Week-Old Rants: You, You, You...Ought ta' Kno-ow!

The Kansas City ice hockey scene wets its fingers like a pre-snap quarterback. It looks around, observes complexity, and maybe feels a twinge of nervousness when scanning the opposition. One more look in the mirror, another wet, and an effort to smooth some of the untamed hairs on the side of its head, it sighs.

For most of the last 10 years, the scene has expanded, embraced growth. It has not been without hiccups, but it no doubt sprouted, if only in waves. This, historically, has been the sport's trend, though. The National Hockey League granted the city an expansion franchise in the early 1970s. They lasted two seasons, netting 27 total wins. Sixteen years later, an International Hockey League team moved to town. They saw some success, appeared in two championships, and won one. After 11 seasons in operation the league folded.

Right on its heels came the United Hockey League. It turned out that it wasn’t really that united of a league; the UHL ceased operations after one season in Kansas City. The most recent venture, the Central Hockey League, has perhaps had a different approach, at least with the Kansas City metro franchise. Instead of trying to operate out of a dilapidated 18,000-seat venue, this latest hockey endeavor saw its own building constructed. It also saw two major differences in place, at least in terms of a comparison to its direct predecessor: consistent, heavy marketing and treatment of the operation as if it were the real deal, the big time.

It’s important to note the successes and failures of the sport in this market because in the end, the growth of the game is what’s important. And that always starts with youth programs. In 2000, the metro area saw the one facility, the one that guys and girls of my generation grew up skating in, crawl to its grave. Or rather, saw its corpse kinda half gutted and turned into a laser-tag facility. While a touch sad, those bundles of lone tears were dabbed by the erection of a massive two-sheet facility, a building that was bum-rushed by youth, high school, and recreational-league teams needing a home.

As the oughts passed, this facility -- at one point it was one of four facilities in the metro -- remained the hub of youth hockey, but in the end poor management sent it too to an early grave, leaving dozens of ice-hockey squads homeless. It should be noted that several prominent travel youth clubs played there, as did most of the area high-school clubs, spanning, in some directions, more than an hour’s drive from the building. There were also junior teams named for, and at one point affiliated with, the now-defunct IHL/UHL franchises that knew this building as its hockey home.

The point of it all is that what happens on the professional-team end, and even on the adult-rec-league end, matters. It has an impact on the youth programs, and that impact is an ever-fluctuating creature. Whatever the measure, it matters. If a kid attends the CHL team’s playoff game, and sees his favorite winger score, maybe he skates harder for a loose puck in his next game. Or maybe a squirt –- they rank kids by age group, and it goes something like: atom, peewee, bantam, midget, squirt -– sees a goon check his dad in his dad’s no-check rec-league game, and maybe he cleans some other kid’s clock in his next contest. It matters, and it double-dog-dare matters in a sport that forever runs in the American-sports-spectrum shadows of football, baseball, and basketball.

If we want this game to grow, we have to set examples, and not leave chunks of people questioning why hockey players sometimes come off as knuckleheads.

This is why every hockey market comparable in size to Kansas City’s must keep their Dave K.s in check. For those of you outside the KC metro hockey circle, you might’ve just raised a brow and cricked your neck a bit, but you know the precise type to whom I refer. And to most everyone inside the KC hockey community, you know the precise person to whom I refer. Before I get into details of a recent encounter, allow me to say the following:

In a cobbled-together 11 years of playing rec-league hockey in Kansas City, I have had almost every hockey-related experience possible with Dave K. This is kind of a bizarre notion, considering that he could select any single element from his skill composite and outplay me and my arsenal of non-skill in every sense of the word. The irony in that is that most facilities have some form of a rec-league ranking system that includes leagues: elite, a, b, c, and sometimes d. My skill level, even after playing for more than a decade falls into the c-ish echelon, and sometimes d. Dave K.’s skill level is closer to the elite end of things, and here’s a good point to mention that most facilities insist -– and by “insist,” I mean aggressively frown upon you not following their insistence -– that you not play more than two tiers below your ability. This means that teams that find themselves playing against opponents in violation of aforementioned insistence, must self-police, and by “self-police,” I mean tender a complaint/protest to the league manager, who will, if you’re lucky, look up from his phone and give you a sure-kid nod.

Dave, K., though, has been playing down for as long as I can remember, and we’ll get to that in a minute.

In the early part of the decade, back when not falling down for three periods was my biggest game-by-game aspiration, Dave K. was there. And I thought he was a dick. He played on a team called the Blue River Bears, which was, in essence, a roster full of assholes. Now, I didn’t know everyone on the team, and I’m certain that not everyone was an asshole, but it seemed as though the asshole spectrum on that squad resembled an active volcano. It’s possible, that everyone on the team was really nice, and I was just really frustrated with my own ineptitude -— actually, wait. Nevermind. That’s not possible at all.

Dave K., though, wore these 30-year old leather-toned gloves, torn pants, and not much else in the way of gear. And he was never that much of a dick on the ice, but he would always just kind of hover on the ice, seeming never to participate in a change, running his foul New Jersey -– yeah, he’s from Jersey –- mouth and, when need be, turning on the skill burner, and making a play. I faced him in games like this for some time, and would also see him in the hallway, donning jerseys for teams several leagues higher than mine. The thing was, though, was that he always seemed to play down to the ability of the league in which he appeared. I mean, he would never let you beat him to a loose puck -– he plays defense, by the way -– and you could almost never intercept a breakout pass of his, or prevent him from clearing the puck from his own end, but he almost never carried the puck into the offensive zone to try and generate scoring chances, which is a key factor, because he could, in some of these lower-league games, almost score at will.

It was an odd thing, I thought, for someone to be in the habit of doing, but maybe you just have to take your roster spots where you can get 'em.

Then, one spring, Dave K. wound up on my three-on-three squad. That primary facility would host three-on-three tournaments between
spring/summer and summer/fall breaks, as a way to keep people skating/keep cash flow coming in. This revelation yielded heavy eye-glaze material on my end. I figured he would hog ice time, holler at people for making mistakes, and probably –- dick that he appeared to be –- spend a lot of time in the penalty box. Actually, I don’t remember if they assessed in those tournaments or not, but if they didn’t, I envisioned he’d be guilty of lots of penaltyesque activity.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that, on the same bench as you, Dave K. offered tons of legitimately helpful, constructive criticism, that a percentage of his hollering –- now more audible from the same side of the ice –- had value to it, that he wasn’t just running his damn mouth to be running it. Well, he did do quite a bit of that still, but by this point, my ear had received a Master’s degree in tuning him out, awarded by my brain. It was a positive experience, though, one that left me scratching my chin. I mean, there's also the criticism aspect to his hollering, the part wherein mistakes can lead to him telling his teammates they're "playing like a bunch of shitdicks" and "fuckstains," but take that for what it's worth.

