by Bill Ribas

It’d be interesting to have been a fly on the wall when Favre was confronted by a few teammates and questioned on his career, and would he be coming back, or was this going to get ugly. I wonder though, just how did Favre get so important that his pals in purple had to stage an intervention to get him back on the field? Or was this just another heavily scripted move?

Now that might be a hasty thought, because, really, who benefits from the attention of the press? Unless Favre opens a chain of waffle houses, in which case, the potential is enormous. But in the day to day world, has there ever been so much concern over a yes or no question? Yeah, well, excluding shows like “The Bachelor”, but you at least know there you’re getting strung along for a payoff.

The only angle I can see here is ego, about the size of a wheel of cheese, but one that also has horns sticking out of it. Because there is no shortage of stories about the NFL, like TO & Ochocinco, to name one, and there have to be tons. But for some reason, the media hangs their hat on Favre, and his decision. Or non decision. Or waffling. It’s just sooo confusing.

One thing that’s not so confusing is the future of Francisco Rodriguez. After an altercation with his father-in-law, a long cooling off period at the gulag known as Citifield, an arraignment, and a hasty surgery, he’ll be sidelined for the rest of the year. The Mets have placed him on the DQ list (that’s disqualified, not Dairy Queen), and are looking to get out of paying him for nothing. And while I’m usually against management (such as the Yankees begging for 400 million in public assistance for their stadium, while at the same time signing two players for that amount), this time I am with them. I mean, this is more than just your average workman’s comp issue. While Rodriguez got into it with his father-in-law (and anyone who is married knows how short a fuse can be in an instance like that), it is the domestic abuse laws that come into play, because he had to be taken into custody regardless of the victim’s wishes (and I don’t know whether the dad of his girlfriend wanted to cut him loose or not). And that’s a factor that will certainly affect the outcome when negotiations get underway.

What is at stake here, aside from K-Rod’s salary, could be a serious attack on the player’s union, and sports agents as well, or it could just be a precedent setting case that favors the owners. I am sure there is nothing owners love more than paying players who don’t perform up to their abilities or history (paging Mo Vaughn, etc.), but here is a case where an incident happened outside of the game, rendered a player useless, and why should the team suffer from it? In the case of the Mets, the last thing they need this year is a kick to their collective frank and beans. Last year’s injury riddled season is long gone but not forgotten, and this year’s inability to score despite some better than average pitching (18 shutouts so far, or Santana’s sub 2.0 era in his last 9 games or so) has been painful enough. Now, the top dog you signed to close out games has anger management issues, and messed up his thumb beating an in-law? Sheesh, what’s next, Favre saying he’s coming to the National league to pitch?

Yet perhaps the biggest story of the week was Dustin Johnson being penalized for grounding his club in a hazard. Touching the ground with his club, yeah, well, you can just feel the hair on my neck bristling at a heretical action such as this. Can you imagine? How exactly, does a rule like this, which probably came about some time during the renaissance, cause a two-stroke penalty? If you’re going to enforce a rule such as this, please enact an equally stupid one fining players for garish displays of polyester. What an utterly meaningless rule that cost this kid a crack at a title. I mean, if you thought that blown safe call that nixed a perfect game a while back was ridiculous, this one definitely tops it.

Golf fans have always bothered me, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the exclusivity, maybe the bad clothes, maybe it’s the need for authenticity that requires a British commentator on the tee vee, I mean, I get it, I get the game, but when I hear some announcer pining about just what a severe course this is, or how tough it is, I check out. But what I really want to know, was who called in this observation? Who made the call to the PGA officials, saying, “look, this guy’s club touched the ground, and uh, that’s against the rules. I gotta go before you trace this line.” Of course, I have my suspicions about that caller, and my guess is his name is Favre. Remember – ego; it’s all about the ego. And if Favre does start his waffle chain restaurants, their slogan could be, “Let go of my ego.” That’s assuming he makes up his mind. Or not.

Another Rant from the Couch

by Bill Ribas

As Alex Rodriguez approaches the 600 mark for home runs, I thought, man, this arrogant, overpaid player, it’s not right, it’s not fair. To be honest, I don’t know the man, never met him, and until he signed a jaw dropping contract, never really thought too much about him. Oh yeah, he was a good player, I knew that, but he was out on the Mariners, and as you readers may know, I’m a Mets fan, so, eh, he didn’t bother me, I didn’t bother with him. Then the whole steroid thing came along, with grown men lying and crying like kids, pointing fingers elsewhere, it wasn’t me, despite before and after pictures of so many that looked like Keebler Elves had morphed into Lou Ferrigno body types, and frankly, guys usually bloat in the gut first (just check my mirror, for example), and like all baseball scandals, it eventually quieted down, and now no one really talks about it.

But then it got me thinking, it’d be easy to chart out his homers against fellas already in the 600 club (and that’s a short list). Surely, that would show something definitive about his use of drugs, and then I could sneer with glee and say, yeah, just like Canseco said, A-Rod is a punk, took drugs, and isn’t deserving of a stool at the 600 bar. Well, the results are a bit different than I suspected.

In the chart at left, you’ll see a comparison between A-Rod and Willie Mays (there’s a gap in Willie’s line because he didn’t play a year). The chart compares dingers from age 20 to 34, and as you can see, there are certain similarities between the two. Both start with an initial drop, and then spike upwards. After a few years, both show a drop off before coming back strong. A-rod’s numbers drop later in part because of injury, while Willie’s go upwards. They’re close, and you cold make the case that in A-Rod’s 20′s, he might have been juicing.

Something interesting occurs, though, when we look at A-Rod versus Hank Aaron. While there is still a large bump in A-Rod’s 20′s, the lines are almost too similar to distinguish from one another. Aaron doesn’t suffer from making it to the majors, as his numbers shoot up from the beginning. Yet both seem to level off for a few years (well, level off is misleading; the numbers are still higher than the average player), and then drop before heading toward the sky again. Also interesting is the drop off in the early 30′s.

