It's been a good week for hockey. The Penguins are playing strong, with good improvement after a shaky beginning. Faceoff wins are the main thing I see as improved. I can't find a stat on it right off the bat, but it sure seems to me like this year's Penguins are winning a lot more. I credit Michel Therrien with that for the most part, but it sure looks like Mike Zigomanis has been a big help in that department. He's been a solid player overall, and along with Matt Cooke, Bissonnette, Goddard, Satan and Fedotenko, has helped ease the pain of the off-season losses. I still miss Georges Laraque. And Ryan Malone. (wipes a tear)
Kudos especially to Dany Sabourin for showing he can be a strong backup to Marc-Andre Fleury. I'm sure Ty Conklin's success last year was a bit disconcerting to Sabourin but he kept calm and stepped up when needed. Hockey players tend to be like that, I find, more so than other big pro athletes. Maybe it's the ice.
This week's Errey-Otica include a couple of real classics from Steigerwald.
"Tonight is Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Night!" Why is hockey fighting cancer awareness? Nice tie, by the way.
"They're looking for ways to make the game more offensive!" Bob suggested they have someone come out and poop on the ice. That would be offensive. I think I mentioned naked skating. That would be dangerous AND offensive.
From Errey-
"On two occasions, Crosby has gone through the legs to find the stick."
"Beautiful play by Ference, horizontal on the ice, stick out!"
And from last night's game, talking with Steigerwald about the physical appearance of Paul Bissonnette...
"Bissonnette, he reminds me of Rick Tocchet, with those dark eyebrows and those dark eyes."
OK, Bob.
For the record, Bissonnette doesn't seem like much of a gambler to me, so I doubt he's much like Tocchet.
Until next time.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Errey-Otica
Hopefully, a semi-regular feature here as we get into Hockey Season, Errey-Otica will be a compendium of the most mind-boggling statements uttered by Pens TV broadcaster, Bob Errey. (and Steigerwald or anyone else too, if deserved.)
Bob Errey is like the anti-Mike Lange. Mike Lange makes mind-bogglingly surreal comments when a goal happens, but he's an astute observer of the game and a heck of an intelligent guy. Bob Errey, maybe one too many cross-checks from the likes of Marty McSorley.
Anyway...
Last night’s top three highlights as Errey called color on the game from between the benches.
“I feel pretty special here between Ovetchkin and Staal!”
I’ll bet you do, Bob. I’ll bet you do.
“He’s like a heat-seeking missile out there!”
At some point, in the aftermath of a vicious check;
“Mass times velocity equals force, if you remember your chemistry class!” I think I actually yelled at the screen “WHY?? WHYYYYY????” at that point.
We can all be thankful that he didn’t refer to Jordan Staal as a “pterodacTILE” or a “human tripod” at any point during the game.
Much like the Pens, I believe Bob Errey is just getting warmed up for the season ahead, and it won't be long before he's talking about running into Sid Crosby's dad in the bathroom again, or musing on the ability of the power play to penetrate the opposing goalie. We can only hope.
Bob Errey is like the anti-Mike Lange. Mike Lange makes mind-bogglingly surreal comments when a goal happens, but he's an astute observer of the game and a heck of an intelligent guy. Bob Errey, maybe one too many cross-checks from the likes of Marty McSorley.
Anyway...
Last night’s top three highlights as Errey called color on the game from between the benches.
“I feel pretty special here between Ovetchkin and Staal!”
I’ll bet you do, Bob. I’ll bet you do.
“He’s like a heat-seeking missile out there!”
At some point, in the aftermath of a vicious check;
“Mass times velocity equals force, if you remember your chemistry class!” I think I actually yelled at the screen “WHY?? WHYYYYY????” at that point.
We can all be thankful that he didn’t refer to Jordan Staal as a “pterodacTILE” or a “human tripod” at any point during the game.
