The All Star Game. We pay tribute to the history of a game that reflects the history of a country. Home runs rain down like a meteor shower. Old timers chew the fat and run the drills with kids. Stories and statistics fly with fervor across the ballpark. There's a smile on every person's face and memories are made that last for many a year to come.
I demand this game be played on the 4th of July. I want red, white and blue everywhere. I want a fireworks show that makes Washington and New York fireworks look like pop guns I want an armada of aircraft in a military flyover. I want a singing of the national anthem sung with such vim and vigor that Mars can hear it. I want a week's celebration that includes: World Baseball Classic finals (an amateur only tourney - stay tuned for more); the Little League World Series; some college baseball tourney (College World Series ideally, but the college calendar doesn't coincide); a women's tourney (softball or baseball, again stay tuned). I want free hotdogs, for EVERYONE, paid for by major league baseball who, incidentally, will be supplementing the cost of tickets and other fan-friendly activities so that it's financially reasonable that anyone can enjoy the myriad of events. Oh yes, Mr. Selig. MLB makes enough money that you can pick up the tab to help everyone celebrate this game we love.
People! It's a no brainer! The greatest single game of the regular season of the greatest sport the world has ever seen MUST be played on the greatest day on the calendar of the greatest country the world has ever seen. Period.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Power pitchers with the big pesos = division winners...
Rafael Soriano to the Rays. Jose Valverde to the Tigers. Josh Johnson secured long term with the Marlins. Matt Capps to the Nationals. John Lackey in Boston. And who did the Angels just get to annex the arm of Fuentes? Commonalities? Big contracts, big expectations and if they follow through, position their teams for a trip to the postseason. Despite the power hitting in the last 20 years, it would appear the power of the peso is furthering the emphasis on pitching as the gateway to greatness? Now, why hasn't Joel Piniero been picked up yet?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Oh, When the Saints are in the Crowd
-- Kevin Vaughn-Brubaker
My first entry for this blog deserves a subject that rises to the elevated occasion of a first entry, the NFC Wild Card game this past Sunday at University of Phoenix Stadium (full disclosure, I teach for UOP Online) between the Arizona Cardinals and the Green Bay Packers. To be honest, I had never been to a Cardinals game at UOP Stadium before. My only attendance at the venue was for a USA vs. Mexico men’s soccer international friendly match. I bought a ticket at the last minute in the last row of the nosebleed section. Surrounded by Mexicans, I wondered if I would escape with my life if Mexico won or lost. On the contrary, the Mexican fans around me were quite jovial and high-fived me as they sang, danced and chanted throughout the game. USA ended up winning that game and those sporting the Tri Colores left the stadium in a peaceful manner. No soccer hooligans in AZ, I guess.
Brandon, a fellow founder of this blog, scored free tickets from his brother last Sunday and we were once again sent high into the top section of the stands for our seats somewhere in the middle rows up from the 30 yard line (sec 416 for those who know). I had heard about the proliferation of Packers fans previously this season where they had smoked the Cardinals and cheeseheads dominated the cheering and jeering. I wondered if these fans in green would be as friendly as those supporting our neighbors to the south. Despite nobody really cheering for Cards great, Frank Sanders (the original wide out to wear 81 for the dirty birds, thank you very much for honoring him, Mr. Boldin) and even less people playing the airdrum solo to Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight”, there was a good vibe in our section. No one was really razzing the Green Bay fans in front of us too much. And I know razzing; I’ve worn my Diamondbacks gear proudly to Wrigley Field and to Dodger Stadium. The guy at the ticket window at Wrigley told me I was a brave soul. That’s right, sucka.
Bravery be damned in the Toaster, as I’ve heard UOP stadium called, camaraderie was the word of the day on this most glorious day for the sport of football. Once a team scored, there was barely enough time to scooch out of the row, go down the stairs, pee and get a new beer before the other team was knocking on the doorstep of a touchdown. The emotional level started at jubilation after Rodgers’ first interception and went up from there. All week long, former Cardnials fullback, Ron Wolfley, had hammered home the point that whichever team won the turnover battle would win this game. The Pack were plus 24 turnovers for the season coming into the game, but when the Great Dansby tipped that first pass of the game into DRC’s awaiting hands, I knew the Cardinals were destined to make a game of it.