Then the facility started what was known as The Over-30 League. You signed up, paid, and each week, were assigned to either the dark squad or the white squad. You had to be, duh, 30 or older, and you had to abide by the rule that this was a game for fun, not for competition. It was a cool league. You got to know dudes from other teams. You hung out and drank beer after. Eventually, it grew to where there were two games each week, and you wound up skating and drinking beer with an even larger number of people. At one point, there were weekly awards and nicknames announced (usually the next morning on the Web site) and they were always pretty funny.

Dave K. was in this league, and I wound up playing with him quite a bit. I also wound up drinking quite a few pitchers of beer with him afterwards. Turns out, he’s kind of a funny guy. Once he introduced us to this dorky word-switch game. I can’t remember what it’s called, or how to describe it other than this (and this is precisely how he introduced it to us):

“You know what my dog’s favorite movie is? Ben-Fur.”

Yeah. Awkward silence is right. Get it, though? Ben-Hur’s a movie; dogs have fur. Anyway, one or two examples later, and the whole bar –- granted, it’s a one-room bar –- was rolling until all of our cheeks and guts were sore. There was another time when my then-girlfriend came out to watch this semi-unorganized, non-competitive skate (Editor’s Note: I’m sure the number of chapters she read heavily outweighed the number of on-ice minutes she watched.). On this night, I had the early skate, as did Dave K. Afterwards, she joined some of us outside the bar to watch the late skate and have a few beers, and somehow, late into the evening, we got into a conversation about the flexibility of hockey sticks. Prior to this conversation, I knew that they flexed. End of story.

I did not know that some of the numbers on sticks are actual ratings for that particular stick’s level of flexibility until that evening. I also did not know, until that evening that, when taking a slap shot, you are supposed to strike the ice –- just behind the puck -- with the blade of your stick just before you make contact with the puck. This, I learned, generates torque and can do things like increase the trajectory speed of the shot, or elevate the puck from the ice surface. This, I learned, was why my slap shot was always a bit lacking in slap, not quite worthy of being deemed a shot. The same theory applies to a wrist shot, only instead of striking the ice, the torque is generated from the weight of your body leaning on the shaft of your stick and flexing it with your outer-most hand, prior to your swing.

Now, I don’t know if Dave K. stuck around and shot the breeze with me for as long as he did that night because he would do that with anyone over beers after hockey, or because it was an engaging topic, or if it was solely because there was a lady present, and he wanted to appear mighty and knowledgeable. He does, for the record, have an eyeroll-worthy history of strolling the hallways in a rather shirtless fashion, which, in case you didn’t know, Dave, comes off as one way to both guy and girl: creepy. It bears mentioning, though, because, at roughly this point in time, Dave K. was going through a divorce, which I only mention because he was not shy about mentioning it. Otherwise, you keep that stuff in the locker room and in the bar.

But he was going through this deal, and it was no secret that he was, for lack of better phraseology, on the lookout. That’s enough about that, though. And in case you’ve been wondering, the last-name initial isn’t done in a secrecy type way. Rather, it’s because he has this huge Hawaiian last name that’s tough to both spell and say, so that’s what everybody calls him. Well, that and Jersey Dave, and Crazy Dave, and Asshole Dave, and Super Dave (I’m told that that last one was coined not for talent, but rather for how he appears to think of himself). But mostly people call him Dave K.

Playing Over-30 hockey with Dave K., though, was pretty cool. One time, I got invited to go out for beers with him and this other guy who played defense on both my team, and up on Dave K.’s b team. The idea came up one night at the bar after an Over-30 game, and Dave K. was telling us about this new bar called Fuel, where hot server and bartender females dance on the bar and pour booze down your throat. Or maybe I imagined that last part, but apparently they invited/encouraged attractive female customers to do the same.

“Dude,” Dave K. said. “The numbers are incredible there. It’s like three-one, girls to guys.”

I didn’t really buy that, but I also didn’t need to hear anymore to be sold on going. I also didn’t think I’d actually get invited, but one night I got a call from my teammate who said, “Let’s do this. We’re going to Fuel. Dave’s already there.”

I hustled to get out of the house, and this was a shitty night to be going. It was a week night. I had about 8000 pages still to read for this boring grad-school class, and the driver-side window of my car had come off track and was stuck down. So yes, it was pouring out. Halfway there, I got a call from Jason, who told me that Dave K. had apparently been waiting for a while, and when we got to Fuel, he’d already left based on the fact that the as-advertised numbers were not accurately represented on this particular evening. Having learned that we’d arrived, though, he was on his way back, and when he joined us, he said, “Fuckin’ sucks in here tonight. Total sausage fest’. Gotta come on a weekend night.”

We had a beer, though. Maybe two. We might’ve even gone to another bar, but it was odd. I was significantly underdressed in comparison to my company, and significantly excluded from conversation, a detail I associated with the difference in level of play between myself and the other two. The point though is that Dave K. was not an asshole on this evening, nor was he rude. He was almost, a time or two, friendly.

On another level, I had the privilege of renting a sheet of ice the morning of my wedding. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life, and when it came down to the details arranging, we were missing a key piece: a goalie. Now every facility I've ever played at, as I said, has a Web site, and on their sites is a goaltender call list. Guys miss games all the time. You can typically find subs, and you, if need be, can skate short-handed. Coming up with a substitute goalie is a bit trickier. I ran through the list, though, and after most of a dozen phone calls, I’d gotten one half of a commitment. I was, however, given a few more phone numbers of guys to call, and in the end, zero were interested in coming out for an 8 a.m. skate on a Saturday morning.

One night after an Over-30 skate, though, one goaltender, having heard of my conundrum, mentioned that he kept a set of goalie gear in the closet at the rink, and that, were I still in a pinch, I should ask Dave K., who’d apparently filled in in the crease a time or two. I managed to wrangle up his number, get him on the horn, and with minimal persuasion, he agreed. A few minutes before eight that morning, here came Dave K. He suited up, and manned the net -– we played half-ice with half-court-basketball rules (gotta take it back past the blue line) for the entire hour, and probably witnessed the worst hour of pickup hockey anyone has ever seen.

It was an incredible gesture for him to agree to, and, strangely, he wouldn’t take the $20 or the growler of beer I brought him as compensation. For that, I’m forever grateful to Dave K. A wedding-day skate without a netminder would’ve been lame.