Here’s the really shocking visual though, and that’s A-Rod versus Babe Ruth. The Babe seemed positively dormant until age 24 when he knocked out 29 homers (A-Rod hit 41). But what happens after that, as the graph shows is ridiculously stunning. I don’t have to tell you to look over at the graph, don’t have to give you numbers, because by now you’ve probably sworn under your breath, and have come to the same conclusion as I have. A-Rod really is that good. Had he not been injured, my guess is while his total may have been higher, he might have paralleled the Babe even further along the chart. Because for about 7 years there, A-Rod and the Babe are neck and neck.

What does all this mean? Well, it means I still am not a big fan of A-Rod, but I have to give him his due. As for totals, well, up to age 34, A-rod is at 594, and Babe is at 516 (and just for the record, in his next 3 years, Babe hits 49, 46, and 41 homers. Which would make things real interesting). One thing we can pretty much assume though is that Babe Ruth wasn’t taking steroids or growth hormone or whatever. One thing the two do seem to have in common is enjoying life outside of baseball, as stories abound about Ruth, and well, A-Rod has been linked to Madonna, so maybe there’s something along those lines.

Now A-Rod just took a shot to the hand, and may not hit number 600 for a few days, but there is no doubt he will hit it, and then hit some more. And yeah, there are a ton of questions that will never be answered, like did steroid use contribute to his injury, what would his numbers been had he not used, does Canseco still want to kill him for hitting on his wife, and so on. And while the comparisons don’t make me dislike him, they do force me to nod my head, ever so slightly in his direction for his accomplishments. For now though, I’ll get back to my stumbling Mets, assured by their performance that no one on that team is taking performance enhancing drugs, and if they are, they need to find a new dealer.

The beautiful unobstructed views of Progressive Field

by Patrick ‘Rey’ Reynell

SATIRE – The Setting: A Cleveland Indians publicist welcomes the sparsely scattered media to an Indians’ press conference. The club’s owner Larry Dolan walks out and addresses them.

“Good afternoon everybody.

I called this press conference today to address the faithful fans of the Cleveland Indians. We are currently in the midst of another disappointing season, sitting in last place in the division and nearly 20 games from our rivals, The Detroit Tigers, and current division leaders, the Chicago White Sox.

As a result of our on field failings the past few seasons, our attendance has declined steadily since 2007. We currently risk averaging less than 20,000 fans per game for the first time since 1992, back when the team still called Cleveland Municipal Stadium home.

Contrary to popular belief, I want the Indian organization to be as successful as you do. I can only hope to someday return to the prominence we experienced in the mid and late 1990s where we became the first Major League ballclub to sell out before the season even started.

And that is why we’re here today.

I recently found myself out on Ontario Avenue when my phone rang. I answered and after about a minute of conversation, the phone call was lost. This has in fact happened on several occasions with my new iPhone 4 from AT&T.

Frustrated once again, I reached my office in Progressive Field and turned on the news. Coincidentally at that exact time, I caught a news story on the newest version of the iPhone. Dropped calls have become a common complaint amongst many consumers.

Steve Jobs, Apple’s CEO, announced a press conference to address this issue. But alas, I found out that there was a way to fix this problem in a more frugal manner (which, contrary to what some fans want to say, is not a euphemism I use for “cheap”).

Apparently, if you stick a small piece of duct tape to the lower left side of the phone, it will fix the problem of inadvertently disrupting the signal on the new antenna.

That’s why it surprised me that Steve Jobs wanted to spend money when all I have to do is find some duct tape. That’s like keeping a promising pitcher who’ll just ask for more money when his contract is up.

So for you Cleveland Indian fans, here is what I propose to fix our attendance issues: “Tribe Tape.”

A single 6-inch piece of duct tape (choose between red, blue or white) bearing the logo of your favorite team! Choose between Chief Wahoo, the fashionable cursive Indian “I,” or a throwback logo.

This will be handed to you at the gate, at which time you should immediately find your seat. Once there, place “Tribe Tape” over both of your eyes, sit back, and enjoy Cleveland Indians baseball again!

I’m sure some of you are thinking that there is a better solution; this was my exact thought when I heard about using duct tape on my $300 iPhone. However, you won’t realize the benefits until you try.

Just think: you no longer have to feel constrained by knowing the score, who’s up, or which inning it is. In fact, our public address announcer won’t even use player or team names when colorfully describing the action to you!

Anyway, your eyesight is just one of the five senses you can use at the ballpark. Plus, I saw this special on the Discovery Channel once where if you take away one of your senses, it enhances the other four to animal-like capabilities.

By June of every season, the crack of the bat will pop louder in your ears. The National Anthem and seventh inning stretch will resonate like an opera house. The hot dogs will taste juicier. The smell of peanuts and cotton candy will permeate through the air to tickle your nose. And the frosty cold beer in your hand will feel like you’re gripping an icicle.

“Tribe Tape” won’t take away from the game. No, no – it will actually intensify your baseball and Indians experience, all without having to witness the blooper reel that is our team.

Oh – before I forget – for you special fans brave enough to sit in foul ball territory, a replica Indians helmet garnished with a softball facemask will be waiting for you in your seat to prevent any visits to the dentist after your family outing to the ballpark. This, however, needs to be returned to the seat upon the game’s completion. We’re not made out of money like some companies, eh Apple?

But wait, there’s more! “Tribe Tape” will not only be to your benefit at the ballpark, but can allow you to keep that oblivious feeling at home. The next time you open up the sports page at the kitchen table, just apply “Tribe Tape” to the whole American League Central standings!

And as a precautionary measure, I’d also like to suggest purchasing an additional piece of “Tribe Tape” for a the low cost of $39.95 to apply over the “trades and transactions” portion of your sports page. That way, we will no longer crush your hopes and dreams during the trade deadline again!

So you see, Tribe fans, it will be okay to purchase tickets for the whole family for a Cleveland Indians game again. If duct tape can fix my $300 phone or affix my rear light to my car, then it’s good enough to fix our team! We don’t need to make like Steve Jobs and pour money into a misfortunate dealing.

You can come to the games without having to worry about whether or not you’ll see a catastrophe of a game. Simply put “Tribe Tape” on and cheer on the Tribe like it’s 1995!

And before I close, just in case anyone from the Pittsburgh Pirates or Baltimore Orioles is watching, “Tribe Tape” is a patent pending product.

Thank you for your time. It’s a beautiful day for a ball game! Go Tribe!”

