I have new update today at SportsbyBrooks.com covering things like Mike Tyson’s attempt to suckle Kevin McBride’s teat, sex huts for prostitutes at the 2006 World Cup, Frank (the Big Hurt) Thomas’ slow evolution into Cornholio, and much more. Check it out…… please
For the next 3 weeks, my updates will be appearing on Wednesdays, so if any of you come across interesting, sports-related webfinds from anywhere – city/local and beyond – please feel free to email me a link or shoot me a message on AIM. I’d really appreciate it and there might be a cookie in it for ya.
Frank Costanza Jerry Buss lured Phil Jackson back to the fold with a 3-year, $30 million contract. In return, Jackson will (attempt to) guide the Lakers out of the doldrums and back to the Championship. I didn’t like the move. I thought it was time for the Lakers to move in a new direction but maybe Buss’ decision will answer some questions for us in the end.
One of the greatest things about sports is that a line exists between the best and the rest. It’s a line that defines achievement and greatness. And all of you know that no matter what level you won on last, be it state, conference, NCAA, or world championship, the ring silences debate. Isn’t that right, Dave? I was 16 the first time I learned that lesson. Someone came up to me and said, “Girl X is the best 100 m sprinter in the state, not you. You’re overrated.” At first, I didn’t know how to handle it – would I throw out comparative times, placing at head to head meets, and scholarship offers? I was about to until I remembered that I was the state champ, not her; I had the ring on my finger and she didn’t because I smoked her head to head when it mattered. That ended the debate. I’ve encountered many since and save world championships and Olympic medals, I have the ring hardware to shut people up and I was nothing but a punk collegiate athlete. So you’d think that regardless of one’s level of achievement, it’d be that simple for everyone, least of all Phil Jackson, a coach that has passed that ultimate line of measure NINE TIMES. Nine World Championships and we debate his greatness.
But perhaps it’s not hard. Phil Jackson’s no Chuck Daly – he never built a team from the ground up and he never turned a joke into a monster. Further, he’s damned lucky to have coached 3 of the greatest players in the modern area. But it seems to me that teams hire the best to coach the best to get the best result. Could anyone have won with those players and their egos? Maybe. Could the Celtics have replaced Red Auerbach with no consequence because they had Bill Russell? Who knows. I suppose that soon enough we’ll be knocking Popovich because he had The Admiral, Duncan, Parker, and Ginobili. But one thing I know is that owners don’t hire scrubs to babysit their stars. If babysitting was all it took, the USA Hoops team could have eeked out more than a bronze.
In light of these issues, I hoped Jackson would settle elsewhere – New York, Memphis, Philly (Could he succeed where Larry Brown failed?). But after seeing the news last night, I took a glance at the Laker roster. Forget about Kobe for a minute. You have Chucky Atkins who did zero in Detroit and even less in Boston; Brian Grant’s a geezer with bad knees; Caron Butler hasn’t been good since he was in the paint with Emeka; and Lamar Odom is often injured and hates Kobe Bryant. What a cast. Worse is that the Lakers must rely on shrewd personnel moves and the good nature of solid players willing to pull a Karl Malone to play alongside Kobe. Think there’ll be any takers? Frankly, I’d rather take the paycut and play with Shaq.
I’m glad about this obvious hire. We’re about to finally see just how good Jackson really is. What do you think he can do with Kobe Bryant and the others in the Land of Misfit Toys?
Michael Jackson got off, he beat the rap, and somewhere in Atlanta, Nancy Grace, CNN’s newest screeching harpy, just spontaneously combusted. Good riddance. Listening to that incompetent noodge and her sensationalistic mob justice unwrinkles my brain. But regarding Michael Jackson, what’s done is done. For a man that craves attention and public adoration, being a social pariah will prove to be punishment enough for any wrong committed upon a child in his past. Let his downward spiral into irrelevance continue, let him become further mired in debt, let him continue to be the posterboy for NAMBLA. I have to think that in the long run, these consequences will do more to pain (and hopefully rehabilitate) him than time in prison. Sure, in prison he’d lose the wig and makeup, need a pick for his new afro, and find Jesus Juice in short supply, but eventually he’d settle in, write books, and some idiot would find a way to make him a martyr. So let’s move on. I hope he straightens out his life but it’s more likely that sooner or later, he’ll be paying off another family.
As a break from all the analysis and bullshit we’ll endure the next few days (at least, until they find the missing girl in Aruba or have a zany report that Katie Holmes is Tom Cruise’s beard), I hope you all enjoy Triumph the Insult Comic Dog pooping on Wacko Jacko’s fans.