Much like the Pens, I believe Bob Errey is just getting warmed up for the season ahead, and it won't be long before he's talking about running into Sid Crosby's dad in the bathroom again, or musing on the ability of the power play to penetrate the opposing goalie. We can only hope.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
What she said
I haven't been blogging much lately because I've been pretty busy--buying a new car, keeping a house in order, helping the local chapter of a dysfunctional social organization, and looking for a job that doesn't suck the life out of me. Not that there haven't been any sports to talk about. We've been treated to the Best. Olympics. Ever, the Steelers are 2-0, the Penguins will be starting their season again soon, and the Pirates still suck.
I was inspired by my wife's latest blog entry, in which she nailed a major problem--the recent tendency of politics to resemble professional sports.
One could also argue that sports sometimes resembles politics. The business of sports can be political, with its megamillion business deals. And sports can definitely cross paths with the law. The sports page in my old hometown has its own subheading titled "Legal File," printed alongside "Baseball," "Football" and the rest. "Legal File" features two-paragraph stories about athletes who made really bad plays off the field.
I am reminded of the words of my college religion professor, Dr. Paul Redditt. (Yes, I took religion in college--it was required.) He was a true anomaly--a liberal Southern Baptist. He was very interested when he found out I was the sports editor of the college paper. He talked about one of his favorite sports writers, Dick Fenlon of the Columbus Dispatch. I'll never forget his reason why he liked Fenlon.
"He knows that there's nothing really important that happens in a ball game."
What a powerful statement.
And it's true. Unless you are employed in the sports industry in some capacity, there's nothing really important that happens in any sports event.
Wars, the economy, global warming, civil liberties--these are important. No sports event is important. Not even the Super Bowl.
That's what make sports so great. We root for our favorite teams, we cheer, we boo, we lose ourselves in the moment. When we're watching our favorite athletes, nothing else matters--and yet, it really doesn't matter at all. If our team wins, we go on with our lives feeling better for a while. If our team loses, we go on with our lives. We feel like we've played the game vicariously, and we can share in the victory without worrying about torn ACLs. We have all the drama of any national news story without millions of people being adversely affected by that drama.
How ironic that the irrelevance of sports is precisely the thing that makes them meaningful to millions.
Sports matter because they don't matter.
I was inspired by my wife's latest blog entry, in which she nailed a major problem--the recent tendency of politics to resemble professional sports.
One could also argue that sports sometimes resembles politics. The business of sports can be political, with its megamillion business deals. And sports can definitely cross paths with the law. The sports page in my old hometown has its own subheading titled "Legal File," printed alongside "Baseball," "Football" and the rest. "Legal File" features two-paragraph stories about athletes who made really bad plays off the field.
I am reminded of the words of my college religion professor, Dr. Paul Redditt. (Yes, I took religion in college--it was required.) He was a true anomaly--a liberal Southern Baptist. He was very interested when he found out I was the sports editor of the college paper. He talked about one of his favorite sports writers, Dick Fenlon of the Columbus Dispatch. I'll never forget his reason why he liked Fenlon.
"He knows that there's nothing really important that happens in a ball game."
What a powerful statement.
And it's true. Unless you are employed in the sports industry in some capacity, there's nothing really important that happens in any sports event.
Wars, the economy, global warming, civil liberties--these are important. No sports event is important. Not even the Super Bowl.
That's what make sports so great. We root for our favorite teams, we cheer, we boo, we lose ourselves in the moment. When we're watching our favorite athletes, nothing else matters--and yet, it really doesn't matter at all. If our team wins, we go on with our lives feeling better for a while. If our team loses, we go on with our lives. We feel like we've played the game vicariously, and we can share in the victory without worrying about torn ACLs. We have all the drama of any national news story without millions of people being adversely affected by that drama.
How ironic that the irrelevance of sports is precisely the thing that makes them meaningful to millions.
Sports matter because they don't matter.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
A whiter shade of green
Of all the teams I thought Brett Favre would be playing for this year, the New York Jets were not in the top five.
Favre’s trade to the Jets was a dramatic left turn to the saga that has dominated the NFL pre-season. It seems incongruous—a good ol’ boy from southern Mississippi moving to the big city—but I suppose no more so that the same person playing on the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field for 16 years.
