The Three Lions & The Pits of Despair

[JK Rowling should pen another book just to use this post title.  Now on to our regularly scheduled program...]

Steve McClaren is a fucking muppet. 

As you’re aware by now, David Beckham will return to the national side for tomorrow’s friendly against Brazil and our Euro qualifier at Estonia. More tragic than his actual return to the colours is that he may even start. Why, you ask? Well, according to McClown:

"Everyone knows David’s attributes and he’s a big-game player who can help us win in Estonia… We’ve a very important game in Estonia, we need to win it."

Ah yes, Estonia. That old powerhouse where footballs are still made out of grass and animal bladder. Goldenballs, please save us!

What McClaren meant to say was, "Since this team can’t accomplish anything due to my tactical buffoonery and inability to recognize the futility of placing Steven Gerrard and Frank Lumpalard in the same midfield, I’m calling David Beckham back on a hope and a prayer that he can keep me from getting run out of England on a shutter. Why Becks? Because, well, his right foot is a national treasure, right? Right, lads?" 

Pardon me while I vomit. 

I developed an ulcer and a migraine immediately upon hearing the news and for five days, had nothing to offer anyone but my own confusion. Sadly, not much has changed. All I’ve really managed to do thus far is shake my head, knock back a pint or 12 and wallow in England’s continued misery. Contrary to belief, Becks’ appointment doesn’t make me angry. Not in the least. It makes me weepy and sad. Once again, the Three Lions are trapped in a rudderless ship that is captained by a witless, braindead git more concerned with his own hide than English football. Though there was never a day when I believed that McClown would return us to our rightful place on the international stage, there did exist a time when I had a glimmer of hope. A shiny, little glimmer. But hope, I’m afraid, is a Sysiphisian task.

What’s sad is things started out well enough. Though ranked somewhere around 81 on the list of managers best fit to replace Sven, McClown still knew enough to sack Becks. Kicking his celebrity circus to the curb last August was a brilliant, necessary gesture that affirmed a commitment to ridding this squad of the taint left behind by the axis of naffness.

But alas. Here we are again – up to our necks in the circus – and as much as the media and McClown try to infect the masses with deceit…

("Anybody who has watched him closely over the past three or four weeks, and on Saturday [in a 3-1 victory over Deportivo la Coruña], must understand why David is in the squad.")

… David Beckham is no better now than he was 8 months ago. But don’t expect McClown to have figured that out. Instead of watching his supposed saviour in the flesh, he has opted to judge Beck’s resurgence on the scientific proof of statistical computer printouts and sensationalistic articles that fellate their subjects as only the footie media can:

"It is widely acknowledged in the Spanish capital that Beckham’s resurgence has been instrumental in Real Madrid’s move to the top of the table… His form is impossible to ignore – he has inspired his teammates."

Yah huh. Is Becks playing with more fire? Certainly. Is he actually running instead of jogging in place while waiting for dead balls? Yeah, sometimes! But is he so improved that he can lead us through the fire and into the Euros? Not a chance.

Of the past ten La Liga matches for Real – you know, the ones that he’s leading them through – old Goldenballs has suited up for three. You got that? Three. And that, according to the delusional pollyanas out there, is all we need to send a little message up to Heaven that says: "Hit the road, Jesus. We’ve got Goldenballs."

Let me tell you something – a Galactico playing three league games at the level expected of his ridiculous salary is no saviour or beacon of hope for the future. Becks has made some nice plays in the last few weeks, but on the whole, he still plays football the way old people fuck. And though he might dead ball lead us through this monstrous battle against the mighty, winless Estonia, what will we do in the coming months? How will we fair against Russia home and away? Croatia? Israel? What will happen when we’ve traded in our last shred of dignity for a player that trains for international competition in various centers of excellence like Dick’s Sporting Goods Park? Give me Aaron Lennon, give me David Bentley. At least they’re youths working toward making England great and aren’t plying their trade with the junior varsity league of football.

If we need David Beckham to get past Estonia – a team the Three Lions could beat if I were on their right wing – there’s no reason to get on the bloody plane. We should hang up our boots for the season and focus on World Cup 2010. With 3 years to get ready, there’s no way we can cock that up, right?

Stereotype Overload or Well-Executed Mockery?

This picture is almost too good to be true.

But the amazing thing about Clint and Donny (that’s what I’ve named these blokes) is if you switch out those Gator shirts for Ohio State gear, they’d look right at home in Columbus.

Ain’t No Other Man

Is it necessary to explain how amazing Andy Pettitte is or can you figure it out for yourself? Because if you can’t, I will happily make a case! …. Alright then.

