The Tuesday Twelve Pack

You bet your probably under-tanned ass we're back. But note, the Two Four has been retired. I'll admit, I cracked under the pressure of thinking up 24 separate punchlines. I did some blow, went to rehab, and now I'm back with twelve less articles. Enjoy.

1) Ozzie Guillen: Civil Rights Activist
I think I have to side with Ozzie on this one. The White Sox manager gave a nice little jab at Major League Baseball's callous translator policies and the continent of Asia in general. Mr. Guillen, I think the problem is that Spanish is too beautiful a language to be recirculated through bilingual assholes. I don't need to know what La Bamba means to enjoy it and love it. Japanese though, sounds like a machine gun pointed at aluminum siding. JUST KIDDING, JAPAN.

2) Brett Favre Retiring
If you don't pay attention to him, he'll disappear.

3) Brett Favre, Not Retiring?
Nah, he's retiring. Or is he? I DON'T KNOW MAN. UPDATE: Yeah, he's done.
Speaking of which...

4) Why can't football be like Rick Pitino?
And come quicker. HEY-O! Seriously, football me.

5) Rick Pitino's unorthodox recruiting tactics
Pitino and ex-lover/dingbat Karen Sypher are going toe-to-toe in court, and the details are extremely vivid. Pitino hasn't been in this awkward a situation since his Boston days. May I suggest switching to a 2-3 zone?

6) LeBron James Hates Cleveland, Goodbyes
First he made Cleveland sit and watch as he gutted them on television. His next move is more subtle. James, renowned douchebag, wrote a farewell to Akron, Ohio, that ran in the paper there. Notable omissions were the words Cleveland and Satan. Could a Cavs fan actually assassinate him? I think he's managed to rationalize his own murder in Ohio. And if this actually comes to pass, I might have delete this.

7) Holdouts Galore
Albert Haynesworth's holdout is more of holdoutofbreath (I'm not above it), and Darrelle Revis is going all passive-aggressive on the Jets. Among others, of course. No jokes here. Getting ones' guap is a serious matter.

8)The Baseball Trade Deadline
Can you believe Miguel Tejada went to San Diego? Actually, that's pretty believable. Here's the rest, WITH FREE ANALYSIS.

9) Here's something disgusting
Cleveland Indians catcher, Carlos Santana, having his knee rearranged. Just another reason to hate the Red Sox, I suppose.

10) This is why the Tampa Bay Rays can't have nice things
Grant Balfour and coach Jim Hickey wound up having a Hardcore Bullpen Match, for a title belt made up of jock straps and Big League Chew. The two squared off in the squared-circle-diamond which concluded when Hickey slammed the reliever through a table, straining Balfour's side. He's expected to miss 4-6 weeks, but here's J.R.'s imagined commentary on the incident.
Jim Ross: Good God! Balfour is broken in half!

11) And now, Stunners!





12) Shaq is Awesome
Here's a note he left Hakeem Olajuwon after the Rockets bested the Magic in '95. The man is a treasure.

TCS Highlight Package: Da Big Men

This one goes out to all my heavy brethren out there. Never stop believing.

Larry Allen

Larry Allen is quite possibly the greatest human being to have ever lived, even if he did play for the Dallas Cowboys. AND HE WAS FAT AS HELL. Does this man look like he needs a motherfucking fitness test?





William "The Refrigerator" Perry

Uh, this pretty much speaks for itself.



Casey Hampton

Here's Pittsburgh's nosetackle going off in the Super Bowl. Now that's a gut.



Albert Haynesworth
VINDICATED.

Free Albert Haynesworth...from Fitness Testing!

Since when did the NFL get so uppity? Football is a beautiful sport because it encompasses all body types. There's backs that look like jackrabbits, linebackers and ends who look like the Predator*, kickers that look like they jumped out of the stands, and linemen that polish off racks of ribs without a second thought. Any person can ask, Is there a spot for me on the football team? And if you have an ounce of athletic ability, there's probably some place for you on a football team. If you have a body, you can play football.