I didn’t catch the Tom Cruise Love Freakout on Oprah, so I did a lot of surfing around trying to find a clip of it. I finally found one but it was a remix type of thing set to the Black Eyed Peas or some other horrible bullshit that hurt my brain. Luckily, Paul pointed this out to me yesterday. If you don’t laugh, don’t ever come back here. I mean that
1) Placido Polanco was traded to Detroit for Ramon Martinez and Ugueth Urbina. I forgot to drop Urbina from my roster (I picked him up when Percival went on the DL) yesterday and he proceeded to get blown up for 4 runs and an ERA of 108 (reported ERA’s of infinity are false). The good thing is Chase Utley is finally freed from the bonds of platoon-hood (Charlie Manuel, you’re still an idiot but you’re off the hook). And the best thing is that I can now put my full efforts into hating and blaming Adrian Beltre and Edgar Renteria for the whole of my fantasy woes.
2) I tend to sleep with the tv on and ESPN saw fit to not only replay last night’s Spurs-Pistons game but the post-game commentary as well. As a reasonably foreseeable result, I was awakened 20 minutes ago from a blissful slumber by the staccato bursts of rage from Screamin’ A. Smith. “That’s not a bench! That’s not a bench!…They were absolutely awful. They owe…” Who knows what came next. I muted the tv, closed my eyes, and tried to recapture the ecstasy that was my dream state but it didn’t work out. During my off-seasons, I programmed my tv so that the irrational bleating and screaming of PTI would wake me up from my daily nap and I could get myself to evening practice. It worked well for me – sure, it was jarring, but it was more effective than my alarm. Trying to mute Mike Wilbon is about as difficult as whispering up a dead mule’s ass. By the time I found my remote, I was up for good. Mission accomplished. But in this case, all hope was lost I long for the completion of the 2005 NBA finals and the Draft. I think the upcoming 4-month vacation from Stephen A. is well-deserved for all mankind.
3) A 56-year-old man was robbed of his pants at a Philly adult bookstore yesterday, telling “police he was in the store’s theater Tuesday afternoon and got up to go to the bathroom after watching an adult movie.” Now we all know he just needed to wash his hands, but why was he even returning? Was it a double feature? Did he leave his popcorn? “The man said the only other theater occupant punched him in the chest when he returned. The punch caused him to fall backward to the floor. While his feet were in the air, the suspect grabbed and yanked his shorts off. In the process, his wallet fell to the floor. The suspect escaped with the shorts, which contained the victim’s cell phone and car keys.” Hmm. Unless our victim is shaped like a banana, I don’t see how legs flying in the air is a possible result of being blasted in the chest. Further, how do you rip someone’s shorts off that easily? Elastic waist? Don’t tell me that it was a saggy pants problem – this guy is 56. The fact of the matter is that men are so weak in their post-Oh! glow that the suspect could have politely asked for the victim’s wallet and gotten it with less trouble….. Returning from the bathroom, my ass.
Thanks to a recommendation by Paul Katcher to LA sports radio host, Brooks Melchior, and a successful tryout, I’ve been invited to join SportsbyBrooks.com, a sports news and commentary site listed by Time Magazine as one of the 10 Essential Sports Sites. I’ll likely be contributing weekly sports updates.
I think it’s fair to say that 90% of my readers are men, so I have a feeling SportsbyBrooks will cater to your interests since it focuses on three things: sports, babes, and beer. There are daily updates with interesting news not typically mentioned on SportsCenter (if it has been, you’ll get a unique take on the matter), a message board, and LA girls with ginormous boobs wearing SbB shirts that are 3 sizes too small. I’d ask Brooks for a shirt but I don’t think my rack is large enough to make wearing the shirt amusing… or maybe the fact that I have no business wearing one is what would make things amusing
In any case, all I ask is that after ogling the ladies (pictures usually precede updates), you scroll down, and check out my comments, as well as those of Paul and Steve Silver. Thanks again to Brooks for bringing me aboard and Paul Katcher as well.
I used to love watching tennis. I’m too young to have seen McEnroe and Connors in their prime, so for me, it was all about Boris Becker, Pete Sampras, Jim Courier, and Goran Ivanisevic (and his booming serve). What about the women’s game, you ask? I knew it was there. I liked Steffi Graf from beginning to end, Monica Seles before she got stabbed, and Capriati after she got off crack. But I’m not down with 20-minute Chris Evertesque rallies and until the Williams sisters arrived, that’s what the women’s looked like in comparison to the men’s. But with the retirement of Pete Sampras and the ascension of Serena, Venus, and their sexy competition, the role of “entertainment providers” switched from the men’s game to the women’s. Can you name a men’s tennis player other than Andy Roddick and that Swiss guy with the headband? Yeah, I can’t either. But I have a feeling that this is something new French Open Champion, Rafael Nadal, is going to change. With sleeveless shirts, capri pants, and flowing locks, the 18-year-old claymaster stroked and slid his way to a fascinating victory over unseeded Argentine, Mariano Puerta, 6-7, 6-3, 6-1, 7-5.
