This is the week when I officially go crazy.
This is the week when I spend hours analyzing a handful of horse races, watch the replays of those races repeatedly, and scour horse racing websites for any clue that might help me make a bet on a two-minute race.
This is the week that I dig books and old Racing Forms out of the basement, not only to find patterns in races from past years, but to relive a lot of great memories as well.
This is the week that climaxes with me in a crowded OTB, getting misty-eyed at the playing of the official song of a state where I’ve never lived.
This is the week that I actually like Dan Fogelberg.
This is Kentucky Derby Week.
It means little to most sports fans, and probably less to most racing fans than it does to me. But it was an obsession in my house when I was growing up.
The first Derby I remember watching was 1972, when I was six. I remember my brothers studying the Racing Form and talking about the race, with the name of one horse standing out—Riva Ridge. It just sounded like a winner to me. He was not the best Derby winner ever, though—or even the best from his own stable. That would happen the next year.
The ‘70s were a golden age for the Derby, with three Triple Crown winners and several near misses. The major prep races were telecast on ABC, and I spent all spring waiting for the buildup to the big day—as did everybody else in my house.
Then I got the chance to see three Derbies in person in the 1980s. The Kentucky Derby should be on anybody’s “Bucket List.” I will never forget my first glimpse of Churchill Downs. I’d seen it on TV many times, but that does not do it justice, if only due to the size of the grandstand. My idea of a racetrack was Beulah Park. I was not prepared to see the Twin Spires.
Through the years, through my career in horse racing, as well as my present incarnation outside the sport, everything has stopped for the Derby. My family is scattered across the country, but at around 6 p.m. this Saturday, I will know exactly what they’re doing.
The Derby is not only the peak of the Thoroughbred racing season, but the ultimate handicapping challenge because it is unlike any other race. No other race in North America has a field of up to 20 horses—all separate betting interests for bigger payoffs. No race features 3-year-olds racing farther than they have before. No race is run with a crowd of over 100,000—many of them partying in the infield.
I write this, I have given Saturday’s Derby past performances a quick look. This edition’s field has more question marks than a Spanish phrasebook. It looks like the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.
But I say that every year.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The Pittsburgh Penguins: A Complete Team
The Pittsburgh Penguins will win the 2008 Stanley Cup.
This will probably sound to most of you like the empty brag of a townie. And it’s always asking for trouble to make guarantees. But, with everyone on the team healthy as the playoffs begin, it’s hard to hold out against that judgment.
Injuries subdued the team at certain points in the season, which is the main reason why the Pens are the #2 seed in the East instead of #1. You don’t have your team captain and your starting goalie out for any length of time and win the Presidents' Trophy.
Judging from Wednesday night’s 4-0 drubbing of Ottawa in the first playoff game, the team is now at full strength and should be unstoppable.
Much has been said over the past three seasons about Sidney Crosby, who has already amassed an amazing number of NHL records for someone who can’t buy beer yet. But the high ankle sprains (a phrase that is fast becoming hockey’s equivalent to “walk-off home run”) to him and goalie Marc-Andre Fleury proved to be blessings in disguise, as this season has seen the Penguins evolve into a complete team.
First, there is Evgeni Malkin. Malkin was the second pick in the 2004 NHL Draft, but until this season, he was more famous for the controversy surrounding his signing with the Penguins than anything he’d done on the ice. His play showed flashes of brilliance (he did score a goal in each of his first six NHL games), but could be inconsistent. With Crosby sidelined for several weeks, Malkin emerged as a team leader.
Fleury’s injury created a void at starting goalie. When Dany Sabourin couldn’t show consistency, the Penguins recalled Ty Conklin from Scranton-Wilkes-Barre. Conklin’s career before that point defined “journeyman,” as he has played for four NHL teams and countless minor and German professional league teams. No one was ready for his contribution. He won his first nine starts and ended the regular season with the second-best save percentage in the NHL. Not bad for a backup.
