The Foolish Hubris Files: Eric Mangini & Me

As I’m sure you’ve ascertained, I was appropriately pwned for betting on Radiohead in the Breeders’ Cup Juvenile on Saturday. I know it was dumb but I couldn’t fight the compulsion. Sadness abounds. In any case, Radiohead never contended for the win and finished a middling 7th in the 13 horse field. On the bright side, this not so mighty emo steed surely hasn’t the skills to qualify for a Triple Crown race, so I don’t have to worry about foolishly screwing myself out of money in a few month’s time.

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In other news, Eric Mangini, head "coach" of the Cleveland Browns took stupidity and hubris to a new level today when he refused to announce whether Derek Anderson or Brady Quinn will be the one whose life comes to a sad, unfulfilled end at the hands of Ray Lewis next Monday night. According to reports, Mangini knows who he’s going to choose but plans to make his QBs and, laughably, the Baltimore Ravens defense, sweat it out a little.

Ray Lewis should slap this bitch around just for having the nerve.

When you’re the conductor of the biggest on-field trainwreck in the NFL, you have no right to be secretive or clever or coy. In fact, as a dead man walking, you have no rights. The only things on your mind should be:

Mangini has struck out looking on all of the the above, but even worse is that he’s arrogant (or delusional?) enough to think the Ravens will buy into his bullshit. What, like they’ll develop two game plans? The Browns could start G-d and still lose by 30. Even G-d would tell ya that. What He’d also tell you and what the Ravens already know is that Brady Quinn will be under center on Monday night. Not because this QB selection process was like choosing between agony and despair and despair tasted a little better, but because throwing Quinn back in the mix at week 9 allows the Browns to boost his trade value without triggering $10.5M in performance incentives in his contract.

If I can figure that out, so can the rest of the league, Eric. It’s not rocket science. I just wish I could go back in time and un-do that Radiohead bet, so I could throw 5 grand down on the Frowns to be torn limb from limb, set aflame in a funeral pyre and then sent out to sea.

I would have been the winner on that one.

Gambling, Radiohead and Trusting the Signs

My gambling problems started at 13 years old. I was selected for a gymnastics team competing in an invitational in Spain; one of those trips where parents don’t come – just coaches. As the youngest person on the squad by about four years, I was stupid enough to do anything my teammates suggested. So when they started playing a card game called Between the Sheets (explanation), I dove in.

At first, it was just a pound here and there, but then I got on a roll and landed what had to be the Holy Grail of the game – a high ace and a low ace. "Bet the pot, kid! Bet the pot!" Back then, I was an albino outcast with mad athletic ability but no social skills. You have no idea how good it felt to be palling around with 17 and 18 year olds who were living and dying with your every move. So I did exactly what they told me to do, and, perhaps justly, went down in flames when another ace landed in-between.

As devastating as it was to lose, I’d never felt such a rush. From then on, when I wasn’t competing, I was gambling. The last of my £100 pounds spending money was lost to a 17 year old boy on the plane back home. We bet on the flight attendant’s hair color. Turns out she wasn’t a natural blonde after all.

These days, I’m backed by a self-replenishing gambling fund that keeps me from turning into Antoine Walker. Though I still betting on everything from horse races to sporting events to whether I can beat you in a footrace (you don’t want to take that bet), I like to think that I go about things with more smarts. But every once in a while, gambling nirvana sends down signs that force me to remove any amount of good sense from the equation. Case in point:

Radiohead to get crack at Breeders’ Cup

Radiohead, the impressive winner of the Norfolk Stakes at Royal Ascot during the summer, has been sold to the New York-based owners of 2008 Kentucky Derby hero Big Brown for a crack at next month’s Breeders’ Cup Juvenile.

IEAH Stables have purchased a controlling interest in Radiohead for an undisclosed fee, with current connections Carmen Burrell and Jonathan Harvey retaining a 10 per cent stake.

Radiohead will remain in trainer Brian Meehan’s care until Santa Anita but the colt’s future beyond then has still to be determined.

The deal represents a calculated gamble on behalf of IEAH, as Radiohead has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface.