While watching Nadal hoist the Coupe des Mousquetaires in his very first appearance at Roland Garros, I imagined great things for his future.. namely commercials for Old Navy and Vidal Sassoon.
Watch out ladies… the men have figured out your secrets and now they’re on the come back.
Warren Sapp is a pear-shaped, whirling dervish who proved that faster is always better when you’re down in the trenches. In his prime (I think we can all agree that Warren has peaked), he was a menacing force that never failed to bust skulls off the ball, around the blocks, and through the line. From woo!-type moves to rips, he never apologized and he never stopped. He was a player to be respected, a hunter to be feared. But unlike the greats that came before him, the masses haven’t come to know, love, and revere Warren Sapp, the potential defensive legend. We are more appropriately acquainted with his better half: Warren Sapp, The Personality… the blunt force trauma to the senses whose words and antics are as amusing as they are infuriating, as refreshing as they are destructive. He calls league officials slave masters, knocks aside 160 pound referees, disrespects the pregame rituals of opposing teams, speaks into cameras to talk of only himself, and blames everyone but himself for misunderstanding the wonder that is 99. To put it simply, he’s an opinionated fuck that talks too fast, laughs too loud, says too much, and goes too far. He has turned the stage of teamplay into a platform for self-promoting rationalizations but hey, he’s a Miami Hurricane – an obvious product of said environment. Being an asshole is as far as it goes… right?
The low point came after the Panthers’ Nov. 7 loss to the Oakland Raiders, when Jenkins was forced to watch Warren Sapp, a player he dislikes intensely, celebrate on Carolina’s field. “When we played Oakland and we lost to Sapp, I stopped going to the games then,” Jenkins said Thursday. “I was going to the games up to that point. I couldn’t go to the games anymore. After that, that’s when … I’ve never been an alcoholic, but I upped my consistency of it.
“He talks too much, he doesn’t make sense, he’s fat, he’s sloppy, he acts like he’s the best thing since sliced bread. He’s ugly, he stinks, his mouth stinks, his breath stinks, and basically his soul stinks, too.”
Initially, I admired Jenkins for having the stones to call out Sapp without regret but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it’s absolutely absurd. The Raiders don’t face the Panthers again until 2008 – will Sapp even be playing by then? All we can really hope for is that the two meet on the sidelines at the Pro Bowl for a 635 pound rumble… that is, if either are ever good enough to return. But enough of that.. let’s focus on the real point here: Warren Sapp’s soul. If anyone ever told me my soul stunk, I’d kick them in the face. It’s as simple as that. I’m still in awe that it wasn’t enough for Jenkins to rattle off Sapp’s list of stinky spots – his body, his mouth, his breath.. with those Right Guard commercials, I figured Warren would have learned to take care of a bit of that. But what can be done for his soul? You can’t just shower that funk away.
Have you ever found another human being so contemptible, as to actually reach the rank soul conclusion? … because of sports? What the hell kind of rivalry is this? Is it even one? This is beyond the Shakobe contretemps. Though completely one-sided, this madness hovers somewhere below God vs. Satan. You just can’t talk about people’s souls like that unless you’re prepared for an eternity of battling. This kinda nonsense follows you through the tunnel. Good luck Kris with a K, you’re gonna need it, buddy… along with a non-alcoholic beverage. Freak.
The greatest competition for homeschooled fundamentalists and Computer Indians was held today in Washington DC. I pulled for Aliya Robin Deri, a disheveled, seemingly normal 8th-grader but had my money on the 11-year-old smart ass that taunted the judges because the words were not only French but also too easy ["YES! If this is the word I think it is, I know it already!" "YES! I've seen this before" "YES! It's French, isn't it? All the words I get are French... and I know them!"], while also providing the competitions only “You Got Served” moment. After spelling “Akaryote” (i think), he sat down and, with all seriousness, pointed at the remaining 2 finalists as if to say, “What now, bitches?!” It all seemed a bit much, especially for a kid named Samir Patel that attends the Patel Achievement Academy (how much do you want to bet that this is a house?) I questioned why the Bee Enforcers tolerated this behaviour until the camera panned to Samir’s mother, a large, fearsome woman that was probably equipped with bamboo sticks. I suppose his coming in 2nd was punishment enough.