A game for the ages, it turns out. By halftime, the crowd was sure the Cards had this game in the books, but slowly the tide turned and the Packers fans came back to life. The teams went blow for blow until Neil Rackers, one of the few stud kickers in the game, came on to seal the deal and send the Cardinals to New Orleans. But Rackers missed. This was the only moment of the game where the Packers fans could be heard over the home crowd. Regulation ended, the Packers won the coin toss and you could feel the UOP stadium deflate. The team that wins the coin toss wins the game in overtime, right? Especially in a game where either offense could score at will. However, I did not despair, perhaps the only one of thousands who held onto my complimentary 2009 playoff towel in one hand and held onto hope in the other among the Red Sea at that moment, for I listen to Colin Cowherd on ESPN Radio. Colin, mythbuster in his own right, recently crunched the numbers on teams that had gone on to win in overtime after having won the coin toss to prove that it was not automatic. The percentage was not alarming. I think it was near a 50/50 proposition. So I knew there was hope for the Cardinals. What I didn’t know is how unique and remarkable the play would be that would end the game.
The game’s TV ratings were off the chart and through the magic of Sportscenter and the replay of the game on KTAR 620, most of Arizona and the nation knows that the game ended with Michael Adams redeeming his pass interference penalties by sacking Aaron Rodgers, avoiding a facemask and dodging the infamous tuck rule while the ball bounced off Rodgers foot and into the arms of the Great Dansby who scored the first ever fumble recovery for a game winning touchdown in a playoff game. These facts have had time to sink in, but at the moment, even before Karlos crossed into the end zone, the crowd exploded with joy and sound, nearly blowing the useless retractable roof off the Toaster.
Fans, who had been high-fiving every score, leapt to their feet knocking into each other drunk with beer, spirits and joy. It was like the peace-be-with-you part of Mass but everyone really expressing it with every ounce of their being. Men were hugging, women were crying, Pakcers fans shaking their heads, some with smiles of disbelief, not really registering what had happened but knowing they had seen something special and a chance to own it had slipped through the holes in their cheesehead hats.
Everyone was caught up in the ecstatic maelstrom that enveloped University of Phoenix Stadium. People happily waited in their cars as the parking lots unloaded their full bellies as did the fans who had too much to drink. Horns honked at no one in particular and the hair on the back of necks still stood at attention. Memories slowly took shape in our heads on the drive home, memories of Larry Fitzgerald making an amazing catch over his head for a touchdown, memories of Early Doucet, the guy with one touchdown catch in his career who needed to step up in Boldin’s absence, catching a pass, pirouetting around a tackle like a ballerina and then pounding through another defender to score, memories of realizing how fast Kurt Warner makes his decisions and passes the ball on target every time, memories of one of the greatest football games ever played among fans who rose to the occasion, brought the energy and shared the love. The fates were shining on me last Sunday and offered me a chance to witness firsthand a moment of sports history.
My first entry for this blog deserves a subject that rises to the elevated occasion of a first entry, the NFC Wild Card game this past Sunday at University of Phoenix Stadium (full disclosure, I teach for UOP Online) between the Arizona Cardinals and the Green Bay Packers. To be honest, I had never been to a Cardinals game at UOP Stadium before. My only attendance at the venue was for a USA vs. Mexico men’s soccer international friendly match. I bought a ticket at the last minute in the last row of the nosebleed section. Surrounded by Mexicans, I wondered if I would escape with my life if Mexico won or lost. On the contrary, the Mexican fans around me were quite jovial and high-fived me as they sang, danced and chanted throughout the game. USA ended up winning that game and those sporting the Tri Colores left the stadium in a peaceful manner. No soccer hooligans in AZ, I guess.