Another Rant from the Couch

by Bill Ribas

If you have a pulse and you consider yourself even the mildest fan of sports, then you know what the buzz is all about right now, it’s about a perfect game, a blown call, and more opinions than you can shake several sticks at. In case you’ve been in a cryogenic vault, here’s the skinny – umpire Jim Joyce made a wrong call that cost Detroit pitcher Armando Galarraga an entry into the record books. But what’s really interesting is the call didn’t cost Detroit the game, didn’t affect the standings, and let’s face it, this game will be remembered more for what happened than for what didn’t happen.

The anger and frustration is all over the place, but where is it directed? Get mad at the umpire? Well, for starters, umpires are viewed a lot like police officers, in that when they’re doing their jobs correctly, you never seem to notice, but when they make a mistake, it’s a whole other story. Let’s put it this way – when was the last time you watched a baseball game and said out loud, “wow, great officiating.” Contrast that to a neighborhood play at second when a team turns two, and as the replay shows the shortstop’s foot skating across the dirt, you say to your buddies, “Man, he was two feet off the bag.” I’m not saying the player shouldn’t get the call at second, but rather the player gets much more leeway than an ump on a per play basis. Fair or not?

Umpires have always been given the short end of the stick, and it’s too easy to criticize a sitting duck. And while the case can be made that way too many calls have been blown this season, is it simply that the umps collectively got worse? I’d point the finger at the reduction of performance drug use as a cause. Really? Yes, that’s what I said. Why Bill? Well, I’ll tell you. Imagine a few year back, you’re an ump in the big leagues with a few years under your belt, and almost every player on the field is capable of a drug induced rage in your direction. Sure, you do your job the best you can, but underlying all of this is a loose cannon with a Louisville slugger at hand, with the backing of tens of thousands fans in a stadium. Think this might affect your job performance (and for all of you with day jobs, just imagine everyone at your workplace a crazed meth head, and then think how easy it would be to get that powerpoint presentation whipped up). Suddenly, the head honchos at Baseball Inc. decide drugs are a no-no, and the players collectively chill out. Now, instead of a razor sharp focus on every call (where each call may cost you your life or livelihood), you’re a bit more relaxed on the diamond. Enter a season with a slurry of missed calls, and suddenly it’s not the players that want your hides, it’s the press.

Now, we can generalize all we want, look for causes (and I know I’m right, so I’m not worried), and there’s no doubt Joyce’s call was the wrong one. But he owned up to it, and that’s good. Look at it this way – ever have a chum at work screw up and not say anything, or point the blame in another direction, like yours? Joyce is human, made a mistake, but we can’t move on. Why not? Because sporting events are 99.9% observation, fan-owned, passive events. Allow me to explain further. Imagine that you were at the Detroit game – it would have been huge for you, and more so if you were seated on the first base side. The further back you go, say, you watched it on tee vee, well, the further away you are from the importance of the game. The difference between watching it on ESPN that night or the next morning is an even greater distance. And if you saw it a day or two later on the internets, well, you are at the back of the line.

Now I don’t mean to suggest you can’t rally up an opinion; only that the distance between you and the event is a measure of importance. Let me put it a different way – if this happened at your office softball game, you’d still be complaining at the water cooler; if it happened to your dad’s softball team, no biggie, just a minor footnote in your life that once in a while comes up. Listen, Galarraga got a Corvette for his performance – what did you get? We all got nothing, outside of the chance to offer up our pearls of wisdom. And this is where you get mine.

Let it go, I say. Joyce blew a call, big deal. Galarraga doesn’t get his name in the books, well, not in the way that he should have been, but he is actually more well known for what didn’t happen than for what did (who was the other guy besides Halladay?). Time didn’t stop, the games move on, the season keeps pushing along, life moves ahead. Baseball, as a game, is such a good reflection of life that we should leave this incident alone. Despite the mountain of statistics, you can lay bell curves on all aspects of the game, hitting, pitching, etc. Now and then you have players that are off the charts (watch Tuesday for that kid on the Nationals), but for the most part, the reason the game is so loved is that we are watching ourselves. From Little League to an Old Timers’ game, it is us, played out on a lovely little diamond of grass.

And so umpires become scapegoats, just like in our lives their are idiot bosses, people behind counters that drive us nuts, bad drivers cutting us off. We all have in our history an almost “perfect” game. Whether it’s getting a A+ on a school paper, winning a game of dodgeball, finding a 50 dollar bill on the ground, we have these minute shining moments (we just don’t get Corvettes for them). And I think this is where the call for instant replay comes in. Remember that girl you tried to talk to, and stuttered like crazy trying to get the words out? Sure, instant replay might help there, but today you’d still be shirtless on the couch in the middle of July watching Milwaukee slug it out against the Padres with a beer at hand because you didn’t want to cut the grass and the kids are crazy and yes honey go shopping please just leave me alone.

You can’t take the umps out of the game. Period. Sure they make mistakes, but they’re human. As a matter of fact, so are the players. And if umps are human and make mistakes, then players, who are also human, make mistakes too. Huh, imagine that. And there are more umps than players. Wow, never thought of that. And the stadiums are filled with people who make mistakes. Now this is getting heady. Before I start contemplating how many universes there are under my fingernails, let’s just leave it at this – don’t allow instant replay. Well, maybe for foul balls and homers during the series, but that’s it. It will change the game, and not for the better. Because we’re all told this from the time we’re little – we all learn from our mistakes. In this instance, let’s learn we make mistakes, accept it, and move on. Because unless there’s a brand new Corvette in my driveway, my life hasn’t changed one iota, and that’s okay with me.

Another Rant from the Couch
by Bill Ribas

In recent weeks, there has been a variety of stories about famous athletes, from the innocuous to the indecent. You have to wonder, is it the stress of being a high performance athlete that takes it toll on one’s life, or just sheer stupidity? Or is it our fault for making athletes greater than human in our own minds, and thus causing a fall from grace to be that much uglier. Superman or just an average Joe with a bit of ability; is the modern athlete that far above us, or just like us? What in the wide wide world of sports is going on? Let’s take a walk down media lane and see what the heck is going on.

