George Steinbrenner lost his life this morning, seeing David Ortiz win the derby gave him a heart attack. He will be missed.
George Steinbrenner lost his life this morning, seeing David Ortiz win the derby gave him a heart attack. He will be missed.
It’s over. It’s over. The Chicago Blackhawks are the Stanley Cup champions for the first time since 1961. But, is it really over? While the Hawks celebrate, the City of Brotherly Love collapses around them. Toews is winning the Conn Smythe. Now he’s hoisting the Cup, the most hallowed of all sports trophies. The hardest trophy in sports to win. Now Marian Hossa has it, finally, finally after all these years and all those games, now he’s hoisting it above his head and screaming, triumphant. Even with the game’s blooper ending which, though oddly historic, will probably not be the focus of an awe-inspiring commercial next spring, the night, the whole season, does not feel over. I think back to just a few hours ago, anxiously pacing in my usual groove, waiting for the game to start. The first two periods, heavy with colliding bodies and timely goals, but marred by questionable penalties, I watched alone, at first, and then with my father after he came home from work and before he went to bed. The Blackhawks were dominating, despite the oppressive orange atmosphere and the series’ tide being generally in favor of the home team, and were ahead 3-2 as the second period drew to a close. Madden, the ex-Devil, has Lord Stanley’s Hardware now, cherising what could be the last time he will ever lift it. During the second intermission, Angus shows up at my house, unexpected, to wait to meet a mutual business associate. Or maybe expected, but forgotten, who knows?. We sit on the porch and bullshit for awhile, talk about work, and pussy before descending the steps down to The Lounge just in time to see the third period faceoff. My brother, Quick, is laying on Jabba staring at one of the two large screens playing out the final scenes of the ‘09-’10 season. Angus and I assume positions on the couch and idly fuck around with the Antiques while we watch the game. He, with the Colt, watches the flatscreen on the far wall. I, swinging the Thompson around like a club, pointing it at my dogs and listening to the trigger click and then laughing, watch the old, fuzzy TV to our right because it’s closer and brighter. The third period is quiet. Chicago assumes a holding pattern. holding long enough for our associate to arrive. Angus goes outside in the rain to meet him; I walk him outside to the porch and say hello to our friend but refuse to go anywhere. The Blackhawks are about to win the Stanley Cup, I tell them like it’s a sure thing. The two of them bounce and I go back inside to discover, to my horror, the Flyers have scored. Overtime. We’re headed to overtime. This is going to be epic, amazing, heart-stopping…
…it’s over? It’s over. Kane put the game winner through Leighton’s legs and nobody noticed, except Kane, and me apparently, because as soon as 88 puts the puck on net I leap to my feet and shout, then play continues and Quick, who has joined me upstairs, looks at me like I’m retarded. But fuck him! I was right! The Flyers are stunned, the Hawks celebrate, looking out of place among the sea of disappointment. It’s over.
Niemi, with his boyish grin, lifts the Cup and hollers. Keith, Kane, big Dustin Byfuglin, they all get the chance of a lifetime. The Cup looks weightless.
I want to feel satisfied, having rooted for the Blackhawks in this series, but there is something of an empty feeling rising in my chest. Good God, have I grown to respect these villians in orange? Does the sight of Leino, and Briere, and the goalie-with-movie-star-good-looks Brian Bouche, looking devestated actually bum me out, a little? Yes, I suppose they’ve deserved my respect. The empty feeling isn’t helped when Jeremy Roenick, at the sight of his former team winning the cup, breaks down in to tears Live, on the air. I have to wonder whether or not that will be a commerical next year either.
The Blackhawks have won a hard fought, well deserved Stanley Cup. Now, next season can’t come fast enough
Galarraga walking away in disbelief that the MLB can accept such malarkey as reasonable functionality
The history of a game between the Indians and Tigers that occurred June 2nd, 2010 could be read a whole lot differently and with better spirits than it will be written. Two men will forever go into the record books with blemishes on their record, one much more egregious than the other.
A single play at a base isn’t always reason to completely rethink the approach to integrating technologies into a game whose professional history runs deep into the 19th century. I just don’t think it’s correct to accept the idea that human error is a part of the game when it comes to the rules that govern that game. We have the ability to implement these technologies, they merely need expansion.
Oh good, this jersey on NBC again!
According to multiple reports, Gary Bettman is going to announce today that the 2011 Winter Classic will be played at Heinz Field in Pittsburgh between the Penguins and the Capitals. It’s been rumored that this would be the sight and matchup since 10 minutes after this year’s Winter Classic ended and the US Olympic Hockey team was announced by racially diverse children wearing oversized jerseys. I personally remember saying that they’d fashion a network ratings wet dream: Crosby vs. Ovechkin vs. The Snow.
I’m a fan of great hockey, regardless of who’s playing. Regardless of who’s playing, I can enjoy the game that I love, even if it’s a bitter rival of my Devils (i.e. the Stanley Cup Finals this year). But the fact of the matter is that the NHL has been billing itself as a league with 2 superstars, and the rest of the players are just a bunch of ragtag guys who beat each other about the face and head until their teeth fly out, and I’ve just about had enough. View Full Article »
Completely improper use of a Venn Diagram
Baseball is a thinking man’s game. Presumably it’s been labeled as such not only because mental defectives make poor base runners, but because there’s a great deal of thought that goes into the actions of a single player. Fielders need to make decisions regarding where they’re throwing the ball depending on whether or not they can get the runner out, pitchers and catchers need to be on the same page about pitch locations and what to throw to beat the man at the dish, and the manager pulls it all together like an orchestral conductor who likes touching his ears, nose, and chin with his index finger.