Brandon, a fellow founder of this blog, scored free tickets from his brother last Sunday and we were once again sent high into the top section of the stands for our seats somewhere in the middle rows up from the 30 yard line (sec 416 for those who know). I had heard about the proliferation of Packers fans previously this season where they had smoked the Cardinals and cheeseheads dominated the cheering and jeering. I wondered if these fans in green would be as friendly as those supporting our neighbors to the south. Despite nobody really cheering for Cards great, Frank Sanders (the original wide out to wear 81 for the dirty birds, thank you very much for honoring him, Mr. Boldin) and even less people playing the airdrum solo to Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight”, there was a good vibe in our section. No one was really razzing the Green Bay fans in front of us too much. And I know razzing; I’ve worn my Diamondbacks gear proudly to Wrigley Field and to Dodger Stadium. The guy at the ticket window at Wrigley told me I was a brave soul. That’s right, sucka.
Bravery be damned in the Toaster, as I’ve heard UOP stadium called, camaraderie was the word of the day on this most glorious day for the sport of football. Once a team scored, there was barely enough time to scooch out of the row, go down the stairs, pee and get a new beer before the other team was knocking on the doorstep of a touchdown. The emotional level started at jubilation after Rodgers’ first interception and went up from there. All week long, former Cardnials fullback, Ron Wolfley, had hammered home the point that whichever team won the turnover battle would win this game. The Pack were plus 24 turnovers for the season coming into the game, but when the Great Dansby tipped that first pass of the game into DRC’s awaiting hands, I knew the Cardinals were destined to make a game of it.
A game for the ages, it turns out. By halftime, the crowd was sure the Cards had this game in the books, but slowly the tide turned and the Packers fans came back to life. The teams went blow for blow until Neil Rackers, one of the few stud kickers in the game, came on to seal the deal and send the Cardinals to New Orleans. But Rackers missed. This was the only moment of the game where the Packers fans could be heard over the home crowd. Regulation ended, the Packers won the coin toss and you could feel the UOP stadium deflate. The team that wins the coin toss wins the game in overtime, right? Especially in a game where either offense could score at will. However, I did not despair, perhaps the only one of thousands who held onto my complimentary 2009 playoff towel in one hand and held onto hope in the other among the Red Sea at that moment, for I listen to Colin Cowherd on ESPN Radio. Colin, mythbuster in his own right, recently crunched the numbers on teams that had gone on to win in overtime after having won the coin toss to prove that it was not automatic. The percentage was not alarming. I think it was near a 50/50 proposition. So I knew there was hope for the Cardinals. What I didn’t know is how unique and remarkable the play would be that would end the game.
The game’s TV ratings were off the chart and through the magic of Sportscenter and the replay of the game on KTAR 620, most of Arizona and the nation knows that the game ended with Michael Adams redeeming his pass interference penalties by sacking Aaron Rodgers, avoiding a facemask and dodging the infamous tuck rule while the ball bounced off Rodgers foot and into the arms of the Great Dansby who scored the first ever fumble recovery for a game winning touchdown in a playoff game. These facts have had time to sink in, but at the moment, even before Karlos crossed into the end zone, the crowd exploded with joy and sound, nearly blowing the useless retractable roof off the Toaster.
Fans, who had been high-fiving every score, leapt to their feet knocking into each other drunk with beer, spirits and joy. It was like the peace-be-with-you part of Mass but everyone really expressing it with every ounce of their being. Men were hugging, women were crying, Pakcers fans shaking their heads, some with smiles of disbelief, not really registering what had happened but knowing they had seen something special and a chance to own it had slipped through the holes in their cheesehead hats.
Everyone was caught up in the ecstatic maelstrom that enveloped University of Phoenix Stadium. People happily waited in their cars as the parking lots unloaded their full bellies as did the fans who had too much to drink. Horns honked at no one in particular and the hair on the back of necks still stood at attention. Memories slowly took shape in our heads on the drive home, memories of Larry Fitzgerald making an amazing catch over his head for a touchdown, memories of Early Doucet, the guy with one touchdown catch in his career who needed to step up in Boldin’s absence, catching a pass, pirouetting around a tackle like a ballerina and then pounding through another defender to score, memories of realizing how fast Kurt Warner makes his decisions and passes the ball on target every time, memories of one of the greatest football games ever played among fans who rose to the occasion, brought the energy and shared the love. The fates were shining on me last Sunday and offered me a chance to witness firsthand a moment of sports history.