Our first glimpse is perhaps the most disgusting. Former Giants’ linebacker Lawrence Taylor allegedly had sex with a 16 year old prostitute. Just that sentence alone should be enough to drive you crazy, because it is wrong for so many reasons. First off, what would drive a successful man like Taylor to stoop to such a level for gratification? Okay, I’ll give you that maybe there are too many gold diggers in the club scene, maybe he’s a shy guy and has trouble with girls, maybe a lot of things. Let’s put it this way, just to try to frame it a little better – if you’re an average Joe like me, closer say, to AARP membership than high school graduation, and in need of doing the nasty, would you troll your local high school for a sophomore, or hit up the ads in craigslist? Taylor allegedly paid $300 for his roll in the hay. Again, if you’re like me, and suddenly found $300 in disposable income, you’d be more inclined to spend $290 on beer and the change on a copy of Playboy (although, honestly, I’d spend it all on beer). The story takes a wicked curve with the latest news, in that Taylor paid the girl but did not have sex. Sheaaah, right. We all know this is not true, because he could have saved himself $300 bucks with an internet connection and a Google search for whatever. According to what I can find on the internets, Taylor is married to his 3rd wife, although my guess is she’s having a lot of lunches with attorneys, and Taylor may soon be flying solo. Was it a crumbling marriage that led to this? Who knows. Bottom line, guilty.

On the lighter side, a story hit the wires about Ken Griffey jr. falling asleep in the clubhouse during a game. According to the story, Griffey went back to the clubhouse to get a jacket around the 5th inning, and never came back. When a chance came for an at bat in the 7th, he was discovered counting sheep, confirmed by two Mariner players. Griffey reportedly said he has been having trouble at home. Griffey has 3 kids, and is in the twilight of his career, so when he says he’s having trouble sleeping, I have no trouble understanding that. He’s not hitting like he used to, and I bet you a boxload of Louisville Sluggers he’s been hearing about it at home, something like, “Don’t think you’re going to retire from baseball and just sit around the house. These kids don’t pay for themselves you know. And I’ve been cooped up for years while you’ve been all over the country. This is my time . . .” or something along those lines. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking the institution of marriage, but after you’ve been at it for a while, you understand, and can empathize with Griffey. He’s getting it at work, because the big bright star is fading. He’s getting it at home, because he’s not used to dealing with the wife and kids as much, but he will be soon. Imagine the panic and depression of contemplating the future and losing the past. So along comes a meaningless game early on in the season, and junior nods off, going to the only place he can to get away from it all, and gets bitten where the sun don’t shine. Bottom line, acquitted.

Finally we see Tiger Woods pull out of a tournament because of a pain in the neck. So many jokes spring to mind, we’ll just pass on that one. Yet Tiger has his own marital woes, and my guess is his house is going to be awfully empty soon. And it’s not only his wife acting like a Titleist at the business end of a 3 wood. Earlier this week his swing coach quit (and again, too many jokes available, so we’ll pass), leaving poor Tiger with what, his caddy (and didn’t he drive that into a tree Bam! Zing! Sorry, couldn’t help it.)? Yet is Tiger’s injury due to work or stress? Surely, when he came back after a grueling, what, 4 months absence, he wasn’t the same Tiger we all knew and loved. His game was off, and at first, everyone figured cobwebs, he’ll be back. Yet it seemed he was swearing like a dock worker more often, and then last weekend, he pulls out with a neck problem. Now spinal problems are nothing to laugh at (and as someone with a bad back, I should know, although the one commentator who said “dicks” instead of “discs” was a hoot), but I have to wonder, is the neck problem stress related? After the first few tournaments, I can guarantee Tiger got a frosty reception at home. Listen, marital problems, relationship issues, it’s tough enough as it is, and even tougher when you’re trying to salvage a relationship when someone has screwed up royally (or so I have been told). But imagine at the multi-million dollar level, how everything is magnified? I mean, I’ll serve my kids frozen chicken nuggets for dinner, and feel bad about it, but they don’t seem to mind, because they haven’t had foie gras washed down with a ’68 burgundy, steak au poivre, and a choice of desserts on a daily basis. At casa de Woods, suddenly daddy isn’t bringing home the bacon, and the thought of moving to a home with say, 10,000 square feet less, and suddenly there’s a bit of tension in the house. So Tiger is tense a lot more, probably grinding his teeth at night, getting angry at simple things, because he can’t get the release he was used to (ironic, eh?). It is, however, his bed that he made, and he’s going to have to sleep in it. There will be, though, more room to roll around soon. Bottom line, guilty, with an explanation.

So where does that leave us? Athletes are no different than us, they’re just bigger, faster, and perform better. Yet they are still human, and make stupid mistakes and choices like we all do (like buying shares of Prodigy – it should have gone big!). Yet we will keep putting them up on pedestals, and here and there they will fall off, just like Brian Cushing, the defensive rookie of the year, who swore he didn’t use drugs to enhance his performance, but his blood or urine couldn’t lie, and guess who is sitting out the first few games of next season? In short, there is no moral, no noble truth, outside of we’re all human, and capable of both brilliant and stupid things. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be looking for my $300 in disposable income.

Another Rant from the Couch

by Bill Ribas

So here’s the scenario: I am sitting in front of the television, 7:30 Sunday night, with a pair of hot dogs just gleaming from a visit to the microwave, two Labatt’s Blue Lights (or as I like to call it, Canadian club soda), and as I click on over to see what channel the game is on, the first wave of indigestion hits – ESPN2? Seems like a game for the mothership, but no worries. I click on ESPN2, and I get a big message on the screen that says the game is not available in my area. Blacked out? What? Maybe it’s on an alternate channel, so I check in the 400′s (I have Dish tee vee by the way), where sometimes alternate games are found, and nothing. I can see it on NESN, but that’s blacked out too. So I think maybe they bounced it on over to 13, which is ABC and Disney and ESPN and whatever. But no, there’s some hillbilly carpenter raising people’s property taxes disguised as an upgrade.

So I sit there stunned. Opening day, blacked out, a game that is 384 miles away, according to the Google (just for grins, Yankee Stadium is 332 miles from here). Now my digital antenna that picks up local channels is supposed to reach 50 miles or so (on a good day), and even that leaves me over 300 miles short, and only if the game were on a local Boston channel.