To complete a team, trades are often necessary, and this was the case with the Penguins, too. The season’s blockbuster trade with the Atlanta Thrashers brought Marian Hossa and Pascal Dupuis to Pittsburgh in exchange for Colby Armstrong, Erik Christensen, Angelo Esposito and a draft pick. This trade gave the Pens the scoring power they needed on the front line in addition to Crosby and Malkin. The trade was criticized because Armstrong and Christensen had made their share of contributions to the team, while Esposito, a first-round pick, was seen by some as a future franchise player. Time will tell if the Pens gave up too much for a serious Stanley Cup run, especially if they aren’t able to re-sign Hossa for next year.
For now, all the important spots are being filled, and the Penguins have emerged as the NHL’s most complete team.
This will probably sound to most of you like the empty brag of a townie. And it’s always asking for trouble to make guarantees. But, with everyone on the team healthy as the playoffs begin, it’s hard to hold out against that judgment.
Injuries subdued the team at certain points in the season, which is the main reason why the Pens are the #2 seed in the East instead of #1. You don’t have your team captain and your starting goalie out for any length of time and win the Presidents' Trophy.
Judging from Wednesday night’s 4-0 drubbing of Ottawa in the first playoff game, the team is now at full strength and should be unstoppable.
Much has been said over the past three seasons about Sidney Crosby, who has already amassed an amazing number of NHL records for someone who can’t buy beer yet. But the high ankle sprains (a phrase that is fast becoming hockey’s equivalent to “walk-off home run”) to him and goalie Marc-Andre Fleury proved to be blessings in disguise, as this season has seen the Penguins evolve into a complete team.
First, there is Evgeni Malkin. Malkin was the second pick in the 2004 NHL Draft, but until this season, he was more famous for the controversy surrounding his signing with the Penguins than anything he’d done on the ice. His play showed flashes of brilliance (he did score a goal in each of his first six NHL games), but could be inconsistent. With Crosby sidelined for several weeks, Malkin emerged as a team leader.
Fleury’s injury created a void at starting goalie. When Dany Sabourin couldn’t show consistency, the Penguins recalled Ty Conklin from Scranton-Wilkes-Barre. Conklin’s career before that point defined “journeyman,” as he has played for four NHL teams and countless minor and German professional league teams. No one was ready for his contribution. He won his first nine starts and ended the regular season with the second-best save percentage in the NHL. Not bad for a backup.
To complete a team, trades are often necessary, and this was the case with the Penguins, too. The season’s blockbuster trade with the Atlanta Thrashers brought Marian Hossa and Pascal Dupuis to Pittsburgh in exchange for Colby Armstrong, Erik Christensen, Angelo Esposito and a draft pick. This trade gave the Pens the scoring power they needed on the front line in addition to Crosby and Malkin. The trade was criticized because Armstrong and Christensen had made their share of contributions to the team, while Esposito, a first-round pick, was seen by some as a future franchise player. Time will tell if the Pens gave up too much for a serious Stanley Cup run, especially if they aren’t able to re-sign Hossa for next year.
For now, all the important spots are being filled, and the Penguins have emerged as the NHL’s most complete team.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
March Madness
This is the weekend in which people who can’t tell a zone defense from a pick and roll suddenly become interested in college basketball.
Selections have been made for the NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Tournament, also known (and even officially trademarked) as “March Madness.”
While college basketball has its share of fans during its regular season, it’s not until this weekend that nearly everybody in the country starts to care about it. There will be office pools, betting (legal or not), TV remotes hard-wired to CBS, and thousands of heads looking up at the screen whenever the distinctive, eight-note March Madness jingle is played, in order to check the score of a game in which most people couldn’t name one player.
Why do people who can’t locate Gonzaga on a map suddenly start rooting for them?
Because March Madness is one of the most democratic sporting events—up to a point.
The tournament is one of the few sporting events where David has a realistic chance of beating Goliath. Basketball’s nature makes it more amenable to upsets than other sports. A college football team needs to recruit scores of players and spend thousands on equipment. A college basketball team needs five good players and a ball. Some of this year’s first-round matchups would be inconceivable in college football, except as an early-season, 59-3 blowout. Kansas vs. Portland State? Tennessee vs. American? Washington State vs. Winthrop? Winthrop? Wasn’t that Ron Howard's character in The Music Man?