Now, I could make a case based on stats or opinions… if I go with opinions, they’d be tainted with bias because he’s my favorite Yankee of all time and I’m also interested in bumping off his wife and replacing her in the middle of the night. But if I choose to go with stats, you’d stop reading. So let’s go to a world where most meatheads like myself fear to tread — science!

Hypothesis: Andy Pettitte is God.

Data: Andy Pettitte doesn’t have the arm strength of Chien-Ming Wang, the arsenal of Mike Mussina or the element of surprise of rookie Tyler Clippard but he doesn’t need it. He comes to the game with a fastball, cutter and an assurance that he’ll die before he lets you down. Unlike Moose, who wets himself these days against the likes of Julian Tavarez, Pettitte brings that Jordanesque "time running of the clock" quality to the mound. Give him the ball when it matters most, and he’ll deliver.

Though he started the season looking like another overpaid oldster with waning skills, Pettitte has since turned on the magic. He’d be the Cy Young favorite right now, sitting somewhere around 6-1 with 8 quality starts in 10, if the bullpen didn’t go all Heathcliff Slocumb every time he was on the mound. True, he’s only struck out 35 batters in 64 1/3 innings (including a mere two against the Sux last night), but he has surrendered just 64 hits and boasts and ERA of 2.66. Some may call it good defense and a little luck but as far as I’m concerned, he’s been nothing short of amazing. And last night, he showed us exactly why he was signed — to beat the Red Sox and prevail after a loss.

A huzzah to you, sir! 

Theory: Andy Pettitte is an angel sent by God to help the Yankees snag the Wild Card.

Okay, that wasn’t remotely scientific but you have to give me points for using "hypothesis" and "theory" in the right order.

George Foreman Was Drugged Before Getting KTFO

In the most laughable case of denial in sports, George Foreman is now claiming that he was secretly drugged prior to 1974′s Rumble in the Jungle – the heavyweight title bout against Muhammad Ali in Kinsasha, Zaire. 

Foreman believes his trainer gave him a tainted cup of water (he only remembers it as being "strange-tasting") just prior to the fight:

"I almost spit it out … Man, I know this water has medicine in it," Foreman told his trainer at the time, according to his book. "I climbed into the ring with that medicinal taste still lingering in my mouth … After the third round, I was as tired as if I had fought 15 rounds. What’s going on here? Did someone slip a drug in my water?"

No, George. Muhammed Ali rope-a-doped you to death in oven-like heat until you’d punched yourself into exhaustion. And when you were finally gassed, he dotted your face up with combinations before busting you in the jaw and sending you head first into the canvas. How hard is it to wrap your brain around that result?

If you’re Foreman, I know it’s probably easier to think that one of the greatest sporting events of the 20th century – and likely all time – was rigged.. that there exists some plausible explanation for why you – the single greatest puncher in heavyweight history, the man that turned Joe Frazier into a beaten child in two rounds – lost a fight because your opponent essentially allowed you to punch yourself into oblivion. But there is none. Ali’s strategy was legal and if Foreman had been poisoned, he would have gone down long before the 8th.

In the end, it comes down to this – did you win? If not, sell your grills and shut your mouth. It’s been 30 years.

As a side note, I can’t help but be amused at the title of Foreman’s memoir, "God in My Corner." Say George, where was God when your trainer slipped you that mickey finn? Maybe he was in Ali’s corner working on a conversion.

Reconnecting with the Ocean

I’m back in Costa Rica on a surfing trip.

If I updated this blog with any regularity, that would mean my posting would be suspended for a couple weeks, or, at the very least, become very erratic.

I just wanted to comfort you all with the news that my posting will continue to be painfully erratic…

On the plus side, I got one in today, so I’m already ahead of the game!

Cheers

Joe Gibbs Can Tolerate Clinton Portis But Not Budweiser

My NASCAR knowledge is fairly limited. I know of Talladega, Darlington, Daytona and the Brickyard 500. I know that Bristol is raced at night. I know that Tony Stewart has had one Twinkie too many and that Robbie Gordon seems to be a bit of a dandy. I know that Carl Edwards #99 car is 10th in the standings – but only because my friend Chad is on his PR team and I try to keep a look out. This is where it begins and ends. But since I believe that I should know as much as I can about something before trashing it, I’ve been keeping up with the "sport" a little more lately. The only danger to this plan is that I might end up liking it.

