I don't have much to say on this subject, but as a self-described sports blog, I feel obliged to report on something sports-related before giving you yet another non-sports blog that is soon to come.
I should stress the "sports-related" portion of that last paragraph as this week's dumbest thing ever is somewhat of a yearly "sports" annoyance for yours truly.
Every spring for the last decade or so (I haven't kept track since it would be too depressing), ESPN has televised the Scripps National Spelling Bee. While the professional writer in me appreciates the constant strive for correct spelling in all walks of life, the sports addict in me (along with most of the rest of the universe) is always in for a letdown when the spelling bee breaks into the regularly scheduled block of whatever pre-taped, low-ratings event should be taking the place of a bunch of 10-13 year old kids that don't belong anywhere within a mile of a network with both "entertainment" and "sports" contained within its acronym.
The spelling bee is cute and all, but can we please drop it from ESPN? I get that it's competition, but so are dog shows, Pokemon tournaments, and junior high science fairs. This is just ridiculous. If I wanted to spend five hours watching middle schoolers sweat and be awkward, I would hang out with someone's creepy uncle in his van out by the recess yard every day.
I remember spelling bees... I went through them every year. Each year, one lucky student from my school would be the "spelling king" who was rewarded with the prize of a weekend full of more spelling instead of watching cartoons. Inevitably, this master of the 26 letters would lose, return to class, and never speak of the experience again.
Don't get me wrong. I love competition. I get worked up over Iphone games and don't even like to lose at board games. But where is the competition and high stakes in a spelling bee? Sure, the winner of the whole thing gets a scholarship, but everyone else in the finals at least gets a free trip to D.C. There is no downside - and thus, no TV-worthy competition - to a spelling bee. Just look at all of the kids that get knocked out. There are only ever two reactions to finally spelling a word wrong. The kid is either relieved that they can go back to their summer vacation or terrified that their parents will beat them mercilessly and send them back to their dictionary-filled dungeon for the next 11 months.
In all my years of being forced to watch spelling bee highlights when all I really want to see is a recap of the Phillies game from the previous night, the closest thing to athleticism is still the little asshole that got so worked up over a word that he actually passed out while on stage. Come on, ESPN. Don't put that nonsense on the same channel as people who actually run and jump and succeed athletically for a living.
These little kids may be smart, but showcasing their encyclopedic brains and trying to sell it to me as either entertainment or sport has to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard (this week).
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
Behind enemy lines
As much as I love sports of all kinds, there’s just no way that even I can put up with watching games or listening to ESPN radio on a 24/7 basis. Even though I will never cease to annoy my girlfriend with 2 a.m. re-re-re-runs of Baseball Tonight and my insistence that eight hours before a Georgia
And so it was that last Friday saw both Kelly and I have an entire day to ourselves. While one part of my brain told me that it would be a perfect time to start partying in anticipation of GSU’s appearance in the Southern Conference championship softball game, the part of my brain that rather dislikes sleeping on couches decided that this wasn’t in my best interest. Instead, I joined Kelly in a trip to Savannah
Now, I’m no stranger to shopping with the fairer sex. Having a mother and two sisters, I’ve been through the rigors of clothes shopping before and realize that their way of deciding on wardrobe is a bit different than my own philosophy of ‘that one looks good and is even within arm’s length. I’ll take it.’ Still, it had been quite a few years since the old days of the family trip to the mall for back-to-school shopping and I quickly realized that I was in for a rude awakening.
Before we go any farther, I feel obliged to make a plea to my girlfriend… Kelly, this isn’t an indictment of you or your shopping tendencies. I have every reason to believe that you are on the most desirable end of the scale of girls that I’d want to be in a mall with while they hold the only key to the car. I love you, and the dress that you picked out is absolutely perfect.
OK. Hopefully that gets me out of too much trouble, so let’s continue on our adventure.
Things started up innocently enough. As we rolled into the mall, I was instructed to go to Belk. My first instinct was to say, “Babe. We have a Belk in Statesboro. Why did we have to go the whole way to Savannah
Once we ventured upstairs to the men’s and women’s sections, I immediately wandered off to look at polo shirts, only to realize that one rack of clothing with little horseys on them cost more than my college education. Resigning myself to my fate, I joined my girlfriend among the forest of dress racks to begin judging the candidates.