In getting to know Dave K. over the years, I learned a few things about him: He’s been playing hockey for a long time. He plays two, maybe sometimes three nights a week, and for a while, he was coaching an area youth team. Or maybe assistant coaching. I’m not sure. I also have heard him say, on more than one occasion, something I have come to associate as a mantra of his, and perhaps to a lesser degree, my own: “If you don’t have an organ hanging out, you’d better finish the game.”

Naturally, this is a bit excessive for no-check, incidental-contact-only, recreational-league hockey, but I dig it. It’s a belief to strive for in playing this game, at any level. In the pros, dudes get their skulls jarred, be it from a clean hit, a dirty hit, or somewhere in the middle. In the rec’ leagues, injuries happen because of accidents and collisions, and oftentimes, those things result from a lack of ability on one or more person’s end.

To adapt that mantra, then, to our level, could look like: Walk it off, or, Stretch it out, or, more specifically, Dude, you can’t come out of the game because you took a puck off of the skate.

Anyway, that facility was managed into the ground. Mismanaged rather. And now, they’re gonna put indoor soccer in it, which to me is kind of liking lining the place with cots and pillows: makes for some big-time nap material. So that left three facilities. Until one of them shut down for a nearly-complete overhaul, which left two facilities, one of which is north of the river, and doesn’t –- if I understand correctly -– have a regulation-sized sheet of ice.

This means one thing: Almost all of the metro hockey is, once again, happening at one place. It’s where the CHL squad plays. It’s where the rec’ leagues are playing. It’s where the kids are playing, from the youthiest of youths on up to high school. You, then, are, if you’re so inclined, to be aware of the fact that there is, potentially, always an audience on hand. That audience includes kids, kids who are hockey fans, kids who are potential hockey players, kids who are already playing, or some combination of all three. Some rec-league games are late, and so there’s not always an audience, but many times there is, even if it’s less than a half dozen folks.

This, then, is why last Wednesday night’s game against Dave K.’s C-level team, was punctuated with frustration. I say frustration, but that’s a feeling that presents itself in the form of comic relief. It’s underscored though, with a bigger message:

We took an early lead, which we are not prone to do. A puck was dumped into our defensive zone, and it careened around the boards behind our net. Dave K., playing down to the level of his competition, pinched in from the blue line to position himself in the slot in case a puck squirted out. I entered the zone in a hurry from my left-wing position. A clearing attempt happened; Dave K. turned around, eyes on the puck, and began to retreat. My eyes, also following the play, located Dave K.’s skating path at the last minute, and likewise, his did mine, and we collided.

I’m less sure-footed on my skates, and he outweighs me by a bit. I hit the ice, and he was called for cross-checking. He, as one is wont to do when issued an unfair infraction, complained. The scale with which one complains upon receiving a penalty varies to a degree of immeasurability. Some guys gripe. Some guys shake their heads and head to the box. Some guys engage in hollering matches, and some guys fluctuate with how they respond. Dave K. engages. Always.

This, in my estimation, is always foolish. You are never -– and I do mean never -– going to change a ref’s mind. What’s more: You might piss off a ref who will then have it out for you, look for the next opportunity to send you back to the box. If you’re vocal enough, he might even toss you. I don’t have pristine hearing, so I can seldom hear the gripes, and this situation was no different. I do know, though, that he was making his case for incidental contact, which was justified.

One of my teammates, in skating past him, said, “Dave, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

And he exploded.

Now he had bones to pick with the officiating crew, and my entire team, and these were bones with which he was not going to waste any seconds picking.

He had many a choice phrase for our bench, only the last of which I could make out: “And fuck all y’all for thinking I hit him on purpose.”
His profanity-laden phrases continued to echo throughout the ice, even after he was in the box.

Then, on his first opportunity after serving the penalty, he channeled his frustration in one play. We dumped the puck into their zone, and he retrieved it in the corner. A play quickly developed, and his team scored. I’m not sure if Dave K. himself got the tally, but he skated right past our bench and hollered, “That’s hockey fuckin’ karma right there!”

Several minutes later, he was in the box again, and we returned the favor.

Late in the third, the game had become audibly shrouded with his continued hollering, and we were up 4-3. Again retrieving a dump of ours in the corner, Dave K. amped up his game, and this time took the puck coast to coast, beating our goalie with a wrister fired from close range. He stopped behind the net, and skated right up to our goalie with two offerings: a lone fist pump in our netminder’s mask, and one of these:



It was more like a, “Wooo!,” but that’s the best the Internets could offer on short notice.

His next move classed up the joint even more.

Again being certain to skate by our bench, Dave K. placed his stick, backwards, between his legs, and “rode” it while hopping, whooping, hollering, and cursing, and slapping its imaginary ass as he made his way back to center ice.

In the end, we scored two unanswered goals, and Dave K.’s ridiculous, continued yells of the profane variety resulted in his ejection. This was our second victory of the season, one that didn’t do a ton of favors for our then negative-30-plus goal differential.

His behavior was all we could talk about in the locker room, and, as his acts tend to do, it triggered story swapping of previous skates with Dave K., which included: a recent tournament at this same facility wherein he was ejected for firing a puck, post-whistle, at another player’s head. Allegedly, he’d just been penalized for an act against this player, and this was his retaliation. It also included the oft-shared tale of how he was banned for one year from the previously mentioned mismanaged facility for firing a puck, post-whistle, at an official’s head, a supposed statement of his disagreement with that ref’s call.

Also in the department of puck-firing, it should be noted that Dave K. has a wicked slap shot. He can blast them, as if out of a cannon, from the blue line, and when they’re high and off the glass, it sounds like ignited dynamite. It should also be mentioned that he, in the vein of playing down to the level of abilities of his teammates and opponents, seldom lets them rip full-steam in this league. It would seem that, most of the time, he will refrain from shooting at all, perhaps aware of his superior skill, perhaps trying to help better the play of the "shitdicks" and "fuckstains" that wear his same jersey. When the time is of the essence, though, he will let one go. On no fewer than two occasions last week, he fired pucks from the blue line that can only be defined as of the head-hunting variety. These were shots taken with more traffic in front of the net than a Los Angeles rush hour, so, suffice to say, they weren't finding twine, save for some sort of miracle deflection.

Now, the argument can be made –- and it often is -– that when you put pucks on the net, good things happen. This, to me, means: Try to get the goalie to cough up a huge rebound, and maybe one of your teammates is in position to put the second effort in the net. Actually, it can mean a number of things, but in these instances, it didn’t seem like there was much opportunity for anything at all, and both pucks hit a teammate in the chest.