In any case, the big news these days is Dale Earnhardt Jr’s departure from DEI… something about his step-mother being a money-grubbing, power hungry demon. NASCAR is wholly consumed with the Earnhardt watch – will he go to Hendrick? Joe Gibbs? RCR? The most likely candidate, according to rumors, was Joe Gibbs Racing. Not only is Gibbs the coach of Earnhardt’s favorite NFL team, his group has also managed three Nextel championships since 2000. Who can resist that type of winning tradition, especially when it’s also the home of the aforementioned Twinkie pounder? 

This type of union would be ideal but there’s one problem — this Bud is NOT for Joe Gibbs.

"For us it would be hard. It’d be hard," said J.D. Gibbs, president of Joe Gibbs Racing. "They’ve been a great partner of the sport and do a lot for us but personally that would be a hard deal for us to do. I’ll just leave it at that right now." – Yahoo! Sports

Personally, I would object to owning a Budweiser sponsored car because that shite tastes like gnat piss but the JGR rationale centers around its evangelical beliefs and religious objections to the consumption of alcohol. Fine. You’d think that Gibbs’ willingness to forge his livelihood in two beer-soaked industries would create a conflict but I suppose there’s a little hypocrite in all of us.

That brings me to my actual problem — if Gibbs is going to use his religious beliefs to object to Budweiser and, in turn, Junior, shouldn’t he pass that same judgment onto Clinton Portis, who is quite possibly the stupidest man in America?

On Michael Vick’s dog fighting operation: "It’s his property, it’s his dogs. If that’s what he wants to do, do it… It can’t be too bad of a crime. There’s a lot of stuff that’s crimes, you know. It’s killers on the loose over here and you want to hunt down Michael Vick over fighting some dogs… I’m sure some police got dogs and fight them, some judges got dogs and everything else."

How can you condone one and not the other? How can one tolerate, and at times, champion, a person too stupid to understand the fundamental immorality of dog fighting (or anything else, really) and yet be too high and mighty to own a car with a beer logo on it… especially when JGR driver, JJ Yeley, already races like he’s drunk. I guess this is the type of sterling logic that is leading the Redskins back to Super Bowl glory.

Look, I know Gibbs has little to no control over the Redskins roster but for a man of such high values and principles, he seems to tolerate the behavior of criminals and amoral, braindead asshats extraordinarily well.

A Near Slip Into Yank Fan Douchebaggery

I’m wearing my Pettitte home jersey today. Normally, my wardrobe is not worthy of comment but I was just heckled for it at Outback by this sodding rotter with a cowboy hat, a wad of dip in his lip and a Texas sized belt buckle that was hanging on for dear life. By the time I spotted the tufts of hair sprouting out the neck hole, I was through. He was like a hybrid of Carl from Aqua Teen and that terrorist that they dragged out of a German apartment, topped off with a little redneck style.

Carl: "How’s that Mary-ann-oh Rivi-era pitching this year? Oh, I remember. Not as well as a young man named Bobby Jenks!"
Me: Yeah
C: You know about him?
M: Yeah
C: So what’re them Yanks about 11 games behind Boston now?
M: 8.5
C: Who’s that jersey you’re wearin?
M: Andy Pettitte
C: Well ain’t you a find! A girly fan wearin a jersey of somebody that’s old enough to be her daddy!

To this point, Carl didn’t said anything I didn’t already know or wasn’t willing to acknowledge. Frankly, I was just glad he was so tame. There’s nothing worse than being made fun of when you don’t have a response other than that which is fit for obnoxious fanboys that can’t form a real argument.

Look, I have total faith that the Yankees will come around. I know the Sux have gone off the deep-end but 75% of the season remains. If we can just get the hitting squared away and get a couple streaks and sweeps (like NOW), we’re gonna be all right. This team was built for a post-season run and we’re going to need to be 20 games out in September before I give up hope. But I’m smart enough to understand that you can’t come to an argument with ifs, buts, faith and hope. So I kept up this, "yeah, well we’ll see" response while he prattled on about the obvious.

C: That’s what’s wrong with you Yankees! Y’all won’t ever win a World Series!…and Clemens, heeee-whoooo, you’ll regret it. You’ll regret it…the pitching is HO-rrendous!… Y’all deserve this.