The first rack: too tacky. The second rack: too dressy. Don’t want to show up the bride. The third rack: Juuuussst rig-OH MY GOD, LOOK AT THAT PRICETAG!!!!!
About 10 minutes in, it seemed as though we hit the jackpot. Kelly found a dress that we both agreed looked good. In fact, she had seen it before and liked it a few weeks ago in Statesboro (still not falling for that one), and it was even a bit cheaper here. But then, tragedy befell me. There were none of those dresses in the right size. A few more trips through the Belk racks turned up nothing, leading me to endure the unknown perils of the rest of the mall.
As a guy, it’s amazing how many women’s clothing stores you never knew existed until you are required to look at all of them. In fact, there are 28 different stores classified as women’s apparel under the roof of the Oglethorpe Mall.
Not only are there an inordinate amount of women’s clothing stores, but they seem to have run out of normal names to go by. After the first quarter-mile of walking or so, I wasn’t sure whether we were looking for a dress or a nightclub. With store names like 5 7 9, Cache, Decibel, Envy and Rainbow, it’s tough to tell.
To my credit, I was pretty well behaved. Luckily, I was in need of a new pair of flip-flops, so at all of the stores featuring clothes for men and women, I was able to stare at a wall of shoes instead of pretending that I had an eye for picking out a nice dress.
Of course, even this reprieve wasn’t entirely good news. Thanks to my well-documented cheapness, my search for flip-flops turned into a five-store diatribe on how overpriced a slab of rubber and a couple of leather bands have become and how anybody willing to drop $50 for a pair of flip-flops should give up any and all credit cards on principle.
Kelly, who I know for a fact has spent the equivalent of an impoverished African country’s GDP on footwear, probably didn’t want to hear any of it, but – to her credit – let me wear myself out with complaining and will likely compliment whatever $5 Wal-Mart flip-flops I end up buying.
Finally, on what I think was the 12th store that we set foot in, gold was struck. After finding dresses that were “too big, too small, too white, too black, and too flowy(?)”, Kelly found her perfect dress. With the finish line in sight, all she had to do was try it on. So we waited…. And waited… and waited. Ten full minutes went by and evidently, none of the four women filling up the dressing room had anything better to do that day. Luckily, Kelly spotted another fitting room and after a nerve-wracking wait, she emerged with a dress that fit perfectly. SUCCESS!
All that was left was to check out. At least, that’s what I thought. While spending 15 minutes looking through the racks and ten more waiting to try on her dress, Kelly loved the dark blue number she had found. Yet, in what I’m assuming is some sort of female mind game, the final 50 yard sprint to the cash register was filled with me having to assure her of how good the dress looked as she was suddenly second guessing her choice.
I had come too far to start the search all over, so I summoned up what was left of my psyche and kept her in favor of the dress.
Sensing that I was perilously close to escaping, the store we were in threw out one final curve ball. You see, every store that I go to has the same setup. You go inside, you pick up whatever you want and on the way out, pass a register where you can pay.
This relatively simple arrangement is lost on department stores. Instead of conveniently placed registers near the exits, there are checkout islands placed randomly throughout the store. There’s one at the makeup booth. There’s one under the escalator. I think that I saw one in the bathroom. Fortunately, we found one with a straight shot to the exit so that I could ensure no further shopping.
But that isn’t the end of it. Of course it isn’t. There are four registers at these islands and three people working, yet only one seems to actually be scanning items. AND NOW THEY’RE ROTATING!!! This turns the checkout process into an impromptu game of musical chairs as everyone circles the island, not quite sure of which register is open or where a line should form. This is fine for the women, who get a 360-view of all the other items on sale near the island. For us men, it becomes a death march. We keep slowly shuffling around, keeping eye contact with the other males, searching for a sign of weakness and ready to pull our shopping companions to an open register at a moment’s notice. There is no male camaraderie here. This is war, and we’re just trying to get back home in one piece.
At long last, we arrived at the register. Now desperate to keep us in its clutches, the store makes its last stand. The female soldier behind her scan gun went on her three-minute rant, all the time staring directly at Kelly as my thoughts and opinions were of little consequence.
“Are you a member of our club? Would you like to become one? If you do, you’ll receive 5 percent off today, 10 percent on special sales, a microchip in your brain that beams our clearance items directly to you, and a nice little carrying case for your boyfriend’s testicles.”