But in reality, I think baseball was invented for one group of people – statisticians. Someone in a basement emerged one day, taking off his glasses, declaring that he figured out which team was best and would win the pennant, boldly shouting the word, “SCIENCE!”
Statistics are an ever present reality in all sports nowadays. Save, slugging, and down-conversion percentages; points, assists, and yards per game; batting average, all purpose yards, sacks, minutes on ice, you get the picture. Omnipresent panels and scrolling bottom bars bombard you with every number you could ever dream of having, most of it very useful. Which brings me to my least favorite stat ever. View Full Article »
Dallas Braden is no Catfish Hunter. That is all.
Today, the horse nobody thought would ever win brought its A-game, and proved all the pundits wrong. Today, at the World Hockey Championship in Mannheim Germany, Canada beat Italy by a score of 5-to-1.
It’s a crazy sport.
New Jersey is a great place. It’s a great place for food, and music, and traffic, for trying to get laid, and if you’re a fan of the puck, for hockey. Say what you will about their playing style, or their playoff woes over the last decade, but there can be no denying that the Devils have long since overcome the crippling terribleness that once had Gretzky calling them “an embarrassment to the game.” New Jersey has a solid team, and three Cups to attest to that.
Having said all that, New Jersey residents, and Devils fans in particular, tend to be…dickheads. Which is great, in most social situations, but for me, at least, it doesn’t transfer over to hockey. It could be that I’m just painting too idyllic of a picture of other teams’ fans, but I never feel like a New Jersey crowd has the same energy of a place like Pittsburgh, or even Phoenix before the Red Wings slapped them with their wieners in game 7. When I go to a game, I feel like everyone around me is there more to criticize everything the team does, regardless of the score, rather than root their hearts out for the team. I mean, isn’t it an indication that something is wrong when the loudest shout of the night is invariably “Rangers Suck!”, even if the Devils are hosting Calgary at the Rock that particular night.
Don’t get me long, I love to bust some Ranger fan balls as much as the next guy. That’s one of the things makes the sport great, the rivalries, especially between teams in such close proximity, like the Devils and Rangers and their most recent playoff executioners, the Philadelphia Flyers.
I like to think of myself as a new breed of hockey fan at best, and at worst a guy already well suited for a job as an NHL analyst. I might bleed red and black, but I don’t live and die by the tip of Zach Parise’s stick (his dick?…totally different matter). I respect the players of the National Hockey League and all the great things they do every night. I’d like to see every team in the NHL win a Stanley Cup at some point in my lifetime; save one, and that one is a team currently ahead of the Boston Bruins by a score of 3-2. I’m a lover of the game man, but do I hate the fucking Flyers.
Now, don’t go calling me bitter. This isn’t about the first round. This is a matter of principle. Honestly, I like a lot of the Flyers players this year. Boucher, Pronger, Briere, even that vaudevillian villain Daniel Carcillo; these guys are great players, but they’re Flyers. I’m all for loving the game, and I think it’s important to be able to separate yourself from your team and enjoy the game from the perspective of a different team, but there is a flip side of that coin. Just as the game needs rivalries, the fans need an enemy. A nemesis. Ask most Devils fans who their nemesis is, and most answers will be the same. The Rangers of course.
Daniel Carcillo, Flyers Winger.
Having been raised by a pair of expatriot Ranger fans, I was never indoctrinated in the Ranger-loathing that so permeates the senses of most Devils fans. Instead, my parents ever so subtly (or maybe not subtly at all, I don’t remember, I just know it worked) directed my innate hockey-hate at the other nearest city and team, those Philthy bastards. Not that it was hard, growing up, to hate the Flyers. I didn’t know many Rangers fans as a kid, but there were plenty of heathens and idolaters rolling up to the playground during recess wearing some gaudy Flyers gear, or even worse, a Phantoms shirt.
Totally lame.
So, as the third period of this game four gets ready to kick off, let me make this plea to you, New Jersey Devils fans. In this new decade, as we approach thirty years as a franchise, let us stop waging a war on two fronts. Until such time as they prove a threat once more, let’s retire the Rangers as Enemy Numero Uno, and officially start hating the Flyers, a team Colin Powell once called “The root of all evil and everything bad that has happened to anyone.” with all the copious pent up hostility and sexual frustration that comes along with every New Jersey childhood. Not because they out played us in Round 1, but because let’s face it, people who root for Philadelphia are usually WAY bigger dicks than people who root for New York or New Jersey. While the Devils fan base can’t do much to improve its ‘tude during the off-season, at least we can pass the time with spite.
Go Bruins.
Los Dodgers, that's what the signs say right?
Tommy Lasorda is many things. Pitcher. Coach. Executive. Hall of famer. Porn and hooker enthusiast. But today, he’s just another asshole in a sombrero. Happy Cinco de Mayo.
Nice knockoff championship tee, diq.
Hilarious.
This happened two days ago and everybody else already covered it, but here’s the cold hard facts: the kid and the cop who got him with the taser are both faster than Shane Victorino. Of course, this kid might wind up wearing a giant helmet for a while if you listen to over-protective ninnies like Woody Paige, but that just makes it funnier. Bonus: he was the only sober 17-year-old at the game.
Here’s the clip:
UPDATE: Another guy ran onto the field at a Phillies game yesterday, didn’t get tased, isn’t nearly as amusing.
Jayson Werth pictured here, admiring the gentleman’s physique.