Another factor contributing to the unpredictability is the ungodly amount of money to be made in the NBA. A truly superior player won’t stick around for four years of college when he can make millions. This has served to level the playing field—or should I say the court?—in the college game.
So, on this weekend, the unlikely is likely to happen. There are always a few upsets in the opening round. While no #16 seed has ever beaten a #1, four #15 seeds have beaten #2. The #9 has actually beaten #8 54 percent of the time.
Eventually, reality sets in for most of the underdogs. The tournament’s length tends to ensure that favorites will be there at the finish. For a Belmont or Cal State Fullerton to pull off one upset would be quite a feat. To do the same thing six times in a row? Well…you can never say never.
Still, that’s why we watch—to celebrate the underdog in all of us.
Just don’t bet the rent on Coppin State.
Selections have been made for the NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Tournament, also known (and even officially trademarked) as “March Madness.”
While college basketball has its share of fans during its regular season, it’s not until this weekend that nearly everybody in the country starts to care about it. There will be office pools, betting (legal or not), TV remotes hard-wired to CBS, and thousands of heads looking up at the screen whenever the distinctive, eight-note March Madness jingle is played, in order to check the score of a game in which most people couldn’t name one player.
Why do people who can’t locate Gonzaga on a map suddenly start rooting for them?
Because March Madness is one of the most democratic sporting events—up to a point.
The tournament is one of the few sporting events where David has a realistic chance of beating Goliath. Basketball’s nature makes it more amenable to upsets than other sports. A college football team needs to recruit scores of players and spend thousands on equipment. A college basketball team needs five good players and a ball. Some of this year’s first-round matchups would be inconceivable in college football, except as an early-season, 59-3 blowout. Kansas vs. Portland State? Tennessee vs. American? Washington State vs. Winthrop? Winthrop? Wasn’t that Ron Howard's character in The Music Man?
Another factor contributing to the unpredictability is the ungodly amount of money to be made in the NBA. A truly superior player won’t stick around for four years of college when he can make millions. This has served to level the playing field—or should I say the court?—in the college game.
So, on this weekend, the unlikely is likely to happen. There are always a few upsets in the opening round. While no #16 seed has ever beaten a #1, four #15 seeds have beaten #2. The #9 has actually beaten #8 54 percent of the time.
Eventually, reality sets in for most of the underdogs. The tournament’s length tends to ensure that favorites will be there at the finish. For a Belmont or Cal State Fullerton to pull off one upset would be quite a feat. To do the same thing six times in a row? Well…you can never say never.
Still, that’s why we watch—to celebrate the underdog in all of us.
Just don’t bet the rent on Coppin State.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Myron Cope 1929-2008
A piece of Pittsburgh died this week.
As I write this, people are gathering in downtown Pittsburgh to pay tribute to Myron Cope with a ceremonial wave of the Terrible Towel he invented. Newspapers, TV stations, and blogs are loaded with tributes to Cope, who died Wednesday from respiratory failure at 79.
These tributes are the most I’ve ever seen for a sportscaster. Nobody mourned Howard Cosell this way.
In the relatively brief time that I’ve lived in Pittsburgh, I can see that the tributes are justified.
Soon after I moved here in 2002, it became apparent to me that Cope was more than a sportscaster. One of the first things Jamie did to introduce me to the area was play a Steelers radio broadcast. I had never heard an announcer quite like him. His nasal voice, with a heavy Pittsburgh accent, came across like Cosell without the pretentiousness. His catch phrases, such as “um-hah,” “yoi,” and “okle-dokle,” became part of the local vocabulary, as did his nicknames for opposing teams—the “Cleve Brownies,” the “Cincinnati Bungles,” and the “Baltimore Birdies.” He made Steelermania instantly accessible to me. For the uninitiated, this site has a good collection of Myron’s sound bites.
Two of his most recent games stand out in my mind. One was the last game of the 2004 season. The Steelers had clinched a playoff berth and started many second-stringers against the Buffalo Bills, but beat them anyway. Myron marveled at the performance of the “Steelers Scrubs” and riffed on it throughout the game. He even joked that he would have T-shirts made reading “Steelers Scrubs.”
Another game, that same year, was a fairly decisive win against the arch-rival Cincinnati Bengals, in which he came up with the line, “We’re putting the lox on those Cincinnati Bagels!”