So what do I do? Search the internets for a stream of the game, that’s what. I find a few that look like they’ll hack your system by the time you download the plug-in, and then lo and behold, ESPN 360 24 7 11 or whatever says it has the game. So I click on that, have to download a plug-in, and sit and watch a picture of Boston’s slugger, Big Pop-up or something. While I am convinced it won’t work, at 8 o’clock the screen changes, and there it is. Only I can’t see it full screen for whatever reason, so I have to open a different browser and fire it up in it, and then I can see the game.

Now the picture is good, but it’s not quite like the 40 something inch HD tee vee that sits in the background showing America’s Funniest Videos. And then the crushing irony hits me; at this point in time, technology has the ability to provide a blistering clear picture, while at the same times my eyes are fading into the sunset, and I can barely read the instructions on a box of Mac & Cheese without some store bought magnifying glasses. 6 feet away from me is a gorgeous Panasonic flat screen that registers razor sharp crisp lines, and I’m instead watching the game on a slightly blurry Dell laptop with a screen that might measure 14 inches. Oh sure, it might be the game, but it’s a bit fuzzy, and I kind of have to situate my head in the right spot, otherwise the image gets gray or turns into a negative looking view.

More beers. For some reason they make the game more palatable. Until those slackers from the Bronx start knocking the ball around, and it looks like it’s going to be a blowout. At least the Simpsons are on in the background, and there are a few laughs, although nothing like the old days.

When it’s 5-1, I’m thinking I should cut my losses and just flip over to the Pacific on HBO, but I have that set to record and can watch it later. Besides, there’s something about the opening day of the season that compels me to watch the game. And it wouldn’t matter if it were something like Washington-Pittsburgh, I’d still sit glued to the screen, because it’s a ritual. Sure, a month down the line I’ll be switching channels at the first sign of an error, but the opening day game is special. More beers.

Or so I thought, until I had to watch it on a laptop. At this point, the Sox have come back to tie the game, and I’m watching Undercover Boss, which isn’t a news flash about Bruce Springsteen, but a reality show where a boss goes about his business in different locations to find out what’s going on. Interesting premise, but it’s been the same show for weeks, just different companies. Now I am mad at myself for watching a stupid series that I knew was going to jump the shark, but it looks like the Yanks have gone ahead again, but it’s hard to tell because the picture is blurry, and I don’t want to risk opening another browser and screwing up the stream somehow (believe me, it would happen, my luck is terrible like that).

By now it’s close to 11, and I have a hunch that ESPN 1 or 2 will start showing the rest of the game beginning at the top of the hour. I have seen it happen before on blacked out games, and my excitement needs to be tempered a bit, just in case, with more beers. And then suddenly, there it is in all its glory. The colors are brilliant across 40 something inches, but there’s just one thing that’s off, and that’s the sharpness. At first I think I must be on the regular and not the HD channel, but then I realize it’s because my eyelids are half open. When I get them open all the way, the picture is fine. But a strange mixture of gravity and old age has crept up on me (that and some Canadian club sodas), and I can barely strain to see the Sox take the lead. The next thing I know, Jeter looks like he is trying to sell me a Slap Chop, and it’s at that point that I realize the game is long over, my neck hurts from laying sideways across my shoulder and being stuck at an odd angle on the couch, and my Slap Chop should be here in 4 to 6 weeks.

I stumble up to bed hoping that maybe, just maybe Santana can win the Mets game tomorrow, a game that I should be able to see in its entirety, or at least most of it, wide awake, just me and the Panasonic before the kids get home. I do not for the life of me understand blackout rules and regulations, outside of any game that I really want to see I won’t be able to, and contemplate moving next to a sports bar. Like Casey, I have struck out, at least as far as the opening day game is concerned. Kind of like going to church for a wedding but getting there when everything is done, and the reception line is outside and almost over.

I suppose there’s always next year.

by Bill Ribas

A contrite Tiger apologizes to the world.

I didn’t watch yesterday’s weep fest, the public apology by Tiger Woods. I am, however, listening to it now, in the background, and it carries about as much weight with me as a performance by a high school drama major at a talent show. Why? Well, for starters, it is such a heavily guarded construction of words, that if you read it closely enough, not much is said at all. It’s a generic apology, yes, I didn’t realize what I had, I was selfish, I let all of you down. My guess is that’s not very close to the truth, but rather what will placate the media and fans, who will only register that he did publicly apologize, and can look forward to a summer of golf without a black cloud hanging over their tee vees.

What he should have said was tell the truth, from the core of his heart. What would that have sounded like? Something like this:

“Hello, and welcome to all of you today. Recently, there has been a lot of press over my actions, what the news media has reported, the car crash, the scratches on the face, Ambien, the whole nine yards.

I didn’t mean for my life to take a turn like this. I figured I’d just keep banging away on the links, keep getting those fat checks (that’s “fat checks” not “fat chicks,” by the way), doing the commercials, padding the bank accounts. You know, in golf, you can pretty much play until you die, and that was the plan.

It’s hard for me, being so much better than all the other golfers. I can hit 300 yards in my sleep, I can slice and hook on demand, and I can putt a ball across an interstate highway during rush hour and still sink it, one handed if needed. Do you know what that means? It means I am bored out of my skull every game, just swinging until money time. You want to talk about boredom?

So what’s a guy to do? How many of you out there are or have been bored with your job? Just can’t stand it, but you have to do it every day to put food on the table? I see you nodding out there. You know what I mean. So imagine this, I am young, good looking, rich, and every week I am bouncing from city to city. People adore me. Sure, there’s a lot of guys in that group, but there’s women too. And they don’t want to talk about golf like the guys do. They have a different idea of driving and putting, if you get my drift.

So I did what any young buck in his prime would do. Tournament in South Carolina? Bam, Tiger gets some. Then off to New Mexico? Bam, Tiger gets some. And so on. But you have to figure, these are like my college years, my frat party weekend hookups. Is that so wrong? I mean, what do kids do in college anyway?