And that’s when I heard it. This voice in my head that yelled, "26 Championships! Tell him THAT! Tell him 26 championships! That’s what we have! HIS team doesn’t!" I didn’t want to. I’m better than this! But my hand started to shake. I bit my lip and tried to ride it out but the inner monologue wouldn’t shut down. As he continued, I only heard bits and pieces… random, typically unoffensive phrases that left me on the verge of a breakdown:

Carl: … couldn’t happen to a better fanbase
Inner Monologue: We have the classiest fans in baseball!
C: … complainin and you don’t even know what you got!…
IM: 9 straight AL Easts! I think we know!!
C: … Yanks are over.. you’ve had your time you know what I mean?…
IM: We’re only the greatest dynasty in sports… 26 fucking championships
C: … and what’s his name? Cashmens?…
IM: TWENTY-SIX
C: … White Sox just took 2 from y’all too!
C: … Rodriguez…
IM: TWENTY SIX!
C: … A-Rod…
IM: TWENTY SIX!
C: … and Jeter’s not even THAT good!
IM: AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TWENTYYYYYY SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIX!

And that’s when I noticed him staring at me. Apparently, I hadn’t verbally responded in quite some time but had turned beet red and was blinking at an alarming rate. All I really noticed by that point was that the voice had started to fade and left a pounding headache in its wake. And I don’t mean the subsurface pulsating that makes you consider picking up a Tylenol on your way out the house. This was fierce and relentless like a piston driving into my skull. I don’t even know how it happened. I just internally lost it. And after looking at him for a few moments, all I could muster was a "Well, I still have hope." With that, he was out of there. I can’t say I blame him.

But it’s not the meltdown that bothers me. It’s the thoughts that ran through my head while it was happening. There has never been a point in my life when I was confronted with anti-Yankite nonsense and nearly responded like my brain was made out of fanboy cheese. I’m completely baffled by it. Our club is in a jam but we’re not so bad off that the only place I can turn is "26 Championships!" Usually, I can form cogent arguments – stats, facts, information. Usually I have something to hang my hat on. But not right now. All I have are my ifs and buts and candy and nuts. It’s disgusting. I have to be better than this. Maybe I was just hungry and my slow brain function sparked all of this. Whatever the cause, I’m just glad I didn’t actually vocalize those ridiculous thoughts but that notwithstanding, I am officially in a shame spiral.

Septuagenarian Striptease for S.S.C. Napoli

As soccer seasons come to a close around the world, the harsh realities of promotion and relegation can be a gut-wrenching experience for fans. But with five games remaining, the citizens of Naples may finally have something to cheer as local club, S.S.C. Napoli, is poised to finish at least third in Italy’s Serie B. If all goes well, they’ll be promoted to Serie A, the top flight league in Italian flopping.

S.S.C. Napoli has fallen on hard times since winning their first Italian championship with Diego Maradona leading the charge 20 years ago, but it appears that more is at stake for the club and fans than a return to the top tier and millions of dollars in increased funds…

You see, it’s time to wake up your grandpas, boys and girls! If Napoli is promoted to Serie A, the 72-year-old Sophia Loren is going to strip! Apparently, her assets aren’t just for Walter Matthau anymore:

"I hope that Napoli win these last few games. You watch if we go up I will do a striptease," she told Gazzetta dello Sport in an interview on Tuesday.

"The fans have a total passion, the city deserves promotion… and a shot of my new bazooms. It’s like 1962 all over again!"

Okay, so I added that last part. But a huzzah for Sophia Loren. Even if she is all silicone and dye these days, she’s still workin it and I can respect that. Forza Napoli!

Trying to Resist the Clemens Kool-Aid

So Roger Clemens is a New York Yankee once again and this time around, I don’t know how to handle it. While the signing comes with a world of upside — we’re not cost any minor league talent and we can be no worse off than when Kei Igawa was on the mound — there are three negatives that I find quite troublesome:

1. The realization that we are in such dire straits that we are willing to pay $7,500 per pitch to a geriatric egomaniac that’s still frosting his tips like Lance Bass circa 2001.

2. Roger Clemens is a sodding ass. I’ve already devoted my "I hate your dickish personality but that’s okay" good will to Alex Rodriguez. Shouldn’t that be enough?
3. Accidental ingestion of Clemens Kool-Aid.

When the Yankees were sliding through April on the wrong side of the win column, there was this optimism that Alex Rodriguez’s brilliance and solid hitting from the rest of the squad would helps us survive until Moose and Wang came off the DL. Everyone admitted that we’d spend some money on relievers near the trade deadline to assure a playoff run but this was something we could handle. We didn’t need a Hessian soldier coming in to make things right.

But at week 6 of the season, it’s getting late fast. Not only are the Yankees taking a back seat to the Mets in the press but we’re also 6 games back with a 15-16 record. Something had to be done. Someone had to stop the bleeding, both in the press and on the field. Someone had to finally admit, "No, we can’t do it on our own. It’s time to whore ourselves yet again." 