His legacy goes beyond the broadcast booth. He once joked that his epitaph would read, “Creator of Towel Dead,” and many people know him best as the creator of the Terrible Towel. The Towel, invented prior to a 1975 playoff game, has set the standard for sports team symbols. Cope was also an excellent print journalist. He and George Plimpton are the only two writers ever given the title of Special Correspondent for Sports Illustrated.
As I write this, people are gathering in downtown Pittsburgh to pay tribute to Myron Cope with a ceremonial wave of the Terrible Towel he invented. Newspapers, TV stations, and blogs are loaded with tributes to Cope, who died Wednesday from respiratory failure at 79.
These tributes are the most I’ve ever seen for a sportscaster. Nobody mourned Howard Cosell this way.
In the relatively brief time that I’ve lived in Pittsburgh, I can see that the tributes are justified.
Soon after I moved here in 2002, it became apparent to me that Cope was more than a sportscaster. One of the first things Jamie did to introduce me to the area was play a Steelers radio broadcast. I had never heard an announcer quite like him. His nasal voice, with a heavy Pittsburgh accent, came across like Cosell without the pretentiousness. His catch phrases, such as “um-hah,” “yoi,” and “okle-dokle,” became part of the local vocabulary, as did his nicknames for opposing teams—the “Cleve Brownies,” the “Cincinnati Bungles,” and the “Baltimore Birdies.” He made Steelermania instantly accessible to me. For the uninitiated, this site has a good collection of Myron’s sound bites.
Two of his most recent games stand out in my mind. One was the last game of the 2004 season. The Steelers had clinched a playoff berth and started many second-stringers against the Buffalo Bills, but beat them anyway. Myron marveled at the performance of the “Steelers Scrubs” and riffed on it throughout the game. He even joked that he would have T-shirts made reading “Steelers Scrubs.”
Another game, that same year, was a fairly decisive win against the arch-rival Cincinnati Bengals, in which he came up with the line, “We’re putting the lox on those Cincinnati Bagels!”
His legacy goes beyond the broadcast booth. He once joked that his epitaph would read, “Creator of Towel Dead,” and many people know him best as the creator of the Terrible Towel. The Towel, invented prior to a 1975 playoff game, has set the standard for sports team symbols. Cope was also an excellent print journalist. He and George Plimpton are the only two writers ever given the title of Special Correspondent for Sports Illustrated.
Until Myron's retirement, it was a tradition in our house to watch the Steelers game with the TV sound turned down and the radio playing in the background. I will never forget that moment before each game when the stadium music boomed in the background as the Steelers ran onto the field. Myron would sputter, raise his voice higher than usual, and generally break every rule of sportscasting, but, at that moment, he said everything you needed to know. It’s telling that, with all due respect to Tunch and Bill, we now listen to the radio broadcast only when the TV announcers really suck.
Thank you, Myron, for welcoming me to Pittsburgh.
Bye now!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
We can all stop searching now
In my intro to this site, I said that I’d blog on chess if I thought anybody was interested.
I never thought I’d get the opportunity so soon.
Bobby Fischer passed away last month in Reykjavik, Iceland, the town where his legend reached its peak. It may sound strange to call him a sports legend, or to even call chess a sport, nowadays—but for a brief period in the 1970s, both were true.
It goes without saying that Fischer was to chess what Babe Ruth was to baseball, or Michael Jordan to basketball—but he may have been even more important, as chess was made and broken by his place in the spotlight. Interest in baseball did not plummet the day the Babe retired, but when Fischer was stripped of his chess title in 1975 in a dispute over issues that wouldn’t have made Terrell Owens blink, people, at least in the U.S., stopped trumpeting chess as “the sport of the mind,” and it returned to what it was before Fischer won the title—a pastime for high school nerds.
It was the chess world’s misfortune that its destiny laid in the hands of a stark, raving loon. This was borne out by the obituary story done by ESPN on "SportsCenter." While the story did show a montage of Fischer’s extraordinary rise to the top, the most lasting images were a sound bite from a Filipino radio station in which Fischer praised the 9/11 attacks, and an anti-Semitic rant at a news conference in which Fischer vehemently denied his own Jewish lineage.