I think that’s about right. I kind of blacked out.
Thankfully, Kelly resisted all of this and, after giving a phone number, email address, home zip code, and filling out a survey – I’m not joking here. They actually made her give all of that – we were allowed to escape with her dress and a one-item receipt that stretched over two feet (still not joking).
Thoroughly beaten, I was allowed the solace of the food court. Never has $7.99 honey chicken tasted so much like freedom.
I thank you for sharing in my experiences. I’ve been told that talking about traumatic events is the best way to begin coping.
If you’d like to hear more of my travels, come visit me at my sister’s wedding next week. After Kelly reads this, I’m sure that I’ll be relegated to the corner of the reception room, left to drink alone and dread the next formal event to which we’re invited.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
It's easy to read the rules, even if they aren't written
A couple of baseball players made headlines this week while yelling at other players, assaulting them with baseballs, or just creating controversy in general. Much was made of both ordeals on their respective radio broadcasts and subsequent sports talk shows, but everything boiled down to that always mythical “unwritten code” of baseball.
After almost two decades of being the sparkplug/go-getter/person most likely to incite a brawl on whatever team I play for, I feel qualified to delve into the topic of things that should or shouldn’t happen as it pertains to baseball’s code of conduct. While things seem to have blown over, more or less, in both situations, I think that there were some egregious errors made on the parts of players and front office personnel alike that the old guard of baseball simply wouldn’t stand for.
First off, let’s head out west to the Saturday night game between the Rockies and Braves.
Major League Baseball’s favorite quadragenarian Jamie Moyer was staked to an early lead, then watched it slip away as the Braves treated his dazzling array of 79 mph fastballs, 78 mph curves and 77 mph change ups like the batting practice pitches that they usually are.
Perhaps refusing to face his own baseball mortality, Moyer suspected that Atlanta
But this isn’t the controversy. Words and insults fly all of the time. That’s just part of the game. What isn’t part of the game is what happened… well… after the game.
Asked what was going on between himself and Moyer, Jones took a flying leap over the line of baseball decorum. Not only did he rehash the sign stealing discussion, but then spent the next two minutes ripping on Moyer, his unique brand of pitching and even hypothesized that Moyer might just be paranoid since he’s been on teams that were accused of cheating. That’s a no-no, and I would expect better from a guy who has spent nearly two decades in MLB.
I think that Chipper and the Braves probably didn’t do anything to Moyer. Even if they did, Moyer only accused them of relaying signs – something that isn’t illegal. Still, to turn an on-field dispute into a big locker room chest thumping contest is a stupid move on Chipper’s part.
If you want to say that a guy was acting out on the field, fine. If you want to call him an idiot or classless, ok. But you can’t insult a fellow professional athlete’s abilities while speaking on the record. It’s no secret that Moyer is a soft-throwing guy and that his best years came almost two US
If Chipper wants to have it out with Moyer, that’s fine. If he really wants to follow through on his offer to meet up with him in a hallway to “settle their differences”, I think we could all get behind it and sell the fight as a $39.99, grandpa-on-grandpa violence Pay-Per-View event.
Ironically, it was Chipper’s own age and fading baseball abilities that kept this from getting even more out of hand. A day after publically trashing Moyer and the Rockies on the air to millions of television sets and radios, if the Braves had dared to put Jones in the lineup for the series finale, there is little doubt that he would have been drilled at least once. Instead, Chipper’s ailing knees kept him out of action and, possibly, out of the crosshairs.
Kind of funny when you think about it. Usually, it’s the pitchers that get away with doing and saying what they please since they only bat once or twice per game and usually only make one appearance per series. Chipper avoided any confrontation for now, but if he and the Braves are still going strong in September when a big four-game series with the Rockies rolls around, it will be interesting to see if Colorado remembers those not so kind words way back in May.
The next night, millions of viewers nationwide watched as on-field altercations turned a bit more physical. In an example of the unwritten rules of baseball working as they have for over a century, things on the field played out exactly as they should have while everything else helped to blow the story out of proportion.
After Cole Hamels beaned all-everything rookie and squirrel pelt hair style enthusiast Bryce Harper in the first inning of the Phillies and Nationals’ Sunday night game, there was little doubt as to what had happened. Harper has been the talk of the baseball world for over three years, racking up almost as many magazine articles as he had examples of acting like an entitled brat.