Hockey players take pucks off of various parts of the body several times in every single game played in every rink in the world. Usually, and especially at this level, that occurs when someone at the point takes too long to shoot, and an opponent has positioned themselves in front of that player, a rebound off the shin happens, and a breakaway in the other direction results. If that’s not the case, it’s something similar. People almost never, in C-league rec-hockey, take pucks off the chest, let alone twice in one game. These “shots” were not high-caliber Dave K. slappers. They were probably not even 50 percent the trajectory of which he’s capable, but they were still moving pretty well.

Nobody dropped to the ice, and nobody left the game, but those occasions were post-collision, and it was obvious that his irritability was high, so it’s hard to imagine that these chest shots weren’t deliberate. Having said that, though, I will give him the benefit of the doubt, and assume that they were not.

Having offered said benefit, however, here is the point, best summed via cliché: Your reputation precedes you.

I’ve only played at three of the four mentioned facilities, so I have no idea if he’s played at the fourth. What I do know is this: Kansas City, as we are often reminded, is a small market. Or a tight-knit community. Or, big town/small city. Whichever you want to call it. Ice hockey communities, then, are even smaller, considering that, compared to the three other major sports, its numbers are dwarfed. So, if you’re in a smaller community, and you’re playing a sport over a long period of time, and that sports community is also small, people are going to get to know you, in one way or another.

Therefore, when you have a history of exhibiting goon-like behavior, getting tossed from games, ejected from tournaments, and banned from facilities, the people against whom you play, and the referees who officiate your games are going to know who you are. And you’d better believe they’re going to have their eye out for the smallest hint of shady play, even if it’s not, especially if it’s not, shady play. They’re expecting your play, along with the way you carry yourself on the ice, to be disrespectful and trashy, even if that’s not how it was intended.

In the end, few people have notoriety in Kansas City hockey like Dave K. Rec-league guys know him, officials know him, and you can bet that some kids and spectators recognize him, or at least his voice. And in a community –- heck, a country –- where we’re trying to grow the game at the youth level, it’s important to set good examples, to make kids love the game, and want to play it the right way.

Dave K. has an admirable level of skill and hunger for competition within him.

Sometimes, though, the view of him through the looking glass distorts that, and what we see is negative. Last Wednesday night’s game, a rare win for our squad, was prime example of that. Believe me: The last thing we want to feel, post-victory, is frustration. We get that enough in the form of losing. Don’t get me wrong: Our locker room was cheery, void of gloom, but like I said: At the core of what went down, courtesy of the reactions and play of one guy, was nothing shy of frustration.

Don't misunderstand. This isn't the kind of frustration wherein the play of one guy gets in your head, messes with your game. This is much more global.

Hockey in Kansas City needs better displays of sportsmanship.

As a matter of fact, it demands it.


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Friday Fracas: Let's Go Yankee Fans! No. Seriously: Let's Go; You Have to Leave Now.

Good times at Yankee Stadium.

(clip courtesy of Tirico Suave)
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Thursday ThumbTubes: Manly Men

Every once in a while a good clip or two lands in the ol' e-mail inbox. This one's from the father-in-law:



And this one's from ma' herself:



More after the jump.

This one's from the goaltender on my rec-league team:



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Baseball In The Daytime: 14 August 2009

As we reach the home stretch of the baseball season, we can dispense with the hedges and qualified maybes that we've trafficked in all year. You can't say "It's early" or "We'll see" or "If they stay healthy" anymore, those ships have sailed. No, these team photographs are fully developed, and as Bill Parcells once so insightfully observed, "You are what your record says you are."

A few things we have learned, as well as our lone day game (with bonus Most Wanted updates) after the jump...

For quite some time the American league has clearly been the superior of the two in baseball. The AL has bested the Senior Circuit in interleague play six years running, although the split has narrowed since the Americans posted a preposterous 154-98 mark in 2006. We all know about the AL's unbeaten streak in the All-Star Game, which runs back to 1997. And although the results of the World Series have actually been pretty even this decade (the AL holds a 5-4 edge since 2000), three of the Americans' championships have come via sweeps, and two of the Nationals' triumphs have come at the hands of the choketastic Yankees.

All that being said, you could make an argument that the NL has closed most of the gap in quality of baseball, and has surpassed the AL in terms of watchability and interest for the pennant races. The best teams still reside in the Junior Circuit--the Yankees are probably baseball's top club, the Angels are right there as well, and the Rangers, Red Sox, Bay-Rays and Tigers would all be dominant teams if they were moved to the NL.

What the Nationals have as an edge on their siblings is a vastly superior middle class, as well as four real races that should run right to the end of the season. Go beyond your division leaders (the Dodgers, Cards and Phillies) and you find some really good teams--the Cubs are deep and dangerous, the Braves, Marlins and Giants have outstanding starting pitching, and the Rockies have the best balance of any sub-$100 million payroll in the game.

In fact, let's spend a few minutes with these Rockies. It might have been Rob Neyer or some other baseball blogger that said six weeks ago that Colorado was two veteran relievers away from being an excellent team. That stuck with me, because it was entirely true--the Rox had just lost lefty Alan Embree to a broken leg and former closer Manny/Manuel Corpas to season-ending elbow surgery. The pen was a M*A*S*H unit of castoffs, never-weres, kids and Quad-A drifters. No matter how effective the rotation continued to be or how many runs the lineup continued to drive home, there was no way this team could continue to win with such a porous and unreliable bullpen.

Then Dan O'Dowd, who's forcing me believe is actually competent with every passing day, went out and got Rafael Betancourt and Joe Beimel. In neither trade did he yield more than a B-grade prospect, and only Beimel is on the books for next year. These are excellent trades, the kind of deals O'Dowd has never made in the past. He took advantage of a buyer's market and did exactly what he needed to improve his team's (already good) chances to make the postseason without crippling the club long-term.

Unless Jorge De la Rosa or Jason Marquis suddenly start pitching like Jorge De La Rosa or Jason Marquis, this team has the pitching, the bullpen, the defense and the lineup to craft another Rocktober marketing opportunity. Of particular note has been the development of Carlos Gonzalez, a key piece in the Matt Holliday trade. Gonzalez looked overmatched at the plate during spring training, and his call-up looked like a wasted move as he burned at-bat after at-bat with a free-swinging and haphazard approach. Something has clicked in the kid since the All-Star break, however. Gonzalez' July OPS was .860, and in the month of August he's gone .424/.459/.758 while playing every game but one. He's seeing the ball very well, and of course he delivers incredible defense and baserunning speed whether he's hitting or not. Carlos Gonzalez is the kind of X-factor player that playoff teams invariably have on their rosters.

But back to Chicago, where we have allegedly caught the Beer-Throwing Bandit. I don't buy it, seems like a patsy to me. If Jack Ruby shows up at the arraignment and guns down this "John Macchione" then I'm implicating Banky and the Hunt family in a vast right-wing conspiracy. Don't we have a game today?