Not that Fischer was the first chess champion to suffer from mental illness. Paul Morphy, the first American chess champion, stopped playing in his twenties and became a recluse who passed his time arranging women’s shoes on the floor and dancing around them. Wilhelm Steinitz, the first official world champion, once challenged God to a game—and offered him a pawn. Steinitz eventually died in a mental hospital.
Does the intense concentration and need to anticipate an opponent’s moves at such a high level lead to mental illness, or does the game’s nature attract the unstable? A lot of bandwidth could be eaten making chicken-or-egg arguments about that question.
Fischer’s My 60 Memorable Games opens with an epigram from champion Dr. Emanuel Lasker that speaks to the game’s enduring appeal:
“On the chess board lies and hypocrisy do not survive long. The creative combination lays bare the presumption of a lie; the merciless fact, culminating in a checkmate, contradicts the hypocrite."
Other games have some element of chance, such as dice or cards. Even in Scrabble™, you have to draw the letters before you can play them. But not chess. In chess, it’s just you and your ability. That’s why many have considered it an ultimate test of intellect, if there is such a thing.
But what happens when the intellect fails—when a player reaches an opponent or position that just can’t be beaten? What does that say about a player? Maybe it wasn’t mere hyperbole when Pravda published news reports after the Fischer-Spassky match saying that Boris Spassky “would never recover” from losing the match, as if he had contracted some terminal illness. (Although Spassky has not only continued to play topflight chess for many years, but has now outlived Fischer.)
Maybe that’s why so many chess grandmasters fall apart.
Or, at the very least, maybe that’s why I don’t play chess much anymore.
I never thought I’d get the opportunity so soon.
Bobby Fischer passed away last month in Reykjavik, Iceland, the town where his legend reached its peak. It may sound strange to call him a sports legend, or to even call chess a sport, nowadays—but for a brief period in the 1970s, both were true.
It goes without saying that Fischer was to chess what Babe Ruth was to baseball, or Michael Jordan to basketball—but he may have been even more important, as chess was made and broken by his place in the spotlight. Interest in baseball did not plummet the day the Babe retired, but when Fischer was stripped of his chess title in 1975 in a dispute over issues that wouldn’t have made Terrell Owens blink, people, at least in the U.S., stopped trumpeting chess as “the sport of the mind,” and it returned to what it was before Fischer won the title—a pastime for high school nerds.
It was the chess world’s misfortune that its destiny laid in the hands of a stark, raving loon. This was borne out by the obituary story done by ESPN on "SportsCenter." While the story did show a montage of Fischer’s extraordinary rise to the top, the most lasting images were a sound bite from a Filipino radio station in which Fischer praised the 9/11 attacks, and an anti-Semitic rant at a news conference in which Fischer vehemently denied his own Jewish lineage.
Not that Fischer was the first chess champion to suffer from mental illness. Paul Morphy, the first American chess champion, stopped playing in his twenties and became a recluse who passed his time arranging women’s shoes on the floor and dancing around them. Wilhelm Steinitz, the first official world champion, once challenged God to a game—and offered him a pawn. Steinitz eventually died in a mental hospital.
Does the intense concentration and need to anticipate an opponent’s moves at such a high level lead to mental illness, or does the game’s nature attract the unstable? A lot of bandwidth could be eaten making chicken-or-egg arguments about that question.
Fischer’s My 60 Memorable Games opens with an epigram from champion Dr. Emanuel Lasker that speaks to the game’s enduring appeal:
“On the chess board lies and hypocrisy do not survive long. The creative combination lays bare the presumption of a lie; the merciless fact, culminating in a checkmate, contradicts the hypocrite."
Other games have some element of chance, such as dice or cards. Even in Scrabble™, you have to draw the letters before you can play them. But not chess. In chess, it’s just you and your ability. That’s why many have considered it an ultimate test of intellect, if there is such a thing.
But what happens when the intellect fails—when a player reaches an opponent or position that just can’t be beaten? What does that say about a player? Maybe it wasn’t mere hyperbole when Pravda published news reports after the Fischer-Spassky match saying that Boris Spassky “would never recover” from losing the match, as if he had contracted some terminal illness. (Although Spassky has not only continued to play topflight chess for many years, but has now outlived Fischer.)