The Steadfastness of Dave Winfield's Mustache
-- Brandon Huigens
In the swirling world of sports parity, one is naturally - and quite often obsessively - compelled to embrace what is constant: Cal Ripken, Jr. and Brett Favre's consecutive games streaks; Red Auerbach's customary victory cigar; Tony Dungy's deer-in-headlights NFL TV analysis; Mariano Rivera's unparalleled late-game lockdowns*.
*My name is Brandon, and I'm from Phoenix. I root for all the teams that play here, and as a Suns fan, I will commiserate that I do indeed root for the greatest sports franchise never to win a championship (thanks to the dynamic duo of Tim Donaghy and the San Antonio Sterns). The single sweetest time in sports for me is when the Yankees are in the World Series and the analysts talk about, and replay, the one time Mariano blew it: the 2001 classic - the best World Series ever played. Never could I have imagined that a bloop single from the bat of a man named Luis Gonzalez would etch itself inside my skull, leaving a more indelible mark than even Trapper Keepers (those were pretty huge for me) could. This is truly all I have to gloat about as a fan. Otherwise, it's John Paxson, James Harrison, and lamenting how we could have had AD every time Levi Brown is called for holding.
Unearthing this sort of unflappability is thinning out faster than Manu Ginobli's bald spot. Thanks to 24-7 sports coverage and incessant inundation of gossip, rumors, and sensationalism (let the Jets' rookie eat a damned hot dog in peace!), we're fully aware of every quality, good and bad, of our teams and the dazzling folks that are employed by those teams. Sucks a bit of the mystique out. Free agency, small vs. big market teams, and everything that comes with dollars, dollars, dollars makes it not only harder for players to deal with day-to-day pressures, but easier, as well, for players to simply mail it in after they get paid.
I think maybe some of us as fans have been mailing it in, as well.
That's why it is now time to reveal a simple, yet discerning, examination of what, during my own lifetime, has been an incredible testament to steadfastness: Baseball Hall of Fame slugger Dave Winfield's unchanging mustache.
He was born the day Bobby Thomson hit "The Shot Heard 'Round the World" - and even though David Mark Winfield excelled in three sports, baseball was to be his destiny. Moreover, it was his mustache's destiny to stay perfectly consistent, and he knew baseball provided the safest haven for upper lips (as opposed to football - excessive helmet rubs, and basketball - frequent face-to-elbow contact).
Like the nanoseconds after a young Stephen Hawking was accidentally wheeled into Pre-Algebra, Dave skipped the minor leagues entirely and went straight to the show. While his Hall-of-Fame career was burgeoning with the Padres, he let everyone know he could easily grow three mustaches at a time on his face.
(mustache #3 not shown)
Winfield's storied time as a feared masher with the Yankees was marked by a long string of All-Star appearances, 6 Gold Gloves, 5 Silver Sluggers, and plenty of insane drama with George Steinbrenner. Though he was at one point the highest-paid player in the sport, Dave didn't let it go to his mustache.
Ah, the glorious summer days of Donruss Diamond Kings. It must have been an honor for the painter to add that mustache on there. You know he totally saved it for last.
Dave finally got his ring with the Blue Jays in 1992. Shame he and Don Mattingly's stellar mustaches couldn't celebrate together as champions.
In 1994, our hero was traded to the Indians for dinner. With the player's strike in full swing, Winfield called it a career.
Dave is now doing baseball analysis for ESPN, where you can see his tasteful, understated mustache, still, as it always will be, in it's glorious prime.
Another great constant in sports is music. Call up the theme from The Natural, Charlie Sheen's entrance song, or the "Steamin' Willie Beamen" rap from On Any Given Sunday. It's right there, isn't it?
Remember how you wanted your Dad to stand in the bleachers of your Little League game with a ghetto blaster stretched high over his head, Say Anything-style, blaring Fogerty's "Centerfield" as you trotted gracefully to your position?
My favorite sports-related musical moment is the line from Simon & Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson": "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you".
Incidentally, here's a photo of DiMag with John Oates' rug added in:
Dave Winfield has had the exact same mustache the entire time I've been alive. Like everything else in life that counts: it takes guts.
And a switchblade comb.