And while I love the signing because, like I said before, this is all upside, signing Clemens is like admitting defeat. And it’s upsetting to me that the smug bastard and his little K-family is getting the satisfaction of preying on our pathetic desperation. That notwithstanding, I will work hard to make sure Rocket receives my full backing. Because, like A-Rod, even though he’s a bleeding rotter, well, he’s ours.

Now, when I was little, doctors advised my mother put me on ritalin because I was overwhelmingly hyperactive. She disagreed, opting instead to keep me outside as much as possible and, when I was indoors, far far away from sugar. That meant Kool-Aid was out for me. But whenever I saw it – especially the cherry flavor, whose sweet elixir tasted like liquefied cherry Jolly Ranchers – I had this unbelievable urge to put my entire face in the pitcher and drown in it. That is exactly how this Roger Clemens signing feels to me. It’s like I’m at the kitchen table again having milk while the other kids get Sunny Delight and then the Kool-Aid man bursts through the wall promising me and only me eternal, delicious happiness.

I want to climb on and dive in. I want to drown myself in the possibilities. But I have to keep reminding myself that Roger Clemens – while a great boon to our prospects – is not some fix-all. Signing him doesn’t assure us a World Series or even a trip to the playoffs. The truth is, I don’t think we’d be in such dire straights if someone could put a freeze on Joe Torre’s push-button style of bullpen management. He’s like a cracked out Dusty Baker down there (Or is Baker a cracked out Torre?) and no one seems to notice. It’s been quietly ruining us since he began overextending Rivera (2003 aside) in 2001 and there are no signs that it will ever end.

This is heresy but after this season, it’s time for Torre to be put out to pasture. Please spare me the World Series rings and Hall of Famer arguments unless you can explain his brain function (or lack thereof) in the dugout these days. It’s like he’s sitting down there thinking of the best way to water his lawn instead of actually focusing on important matters like, oh, I don’t know, not destroying the only relievers that have a lick of skill.

I know that the starting pitching has been shite in recent years and that has forced Torre to burn up some arms. But when you have an 8-1 lead like the Yankees did last night and you plant Scott Proctor on the mound for 26 pitches instead of using instead of using Colter Bean or Luis Vizcaino to hold down the fort, there is a problem. "Hey, Scott, aren’t you one of the few relievers that we have that is worth a damn?" "Yeah." "Have the ball, son. Wear yourself out."

High leverage pitchers in low leverage situations. It’s Joe Torre’s anthem. Where is the sense in that? It’s one thing to use up your pen when the starter leaves in the 4th or 5th inning but it’s quite another when the other team has already packed up and gone home and you’re still gassing out the best options in your relief rotation. This happens enough to make me wonder if Torre’s even trying anymore. Maybe this is a case where he needs to retire but just can’t let go or maybe karma is out to get us for four championships in five years. Either way, I’ve had enough.

*I don’t know what any of my last paragraphs had to do with my initial concerns. My apologies.

HT: Coz – stimulating conversation  

My Apache Half Is Indifferent to Bonds But My White Half…

So much has been made of the recent poll showing stark racial divisions in how Barry Bonds is viewed and supported. ESPN only bothered to poll 799 people, 203 of which were black, so this wasn’t the most scientific of studies. Still, the Worldwide Leader of Hype & Bunk is telling us to take this seriously and since I’m a lemming, it’s time to do just that. 

According to the poll, just four in ten people are rooting for Bonds to break the most hallowed record in sports but when you look at it across racial lines, it breaks down like this:

Whites supporting Bonds: 28%
Blacks supporting Bonds: 75%

Whites believing Bonds took PEDs: 75%
Blacks believing Bonds took PEDs: 33%

Whites believing Bonds has been treated fairly: 60%
Blacks believing Bonds has been treated fairly: 33%

Of those who think his treatment has been unfair, more blacks and whites say it is because of his alleged steroid use than because of his race.

Now, I have long hoped that Barry Bonds would get hit in the face with an aluminum softball bat and then spontaneously combust or maybe even be eaten by sharks before reaching 755. But I can’t say I ever had a reason for it beyond hating him for being a cheating, contemptible puddle of spunk – at least, I never thought it ran deeper than that until those twats in Bristol told me otherwise.

As it turns out, I’m rooting for Barry Bonds to fail because the white half of me is a big ole racist. This comes as quite a shocking blow, as I’m sure you can imagine. My Indian side, however, is not involved in this conversation and is waiting patiently for me to get into a debate about Jim Thorpe. Ah well. I’d ask how I’m supposed to reconcile being at odds with myself but ESPN hasn’t put out a poll on that yet. Maybe next week.