the 9th in HD. Golf is a completely different sport to watch in High Def, and as the professional couch surfer I am, you can trust my opinion on that. Mediate will make the turn down two shots -- a seemingly sufficient lead for even an ailing Tiger.
The difficulty of this course really precludes any precise predictions, so I won't venture any.
But my money's on Tiger, if you can believe it.
Tiger vs Rocco: Golf in the Morning
Tiger Woods is, without question, the most dominant athlete of the modern era.
Master of the most confounding of games, Woods' physical perfection and mental tenacity defy explanation.
Golf is a ruthless, unforgiving game. I've probably played nine total holes in my life, and while I can't claim to be a stellar or even above-average athlete, my ineptitude with a crooked-stick in my hands is unbelievably laughable. [During that sole unfinished round, my clubs flew twice as far as any ball I struck with them. Pitiful.]
And this morning, after rolling home a 12-foot birdie on the 72nd hole of the US Open, Tiger will play an 18-hole playoff round against Rocco Mediate, who looks about as athletic as the paper-pusher in the cubicle next to yours.
But that's golf.
Tiger was clearly in pain all week, gritting through what he called a "shooting pain" in his left knee, which underwent arthroscopic surgery more than two months ago.
"It's just pain," he said with a shrug after an unbelievable back nine on Friday -- the kind of statement you'd expect from the smartest and most mentally tough athlete on the planet.
But despite all Tiger's greatness, it's just impossible not to like Rocco Mediate. He reminds me of the favorite uncle who'd sneak you into that R-rated movie your parents would never let you see.
He plays with a peace-sign belt-buckle and a constant smile. And his game, like his personality, isn't the least bit intimidating. The 158th-ranked player in the world coming into the Open, Rocco's drives top out at 285, but his golf philosophy is sound:
"It doesn't matter how you get it in, you just gotta get it in," he said Sunday night.
And that, too, is golf.
Watching the press conferences following Tiger's playoff-forcing birdie, it's clear that Mediate is giddy to have a shot at the King. He's not hesitant or scared like many of his colleagues would be facing a head-to-head round with Woods. Hell, most of them can't even stomach being paired with the man, much less squaring up with him for a single round with a major on the line.
Now, Tiger ain't scurred, either -- that's for sure.
"I'd rather go now, but that's just me," he said with a smile and both hands squeezing the bill of his cap.
So these polar opposites will face off this morning: The man who stands for what golf truly is, and the one who is the face of what it wants to be.
There may be a day when the Tour is filled with Woods-like athletes, who run sub-five 40s and bench press 350 pounds, but Ima go out on a limb and say it won't be any time soon.
No, truth is, Mediate is more of a golfer than Tiger. I know, that sounds like saying someone's more conservative than Pat Robertson or sexier than Angie Harmon, but it's true.
If Tiger had picked basketball or baseball -- hell, he coulda picked hockey -- there's no doubt he'd be pro-caliber. Mediate might have made it as a curler, or maybe an Olympic archer or something, but other than that, the man was destined for golf.
His lighthearted temperment and utter humility suit him perfectly to make the most of a good walk spoiled.
Does any of that mean I'm picking him to upset Woods, gimpy knee and all, in the playoff round this morning?
I may be crazy, folks, but stupid I can't claim.
[Hopefully, I'll be back at the turn for an update. Read: potential retraction...]
Master of the most confounding of games, Woods' physical perfection and mental tenacity defy explanation.
Golf is a ruthless, unforgiving game. I've probably played nine total holes in my life, and while I can't claim to be a stellar or even above-average athlete, my ineptitude with a crooked-stick in my hands is unbelievably laughable. [During that sole unfinished round, my clubs flew twice as far as any ball I struck with them. Pitiful.]
And this morning, after rolling home a 12-foot birdie on the 72nd hole of the US Open, Tiger will play an 18-hole playoff round against Rocco Mediate, who looks about as athletic as the paper-pusher in the cubicle next to yours.
But that's golf.
Tiger was clearly in pain all week, gritting through what he called a "shooting pain" in his left knee, which underwent arthroscopic surgery more than two months ago.
"It's just pain," he said with a shrug after an unbelievable back nine on Friday -- the kind of statement you'd expect from the smartest and most mentally tough athlete on the planet.
But despite all Tiger's greatness, it's just impossible not to like Rocco Mediate. He reminds me of the favorite uncle who'd sneak you into that R-rated movie your parents would never let you see.
He plays with a peace-sign belt-buckle and a constant smile. And his game, like his personality, isn't the least bit intimidating. The 158th-ranked player in the world coming into the Open, Rocco's drives top out at 285, but his golf philosophy is sound:
"It doesn't matter how you get it in, you just gotta get it in," he said Sunday night.