But after a while, I’m thinking, maybe if I settle down, I could get some more ads, you know, other than Nike, maybe some family oriented commercials for the off season. And that’s when I met Elin. Smoking babe, you know, you’ve all seen the pictures on the internets, and yeah, it’s better in real life. And we’re both on the same playing field, working good looks and ad dollars, thinking we’ll be the next Bill Gates & company, or at least number 2 on the Forbes list.

But there’s a problem, and that’s why I am here today. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife and all, but when I go back out on the tour, well, I have urges. You think back, you get all nostalgic about your school days, heck, you’d spend every dollar you could just to go back and relive it for one day. That’s how the tour is for me. So the wife is home, and I’m on the road, but now the job is a little different, because there is pressure to perform, and if daddy doesn’t bring home a check, daddy ain’t sleeping in the big bed, at least not with benefits.

So I, (sniff, choke, sniff), I fell back to my old ways. I can’t remember the first time it happened, but it was like someone shoved a Duracell up my backside as far as results. Let’s just say I tapped in more than just putts, and it made me feel young, and I won. So put yourself in my shoes – supermodel wife at home, only happy when I bring home the bacon. Me on the road, only way to relax and get the big money, not think about the home scene, is to get some. Bam, Tiger does it again.

After a while, everything tends to blur. I might have said some things at home, left out the cel phone with some texts on it, you can imagine how this whole thing can get wrapped up and confusing, and that’s what happened, and that’s how it all blew up in my face. Oh sure, I blame myself, but I’m not the only one that’s guilty here.

Who is? Besides me, that is? Who is guilty? Everyone. You can blame the advertisers that pay me and do all those ads. Let me put it this way – you ever see a fat, ugly chick in a Nike ad? Hell no. You ever a horse-faced girl in an SI swimsuit issue? Uh-uh, no way. You ever see a homely girl in a fancy New York City bar, you think she ever gets past the velvet ropes? It’s all society’s fault.

Now I’m not placing the blame somewhere else, I mean, yeah, I did wrong, but I ain’t the only one, and you should realize this. And if you don’t believe me, how many pro golfers you think are at home right now eating dinner with their families? I’ll tell you how many, all of them. That’s right, now not only does my wife take swings at me, now I got all the other golfers mad at me too. I forget who, maybe it was Mickelson or Verplank, they’re hollering at me that I am screwing it up for everyone, and how it’s going to take a year or so for this to blow over, and they’ll have to spend more time with their families and act like they like it, and on and on. Like I need the aggravation from the guys at work. Puh-lease.

I don’t want to put you all to sleep here, so I’ll close it up right now, because I think you all get what went down. In short, yeah, I fooled around, and it was wrong, and I’m going to at least make it look like I am getting help for it, and yes, I’ll be back playing golf soon, show everyone how it’s done. I’ll devote more time to the family, I’ll toss some money to the charities, I’ll be a good Tiger. And it’ll be hard not to fall back to my old ways (winks at hottie in second row), but I will be strong. I am sorry I am not the role model you thought, but my guess is you might do the same thing if you were in my shoes. Just think about that for a second before you condemn me. You may not know the pressures on a PGA Tour, but you know if your wife is hollering at you to get a job, you know how you slink around the house with your shoulders droopy and all, that’s all I’m saying.

Thank you for your time.”

If he had said something along those lines, I would have listened.

Another Rant from the Couch

by Bill Ribas

With the big game finally behind us, what can we say? You could talk about the game, how Indy gave it up, how those pesky Saints persevered and won, but what about the rest of the dog and pony show? Let’s start with the pre game hype and go from there.

The game is more than a game, at least in media terms, and it’s become this big, bloated, assault on the senses that must be endured. For example, you can’t just get a six pack and relax and flip it on right? In the old days you could (and we did), but now you have to orchestrate your snacks, decide who to invite or where to go, purchase an all inclusive package at a local watering hole, or shelter yourself away from all the madness and wait until Monday.

In the week or so prior to the game, there were two commercials that were drawing a lot of buzz. One was for the gay dating site ManCrunch.com, where the hands of two men meet, and then they go into a liplock. Not my cup of tea, but not offensive to me either, but CBS apparently had other ideas. On the flip side of that was Tim Tebow’s commercial, and the buzz was all about the pro-life angle it was going to take. When the commercial did air, it was substantially less than the buzz about it. The one thing everyone seemed to miss was that although the hype was pro-life, and the underlying current being abortion is a no-no, there was a very slim chance that Tebow would have ever been aborted. He was born the Philippines, a predominantly Catholic country, and abortion there is illegal. So it’s a pretty disingenuous ad – stating that something could have happened which was outlawed, well, you can figure it out.

I must state at this point that I’ve been dealing with a nagging cold that won’t go away for the past week or so, and I think that helped me immensely when it came to watching the game and everything around it. For starters, I don’t quite understand why “God Bless America” and the “Star Spangled Banner” both have to be sung; yet it’s not something I am losing sleep over (it does drive me nuts during baseball games though). And when Queen Latifah decided to jazz up the ending, well, I say you go girl, let it rip. However, though Carrie Underwood was dressed all in white to sing the National Anthem, she faltered on one note in the middle, and fell flat on the last note, just before the jets blew overhead. Maybe you didn’t notice it, but I listened several times, and she did. Ouch. I suppose it was a portent of things to come.

And then they introduced the future Hall of Fame Inductees. Woo Hoo! But it would have been nice to list who they played for or what they did, instead of simply putting “2010 Football Hall of Fame Inductee” under each person’s face as they panned. I mean, no disrespect, I know who Emmitt Smith is, and he played for Dallas, but my knowledge of the game doesn’t go that deep, and a few of the guys, well, I felt bad for them. Here’s the big show, and they get a generic tag line. Smith was fortunate enough to launch the coin for the toss, and he hooked it so hard to the right I felt like he took lessons from me at the driving range.

But the biggest ballyhoo surrounding the game is the commercials, and usually there are some gems, but this year was an exception. They all stunk, period. Oh sure, I got a chuckle here and there, but the majority were so misguided and failed to deliver a message. You can check this site for the bulk of them, but I wouldn’t bother. Like Google’s ad promoting itself as a search engine. Uhm, yeah, we all kind of know what it is and what it does. Or those Go Daddy commercials, which have nothing to do with their business (web hosting), and aren’t even enticing at all. Sure Danica Patrick is hot, but she was dressed in the Johnny Cash line of clothing, and that was it. You have to head off to the website to see more, but my guess is most people can find women without clothes on the internet, and they’re not looking for storage space for their blog.