Albert Haynesworth is a grizzly bear. It's the best way to describe him. For five months of the year he's out there snatching salmon from rivers and disrupting opponent's running games. The other seven he hibernates, which probably involves heavy doses of nachos with poached Big Macs on the side. He's never going to be trim or svelte. He's going to be an obese killing machine forever. So why fitness test him?

The easy answer is because the Redskins want to fuck with him. He doesn't want to play in a 3-4 and he's making millions dollars to play an extremely lazy position in sport. When you think of professional athletes you expect Lance Armstrong and Serena Williams, not some guy you saw at Pizza Hut buffet waiting for them to roll out the next pie. There's some resentment present. Hey Fat Boy! Sing for your fucking supper! And that's bullshit.

Haynesworth and Terrence Cody have been taught from day one that they can make football work with a gut. And they've been lauded for it and chosen to make millions of dollars to play the big man. If not for football they'd be shunned and trying to stab steamed celery while crying through Oprah. And the game needs them. There's specially created positions just for the overweight beasts that play on the line. Has Albert Haynesworth ever run fifty yards in his life? They don't even make you run that far at the combine. He's been groomed to play hard for ten seconds and to obliterate anything he comes into contact with for that brief spurt. To change the game for him this late stinks of managerial bullshit. Just because you employ someone, it doesn't mean you can get them to jump through rings of fire for you (which a fitness test for a 330 pound man is equivalent to).

Haynesworth has had injuries, and it's probably due to his poor training. But that's why NFL contracts can be terminated with prejudice at any juncture. If his performance isn't equal to what you're paying him, shred the deal and call it a day. Just don't hover over a grown man and prod him every time you feel insecure.

This is a battle for big men everywhere. I call weightcism on Washington and Baltimore and any

team stupid enough to fitness test the same assets they need to be fat to succeed. You can't be a matchstick and clash with Flozell Adams everyday. It's a race to see who can be the biggest and fastest (and fattest, I suppose) without losing athleticism. But that's within the confines of the game. Fans and coaches don't need to see how the sausage is made, people don't show up to the weight room on off days to check in on their favorite player, they just need to see results on the field.

Anyway, I'm rambling. In short, put down the stopwatch and pick up a fork. Or jog once in a while.

*Predators fucking sucked by the way.

Gose for Wallace Gives Me Solace, And Other Big League Rhymes

Well the Trade Deadline was today and nothing happened...to the Blue Jays anyway. So here's my perfectly-timed Gose-Wallace trade reaction.

Brett Wallace, we hardly knew ye.

The Toronto Blue Jays traded Brett Wallace, troll-clubbing first basemen extraordinaire, for Anthony Gose, young, fragile, and not Brett Wallace at all. The reactions were...mixed. Like a drink made by Hunter S. Thompson.

Wallace arrived in Toronto as part of the trio who made up the Roy Halladay loot bag. Since the Halladay trade was about as traumatic as seeing your grandparents bumping uglies, the hesitance to trade Wallace is easy to understand. He's one third of Roy Halladay. If that's the third that contains all his hustle and quiet grit then the team would be fools to let him leave.

Mike Wilner rationalized the trade quickly on his blog: You've got to be strong up the middle. Power-hitting first basemen can be pried from teams and grown in the minors relatively easy; compared to how rare it is to acquire a genuine centerfielder and athlete of Gose's caliber.

Vernon Wells is today's centerfielder and Gose is likely three or four years from being the everyday guy there. Which is handy, seeing as Wells' contract runs out about then. Though Wallace is major league-ready now, the Blue Jays don't need him now apparently. They're making moves with an eye on the not-too-distant future, which could mean a strong push for playoff contention made next year.

If Toronto holds on to Jose Bautista and Fred Lewis, they'll occupy third base and left field, respectively. Lind then goes to first base (or stays at DH) and Snider moves to right field. That leaves DH (or first) open. Brett Wallace would have been great at either spot. But designated hitters and first basemen are not a hard currency to deal in. What the Blue Jays did was hedge their bets by adding a player who might be worth two Wallaces down the line. If the current edition of Toronto crashes and burns, the team needs someone new on the marquis to rebuild the ship around.