Pittsburgh @ Chicago Cubs, 12:20 Mountain The Pirates visit the Felonious Confines, as Charlie Morton and Randy Wells lock horns in a game to be witnessed live by forty thousand drunken louts. Outfielders may want to don their Gore-Tex long johns should this game get out of hand. Stay dry out there, and Play Ball!
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Thursday ThumbTubes & YouNails: 11-6-08

This feature can, on occasion, be extensive. Lately, however, it's been brief, if even available at all. We're sticking with brief today. In fact, this might be the briefiest YT&TN we've ever compiled. With reason. First, there're only a few stories worth mentioning, and after the jump, they'll come in the form of 'nails. Second, it comes with great pride that we deliver one lone 'tube today, and it is perhaps the greatest, most 'tubetacular clip of all time. So climb aboard.


The Love of Sports has compiled a list of the Top 20 Canadian Athletes of All Time.



Yeah. Right. No Matt Stairs? No Stubby Clapp? Give me a flippin' break.

Big Daddy Drew's Jamboroo is up over at Deadspin. Always a great feature, always has an updated list called "Fire This Asshole,"



and this week, a) teaches you how to quietly open a can of beer, and b) it links to this, which is savory, stellar, and solid.

Finally, AI wants his fans to know that he's going to carry out his coaches demands to the best of his ability on the basketball court.



Now, if we could only summon Jim Mora.
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Monday Miscellany: 6-23-08

What a wonderful weekend. I have no idea why I just wrote that. We're actually looking forward to this week getting underway, what with hype over what Maria Sharapova will wear at Wimbeldon, and the opportunity to pit many of photo of here, side by side with some of Ana Ivanovic, too. And hey -- the Rockies come to town to play the Royals, and, well, I suppose we're a mere month away from training camp at this point, too. Mmmm...football...

In efforts to hype the series nobody in Chicago knew about, Windy City tubes displayed this tasty treat for stickball fans catching Sox-Cubs at home.

Rap
by bsap11

If that doesn't spell "awesome," I'm clueless as to what does.

(courtesy of Awful Announcing)

In case you missed the latest Balls Deep column, it's a pretty good read, as usual. That guy's also doing the unspeakable, known as plugging his own book on his own site.

Bugs and Cranks re-caps the weekend in MLB inter-league play.

The Big Lead clued us in that Sports Frog reports that Dr. Z. thinks the Vikings will be competing for a Super Bowl trophy. Yeeeaah. That would be awesome, especially if Jared Allen blew out his knee in week two.

And the 700 Level has done a bit of market research to figure out what MLB park has the cheapest beer.

That's how the morning looks. More later. Much later.
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Tradition Twednesday: Gettin' The Band Back Together

I'd be remiss if I didn't take a little time for some updates. First of all, the House of Georges has experienced a bit of a remodel, as Cecil now has his fingers all over a shiny new computer. The third leg of the Iron Triangle is now complete. Expect furious dispatches from Bronco Country, a bevy of antique hobo photographs, and a man-sized portion of Fuck You for dessert.

In more self-fellating HoG news, we've established a preliminary schedule for the first annual House of Georges Tradition Tailgate Tour (still looking for a title sponsor, call us!). Banky apparently scored us some sweet seats at Arrowhead for the 11/11 game, and I returned the favor on Saturday by securing a few awful nosebleed standing-room-only tickets for the 12/9 Invesco date. Good times.

In the coming months, we'll assemble a full-blown itinerary for each game, including fancy tailgating menus, live music, strippers, and streaming video on the InterBays. Who am I kidding? It'll be three dorks standing next to a Kia with a box of Ritz crackers. But feel free to come join in the fun anyway!

Furthermore, the onset of the NFL season is going to bring about some changes here. We're going to revamp our schedule and daily/weekly features to focus much more on the game of football. Because football is awesome. Should you disagree, I'd suggest you scoot on out of here before Cecil fires up that laptop and dispenses a digital steel-toed boot to your virtual face.

That is all.
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Keeping Up With the Jonesers

Some NFL goodness brewing...but not anything to do with the above. I just dig the idea of Romo fighting a flame-maned demon horse.

Kinda like Broncos-Chiefs in the '97 playoffs. And we all know how that turned out for the flame-maned demon horse.

(Ed: We mean the Chiefs.)

So the Thinking Man's Team sign well-traveled largebody Sam Adams to a one-year deal (per the Lenster on ESPN.com). Adams, despite looking like nothing more than a fat guy in a striped helmet during last year's stint with the Bengals, might provide a valuable role player in the D-line rotation this year.

(Right here is where every other sports-related blog, publication or spoken sentence would make a crack about Denver not having enough available donuts, or about the civic necessity to re-make those fried peanut butter sandwiches that lured Elvis out for quickie trips. We stoop, but not that low.)

He was, as longtime followers of AFC West football will admit, a fucking beast as a young man. He played for Ol' No. 7's favorite college team when they were good, anchored some of the most talented and underachieving D-lines in NFL history in late '90s Seattle--at one point they lined up Adams, Cortez Kennedy, Michael Sinclair and Michael McCrary--and went on to the Hall Of Run-Stuffin' Fame with the Ravens, Bills, Raiders.

What can he offer the Broncos in the wake of being cut, and by his former Defensive Coordinator in Baltimore, no less? Who knows? Best case scenario: his enormous gut crushes a few running plays, he helps the overall quality of the (hopefully vastly improved) defensive line. Worst case: he has a heart attack during training camp, dies, his family bankrupts Pat Bowlen, our team gets sold to the Monforts and they hire Dom Capers to run the whole show. Read more

Baseball In The Daytime: Federal Holiday Edition

Light up the Kingsford and pass me a fishin' pole, because it's Memorial Day. The day we honor our nation's fallen warriors by passing out in the back of a pickup. Seriously, men, I hope everyone takes just a little time today to think of why we don't have to work. Think of those kids over in Iraq right now, and those kids that put everything on hold to beat Hitler, and those kids that had to fight each other in a field at Gettysburg. That's some hard core shit, much more so than the meaningless fandom we celebrate here.

But don't get too depressed, fellas, because there is weekday baseball on tap for the masses. It's a little criminal to spend this glorious day inside, so if you have the ability get your ass out to a ballpark and give the umpire a ration of grief. If not, sneak the following games on the radio, or duck inside while you're cleaning the garage (my personal holiday hootenanny, with beer of course).

From the aptly named Great American Ballpark in downtown Cincinnati, we start off with the Pirates and the Reds at 11:15 Mountain. Underrated Ian Snell and properly rated Kyle Lohse get the assignments, and I would expect some dingers. Tune in on XM 184 and DirecTV Extra Innings channel 734.