But the real one two punch to the groin came at halftime, where a bunch of hoarse-throated jocks gave their views on the game, followed by Grandpa Simpson singing snippets of Who songs. Nothing like having an announcer losing his voice trying to describe something that you’ve already seen, and there’s certainly nothing like 5 of them. Oh the pain. And by the way, Jim Brown, you need to lose some weight. I mean, I have a 42″ tee vee, and he took up more than half of the screen, and this is in HD. And then there was the Who. Yes, I know they are rock icons, and I like their stuff, but when was the last time they charted? And sure, they sounded fine, despite one mistake by Pete, but who chooses the halftime entertainment? Because I can’t wait 15 years for Bryan Adams to take the stage.

As much as this rant is all over the road, at least the game itself was exciting. But nowadays, that doesn’t really matter because the Super Bowl isn’t about the game being played on the field. Oh, you can argue that it is, but I’d say it’s more about everything but. The week or two media onslaught before, the odds, the players, who’s hurt, who isn’t. The commercials, and who is paying how much for 30 seconds? To a crowd of bloated drunks who won’t remember? Nice return on investment. Over the hill rock bands? Sure, get them onstage for 13 minutes or so. Or wait, did they do that “I’m going to Disney” thing last night? As sports championship games go, the Super Bowl is pretty low on my list. Baseball, basketball, hockey, to name a few, have a series of games before a series of games before a series of games determines who wins. And that seems a good way to do it. But the NFL continues to force feed us all like a french goose, ramming everything possible down our throats on one day. To me, the day after the Super Bowl always feels somewhat ugly, like New Year’s Day, after you indulged too much for no reason. This year was no different.

by Bill Ribas

Yeah, it was the Wheaties

So Mark McGwire finally comes out of the closet and admits to something we all knew, that he was a steroid user. Pardon me if we’re all not shocked by this, but it’s akin to Elton John admitting his sexual preference is for men, or Dale Earnhardt jr loves driving fast, or I can’t stand Joe Buck. But what is really at stake here? Anything? I mean, if we all knew he did it, what’s the difference?

Well, let’s look first at the statement by baseball commissioner Frank Grimes, er, I mean Bud Selig, where he says, “This statement of contrition, I believe, will make Mark’s reentry into the game much smoother and easier.” What?!?! Smoother and easier? What the heck does that mean?

But wait a second, look at Big Mac’s statement, where he says, “Now that I have become the hitting coach for the St. Louis Cardinals, I have the chance to do something that I wish I was able to do five years ago.”

According to Selig, it should now be easier for McGwire to get back into baseball, but according to McGwire, he’s already there. Now before we get too carried away, at this point I imagine Pete Rose cleaning his .357, just biding his time, talking to the Smith & Wesson like Gollum in Lord of the Rings, “Yes, my precious, soon it will be time to unleash your fury, my precious, and then they’ll see, they’ll see . . . ”

What is it about baseball, baseball management, and baseball fans all being the biggest hypocrites and biggest enablers in the world? It’s like a giant bowl of cereal, and you know what flavor? Dysfunctional codependent enabler flavor. Only in baseball can an apparent icon lie to everyone around him, including congress, and then, when he finally finds a job (and I’m guessing he doesn’t need to work, but that’s another paragraph), comes clean and admits to not only using illegal substances, but being stupid about it. So let’s address that point right away – McGwire says he didn’t use the drugs as performance enhancers, only to speed the recovery and healing process. Despite the obvious conflict in that statement, that’s like me telling you I only drink a case of beer on Sundays because of the need to hydrate. I didn’t know that it would screw up my balance, or that the reason I ordered a vintage stuffed Alf on Ebay for $1200 was because beer impaired my reasoning.

We look to athletes who exceed as role models, but what do you do with this? You know, If I took Metamucil every day, and suddenly I was running sub 4 minute miles, do you think you or I could make the connection? Apparently, McGwire can’t make that connection, and so we perceive him as just another dumb jock. And that’s another angle that baseball’s elite have taken, that they don’t know what’s in the shots they’re getting. But even the most moronic, idiotic, downright stupid player would have to understand the connection. Imagine this conversation:

Trainer: Take this shot.

Player: What is it?

Trainer: It’s to speed up healing.

Player. Okay.

(one month later)

Player: Hey, give me more of those shots. I raised my average 50 points, have hit more home runs in two weeks than I have all my career, and feel like ripping the heads off of animals and eating them raw.

Trainer: It’s not the shots, they’re just for healing.

Player: Really? Wow. Who knew.

Trainer: Yeah, wild huh? Now bend over.

If you’ve made a career out of your body, you don’t just let anything happen to it without your knowledge. You don’t acquiesce like a bloated, middle aged man whose doctor says, “hey, you need to take Lipitor the rest of your life,” and just nod and head to the drugstore with a prescription.  Why not? Because you’re a type A athlete who needs the spotlight, who thrives on attention, and who can’t let go of the spotlight or the attention. So what if your retirement fund is at stake? So what if suddenly, you can’t do the card signing baseball conventions, or the baseball camps, what if you can’t pick up a six figure check for two hours work, then what happens?

You say you never took steroids. You get Bob Costas to interview you, and suddenly, you’re a Harvard chemist, saying you already had the talent, and the drugs didn’t do anything. But wait, then why are you crying? If that’s what you believed, then it shouldn’t be an issue, right? Then it should have been okay to tell congress, or anyone at ANY POINT IN TIME that you took them.  Because you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong.

But with the lucrative options to a retired player, and a potential nesting place in the Baseball Hall of Fame, it’s a different story. Like the old Jon Lovitz lying character, McGwire has bent the truth to fit his needs, and now, apparently secure with a new job, hopes the press will soon blow over. For us, it’d be more like getting a job at Staples, and then on the first day letting your coworkers that, “Man, this is exciting. For so many years I’ve been stealing pens from where I work, but now with this job, I’ll be okay.”