Alex Anthopolous has doubled down on today's team nucleus, while insuring the cupboard stays stocked during this push. Flashing lights should have gone off when Alex Gonzalez was moved for a major leaguer in Yunel Escobar. That's not building for the future. Escobar is 27, his future is either now or just around the bend. There's not much more to come in his skill set. With Brett Wallace gone the excuse to take things slow has been removed. Travis Snider will be getting his at bats soon. Aaron Hill and Adam Lind are both more than two years into the big leagues. The same goes for Marcum, Romero, Cecil, and Litsch. Vernon Wells can't be moved, and Fred Lewis and Jose Bautista should be re-signed considering their performance and continued presence. The Toronto Blue Jays are ready to drop the hammer.

Rebuilding isn't sexy, and the Blue Jays have almost circumvented a long and arduous Tampa Bay-like rebuild. They've added hitters who are 25-plus and about to enter their primes. I'm all for trying to contend no matter what the cost. If Brett Wallace is the price you have to pay to be relevant, you squeeze your eyes shut and hope it won't bankrupt you.

Why Do You People Still Come Here?

Sometimes you just need to write things down. It's why people keep journals and diaries and logs and treasure maps of the Spanish Main. It's also why I'm restarting my posts for about the third time. I write, I get bored, I stop writing, I overeat, I start writing again. Moving forward you can expect the following:

-More highlights.

-Excerpts from my upcoming book A Summer Misspent: The Living History of the Toronto Blue Jays.*

-Nickerson probably chipping in with jabs at Lindsay Lohan.

-Sports talk.

-Podcasts.

-Blasphemy.

-Exclusive interviews with my neighbour.

*Hypothetical, of course.

Is that something you might be interested in? Well, here's a couple pages from my baby. Please be kind because my ego bruises like a hemophiliac on the bumper cars.

I Can Feel It Coming In the Air Tonight

The season’s equinox has fallen on May 26. A year ago, the Toronto Blue Jays were 27-21 on this date. The Hindenburg then crashed into their Titanic, sending the team on a downward spiral. Toronto went 36-63 the rest of the way and it was clear that the baseball gods had abandoned them. Tonight the Jays find themselves 27-21 again, and it is May 26, again. Damocles’ sword hangs over the team, a barren Louisville Slugger. It’s only one game, but a game they lost last season. It ushered in a late May collapse that segued into another tease of a season; and a repeat performance would be welcomed like free punch from a cult. There will be no trade talks this season to divert attention from a mediocre team. Reinforcements are still a ways off. There’s patience to be had but some of it’s been exorcized by winning; a luxury that may soon dry up

And Brandon Morrow goes tonight.

The Blue Jay batters have been enigmas all season. Aaron Hill hit 37 home runs last year, but on May 26 he’s only hitting .159. Jose Bautista has 15 home runs and 39 RBI already, which is obscene considering that he only hit 16 home runs and 60 RBI in the 134 games he’s played with Toronto to date. The catcher John Buck, signed by the Jays in the offseason, is hitting 25 points above his career batting average at .262. This is from a man that was referred to as, "The Human Error" by leading baseball thinkers (mostly me). Though that is admittedly not related to offense, he’s been thriving after being imprisoned by the Kansas City Royals for the entirety of his career.

Buck’s renaissance has come at a perfect time for Toronto. Hill’s numbers are down. Adam Lind in the DH spot is only hitting .232. Travis Snider struggled early only to catch fire just in time to injure his wrist. These players are the young core, assembled to lead the Jays into the future. They have struggled and in their stead, Renaissance men like John Buck have stepped up. But he can’t catch Brandon Morrow.