Ben Sheets takes the field with his fragile wing and first-place Brewers today, against Chuck James and the Braves at noon:05. During the broadcast (on regular old TBS for you cheapos), it will be mentioned that the Braves once played in Milwaukee, and that Hank Aaron is in fact black. Hopefully the roof at Miller Park will be wide open, and you can catch the audio only on XM 186.

More free baseball for basic cable subscribers (so I guess it's not "free") takes place on WGN, where the White Sox travel to the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. That roof will not be open unless something has gone terribly wrong. John Danks, bro takes on the best pitcher in baseball, Johan (Call Me "Ervin" And I Will Kill You) Santana, at 12:10. Seems mismatchy, but Santana has brought out the best in his opposition this season and is only 5-4 despite typically bad ass numbers. If you want to listen dial up 181 on the XM, and if you want any more stupid nicknames you'll have to talk to Chris Berman.

That other Chicago franchise hosts those feisty Florida Marlins at the Friendly Confines at twelve twenty. Why is this game not on WGN? The broadcast/ownership scenarios of the Cubs make my brain hurt. Tune in to DTV 737 or XM 185 for a taste of Ricky Nolasco and Sean Marshall, playas.

Finally, we get some horsehide here in the majesty of Colorado. Somewhere in the vicinity of one o'clock, the defending World Series champion St. Louise Cardinals will play ball with our beloved Rockies at Coors. The home team has been on a bit of a tear since last Sunday, taking two of three from the D'Bags and sweeping the Giants in San Fran for the first time ever. What happened last Sunday? Well, Cecil's boy Mark Kiszla wrote his once-a-year good column, in which he called for the firing of the Rockies' ownership. The purple cobras have been winning one (or five) for the Monforts ever since. Kip Wells and Jeff Francis get the call today, on 850 KOA, whatever frequency KMOX is, and Fox Sports (Rocky Mountain and Midwest, respectively). Not in Denver or St. Lou? DTV 738 and XM 187 on the motherfuckin' cop.

UPDATE: If you have the DirecTV Sports Pack, you can also catch some minor league ball today. Reading and Portland (AA) go at it at 11 on 623, and 643 has Memphis and Round Rock (AAA) at the same time. Looks like that garage may not be as spotless as the wife had hoped.

SECOND UPDATE: The Rockies have a better record than the New York Yankees. Just sayin'. Read more

Last Call

The big talking point around the sports blog-o'-hood today is the lawsuit filed by Josh Hancock's dad. I'd imagine that 98 per cent of intelligent people think this lawsuit is bullshit and indicative of all that is wrong with overly litigious America.

That's a perfectly reasonable position. I was (unfortunately) listening to Colin Cowherd this morning, and he did what he often does: make a salient point that I reluctantly agree with. Cowherd called Old Man Hancock out as a man and as a dad, stating that the restaurant and the tow truck company did not force the pitcher to get loaded, speed and talk on his cell with pot in the car two days after he'd wrecked another ride.

(You see, Colin? That's called attribution. When someone else has an idea you can use it, but you need to give credit to the author. It's not that hard.)

I personally think that Old Man Hancock is missing the boat, not in his frivolous lawsuit but its target. Let the tow truck company and the restaurant alone, grumpy, and go after the real villain here: Missouri.

Those who have not traveled to the Show-Me State and sampled its wares may not know this, but Missouri's bars are open until forever. Sometimes they close at three, and sometimes seven, and sometimes never. It's very confusing, especially when you're plastered, tired from driving across Kansas, and stubbornly defending the greatness of Colorado. I tend to get really wasted and disoriented in Missouri, and it is totally not my fault. That fucking state and its mesmerizing alcohol laws will completely knock you on your ass.

Plus, most of the chicks there are fat. And there are a bunch of broken-down cars on the side of the interstate. And the humidity blows. I conclude that all of these problems are directly attributable to the mysterious last call policy.

So what I'm saying is, Josh Hancock's dad, you're barking up the wrong tree. Sue Missouri, and preferably every single citizen in a class action. It's their fault.

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Ground Zero

In retrospect, the cigars were a bad choice.

It was perhaps four or five hours ago, maybe fifty feet from the coffee shop I write from now, that I dipped into my pocket for some stogies. We puffed on them, and I'm not going to lie, mirth ensued. But now the staff of the HoG (and the Lone Reader!) are headed to the Missouri-Kansas border to fucking play hockey.

On the list of all-time bad ideas, this one ranks No. 1 by about a million. I feel like a commander at the Bay of Pigs, launching the boats and saying "Well Hal, it sure is a nice day for an invasion." At first my concern was the risk of injured wedding guests and, oh, the fact that none of us know how to ice skate. But those worries have been superceded by the crippling hangover and cigar-flavored gerbil that has taken up residence in my throat.

Regardless, today's topic is the the fishwrap perched next to me. I've always really liked the Kansas City Star (and when does one italicize the just the newspaper name, not the city, and when does one do it all?). Granted, I only read it on the morning of Chiefs-Broncos games at Arrowhead, when I'm full of hope and vinegar. And then I take a massive shit that smells like smoked pork.

Back on topic: The Star is a tremendous daily from a midsized Midwestern burg. The sports page is tight, and reflective of the hardcore fan that dwells in this city. For years Jason Whitlock patrolled the sports columns, but I haven't the foggiest of what his actual job is these days--I think he still literally mails one in to the Star now and then. And of course the professor emeritus is Joe Posnanski (who I used to always confuse with Ed Podolak), arguably the best columnist in America.

You can tell a lot about a fan base by the way their sports page prioritizes various topics. If you're in the South, college football is generally page 1, above the fold, even in April--you don't see this in, say, Denver. One of the things I love about Vegas is the Review-Journal's lineup: they give the appropriate amount of respect to the NFL, of course, but tend to shun all of the sports that shun Sin City: baseball, pro basketball, and the NHL. However, the leagues that thrive in Vegas (boxing, NASCAR, motocross, college basketball, golf, etc.) are treated like royalty on the sports page.

This here, of course, is an NFL city first and foremost. The Chiefs are covered every single day whether one of their players was arrested or not. College hoops and racin' are big as well. As we're smack dab in the middle of baseball season and the Royals are, um, pacing themselves, the tone of horsehide coverage is fairly self-mocking and masochistic. The Star does not pretend that the Royals are not subpar, unlike, say, the Denver Post's ultraserious coverage of the typically woeful Rockies.

Light on the links today, I know, but I'm in a hurry to go throw up on an ice rink. I must say, to my esteemed Administrator--There's still time to bail on the wedding, dude. Kidding. Congratulations, bro, and welcome to the everlasting furnace of shit that is marriage. I sure hope we sing the National Anthem at the ceremony.