It all gets so sickening when you hear Selig say things like, “I believe our drug testing program is the toughest and most effective in professional sports,” and then says, “You know what, Mac, shouldn’t be a problem getting you a job.” Instead, it’s more like a “remember when you got so hammered and did” story your college pals tell at reunions, something so funny yet no longer dangerous and now accepted. Bygones, right? Nothing like, you know, Mac, maybe you’d make a good hitting instructor and all, but you screwed up, and I’m going to give someone else a chance at that job, someone who didn’t shoot up.

So what happens next? Well, you tell your kid that guy in the Cardinals uniform used to be real skinny, then huge, and is now skinny again, and that drugs are okay, because it’s what you do to get in the record books and get the chicks that matters, and lying is okay, but what ever you do, don’t bet on a game, because that would negate everything you did, and cost you a lot of money. But drugs and lying are okay.

by Bill Ribas

Is it a Wonderful Life?

If a Tiger hits a fire hydrant in the middle of a Wood’s estate, does it make a sound? Apparently not, because the news at first was Tiger was in a serious accident, only later changed to, oh no, he went home, some cuts to the face. The press reports all point to the fact that his Escalade was going under 33 mph, because the airbags didn’t go off.

A story this morning on CNN reported this:

“Police Chief Daniel Saylor said two Windermere police officers were the first to arrive on the scene.

“There was Tiger Woods laying on the ground in front of the vehicle with his wife over him rendering first aid,” he told reporters.

“He was in and out of consciousness with lacerations to his upper and lower lip,” Saylor said. “He was mumbling but didn’t say anything coherent.”

Woods’ wife, Elin Nordegren, told the police she was inside the house when she heard the accident. She said she went outside and used a golf club to break out the rear window of the vehicle, then pulled him from the SUV.”

But something is rotten in Denmark, or has a Swedish odor about it, because all these pieces don’t seem to add up.

First off, Tiger was driving an SUV, a big, big Cadillac Escalade. This is the largest vehicle in their lineup, and with a few quick coats of safety yellow paint, could pass for a school bus. This thing weighs like 3.5 tons (and you can check out all the stats here – http://www.cadillac.com/vehicles/2010/escalade/features.do). So running over a hydrant would be like what, you backing over your kid’s Lego in the driveway? You wouldn’t even notice it, not until you came back home and everyone was giving you dirty looks, except for the one kid who was crying like you just killed Santa by whacking him over the head with the Easter Bunny.

And then Tiger continues on to hit a tree (okay, remember this is all speculation at the moment, so let’s just go with what we know). Bang, he hits the tree at under 33mph, the airbags don’t go off, Tiger is bloodied from hitting his noggin on the steering wheel, and presumably knocked out. His wife, flipping out because her meal ticket could be gone, frees him from the vehicle with a golf club (those lessons from hubby paid off, eh?). Now, the fact that there’s a golf club handy at Tiger’s house shouldn’t come as a surprise; he probably uses them for lawn stakes for Christmas ornaments, after all. But what is shocking is that Elin has to hack her way through the rear window to get hubby out. What? Let me get this straight – the behemoth of the Cadillac line is compromised in a slow speed accident so insignificant that the airbags don’t pop, but the only way to get Tiger out is whacking out the rear glass with a wedge?

Listen, I’ve had some accidents in my time, and one time in a Toyota Celica I hit one of those wooden posts they used to use to keep cars from going where they didn’t want them to go. It was like a 6×6 or 8×8, jutting out of the ground about 3 feet. I knocked that baby senseless and kept going like there was no tomorrow. What’s my point? Well, that was a late 70’s car, about the size of today’s Honda Civic, and though it sustained damage, it kept on ticking. Tiger, on the other hand, does a low speed slam into a tree of some sorts, and out of nowhere his wife comes blazing not with the first aid kit, but with a golf club, because the doors can’t be opened? Where the heck is Onstar?

Could the holiday stress prove too much for Woods and family? How about this scenario – Woods and his wife are fighting, it’s Thanksgiving, and the two beers that Woods has allowed himself to have are working their magic, and he confesses to her accusations of him being with another woman. He gets upset, grabs his Amex card, and heads out in his Caddy for a ride to somewhere she is not. After fighting back the tears, the rage overtakes her, and she chases after him with a golf club in hand. While he’s texting his girl on the side, he glances up in the mirror, sees her charging after him, then notices he’s heading for a hydrant, runs it over, looks back, and bam, into the tree. She smacks the rear window of the car, then realizes he’s knocked out, and figures she better revive him, because murder one is tough to beat, and she’d rather stay in the big house that she lives in now than in the big house called the Florida State Pen.

At first I thought details were sketchy about this crash because Tiger’s the poster boy for golf and it’s continued revenue (quick, name another big named golfer that captures America’s heart). Then it hit me that the story is not unlike any other celebrity hash out, where the absence of facts soon leads to, oh, yeah, it was another woman. And in that respect, it all makes sense. What were you doing at 2:30 in the morning after Thanksgiving dinner? Fast asleep, right? While most of us were snoozing like logs, there was ugliness raining down on the Woods compound, because that’s when this happened. Would a burglar get you up at that point? Nah, honey, let him steal the stereo, I’m too tired. If your marriage were crumbling, or someone was threatening divorce, would you still be up? Yes, because the holidays magnify that kind of stress. Check out George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” At the point everything is crumbling around him, he’d rather kill himself than go home.

Yeah, there’s another woman in there, I’d bet you a Masters championship on it. Some celebrity sites are already talking about that aspect. My guess is the boys at the PGA are really flipping out on so many levels. Tiger has brought in a ton of money, he’s been unbelievable for the game, but now he’s open season for comics and bad jokes (a black man in an SUV running from a white woman, and I’ll leave it at that) and has image and spin control issues like you wouldn’t believe. The story already has an incredible air of conspiracy, from the onset of too many details to the quick he’s fine and was sent home from the hospital before you even got here aspect.

Finally, you know, everyone wants to be famous, but no one ever thinks about the downside. If you get to the point where everyone wants to be your pal, or perhaps even more (must fight “hole in one” joke urge), you’re going to run into trouble at some point. They often say it’s lonely at the top, and my guess is Tiger Woods has just shown us another reason why that’s true.