When Brandon Morrow takes the mound and John Buck is catching, his ERA is 9.45. For some unforeseen reason, the two mix like water, oil, and nuclear holocaust. It’s uncanny how the two have failed to connect. In their most recent outing Morrow was touched up for six earned runs in only four innings. On a night where fate is hiding in the closet, these are not the numbers fans want to see.

Brandon Morrow is a potential coup for the Jays. Exchanged for Brandon League, a Hawaiian fireballer with strikezone issues, his successes will be yet another feather in the cap of Alex Anthopolous. He throws hard, touching 97 miles per hour at times. Trawling through the baseball dailies nets me an article detailing how Morrow’s fastball, along with a scythe-like slider, are two of the greatest "out" pitches in baseball.1 In 45 innings of work he has 59 strikeouts, it’s a ratio suggesting that Morrow should be stifling batters every time out. Instead he’s been maddeningly inconsistent, walking 28 batters, a clip that puts him third among American League pitchers. Every poor start further washes the League swap.

All these concerns have culminated in what will be a tension-filled television watching experience. But something is amiss, in place of baseball I see a collection of European poker players. The level of excitement exhibited by all of them would make a librarian scoff. A quick glance at the listings and I realize that I’m out of luck. My only connection to the equinox will be via the internet and a series of dots.

MLB.com offers a variety of alternatives to your standard cable baseball. Unfortunately, I don’t even have a credit card. This means that I can’t even get live radio of the game. Good fucking God, how can we claim to a society of equals if I have to pay to hear a man talk a baseball game to me? I could punch a series of numbers into a payphone and at least get some saucy one-liners before having to insert a quarter and yet I can’t be given a broadcast that is 75 percent silence and 25 percent colloquialisms. Is this what Dr. King fought for?

The dots are my only friend now. Major League Baseball’s website has two options for cheap tramps like me: MLB Gameday and its spiritual successor, MLB At Bat. No video is shown, no audio is heard. All that’s there is a virtual cardboard cutout of a batter and red and green streams that end in red and green circles to signify strikes and balls. A blue stream and circle indicates a ball put in play. I am watching the world’s lamest laser show and I don’t even have Kenny Loggins’ "Danger Zone" prepared. For three and a half hours I will be waiting for circles. The pace at which information comes are like raindrops in the Sahara, either I’m bombarded or left aloof to what is happening. Eventually I’ll get a circle notifying that baseball has happened. An Alex Gonzalez strikeout in the top of the second is just a red stream passing in front of a faceless dummy. If I ever considered baseball boring I amend that claim. Watching watched baseball being relayed through stills and streams is far worse.

John Buck steps into the batters’ box in the top of second with two on and two out. A blue stream slides onto my screen telling me that he has singled to load the bases. This is the Chinese Water Torture of viewing experiences. Drop by drop I get the bare minimum to be invested in the game, it’s enough to drive anyone crazy, but the only people who use Gameday are either working or touched in the brain anyways. Edwin Encarnacion works a full count with the bases juiced in an excruciating series of circles and streams. Toronto leads 1-0. Then it’s 3-0. Paying complete attention to the dots is impossible, I just try to act surprised.

Having baseball minimized to occasional glances frees up time to do other productive activities. I have chosen to watch Michael Bay’s Transformers, birthed of excessive CGI and gratuitous shots of Megan Fox. When I look back Morrow is in trouble. He’s walked two and a Howie Kendrick double has driven in one. 3-1 Jays. Men on second and third with no outs. A sac fly from Bobby Abreu makes it 3-2. Like the titular robots on the television that SHOULD be showing baseball, the game is quickly transforming. Connection made. Morrow blows a third strike past Kendry Morales to stop the bleeding. 3-2 Jays.