Maybe that’s why so many chess grandmasters fall apart.
Or, at the very least, maybe that’s why I don’t play chess much anymore.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The Foofaraw in Phoenix
I heard a rumor there’s some football game going on this weekend. Is this true?
All eyes will be on the New England Patriots as they pursue the greatest season ever against the New York Giants in Super Bowl XLII.
If you root for the Patriots (assuming you aren’t from New England), you probably also root for Microsoft, Rupert Murdoch and Darth Vader. As much as we all love to see a well-played game, it’s hard to like a juggernaut.
And it’s not hard to find a reason to not like the Patriots. It started with Spygate at the beginning of the season, when the team was caught cheating, paid a hefty fine and lost a draft pick (but somehow still get the seventh pick in this year’s draft!). Add to that a quarterback who appears to have never heard of Trojans (and not USC, either), a brilliant receiver with a history of playing when he feels like it, and a head coach who has unapologetically run up the score all season, and you wind up with a team that has replaced the Oakland Raiders as the league’s embodiment of evil.
As easy as it is to hate the Patriots, it’s hard to bet against them (straight up, anyway). Why? Because they’re just that good.
Tom Brady has always had a knack for short-passing opponents to death. With the addition of long-range target Randy Moss (who they got for a fourth-round draft pick, making the Pats the beneficiaries of the most one-sided trade since Peter Minuit), he can now beat you short or long. I could analyze each position, but suffice to say there isn’t a weak link on the team.
The Giants have momentum on their side, which can count for quite a bit under the right circumstances. Jamie posted an excellent blog entry on Eli Manning below. Since that post, the Giants’ win over the Packers has shown that the little brother has come of age. As the youngest of five kids, I can relate. They may not be as deep at every position as the Patriots, but they have already shown they can overcome adversity. Many pundits wrote them off after an 0-2 start, and didn’t give them much chance as the fifth playoff seed in the weaker of the two conferences. They are already the first team in NFL history to win 10 road games in a season, so what’s one more?
An upset is not out of the question. It would be big. Not Appalachian State or Buster Douglas big, but certainly comparable to the Jets in Super Bowl III.
Just don’t make any guarantees, Eli. It’s been done.
I asked the trusty random number generator on my calculator to make a Super Bowl prediction. First, I had it select a random number, 1 or 2—1 for Patriots, 2 for Giants. Then I selected two random numbers between 0 and 50. The higher is the winner’s score, the lower is the loser’s (or, as Ned Flanders would say, the team that does not win). So, here’s the wisdom of a few random microchips from our friends at Texas Instruments:
Patriots 41, Giants 28.
Read into it what you will. In the words of the great Myron Cope, if you bet the wrong way, then you made your own bed.
All eyes will be on the New England Patriots as they pursue the greatest season ever against the New York Giants in Super Bowl XLII.
If you root for the Patriots (assuming you aren’t from New England), you probably also root for Microsoft, Rupert Murdoch and Darth Vader. As much as we all love to see a well-played game, it’s hard to like a juggernaut.
And it’s not hard to find a reason to not like the Patriots. It started with Spygate at the beginning of the season, when the team was caught cheating, paid a hefty fine and lost a draft pick (but somehow still get the seventh pick in this year’s draft!). Add to that a quarterback who appears to have never heard of Trojans (and not USC, either), a brilliant receiver with a history of playing when he feels like it, and a head coach who has unapologetically run up the score all season, and you wind up with a team that has replaced the Oakland Raiders as the league’s embodiment of evil.
As easy as it is to hate the Patriots, it’s hard to bet against them (straight up, anyway). Why? Because they’re just that good.
Tom Brady has always had a knack for short-passing opponents to death. With the addition of long-range target Randy Moss (who they got for a fourth-round draft pick, making the Pats the beneficiaries of the most one-sided trade since Peter Minuit), he can now beat you short or long. I could analyze each position, but suffice to say there isn’t a weak link on the team.