After seven games in the show, Harper had sufficiently restrained himself from doing anything too stupid at the major league level, but obviously had not impressed Hamels much.
With his first pitch in the first of what is likely to be many showdowns between the two, Hamels reared back and, without provocation, sent a 93 mph welcome letter to Harper’s back.
And thus, the cycle was set in motion.
Everyone in both of those dugouts knew exactly what had just happened. Harper, like countless hotshot rookies before, had to endure the price of the fame that he hadn’t quite earned yet.
But here’s the thing. Instead of staring down Hamels or getting into a shouting match with someone, Harper knew exactly how to handle things. He ducked his head, trotted to first, then hustled his ass off – going first to third on a single and timing a pickoff move perfectly in stealing home – to make Hamels pay for giving him a free base.
Likewise, Harper’s teammates settled the score for their rookie. When Hamels came to bat later in the game, Jordan Zimmermann plugged him in the leg.
And that was that. Hamels had made his statement, Harper took it in stride, Zimmermann got his team justice, and then both side let the issue die.
Too bad the rest of the world couldn’t leave it at that.
As soon as the game was over, reporters fell all over each other to question Hamels and Harper on the incident that, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t really an incident at all. When Hamels finally admitted to hitting Harper on purpose – a dumb move, even if it was honest – you would have thought that the teams were getting ready to start World War III.
No less than 20 MLB Network and ESPN analysts felt obliged to give their views on the beanball. Nationals GM Mike Rizzo climbed up on his high horse and somehow turned a fastball to the back into “The most gutless, chickenshit thing I’ve seen in my 30 years in baseball.”
The great thing about those unwritten rules is that, while invisible, they are exact and concise. While talking heads drone on with the hyperbole of Hamels’ actions being “malicious” and “totally unwarranted” and even “possibly deadly”, the two teams abided by the code and came to the quick and efficient conclusion.
Hamels was mocked by many for stating that he was a fan of old-school baseball and that that mentality had led him to plunk Harper, but what played out last Sunday was a perfect example, from both teams, on how the game should be played.
Hamels and the Phillies wanted to intimidate, the Nationals realized it, accepted it, then retaliated. Both teams were satisfied, there was no fighting or posturing, and none of the beanballs were aimed at anyone’s head.
Maybe if the media could step away from its righteous indignation for a few seconds, they could catch a good, old fashioned baseball game once in a while.
Friday, May 4, 2012
The dumbest thing I've ever heard (this week) - It's obvious that you don't want to apologize, so just shut up
Before I get started, I’d like to apologize for my recent absence. There are only two of us in the sports department, and the one that isn’t me just had his first kid. But I’m OK with it. Hell, I encourage it. I know our current economic situation, and I’m rooting for as many new babies as possible. I need a new, huge generation of people to pay for my social security.
Well, getting back to the point of my weekly rant, it’s obvious that there were two main contenders from the last couple of weeks. Not only did Ron “Metta World Peace” Artest’s elbow try to break the sound barrier/James Harden’s neck, but Amare Staudemire also manned up on a fire extinguisher harder than any Miami Heat player in the immediate area.
After giving it some thought, I’m going with Artest. Sure, Staudemire’s decision to punch glass was ill-advised at best and might even take him out of commission even longer than Artest, but at least most of us can relate. I’d be willing to guess that there aren’t many athletes out there who haven’t punched something in a brief fit of rage at some point.
On the other hand, Artest’s actions would have brought an assault charge if it had occurred anywhere other than a basketball court. What kind of a person launches his elbow full speed at the back of another person’s head?
But the stupidest thing I heard all of last week about the incident didn’t have as much to do with the elbow as it did with how Artest handled the aftermath. I’m not sure what awful PR firm is giving pointers to athletes and politicians that get caught doing something wrong, but they need to stop. The only thing more embarrassing than Artest’s total lack of sportsmanship or regard for the wellbeing of Harden was his total refusal to acknowledge that he had done anything wrong.
After being ejected, seeing the countless replays and being asked hundreds of questions about the incident, Artest finally admitted that he may have inadvertently hit Harden. Delving even deeper into absurdity, he then issued the time-honored favorite of people whose horrible actions are being broadcast all over the media – the Non-Apology Apology.