By the fifth inning Morrow’s thrown 96 pitches to go with three hits, four walks, and six strikeouts; and the Angels have tied the game at 3. The wheels of egress are slowly pulling the Blue Jays towards their predestination. Toronto hasn’t had a hit since the second inning. Adam Lind starts the sixth with a walk, but that’s erased quickly as Vernon Wells grounds into a double play. Lyle Overbay taps one to the first basemen and the Jays are finished for the inning. Wells has been swinging freely for the past few games and the approach has failed him again.
In the bottom of the sixth Morrow is finished. It was vintage Morrow, not economical but sharp enough to power his way through trouble. He and Buck’s relationship keeps improving as Morrow only yields three earned runs. Rommie Lewis, a touching story of minor league perseverance, comes into pitch and gives up two quick hits, the second is home run by Hideki Matsui. 5-3 Angels. Lewis is finished for the night and in comes Shawn Camp, the proverbial garbage man for the team. He closes out the inning and the Jays still haven’t had a hit since the second. Blip by blip I’m watching the Jays fade, and I don’t even have Buck Martinez’s voice to console me.

Gonzalez strikes out to start Toronto’s seventh. Bautista breaks the ice that’s been forming by roping a single past the third baseman. John Buck strikes out. Edwin Encarnacion doubles in Bautista. 5-4 Angels. There is still some fight left in this team tonight. Jeremy Reed grounds out to end the inning. I repeat: some fight left in this team tonight.

Everything is beginning to blur together like the bombardment of colours during 2001: A Space Odyssey. Plays are happening but I can’t see them. Momentum is shifting but I can’t feel it. All I have are boxscores and dots to go on, wearing me down. The Jays come to bat at the top of the ninth on their last legs, I have no gauge on how they’re looking stamina-wise but I can barely keep my eyes focused.

On Sunday the season finale of Lost a show devoted to fate and destiny aired. Alex Gonzalez doubles to lead off for Toronto and the Jays fight to change history that’s waiting to be written. Jose Bautista is much more cooperative for the fates, striking out on three pitches right after. John Buck, the Renaissance Man, comes to bat with one out and Gonzalez on second. Dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, dot, double. Buck rips a double into left field and Gonzalez scores. Whatever supplement Buck is taking, whether legal, illegal, or fictional, I want it. The game is tied.

I should be livid by now. This is an exciting game but there’s no excitement to be had watching a game like this. Imagine being telegraphed the Gettysburg Address. That’s the level of outrage I should be generating. But I haven’t seen a single play and therefore have no base to go off of except for dots. It’s enough to drive a man mad. Or at least to a state of jaded arrogance.

The bottom of the ninth starts with Mike Napoli doubling off Jays’ reliever Scott Downs. The Doomsday Clock is now at five minutes to midnight.

A couple of failed bunts by Maicer Izturis leads to an eventual ground out. Napoli still makes it to third and the Jays have a runner ninety feet away that is capable of repeating history.
The Jays intentionally walk Juan Rivera and Erick Aybar in order to create force outs at all bases. The clock is a minute from midnight. An exciting play happens, Napoli is out at home. Two outs.

Bobby Abreu singles home a run.

The clock strikes twelve.

Toronto loses. The Blue Jays are now 27-22, just like last year. With one exception.

Stars of the U: A Tropical Storm-Themed Highlight Package

If you haven't seen ESPN's 30 For 30 documentary on the Miami Hurricanes, you're among friends. I haven't seen it either but I'm told it's fantastic; so here's some highlights to tide us over until we finally watch the thing. And if you've seen it there's probably some applicable moments to be viewed here as well. They are sorted from crazy to craziest, and I'm talking about the subject's state of mind, not playing ability. As if I had to tell you that. Enjoy these Hurricane alums running roughshod over your heroes.

Ed Reed
If there's ever a job opening for Batman I nominate Ed Reed.



Michael Irvin
The Dallas Cowboys in the 1990's were a force of nature, and Michael Irvin could be called the eye of that storm. For the sake of objectivity I'm just going to post his highlight. THEY HAD A BUILDING CALLED THE WHITE HOUSE DRAW YOUR OWN CONCLUSIONS.




Warren Sapp
Here's a nice photo montage of a man who's Google search immediately suggests, "Warren Sapp cheap hit".


Ray Lewis
Don't watch this video with the lights off.