The Giants have momentum on their side, which can count for quite a bit under the right circumstances. Jamie posted an excellent blog entry on Eli Manning below. Since that post, the Giants’ win over the Packers has shown that the little brother has come of age. As the youngest of five kids, I can relate. They may not be as deep at every position as the Patriots, but they have already shown they can overcome adversity. Many pundits wrote them off after an 0-2 start, and didn’t give them much chance as the fifth playoff seed in the weaker of the two conferences. They are already the first team in NFL history to win 10 road games in a season, so what’s one more?
An upset is not out of the question. It would be big. Not Appalachian State or Buster Douglas big, but certainly comparable to the Jets in Super Bowl III.
Just don’t make any guarantees, Eli. It’s been done.
I asked the trusty random number generator on my calculator to make a Super Bowl prediction. First, I had it select a random number, 1 or 2—1 for Patriots, 2 for Giants. Then I selected two random numbers between 0 and 50. The higher is the winner’s score, the lower is the loser’s (or, as Ned Flanders would say, the team that does not win). So, here’s the wisdom of a few random microchips from our friends at Texas Instruments:
Patriots 41, Giants 28.
Read into it what you will. In the words of the great Myron Cope, if you bet the wrong way, then you made your own bed.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Little Brother Makes Good
I can imagine the thoughts going through Eli Manning’s head.
“Finally! I did something Peyton didn’t do!”
“Look Daddy! I’m in the playoffs!”
“I told ‘em I was just as good as HE was. Nobody believed me. Who’s in the conference championship now? Huh? Who? ME, that’s who.”
Maybe I’m projecting. But I’m sure Eli Manning felt a huge sense of relief at making the playoffs, and more than a little happy twinge at doing it when his illustrious big brother didn’t.
Let me share something here. I've never really been big on the Mannings. (Well, the Mannings Farm in PA, the fiber arts nirvana, I’m sure I’d be a fan, but that’s for another blog.) Archie Manning may have been a gifted quarterback, but he squandered his talents with clubs that didn’t live up to his potential. I have a theory that he liked it that way, but that’s just my pop-psychology take on it. His college career was unspectacular due to a mediocre team. Third place in the Heisman trophy voting wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar these days, never mind that the actual Heisman winner usually does little when moving on to the NFL. Ten losing seasons with the Saints, most of them spent on his rear end at the hands of Jack Youngblood. Two pro bowls. Two more losing seasons, one with Houston and one with the Mini-Vikes. His record among starters was the worst in NFL history (.263%! Really!) among QBs with 100 starts or more. So I’ve never really understood the adulation.
Peyton Manning was put in the catbird seat early on. He had a better college career than his dad, natch. He compiled some impressive stats and trophies, lots of plaques and an accusation of sexual harassment, but no Heisman for this Manning. (Charles Woodson beat him out, and actually went on to do something in the NFL.) No national championships either, and early indications of not responding well to teams that knew how to pressure him. Peyton moved on to an even better position with the Indianapolis Colts. He’s been the subject of much foaming at the mouth and outright hero-worship, second only to Tom Brady, from all the top analysts, reporters, pundits, and talking heads of American Sport. His noble profile, his sense of humor, his ability to coordinate the offense while ACTUALLY ON THE FIELD. Wow. IMAGINE. It took him nine years to finally win a Super Bowl, surrounded by some of the best players in the league and an intelligent and indulgent coaching staff who let him have free rein on the field. Some of his commercials are clever, but his adenoidal intonation annoys me beyond all reason, possibly because I used to have adenoid issues. In general, though, I think he’s treated like some sort of football demi-god in a way that is really mostly undeserved. Yes, he’s a good quarterback. But he needs to listen to his offensive coordinator more often and stop being so damn twitchy in the backfield. Also, he chokes.
Which brings us to Little Brother Eli. Eli went to Ole Miss like a good boy, his Dad’s alma mater. He had a decent college career and set some records, a bit more nondescript than Peyton’s, but good. He didn’t get into any (reported) trouble while there, unlike Peyton. He ran third in the Heisman, and never really contended for a national championship. The well-known kerfluffle around his draft day trade with Philip Rivers probably had less to do with the Chargers being bad for his career (LT anyone?) and more to do with not wanting to play in the AFC, where he’d be likely to face Peyton on a regular basis. Eli’s always struck me as someone who wanted to please his Dad and maybe someday PLEASE show up his big brother if possible.