The big money to be made in New York was obviously a factor in Favre’s decision, as it was in Alan Faneca’s decision to jump ship from the Pittsburgh Steelers. Which is just fine, as long as you don’t check out the cost of living in New York City too closely.
The precedent for a top NFL quarterback moving to another team late in his career is not good. As ESPN’s John Clayton has pointed out, Johnny Unitas, Joe Namath and Warren Moon did not fare well moving to other teams in the twilight of their careers. Only Joe Montana has made the transition without tarnishing his legacy.
It remains to be seen if Favre has one more year in him. I have been fooled before. I thought he was through after the Packers went 4-12 in 2006, but he keeps coming back, sort of like The Terminator did at the end of the first movie.
If he wanted to play one more season, good for him. I started rooting for the old guys in sports years ago. But you have to question the way he went about this comeback.
He started to tell the media weeks ago that he wanted to come back to the Packers. By that time, the Packers had already begun building their offense around Aaron Rodgers. Did he expect them to drop everything and change plans just to bring him back?
He waffled on reinstatement until last week and built a mystique around the question of whether he would play, to the point where ESPN began adding updates labeled “FAVRE” on a crawl at the bottom of the screen. MLB…NFL…NBA…FAVRE. He really was in a league of his own.
The trade did not end the media circus, as Favre has moved to the country’s biggest media center. Through the miracle of web radio, I caught a bit of the morning show on WFAN the other day. The topic--will Favre be the greatest QB ever to take a snap in a Jets jersey? Probably, as his only real competition for that title is Namath. (OK, who’s the wise guy who voted for Kellen Clemens?) The question would make for great sports-bar debate—but let’s let Favre take that snap first.
Favre’s trade to the Jets was a dramatic left turn to the saga that has dominated the NFL pre-season. It seems incongruous—a good ol’ boy from southern Mississippi moving to the big city—but I suppose no more so that the same person playing on the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field for 16 years.
The big money to be made in New York was obviously a factor in Favre’s decision, as it was in Alan Faneca’s decision to jump ship from the Pittsburgh Steelers. Which is just fine, as long as you don’t check out the cost of living in New York City too closely.
The precedent for a top NFL quarterback moving to another team late in his career is not good. As ESPN’s John Clayton has pointed out, Johnny Unitas, Joe Namath and Warren Moon did not fare well moving to other teams in the twilight of their careers. Only Joe Montana has made the transition without tarnishing his legacy.
It remains to be seen if Favre has one more year in him. I have been fooled before. I thought he was through after the Packers went 4-12 in 2006, but he keeps coming back, sort of like The Terminator did at the end of the first movie.
If he wanted to play one more season, good for him. I started rooting for the old guys in sports years ago. But you have to question the way he went about this comeback.
He started to tell the media weeks ago that he wanted to come back to the Packers. By that time, the Packers had already begun building their offense around Aaron Rodgers. Did he expect them to drop everything and change plans just to bring him back?
He waffled on reinstatement until last week and built a mystique around the question of whether he would play, to the point where ESPN began adding updates labeled “FAVRE” on a crawl at the bottom of the screen. MLB…NFL…NBA…FAVRE. He really was in a league of his own.
The trade did not end the media circus, as Favre has moved to the country’s biggest media center. Through the miracle of web radio, I caught a bit of the morning show on WFAN the other day. The topic--will Favre be the greatest QB ever to take a snap in a Jets jersey? Probably, as his only real competition for that title is Namath. (OK, who’s the wise guy who voted for Kellen Clemens?) The question would make for great sports-bar debate—but let’s let Favre take that snap first.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
I may feel like crap, but at least I'm not the Pirates
After a long hiatus here, I've been inspired to come back to the world of husband-wife sports blogging by a conversation Bob and I had in the car on the way home from Damon's tonight. (Or as we have come to call it, Damo's. But that's another story for another blog.)