And perhaps the most frightening player of all...






SPECIAL BONUS VIDEO
Here's Sean Taylor blowing up Brian Moorman IN THE PRO BOWL. The man was a beast.

Don't Crown The King

Black Mamba: a highly venomous southern African mamba dreaded because of its quickness and readiness to bite.

King: One who, or that which, holds a supreme position or rank; a chief among competitors.

When you read both of those definitions two names come to mind: Kobe Bryant and LeBron James. Kobe is the Black Mamba and LeBron is the King….or is he? Let’s look at that second definition a little closer. The last part that says “A chief among competitors.” I have to disagree with that when talking about LBJ. While Kobe showed in Game 1 (40 pts 5 ast 5 reb) that he is dreaded by competitors every time “24” hits the court, LeBron, has yet to take that next step to definitively be called the King. But here’s where things get scary; If you look at that King definition one more time, doesn’t it sound a lot more like Kobe than LeBron?

Kobe holds his teammates accountable. Kobe plays through injuries all year and doesn’t whine about them. LeBron looked disengaged with teammates in round 2 and milked a bruised elbow like he blew out his knee. Just look at it this way: if LeBron’s elbow was really that bad, when the series against Boston ended. Don’t you think we would have heard about how bad it really was ?And also, the amount of months he would be out with surgery? Nope, not with LeBron; news came out that all LeBron will need is to just rest his ailing elbow.

LeBron said after Game 5 that he “Spoils us with his play.” I disagree. I feel like he hasn’t given us enough. I can honestly say LeBron is my favorite player in the league by far, but he hasn’t had that defining moment in the NBA finals yet. Yes, he had that amazing fourth quarter vs. Detroit; and he has made everyone’s top ten all dunk list with some of the huge slams he’s thrown down. But when I’m supposed to be talking about “A chief among competitors”, LBJ hasn’t fit the bill.

To this date, LeBron has two M.V.P’s and one Final’s appearance. Kobe has one M.V.P and four rings on his resume. Like everyone always says: You measure greatness by championship rings. That’s why it’s so hard to say how great Stockton, Malone and Barkley really are. Hey, they all had great careers but the conversation ends with “They never won a ring.”

Does LeBron care about that? He says he does, but his attitude and play in the playoffs this year definitely didn’t show it. That’s the difference, Kobe year in and year out is all about adding to the ring collection. He works in the offseason harder then any player in the league. He adds a low post game to an already un-guardable offensive arsenal. While LeBron works on adding players to his agent’s firm and hosting SNL (which, he was great on by the way), he hasn’t realized that unless he adds some rings he’s going to be just known as a freak athlete that will be put in the second tier of great players with the Stockton’s, Malone’s and Barkley’s.

If I could compare LeBron’s career to a wrestler, it would be 90’s Shawn Michaels. See, Michaels super kicked his way into singles matches and was always a top notch wrestler, plus he was great on the mic. But he was stuck in those mid card matches for most of the ninety’s. HBK was stealing the show every night and always leaving the audience talking about his match on the way out the building. (Kind of like how LeBron does when he drops 50 in Milwaukee in mid December.) But HBK still wasn’t the star like Hogan, Savage and Ultimate Warrior were. Just like Michaels, LeBron couldn’t get out of those mid card matches losing in the second or third rounds. James then got his one main event against the Spurs in 2007. But it felt like he was just on one of those “In Your House” pay-per-views, where titles barley ever change hands because the Spurs disposed of LeBron and Cavs in 4 games.

Michaels finally got his chance too shine as a main event star at WrestleMania 12 against Brett Hart in an Iron man match. Again, Michaels stole the show and cemented his spot on top of the wrestling world for many years to come.

Now its LeBron’s turn to cement his spot as a main event star (like Kobe has) and earn his nickname the King. Or, he can continue to be a mid carder: Someone, you will always pay money too watch and you’re happy that he’s there but you always know there is a bigger match coming up. Just for now, I say we hold back on crowning the King and appreciate the Black Mamba.