And that, too, is golf.
Watching the press conferences following Tiger's playoff-forcing birdie, it's clear that Mediate is giddy to have a shot at the King. He's not hesitant or scared like many of his colleagues would be facing a head-to-head round with Woods. Hell, most of them can't even stomach being paired with the man, much less squaring up with him for a single round with a major on the line.
Now, Tiger ain't scurred, either -- that's for sure.
"I'd rather go now, but that's just me," he said with a smile and both hands squeezing the bill of his cap.
So these polar opposites will face off this morning: The man who stands for what golf truly is, and the one who is the face of what it wants to be.
There may be a day when the Tour is filled with Woods-like athletes, who run sub-five 40s and bench press 350 pounds, but Ima go out on a limb and say it won't be any time soon.
No, truth is, Mediate is more of a golfer than Tiger. I know, that sounds like saying someone's more conservative than Pat Robertson or sexier than Angie Harmon, but it's true.
If Tiger had picked basketball or baseball -- hell, he coulda picked hockey -- there's no doubt he'd be pro-caliber. Mediate might have made it as a curler, or maybe an Olympic archer or something, but other than that, the man was destined for golf.
His lighthearted temperment and utter humility suit him perfectly to make the most of a good walk spoiled.
Does any of that mean I'm picking him to upset Woods, gimpy knee and all, in the playoff round this morning?
I may be crazy, folks, but stupid I can't claim.
[Hopefully, I'll be back at the turn for an update. Read: potential retraction...]
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Lakers/Celts: Over before it started?
So, I'm sitting here in the middle of the second quarter of Game 5 of the NBA Finals, and the Lakers have let yet another double-digit lead ooze out their grasp. The question that comes to mind, of course, is: Why?
The answer, I think, is equally simple: Defense.
The Celtics just finished a 15-0 run, much of which came on easy drives for layups and wide open jump shots. Phil Jackson has to know that the interior of his defense is weak -- at times, Pau Gasol looks softer than a recently-tranquilized giraffe. Lamar Odom is a decent defender, but Kevin Garnett makes him look silly when they're one-on-one, and Odom's real assets lie with the ball in his hands.
The defense of the men in Green has been lauded appropriately since the season began, and Boston is the best defensive team I've seen since the Spurs were young.
Paul Pierce and KG are the best guard-forward defensive tandem since [blasphemy alert] Jordan and Pippen, and even though Pip was a 3 and Garnett a 4, the comparison is apt. These two-thirds of the Big Three have stretches where their men simply do not score, much like MJ and Scottie displayed during their six trips to the Finals.
Pierce may be the most underrated player in the League -- and you have no idea how hard that is for this MU grad to print. I guess the blasphemy is coming easy this evening.
Halftime is here, and the Laker lead is down to three. There's really no telling which way this one will go. If the Celtics can deny Kobe the ball and double-team him as perfectly as they did in the late stages of Game 4, there's no doubt in my mind that the city of Boston will take home yet another Major Championship this year. But, honestly, there's no accounting for what Kobe can do in the right situation, and in an elimination scenario, attempting to predict a loss for his team would be like picking Big Brown to finish last at Belmont or Tiger Woods to need an 18-hole playoff to win the U.S. Open.
Tiger's Father's Day performance, of course, brings Dad to mind, and I can't help but think about how lucky I've been to grow up in a house with two supportive parents. The worst handicap a young man can have in this country is to grow up without a male role-model, and I was blessed enough to have about five. Where else would I have picked up this undeniable masculinity and sheer machismo?
Thanks, Dad.
The answer, I think, is equally simple: Defense.
The Celtics just finished a 15-0 run, much of which came on easy drives for layups and wide open jump shots. Phil Jackson has to know that the interior of his defense is weak -- at times, Pau Gasol looks softer than a recently-tranquilized giraffe. Lamar Odom is a decent defender, but Kevin Garnett makes him look silly when they're one-on-one, and Odom's real assets lie with the ball in his hands.
The defense of the men in Green has been lauded appropriately since the season began, and Boston is the best defensive team I've seen since the Spurs were young.
Paul Pierce and KG are the best guard-forward defensive tandem since [blasphemy alert] Jordan and Pippen, and even though Pip was a 3 and Garnett a 4, the comparison is apt. These two-thirds of the Big Three have stretches where their men simply do not score, much like MJ and Scottie displayed during their six trips to the Finals.
Pierce may be the most underrated player in the League -- and you have no idea how hard that is for this MU grad to print. I guess the blasphemy is coming easy this evening.