It's worth noting right off the bat (the BAT, get it? Har har) that I am no major fan of major league baseball. Oh sure, I'll follow the World Series and whatever big star is acting like a six year old child and the latest scandal but I get a little tired of it. It's a long season, and frankly, it's difficult to get worked up about major league baseball when you live in Pittsburgh, AKA the Farm Team for the Rest of Baseball.
After coming frighteningly close to reaching .500 this year, the Pirates have engineered a series of brilliant trades, guaranteed to ensure their continued lack of playoff appearances. I'm starting to wonder if the Bucco's head offices have a non-compete deal signed with the Rooneys or something to avoid conflicting schedules once NFL season is in full swing. Not that there's much competition between the Pirates and the Steelers here in da 'burgh, anyway. The Steelers rule, and everyone knows it. Shame that it is, because there's certainly enough love to go around, anyone who followed the Penguins' march to the Stanley Cup finals this year knows that.
At any rate, the Pirates sit proudly in last place in their division, the unremarkable 51-59 record pretty much guaranteed to not improve. Last Saturday, the Pirates traded Xavier Nady and Damaso Marte to the Yankees, AKA the Best Team Money Can Buy, for prospects. In the middle of a game. Seriously. Nady led the team with a .330 batting average, and Marte was the Bucs only real threat as a closer. We got pitching prospects for them. I can't say it any better than Bob Smizik does here, so I won't try. But wait, that's not all. For years, the Pirates management has traded away stars the moment they start showing talent, and we still had one hanging in there. Jason Bay, who claimed over and over to NOT want to be traded, was traded on Friday in a three way deal with Manny Ramirez and some prospects. Guess who got Manny Ramirez? Here's a hint kids. It wasn't the Pirates. But I can't say it any better than Gene Collier does here, so I won't try.
So another season goes down the toilet. This one wasn't too far out of it anyway, but there was that slim, slim hope of reaching .500, of maybe having a not-unreasonable "magic number" for the first time in 25 years, the glimmer of a playoff spot standing shining in the distance, waving in the breeze like a pennant, like Jack Wilson's hair, like the legions of fans who wanted so much to believe that "WE WILL", as the Pirate slogan was so inelegantly and cryptically stated last year. (We Will what? We will play 162 Games? We Will have fireworks? We Will lose a lot of them? We Will sell off all our best players to the real grownup teams in Baseball?) It's all too much for someone who used to be a fan, who might have once wanted to be a fan.
There's still hope, though. We still have the Pirate Parrot, and the guy who runs around the bases dressed as a giant pierogie. NOBODY's getting them. Although I've heard we can be talked out of Lanny Frattere , both LaRoche brothers, and Tom Gorzelanny for a bowl of really good homemade guacamole, a bag of those awesome lime tortilla chips, and tickets to see the next Monster Truck Rally at the Arena.
It's worth noting right off the bat (the BAT, get it? Har har) that I am no major fan of major league baseball. Oh sure, I'll follow the World Series and whatever big star is acting like a six year old child and the latest scandal but I get a little tired of it. It's a long season, and frankly, it's difficult to get worked up about major league baseball when you live in Pittsburgh, AKA the Farm Team for the Rest of Baseball.
After coming frighteningly close to reaching .500 this year, the Pirates have engineered a series of brilliant trades, guaranteed to ensure their continued lack of playoff appearances. I'm starting to wonder if the Bucco's head offices have a non-compete deal signed with the Rooneys or something to avoid conflicting schedules once NFL season is in full swing. Not that there's much competition between the Pirates and the Steelers here in da 'burgh, anyway. The Steelers rule, and everyone knows it. Shame that it is, because there's certainly enough love to go around, anyone who followed the Penguins' march to the Stanley Cup finals this year knows that.