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Behind Enemy Lines

So the HoG is actually uniting this weekend, for the first time in the illustrious history of the blog. The occasion? The nuptuals of The Blizzard, who's enjoying his last hours as a free man. Cecil and I, who tied the knot years ago (but not to each other, that's gross dude) are in KC for the festivities and to spread the Gospel of Shanahan.

Over the years I've made many jokes about the Kansas City demographic, in terms of education, weight, number of teef and other unsavory qualities. I do have to say that in the dozen or so hours I've been on the ground I've only seen eleven morbidly obese women and a few that I would actually consider mildly attractive. I've been drinking the entire time, but still.

Does this mean I declare a truce with Chef Nation? Not hardly. More dispatches from the Hell that is Missouri to come...

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The Biggest Bunch Of Bullshit Ever

Steve McNair got hisself arrested again last night. These things happen, especially when you like to roll around wasted and packin'. So you moralists out there might be questioning McNair's judgment for once again climbing behind the wheel of another car while bombed. You may even stupidly extrapolate that argument into a question of whether McNair has the decision-making abilities to play pro quarterback when he can't even call a cab or hand off the keys.

With every athlete/celebrity DUI, I always wonder why these idiots don't just pay a flunkie to drive them around. Well, it turns out that's exactly what McNair did--his brother-in-law was behind the wheel of a car owned by the Ravens QB. Sure, the brother-in-law was trashed as well, but McNair was riding shotgun. Let me repeat: McNair was not driving the car, but it is registered in his name. Yet Air was arrested and charged with some shit called DUI By Consent, which takes the new title of Studpidest Fucking Law Ever Conceived By Man.

What, exactly, did he do wrong? The brother-in-law should not have been driving, and he will be appropriately punished by the law. But what societal need does this fulfill to bust tipsy passengers? If he had taken a cab but the cabbie had a joint would McNair be facing charges. I can't believe how stupid this is.

One more thing: Fuck the Ravens.

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Buy That Man A Beer

Today’s big story across the sports world is the Milwaukee Brewers. They possess baseball’s best record and just finished a sweep of the defending World Champs. “Where did these guys come from?” asks many an incredulous media moron.

Normally, we here at the HoG refrain from following the herd. We tend to set the pace and dictate our own nerdish fashion. These Brewers, though, need to be noticed. We could easily have the 2007 version of the Detroit Tigers on our hands, and come October the Brewers could likewise easily throw away the World Series to an inferior opponent.

Since I am the self-appointed arbiter of baseball worthiness here, let’s look at my preseason analysis of Wisconsin’s finest:

11. MILWAUKEE BREWERS The Brew Crew is one of those chic sleeper picks from contrarian analysts. I don’t buy it. Sure, if Ben Sheets can go the whole way they could make a run. But there’s not a single steady vet to anchor the lineup, defense or clubhouse. Wait til next year, Bernie.

Um, yeah. Not exactly prescient, but I stand by my assertion that Sheets is the key to this team’s eventual success.

The Brewers have a deep pitching rotation. After Sheets they bring Chris Capuano, Jeff Suppan, Dave Bush and Claudio Vargas to the rubber. Not spectacular, but in the National League those guys can give you six or seven strong most nights. They then hand it off to a sharp bullpen featuring former starter Elmer Dessens as the long man, Carlos Villaneuva and Matt Wise as the specialists, Derrick Turnbow as the setup man and Francisco Cordero as the closer.

Ben Sheets, when healthy, is one of the ten most dominant pitchers in baseball. But he never, ever stays healthy. Should he buck that trend, the Cerveceros could display the NL’s best staff. But if/when he goes down, the stopper responsibility transfers to Capuano, who is clearly not a No. 1 starter. Suppan is an old hand and a nice edition, but he’s not either (In the interest of full disclosure, I hate Jeff Suppan. He’s always been productive, in Kansas City, Pittsburgh, and last year with the Cards. But in his two stints with the Red Sox he’s blown balls, including his single-handed destruction of the division title hopes in 2003—leading to giving the Yanks home field in the ALCS—leading to this. Fuck Jeff Suppan.).

I suppose my breakdown of the lineup/defense was dead wrong. The Brewers do have a couple veterans to hold down the fort, and both of them play the same position: Johnny Estrada and Damian Miller. These two backstops are masterfully managing the pitching staff and providing timely hits. I also assumed that Tony Graffanino was slated for a utility role, but he’s playing every day at third. I like Graffanino, a pro’s pro.

The lineup is anchored by the infield, which I always like. 2B Rickie Weeks leads off, followed by the resurrected SS J.J. Hardy. Prince Fielder, who has absolutely blossomed into a tremendously dangerous hitter, anchors the whole thing. Bill Hall, who’s been moved from passable shortstop to centerfield butcher, is off to a rough start for both Milwaukee and my fantasy club—let’s pick it up, dude.

Then you slot in a catcher, Graffanino and some interchangeable corner outfielders. Geoff Jenkins mans left most days, and then they mix in Kevin Mench, Corey Hart and Gabe Gross. Mench, Laynce Nix and Cordero came over in a deadline deal with the Rangers last year that was an absolute heist—this is a well-run organization.

The roster is still very young, and I do expect a correction soon. After feasting on the weak NL Central all month, the Brew Crew takes on the East and the AL this month. Following series against the Pirates and the Nats, they’ll face the Mets, Phillies, Twins, Dodgers, Padres and Braves in May—a true test of NL relevance.

If they stay healthy they can absolutely compete. And I can absolutely admit when I’m wrong on a team like this—they’re fresh and young and fun to watch. The key, as always, will be The Chorizo.

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Tradition Tuesday: Slackin'

Editor's Note: The rough focus of this blog is the rivalry between the Kansas City Chiefs (represented by Bankmeister) and the Denver Broncos (championed by Cecil and Old No. 7). It may seem unfair that it's two vs. one, but once KC gets that second Super Bowl we'll even out the delegation.

Seven years ago we started The Tradition, in which the Broncos fans traveled out to the Truman Sports Complex with their team, and the Chef-lovers returned to the Rocky Mountains with theirs. We tailgate, we talk massive amounts of shit, our wives occasionally get assaulted by rival fans, and we almost always watch the visiting team lose. It's a grand old time.

Here at the HoG, we're going to keep The Tradition alive all year long with Tradition Tuesday--a weekly state-of-the-rivalry address.

I am, at heart, a tremendous slacker. I work as little as I can get away with, at everything. My career is solid enough, if only because I’ve kept the expectations artificially low. My marriage gets by, mostly due to my incredible prowess between the sheets. I’m a little fat, a little out of shape, and not really good at anything except kicking ass and chewing gum. And I’m just about out of gum.