In the swirling world of sports parity, one is naturally - and quite often obsessively - compelled to embrace what is constant: Cal Ripken, Jr. and Brett Favre's consecutive games streaks; Red Auerbach's customary victory cigar; Tony Dungy's deer-in-headlights NFL TV analysis; Mariano Rivera's unparalleled late-game lockdowns*.
*My name is Brandon, and I'm from Phoenix. I root for all the teams that play here, and as a Suns fan, I will commiserate that I do indeed root for the greatest sports franchise never to win a championship (thanks to the dynamic duo of Tim Donaghy and the San Antonio Sterns). The single sweetest time in sports for me is when the Yankees are in the World Series and the analysts talk about, and replay, the one time Mariano blew it: the 2001 classic - the best World Series ever played. Never could I have imagined that a bloop single from the bat of a man named Luis Gonzalez would etch itself inside my skull, leaving a more indelible mark than even Trapper Keepers (those were pretty huge for me) could. This is truly all I have to gloat about as a fan. Otherwise, it's John Paxson, James Harrison, and lamenting how we could have had AD every time Levi Brown is called for holding.
Unearthing this sort of unflappability is thinning out faster than Manu Ginobli's bald spot. Thanks to 24-7 sports coverage and incessant inundation of gossip, rumors, and sensationalism (let the Jets' rookie eat a damned hot dog in peace!), we're fully aware of every quality, good and bad, of our teams and the dazzling folks that are employed by those teams. Sucks a bit of the mystique out. Free agency, small vs. big market teams, and everything that comes with dollars, dollars, dollars makes it not only harder for players to deal with day-to-day pressures, but easier, as well, for players to simply mail it in after they get paid.
I think maybe some of us as fans have been mailing it in, as well.
That's why it is now time to reveal a simple, yet discerning, examination of what, during my own lifetime, has been an incredible testament to steadfastness: Baseball Hall of Fame slugger Dave Winfield's unchanging mustache.
He was born the day Bobby Thomson hit "The Shot Heard 'Round the World" - and even though David Mark Winfield excelled in three sports, baseball was to be his destiny. Moreover, it was his mustache's destiny to stay perfectly consistent, and he knew baseball provided the safest haven for upper lips (as opposed to football - excessive helmet rubs, and basketball - frequent face-to-elbow contact).
Like the nanoseconds after a young Stephen Hawking was accidentally wheeled into Pre-Algebra, Dave skipped the minor leagues entirely and went straight to the show. While his Hall-of-Fame career was burgeoning with the Padres, he let everyone know he could easily grow three mustaches at a time on his face.
(mustache #3 not shown)Winfield's storied time as a feared masher with the Yankees was marked by a long string of All-Star appearances, 6 Gold Gloves, 5 Silver Sluggers, and plenty of insane drama with George Steinbrenner. Though he was at one point the highest-paid player in the sport, Dave didn't let it go to his mustache.
Ah, the glorious summer days of Donruss Diamond Kings. It must have been an honor for the painter to add that mustache on there. You know he totally saved it for last.
Dave finally got his ring with the Blue Jays in 1992. Shame he and Don Mattingly's stellar mustaches couldn't celebrate together as champions.
In 1994, our hero was traded to the Indians for dinner. With the player's strike in full swing, Winfield called it a career.
Dave is now doing baseball analysis for ESPN, where you can see his tasteful, understated mustache, still, as it always will be, in it's glorious prime.
Another great constant in sports is music. Call up the theme from The Natural, Charlie Sheen's entrance song, or the "Steamin' Willie Beamen" rap from On Any Given Sunday. It's right there, isn't it?
Remember how you wanted your Dad to stand in the bleachers of your Little League game with a ghetto blaster stretched high over his head, Say Anything-style, blaring Fogerty's "Centerfield" as you trotted gracefully to your position?
My favorite sports-related musical moment is the line from Simon & Garfunkel's "Mrs. Robinson": "Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns it's lonely eyes to you".
Incidentally, here's a photo of DiMag with John Oates' rug added in:
Dave Winfield has had the exact same mustache the entire time I've been alive. Like everything else in life that counts: it takes guts.
And a switchblade comb.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