At any rate, the Pirates sit proudly in last place in their division, the unremarkable 51-59 record pretty much guaranteed to not improve. Last Saturday, the Pirates traded Xavier Nady and Damaso Marte to the Yankees, AKA the Best Team Money Can Buy, for prospects. In the middle of a game. Seriously. Nady led the team with a .330 batting average, and Marte was the Bucs only real threat as a closer. We got pitching prospects for them. I can't say it any better than Bob Smizik does here, so I won't try. But wait, that's not all. For years, the Pirates management has traded away stars the moment they start showing talent, and we still had one hanging in there. Jason Bay, who claimed over and over to NOT want to be traded, was traded on Friday in a three way deal with Manny Ramirez and some prospects. Guess who got Manny Ramirez? Here's a hint kids. It wasn't the Pirates. But I can't say it any better than Gene Collier does here, so I won't try.
So another season goes down the toilet. This one wasn't too far out of it anyway, but there was that slim, slim hope of reaching .500, of maybe having a not-unreasonable "magic number" for the first time in 25 years, the glimmer of a playoff spot standing shining in the distance, waving in the breeze like a pennant, like Jack Wilson's hair, like the legions of fans who wanted so much to believe that "WE WILL", as the Pirate slogan was so inelegantly and cryptically stated last year. (We Will what? We will play 162 Games? We Will have fireworks? We Will lose a lot of them? We Will sell off all our best players to the real grownup teams in Baseball?) It's all too much for someone who used to be a fan, who might have once wanted to be a fan.
There's still hope, though. We still have the Pirate Parrot, and the guy who runs around the bases dressed as a giant pierogie. NOBODY's getting them. Although I've heard we can be talked out of Lanny Frattere , both LaRoche brothers, and Tom Gorzelanny for a bowl of really good homemade guacamole, a bag of those awesome lime tortilla chips, and tickets to see the next Monster Truck Rally at the Arena.
Friday, July 4, 2008
The most important thing you will ever read
From legendary Yankee Stadium…to the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field…to the treacherous greens of Pebble Beach…to the heartbreaking homestretch of Churchill Downs…
It’s a triumph of the human spirit! Two sides locked in the ultimate struggle! A performance never seen before in the history of mankind! The most important thing you will ever see! Forget the JFK assassination, the moon landing—even Verne Troyer’s sex tape! This is an event like no other!
This is not just a game….this is SPORTS HYPERBOLE!
It’s great, it’s magnificent, it’s a war! It’s a record that will never be broken! It smashed a world record by one point! It’s the greatest game that’s ever been played this week! You need to drop everything you’re doing and watch this spectacular!
You will never see anything like this again.
What sport is it? Who cares!
This is SPORTS HYPERBOLE!
It’s a triumph of the human spirit! Two sides locked in the ultimate struggle! A performance never seen before in the history of mankind! The most important thing you will ever see! Forget the JFK assassination, the moon landing—even Verne Troyer’s sex tape! This is an event like no other!
This is not just a game….this is SPORTS HYPERBOLE!
It’s great, it’s magnificent, it’s a war! It’s a record that will never be broken! It smashed a world record by one point! It’s the greatest game that’s ever been played this week! You need to drop everything you’re doing and watch this spectacular!
You will never see anything like this again.
What sport is it? Who cares!
This is SPORTS HYPERBOLE!
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Horse names that rock
One complaint that people who name race horses have is that all the good names are taken.
To some degree, this is true. Names of famous horses are officially retired by The Jockey Club, so there will never be another Man O’War or Secretariat. Horse names also cannot be reused until 15 years after the previous horse’s death. There are other rules—no “vulgar, obscene or suggestive” names, and no names of “commercial significance” (although Big Brown apparently slid by).
With an increasing number of common names being taken, one recent gimmick is to string a phrase together as one word (to fit the 18-letter space limit), such as Atswhatimtalkinbout. Occasionally, this works (e.g., current harness phenom Somebeachsomewhere), but it usually results in cumbersome, unmemorable names.
U.S. Trotting Association writer Dean Hoffman has suggested naming horses after classic literature, such as Absalom Absalom, Catcher In The Rye, A Farewell To Arms—you get the idea. This is imaginative, although I would stop short of naming a horse The Idiot.
This got me thinking—why not name horses after classic rock albums?