The Non-Apology Apology (NAA) makes me want to throw up whenever I hear it. Classic examples of the NAA are usually associated with people saying dumb things, then following up with something like “I apologize if my comments offended anyone”, or “Had I known that the media would blow this whole thing out of proportion, I certainly wouldn’t have said that.”
It’s the most shameless cop-out there is and I usually find the NAA to be more embarrassing and detrimental to the person’s character than whatever caused them to almost, sort of feel sorry (but not really) in the first place.
Things were no different with Artest. When he finally got it through his head that he had actually done something wrong and couldn’t play it off as an accident, there was no shortage of statements that expressed some sort of remorse, and then quickly explained that he shouldn’t really be held accountable.
First, Artest utilized a great NAA tactic, using self-aggrandizing statements to justify the action. He claimed that “I’m an emotional player,” and “I celebrate. That’s how I always celebrate. Unfortunately, I hit Harden while doing it.”
Come on, Ron-ron. Is that really how you celebrate? This was a routine play in a regular season game. I’ve seen you hit a 3-pointer to pretty much seal an NBA championship, yet you somehow celebrated your way through that without trying to decapitate anyone. Additionally, are we to believe that raising your elbow up over your head and throwing it down and out to your side is a celebration? That seems more like an epileptic fit.
Then, he tried saying that he didn’t even see Harden there. Really? Because you definitely bumped into him before you threw that elbow. Cut to one of Artest’s NAAs and that story changes. There, he claims that he “may have bumped him, but he was more concerned with getting back down the court.”
Dude… That’s an explanation so ridiculous that you really must believe it in order to tell it to the media. Looking at the replay, it’s pretty impossible to declare that Artest had no idea that another player was currently occupying the space he had requisitioned for his elbow of celebration/justice/douchebaggetry. Look, I get it. This was a big game and you just made a big play. You were celebrating and a guy got in your way.
Giving that player a little shove probably would have gone unnoticed, but that’s not what he chose to do. Instead, the only viable option Artest could come up with was to swing as hard as he could at Harden. And this wasn’t a ‘get out of my way while I continue to thump my chest’ swing. You’re 6’7”. When you throw an elbow straight out at another NBA player, you aren’t giving them a love tap on the back or in the ribs. You’re going for their head.
Finally, his NAA levels reached critical mass after the league suspended him for seven games. Having been suspended numerous times and having lost over $4 million in salary over the course of those suspensions during his career, Artest actually had the gall to suggest that he was surprised with the commissioner’s ruling.
In what may have set a new world record in committing to a “who, me?” defense, Artest – obviously unaware of his own dubious history - seemed amazed at his ability to harm a player like he did.
At the press conference after his suspension was levied, Artest tried to give the impression of being understanding, saying things like “Oh, wow. When I looked back on it, I did seem to hit him pretty hard,” and “I didn’t think that I should be suspended. I hadn’t even realized that I hit him, so I didn’t think it could have been that bad. But I definitely hope James is alright,” then topping it off with “I definitely am not trying to go out there and hurt people. That’s not what I’m doing when I’m on the court.”
Um, Ron… two things. First, you went on your twitter account after the incident and appeased your apologist fans, promising that you will continue to be aggressive because that’s just who you are. That kind of contradicts the Ron Artest that couldn’t seem to wrap his head around his ability to give Harden a concussion when the media came calling.
Second, I think that you lost your ability to ever cast yourself as the docile type after charging over a table, cold cocking a fan, and earning a suspension that spanned over 2/3 of a season for inciting a brawl that made an early regular season game in 2003 look more like civil unrest in the Middle East.
My point here isn’t that you should shape up, Ronny. You’re way past the point where you could ever turn over a new leaf. My advice instead, is to embrace your assholishness. Throughout your entire career, you’ve always been That Guy. You’re the guy who will catch someone’s ribs every time they come down with a rebound. You’re the guy who will stick his foot right under a jump shooter as he comes down. And you’re certainly the guy who thinks that an elbow to the brain stem is a proper retaliation for being bumped.
All that I’m asking is that you stop “apologizing” for all of these things that you continue to do.
Nobody is buying anything you’re saying. You did see Harden. You did try to elbow him in the head. You absolutely knew what had happened when your actions caused a scrum on the court and you definitely won’t let any of the ensuing bad press, fines or suspension time keep you from doing something like this again.
To say anything that argues these points and – above all – to expect any of us to buy it, is simply the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard (this week).
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