In any case, I’m skipping the opportunity to crack on these kids for things like: “He likes to read the Bible;” “He likes to disassemble items;” “He recently completed an independent research study of the more than 6,000 Indo-European languages and dialects” because I realize that had I not been a dyslexic that couldn’t read [I can read now, fear not. And being an alcoholic Jewpache helped me spell 2 words right that they didn't get! Rathskeller - a basement tavern, and Ulpan - an intensive Hebrew language study program for immigrants to Israel], I could have easily been one of these goobers. That said, I have 2 concerns:
1) Some girl misspelled a word that was hard. The Beecaster said, “She wasn’t even close, she’s headed off to the comfort room.” She said it so matter of factly.. what crazy happening 20 years ago necessitated the existence of a comfort room? Did a homeschooler fundie go crazy after his 4th futile attempt at unseating the Computer Indians from power? They dominated the Bee the way Chinese Taipei owned the Little League World Series. I figure a place to console the losers is needed in a situation like that. I wonder if a psychiatrist is there.. if his desk is between the pizza table and the “First & Last Chance to Lose Your Virginity” bed. I imagine Stuart Smalley in a corner, preparing to disseminate tools to help them deal with their parents, the Texas Cheerleader Moms of Intelligentsia. It has to be rough reading and re-reading the dictionary, enduring 8 hours of spelling practice each day for years only to lose because you left out an “R.” I missed a 5-yard goal in the waning moments of a Final Four that will haunt me for the rest of my life but I have a feeling that the “R” is far more traumatic. Their chance for glory is toast, as they’ll be relegated to Spell Bowl teams and the world of Mathletes, Decathletes, and Quiz Bowlers. The joy of achievement in these pursuits will pale in comparison to the rush, the thrill, the glory felt in front of that crowd at Scripps. These kids will need more than a comforting room. They’ll be in therapy for years… if anything, to prepare them for the day they get to MIT or Yale and realize they aren’t special.
2) The word was Meissen. The kid jacked it up even after receiving the country of origin, definition, sentence, extra time, a donut, and alternate pronunciations. And that’s when Beecaster, Chris McKendry, shouted, “Oh no! And he was a favorite!” This isn’t fuckin playoffs! The Spurs aren’t at the Spelling Bee. You can either spell or you can’t. These kids finish 40th-one year and 1st the next and all because of that bloody “R.” Don’t tell me one of them is more adept than the others at handling words of Russian origin that define 18th century Japanese music terms. These beecasters need to get it together.
And with that, I’m hypocritically picking my favorite for 2006: Samir Patel is gonna tear shit up.
So here’s what we KNEW about Deep Throat: He was a still-living man that smoked and dug Scotch. I like to think he was Johnnie Walker Blue Label or a Chivas man but on a government salary, one can only hope. We also knew that he held an extremely sensitive position in the executive branch and was, according to Bob Woodward, “an incurable gossip.” We’ve been living with those “clues” for the past 30 years but if you’ve had your head out of your arse for even 15 minutes the past day or so, you’ve learned that Deep Throat’s identity has been confirmed. And no, it’s not Mr. X. I held out a strange hope that it would somehow be a man of this fictional caliber but I’ve been smacked around yet again by the mistress of disappointment. But moving on..
W. Mark Felt, former #2 at the FBI, is Deep Throat… but… is something wrong with this picture? I know he’s 112 years old but look at this old dude! This is the cause of one of the greatest political mysteries of the last 100 years? Come on! I wanted Deep Throat to be some guy that, even in old age, is full of mystery and intrigue and if we can’t have that, then I’ll accept Diane Sawyer. Christ, maybe even confirmation that it is, in fact, Linda Lovelace would be acceptable. That’d be a helluva twist! Give me Alexander Haig‘s sketchy, secretive ass, David Gergen, or even Henry Kissinger.. though it’s not remotely conceivable that Mr. Kissinger would ever be caught dead lurking about a garage, it would have made for a nice story. What about Cancerman?!? The X-Files taught me to demand better from conspiracy results. I’m sorry but this W. Mark Felt fellow looks like he’s excited just to be wearing his Depends. So he arranged some break-ins for the Nixon administration and got in trouble. Big deal! Give me somebody with some real conspiracy meddling, not a dude that did wheeling and dealing for President Paranoia. I want a connection to the Kennedy assassination, Mount Weather, and the Vatican. I want more. And since I’m not getting it, I give this new revelation two thumbs down.
Boo. Hiss. And more. Somebody wake me up when they find the shooter on the grassy knoll.