I’m not the first one to have this idea. There were horses at Beulah Park when I was young named Physical Graffiti and Stardust Ziggy (not sure why they flip-flopped the words). Plus, there was a champion Quarter Horse a few years back named Sgt. Pepper Feature.
But there are many album titles that would not only be short enough, but would sound really cool coming from an announcer’s mouth. (And for all I know, some of these may be in use.) Consider:
Abbey Road
Revolver
Aftermath
Nevermind
Sticky Fingers
Rocket to Russia
Let It Be
My Aim Is True
King of America
Electric Ladyland
Axis Bold As Love
Quadrophenia
London Calling
American Beauty
Nashville Skyline
Thriller
Purple Rain
Darksideofthemoon
Wish You Were Here
I could go on. But there were two names that leaped out at me as being especially appropriate.
Who’s Next. That sounds like a champion. Just think of what the headline writers would do if this horse got on a win streak.
Then there’s the perfect rock horse name: Born to Run. That wouldn’t work for a harness horse, though, because “run” is a synonym for breaking stride.
This list makes me grateful for the limit on the number of letters. Otherwise some horse might have been stuck with When the Pawn Hits the Conflicts He Thinks like a King What He Knows Throws the Blows When He Goes to the Fight and He'll Win the Whole Thing Fore He Enters the Ring There's No Body to Batter When Your Mind Is Your Might So When You Go Solo, You Hold Your Own Hand and Remember That Depth Is the Greatest of Heights and If You Know Where You Stand, Then You'll Know Where to Land and If You Fall It Won't Matter, Cuz You Know That You're Right.
To some degree, this is true. Names of famous horses are officially retired by The Jockey Club, so there will never be another Man O’War or Secretariat. Horse names also cannot be reused until 15 years after the previous horse’s death. There are other rules—no “vulgar, obscene or suggestive” names, and no names of “commercial significance” (although Big Brown apparently slid by).
With an increasing number of common names being taken, one recent gimmick is to string a phrase together as one word (to fit the 18-letter space limit), such as Atswhatimtalkinbout. Occasionally, this works (e.g., current harness phenom Somebeachsomewhere), but it usually results in cumbersome, unmemorable names.
U.S. Trotting Association writer Dean Hoffman has suggested naming horses after classic literature, such as Absalom Absalom, Catcher In The Rye, A Farewell To Arms—you get the idea. This is imaginative, although I would stop short of naming a horse The Idiot.
This got me thinking—why not name horses after classic rock albums?
I’m not the first one to have this idea. There were horses at Beulah Park when I was young named Physical Graffiti and Stardust Ziggy (not sure why they flip-flopped the words). Plus, there was a champion Quarter Horse a few years back named Sgt. Pepper Feature.
But there are many album titles that would not only be short enough, but would sound really cool coming from an announcer’s mouth. (And for all I know, some of these may be in use.) Consider:
Abbey Road
Revolver
Aftermath
Nevermind
Sticky Fingers
Rocket to Russia
Let It Be
My Aim Is True
King of America
Electric Ladyland
Axis Bold As Love
Quadrophenia
London Calling
American Beauty
Nashville Skyline
Thriller
Purple Rain
Darksideofthemoon
Wish You Were Here
I could go on. But there were two names that leaped out at me as being especially appropriate.
Who’s Next. That sounds like a champion. Just think of what the headline writers would do if this horse got on a win streak.
Then there’s the perfect rock horse name: Born to Run. That wouldn’t work for a harness horse, though, because “run” is a synonym for breaking stride.
This list makes me grateful for the limit on the number of letters. Otherwise some horse might have been stuck with When the Pawn Hits the Conflicts He Thinks like a King What He Knows Throws the Blows When He Goes to the Fight and He'll Win the Whole Thing Fore He Enters the Ring There's No Body to Batter When Your Mind Is Your Might So When You Go Solo, You Hold Your Own Hand and Remember That Depth Is the Greatest of Heights and If You Know Where You Stand, Then You'll Know Where to Land and If You Fall It Won't Matter, Cuz You Know That You're Right.
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