In addition to doubts about his stamina to see out the 1600-metre trip of the Juvenile, his new owners will also need to fork out the bulk of an entry fee because Radiohead was not Breeders’ Cup registered as a foal.

However, on the upside, his sire, Johannesburg, successfully bridged the distance gap from the Norfolk to the Juvenile during his unbeaten two-year-old campaign in 2001.

"IEAH have been keeping a close eye on Radiohead ever since Ascot, specifically with the Breeders’ Cup in mind," said Bloodstock agent Andy Smith, who helped broker the sale.

"He reminds me of Wilko, the horse Jeremy Noseda won the Juvenile with five years ago – a feisty, well-built sort who should do well out in America."

First, WTF on the Wilko bit? How random. Second, long time readers of this site know about my Radiohead fanaticism. The band captured my heart a good year before gambling did, so even though this mighty steed "has yet to race beyond 1200 metres or on an artificial surface," this whole thing just seems like destiny.

The Breeder’s Cup Juvenile race is today at Santa Anita Park in Arcadia, California. Since I can’t beam myself to California from London, I’ll do the next best thing — get liquored up and hit Ladbrokes. Right now, Radiohead is a 20/1 but I’ve never been more sure of a bet in my life.

(Picture courtesy of Pitchfork)

My Man Has Got This

It’s no secret that Andy Pettitte has been my favourite Yankee and stalking victim imaginary boyfriend since I was 12 years old. I adore him. I love everything about him.

Whenever this is revealed, I catch the usual flak — "Why not Rivera?" "Come on! Pettitte over Donny Baseball?" "Are you kidding? You ever heard of Derek Jeter?"

All things considered, their confusion makes sense. Unlike Jeter, Andy isn’t a superstar loaded with G-moments. He’s not flashy or outgoing or blessed with movie-star good looks. He doesn’t even have Cooperstown-worthy regular season numbers. But what he does have is the uncanny ability to raise the level of his pitching in baseball’s most pressurized situations.

Time and time again, Andy Pettitte has delivered without ego or excess, and while he’s had his stumbles (2001, anyone?), there is no one I want on the mound more when a season is on the line. I know he’s 37 years old and I know he’s pitching on three days rest, but tonight, I’m not fazed. Andy Pettitte’s career has been defined by games like this, and no one will stop him from delivering a 27th world championship to the New York Yankees. Not Pedro Martinez. Not Chase Utley. And not even Joe Girardi’s atrocious attempts at management. My man has got this.

Irony Awards: Ron Artest Raps for Abused Women

When the Taliban was temporarily stifled in 2001, a more egalitarian notion of women’s rights took hold in Afghanistan. Women could walk around without burqas; they could vote; they could even escape abusive marriages by seeking refuge in women’s shelters. But having rights didn’t protect them from abuse. According to non-governmental agencies, nearly 90% of Afghan women have experienced domestic abuse. Since Afghanistan is a patriarchal society trapped in the stone age, these stats are really no surprise.

What is surprising, however, is that Ron Artest has come to their defense. Yes, that Ron Artest. The mercurial basketball player with the emotional stability of a bag of rats in a burning meth lab. Over the last few years, he’s become known for strong defense and:

Now, he has written and performed a song called “Afghan Girl,” which calls attention to the plight of many Afghan women.

Warning: Video contains uncomfortable and graphic images.

Too many of our athletes and celebrities sit idly on the sidelines even though they have platforms to affect change, so Artest deserves a lot of credit for what he’s trying to do here. The problem, however, is his execution is a hot ass mess loaded to the gills with irony and awkward moments.

I know that for Ron Artest, (in)sanity is a rapidly fluctuating continuum, so people might be afraid to speak up when he’s making woeful choices. But sometimes you need to protect a man from himself by putting on your bullet proof vest, helmet and other protective gear and saying, “Hey Ron, I appreciate what you’ve got going on here but let’s find another way. Try speaking to the media, visiting Afghanistan or raising money for awareness. Do anything but rap because bro, you’ve got less than zero skills and listening to you try gives me a massive case of the sads.”