Now I grew up an only child. But I’ve watched my kids, and my aunts and uncles, my cousins, and I can see how Eli must feel, finally, achieving something Peyton didn’t, not this year, and having a decent chance to win the big game besides. I hope he’s not ruining the experience by worrying about when Peyton’s going to come up behind him and give him a wedgie.
Good on you, Eli. Brett Favre's probably going to eat you for lunch and laugh the whole time, but I wish you luck on the Frozen Tundra anyway.
“Finally! I did something Peyton didn’t do!”
“Look Daddy! I’m in the playoffs!”
“I told ‘em I was just as good as HE was. Nobody believed me. Who’s in the conference championship now? Huh? Who? ME, that’s who.”
Maybe I’m projecting. But I’m sure Eli Manning felt a huge sense of relief at making the playoffs, and more than a little happy twinge at doing it when his illustrious big brother didn’t.
Let me share something here. I've never really been big on the Mannings. (Well, the Mannings Farm in PA, the fiber arts nirvana, I’m sure I’d be a fan, but that’s for another blog.) Archie Manning may have been a gifted quarterback, but he squandered his talents with clubs that didn’t live up to his potential. I have a theory that he liked it that way, but that’s just my pop-psychology take on it. His college career was unspectacular due to a mediocre team. Third place in the Heisman trophy voting wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar these days, never mind that the actual Heisman winner usually does little when moving on to the NFL. Ten losing seasons with the Saints, most of them spent on his rear end at the hands of Jack Youngblood. Two pro bowls. Two more losing seasons, one with Houston and one with the Mini-Vikes. His record among starters was the worst in NFL history (.263%! Really!) among QBs with 100 starts or more. So I’ve never really understood the adulation.
Peyton Manning was put in the catbird seat early on. He had a better college career than his dad, natch. He compiled some impressive stats and trophies, lots of plaques and an accusation of sexual harassment, but no Heisman for this Manning. (Charles Woodson beat him out, and actually went on to do something in the NFL.) No national championships either, and early indications of not responding well to teams that knew how to pressure him. Peyton moved on to an even better position with the Indianapolis Colts. He’s been the subject of much foaming at the mouth and outright hero-worship, second only to Tom Brady, from all the top analysts, reporters, pundits, and talking heads of American Sport. His noble profile, his sense of humor, his ability to coordinate the offense while ACTUALLY ON THE FIELD. Wow. IMAGINE. It took him nine years to finally win a Super Bowl, surrounded by some of the best players in the league and an intelligent and indulgent coaching staff who let him have free rein on the field. Some of his commercials are clever, but his adenoidal intonation annoys me beyond all reason, possibly because I used to have adenoid issues. In general, though, I think he’s treated like some sort of football demi-god in a way that is really mostly undeserved. Yes, he’s a good quarterback. But he needs to listen to his offensive coordinator more often and stop being so damn twitchy in the backfield. Also, he chokes.
Which brings us to Little Brother Eli. Eli went to Ole Miss like a good boy, his Dad’s alma mater. He had a decent college career and set some records, a bit more nondescript than Peyton’s, but good. He didn’t get into any (reported) trouble while there, unlike Peyton. He ran third in the Heisman, and never really contended for a national championship. The well-known kerfluffle around his draft day trade with Philip Rivers probably had less to do with the Chargers being bad for his career (LT anyone?) and more to do with not wanting to play in the AFC, where he’d be likely to face Peyton on a regular basis. Eli’s always struck me as someone who wanted to please his Dad and maybe someday PLEASE show up his big brother if possible.
Now I grew up an only child. But I’ve watched my kids, and my aunts and uncles, my cousins, and I can see how Eli must feel, finally, achieving something Peyton didn’t, not this year, and having a decent chance to win the big game besides. I hope he’s not ruining the experience by worrying about when Peyton’s going to come up behind him and give him a wedgie.
Good on you, Eli. Brett Favre's probably going to eat you for lunch and laugh the whole time, but I wish you luck on the Frozen Tundra anyway.
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