Halftime is here, and the Laker lead is down to three. There's really no telling which way this one will go. If the Celtics can deny Kobe the ball and double-team him as perfectly as they did in the late stages of Game 4, there's no doubt in my mind that the city of Boston will take home yet another Major Championship this year. But, honestly, there's no accounting for what Kobe can do in the right situation, and in an elimination scenario, attempting to predict a loss for his team would be like picking Big Brown to finish last at Belmont or Tiger Woods to need an 18-hole playoff to win the U.S. Open.
Tiger's Father's Day performance, of course, brings Dad to mind, and I can't help but think about how lucky I've been to grow up in a house with two supportive parents. The worst handicap a young man can have in this country is to grow up without a male role-model, and I was blessed enough to have about five. Where else would I have picked up this undeniable masculinity and sheer machismo?
Thanks, Dad.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Ali: The Greatest, in Ways Innumerable
This past weekend, 65TPT made an eastbound trip to Louisville, Ky., to celebrate the HS Graduation of its author's second-youngest cousin on Dad's side -- not that the educational outcome was ever in doubt, mind you. This kid's so resourceful, he took apart two broken NES systems and wired the working parts together, purely by trial and error, giving birth to a jerry-rigged FrankenTendo, which we used to burn many of the post-midnight hours of the National Memorial Holiday. I guess its tough to relay the importance and sheer heft the celebration had on your humble scribe, but I can't believe the kid is even driving, much less leaving High School in his dust, and looking up at an English Ed. degree at UK.
My, my, don't they grow up fast? I must be getting old.
Anyway, we accomplished more last weekend than downing free food and beer, dominating Contra and River City Ransom, and spilling college-days beans to inquisitive relatives.
We had the good fortune to spend Saturday afternoon at the Ali Center in downtown Luhvul, a five-story shrine to the city's most spectacular athletic product and likely the most influential sports figure these Fifty States have ever seen.
The museum itself, with its intimacy of detail and grandeur of scale, pays fitting tribute to a man who was so much more than fists and feet -- a man whose tenacity, fearlessness, and quick tongue helped amass an aura of invincibility around his undeniably human weaknesses: womanizing, racism, and unabashed pride. Unshakable pride.
Now, there's no doubt that his missteps were highly publicized, and that they were made in the thick midst [and mist] of young stardom. Obviously, Ali suffered more racism than he promoted, but I'm of the opinion that ignorance can't be cured or tempered with more of its kind. Call me a romantic, or a slow-witted and thick-tongued idealist, but those are my sentiments.
In a society that would have just as quickly lynched a flamboyant black man as accepted him, Ali ran his mouth as if he were paid by the word. [History would prove, of course, that prize-fighters are paid by the word -- by every ear that hears them, in fact. Pay-Per-View is a beautiful racket, no? ]
Ever since Mike Tyson's Punch Out first ran on my beloved 8-Bit world-changer, I've appreciated boxing for its beauty and sheer duality. [Unfortunately, the boxing classic was the only game I tried that wouldn't run on Zach's FrankenTendo. The ironies never cease.] The sport's base, carnal nature has always been balanced by the grace and precision necessary to practice the sweet science at its highest level. Heavyweight boxing, despite its recent devolution into a hugfest/slugfest dichotomy, represents the pinnacle of athletic achievement to me, because the "game" itself lends no distinct advantage to one party or the other. It's purely adversarial -- aside from weight restrictions, it's man vs. man.
Forgive my chauvinism of terms, but I'm learning. On the museum's third level, I saw a video of Laila Ali [to scale, no less] that made me gulp hard -- twice. Let's just say I came away with a greater appreciation of the female athlete. Not that the WNBA and it's "Expect Great" ads will totally escape this publication's ire, but that's another post entirely. [Apparently, we in the sports media have pummeled the word "great" into absolute meaninglessness. But that's all I'll say on the subject for now.]
What astounded me most at the Ali Center was the sheer personal depth of the Greatest -- his perspective, and ability to spit his ideals in terms as efficient and biting as lead-eating acid. Plainly put, the man was a poet.
Regardless of the ideals and intentions of the white majority that surrounded and supported him, Ali used the mainstream media to his own ends, and his back-and-forth with Howard Cosell will hopefully live on for decades as television at its best.
Even in his latter years, as Parkinson's robbed him of his razor-sharp tongue, Ali supplied a final immortal sports moment to the posterity of the 20th Century. The nobility and resolve he showed when he willed his visibly trembling hand to light the Olympic torch in Atlanta seem to make his Parkinson's contagious. To this day, the footage of that night renders me speechless and gives me the shakes.
In the end, though, the museum stood for more than Ali's sporting greatness. It was a testament to the man's principles and adherence thereto.
The quote that summed it up, for me, was this.
"I wish people would love everybody else the way they love me. It would be a better world."
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