For most of my life, though, I’ve been a really awesome sports fan. I’ve tackled this hobby with single-minded determination and focus. I’ve memorized stats and crafted compelling arguments with which I can shoot down shitty arguments. That talent and drive is part of why this very blog exists, and why you my fan love me more than almost anything in the world.

But there is a disturbance in the force. This business that I’ve started, the business that allowed me to take my slack-ass tendencies to new and previously unseen heights, has improbably become very successful. That’s ostensibly great, because someday I might pull some cash out of it, cash I can spend on a variety of wasteful leisure activities. This is why one works, so as to eventually not work.

But in the meantime, the increased volume of my day job has become a tremendous pain in my fucking butt. It’s cut seriously into my baseball-watching time, and my hours of daily fantasy team management and blog-reading. No longer are afternoons spent on the golf course, or in the hash den, or banging your mom. I’m working, and it truly sucks.

The biggest losers, of course, are you my readers. I’ve deprived you of the wave of greatness you’ve come to expect/demand. For instance, the New York Yankees are in last place and I’ve yet to address it. Noted drunk driver Tony LaRussa has been running teams full of pot-smokers, needle-punchers and winos for years, and one just endangered the lives of many before eating it. That needs to be addressed. And the upcoming NFL season is replete with potential Bloach-On-Bloach crime, a subject ignored by all of the medias and mediums.

But I’ve got no time, and the children suffer. Think of the fucking children.

Anyway, today is Tradition Tuesday, not Oprah’s Bitch Club. I’d really like to carve the living hell out of the rosters of the AFC West. I could dry-hump (cyber-speaking, of course) the Raiders and their mangling of the No. 1 pick, and why they’ll lick balls for years. I could break down the entire miserable offseason of the San Diego Stupor Chargers, detailing their inevitable collapse at the hand of Norv. And I could go through the winter makeovers of our beloved Broncos and despised Chiefs, roster spot by roster spot, and see how the draft and free agency have treated the teams of The Tradition. But that would take actual research and preparation, and I don’t have time.

What I can do is transmit my lazy self from the rest of my life to my position as Slacker Emeritus here at the HoG. That’s right, kids, I’m officially mailing one in. Hell, I’ve already written nine-tenths of this bitch and I haven’t said a damn thing.

Last week in this space we had a logical juxtaposition of the two SEC-reared QBs who may someday steer the ships of KC and Denver. One tiny problem I have with that reasoning is that KC’s representation in said twosome is Brody Croyle, and Brody Croyle is not an NFL quarterback. He’s a backup, and an untested one at that. He’s less accomplished in the National Football League than Drew Henson or Ryan Leaf or Babe Laufenburg.

But to the Chiefs he’s a savior. That’s because they’ve completely mucked up the most important position on the field. Apparently the starter will be career backup Damon Huard. Longtime No. 1 Trent Green has been run out of town, only the Chefs have not even consummated a trade. Now that the draft is over, they’ll end up cutting Green and getting nothing. And finally there was a brief period of time when KC flirted with the idea of drafting Mr. Metrosexual, who was dropping down the first round like a stone.

My point is this: These are not the actions of a franchise that is confident in the quarterback position. You can win with a mediocre QB, so long as the other elements of your game are solid. But KC is going to war with a defense that is not dominant and a line that no longer scares anyone. At least they have some kickers.

Fear not, fans of the Tribe of Lamar…Old Number Seven has a solution. There exists out there a veteran QB who has won in the playoffs. He’s been to the Pro Bowl. He wouldn’t cost much, and he’s eminently available. He wears No. 16, but I’m sure no one would mind if Len Dawson gave it up—this dude is ten times better. Kansas City, here is your new QB:

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God Bless Ted Nugent

Jesus, I love this country.

Not in the “Love It Or Leave It” nationalistic madman sense, but I really have a deep appreciation for how awesome America is. Sure, our leadership is a mess, and we don’t care about anything of substance, and we have a million problems.

But you can turn on just about any shower faucet in this country and hot water comes out. You can turn on most any TV and find out if your baseball team won a game, and what laws Ron Mexico is currently in violation of (hell, I was in Mexico and I had no idea until Cecil gave me the heads-up). And we have vast quantities of readily available, affordable food that will give you a solid bowel movement the next morning.

Don’t get me wrong, I love me some travel, expecially the international jet-setting my lofty financial setting affords me. But when it comes to the business of being a sports fan (and pooping), I’ll take the good old U.S. of A.

This gives me the opportunity to also say Fuck Canada. My virulent bias against that nation knows no bounds, and I’ve held back long enough. Canada, I hate you and all you stand for. Even if my stupid government lacks the balls to engage in the easily winnable war to overtake your vast resources, I am launching verbal salvos via the House of Georges’ weapons of ass destruction. No longer will your ham/bacon and God-awful music go unpunished.

Enjoy your draft coverage—I’ll remain on the sidelines and leave it to the experts.

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A Buehrle Effort

I came home from dinner last night and flipped on the tube. Randomly, my TV was tuned to whatever Extra Innings channel the Rockies had been on the night before, and that channel last night was carrying the White Sox and Rangers. The game had just ended, and players were a-hootin' and a-hollerin' and spraying beer on one another.

The Wife asked what was going on, as this was not normal postgame behavior on a cold April night. I speculated that someone might have just thrown a no-hitter, and sure enough, Mark Buehrle had just accomplished the task. Even more impressive, he faced the minimum and very nearly hurled a perfect game. In the fifth, Buehrle walked Slammin' Sammy Sosa and then picked him off first base.

I'm very bummed that I missed the game, for a couple of reasons. One is that I am the world's biggest jinx of no-hitters, and until Anibal Sanchez's gem last season I had never seen the end of such a game live. Normally, when I catch wind of the feat, I'll flip the game on and within a few pitches the first hit drops in.

More significantly, I can't even imagine how entertaining it would have been to have Kenny "The Hawk" Harrelson call a no-hitter. He exclamates strikeouts with a lightning-quick "He-Gone!" When the White Sox hit a home run, his dopey yet endearing call is "You Can Put It On The Board...Yes!!!" Buehrle K'd eight Rangers, and the Pale Hose lofted three jacks, so it surely was a feast of The Hawk last night.

Anyway, congratulations to Beuhrle. He's pitched like shit the last year, is in the walk year of his contract, and is a well-known Cardinals fan. Since St. Louis is bombing hard and their pitching staff blows, he'll probably cash in this one game for $30-plus million, even if he sucks the rest of the year. Well played, sir.

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