This story is a real Debbie Downer. If you're still riding the wave of elation from Will and Kate's nuptials this morning and don't want to be bothered with some bad news from the bad news blog, then I suggest turning a blind eye to the following story.
South Chicago is a rough place. I was in the city a month ago, and despite the fact my only interaction with the city's lower-half was venturing south for a Blackhawks game, I've read the horror stories and heard some first-hand from residents of the area.
Southie is littered with gangs and violence, metal detectors in schools and police up to their knees in shit.
A cab driver really brought me back-down to earth on a drunken night in Chi-town when he pointed out 8 police officers had lost there lives since the new year. It was mid March. That statistic is horrifying. Remember a few months back when that Toronto policemen was killed by a snowplow and every paper, periodical and news outlet did a story on officers killed in the line of duty?
Well there have been as many in 3 months in south Chicago as there has been in 3 decades in the Greater Toronto Area.
Hopefully this adds a little context to the following story, which features a young soccer prodigy and a life taken too early.
Two nights ago, Kabiru Adenwunmi and friends were walking to a local convenience store in the 800 block of East 82nd Street while celebrating the Bulls game 5 victory against the Pacers. Kabiru, 16, a high school sophomore who had been living in Chicago for a year, was gunned-down as his friends watched in a likely case of mistaken identities. Adenwunmi died from his injuries.
Kabiru moved to south Chicago a year ago from Nigeria to follow his dream of being a professional footballer. He played for a youth development academy run by the MLS's Chicago Fire and was on the radar of dozens of Division 1 NCAA programs.
By all accounts he was a nice, timid individual who had absolutely no allegiances to any gangs. He and his friends were simply going to the store to buy some candy following a series win by his adopted team.
My apologies if this story has more or less ruined your morning in the same fashion that it has mine, but the point is to remind everybody of just how safe Toronto is and how lucky many of us are. If you're a fellow Torontonian like myself, or a European I met on my travels, I encourage you to make the most of your day in realization of just how precious life is.
Thanks for reading - enjoy your days.
Here's more in depth coverage from the Chicago Tribune.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
El Clasico Animated
This is absolutely brilliant. My favourite thing in the world right now besides myself.
Congrats to Richard Swarbrick for making this - you are a talented man.
Congrats to Richard Swarbrick for making this - you are a talented man.
Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: The Two Moments That Transformed The 2011 Playoffs
Greetings ans salutations friends - please accept my sincerest of apologies for enduring nearly a week without a post. Playoff sports and Easter chocolates have consumed me, eliminating all but a shred of productivity from my daily life.
Nonetheless, I have returned to quell the insatiable group that are my readers with a little analysis from the 2011 NBA Playoffs.
When monumental instances occur, there are short-term and long-term causes for such.
For example, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg on June 28th, 1914, in Sarajevo was a short-term cause for the first World War that began one month later. Ferdinand's death and the subsequent changes were integral because as the heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian throne, the Austrian monarch governed a large territory that included a Serbia rife with an anti Austro-Hungarian movement that led to the division of the empire which was in place since 1878's Treaty of Berlin.
On the contrary, long-term causes are only realized in retrospect. The Industrial Revolution and the influx of new metals and advanced production means can be seen as a long-term cause for the current state of widespread global warming and the deterioration of the environment. As the adage goes, hindsight is 20/20, and at the time, it would have been nearly impossible to foretell the influence of the Industrial Revolution. During this generation of accelerated change, it was a means for Europe's Westernized powers to swing the mighty sword of industry at its foes, changing the make-up and balance of power in Europe. Years later, we see that the shift in focus towards the raping of resources and mass production is certainly a long-term cause for the current state of the Earth's environment.
You may be asking yourself - where is he going with this?
Simply put, the other night Kobe Bryant of the L.A. Lakers threw-down two menacing dunks in game 5 of the L.A/New Orleans Hornets series that changed the 2011 playoffs. Based on reputation and a nearly stellar, yet inconsistent regular season, the Lakers were amongst a handful of teams pegged by experts and fans alike as favorites to win the 2011 NBA title.
There were questions about the age of the team, motivations and the health of several key players. After splitting the first four games of the series, many questions were asked of the Lakers and their title hopes. Centre Andrew Bynum looked like a meniscus tear waiting to happen and Pau Gasol had the enthusiastic expression of an inmate working a chain-gang. Kobe seemed flat footed and was quick to complain about an injured ankle as a reason for why he was unmistakebly beat off the dribble by Hornets point guard Chris Paul on many a possession.
Despite the excuses and the ever-aging squad, those two dunks were a short-term cause for the Lakers inevitable trophy hoisting a month and a half down the road.
The dunks lit an essential fire under both the asses of Mr. Bryant, and his teammates.
When the Lakers win the title, feel free to congratulate me for my soothsaying abilities.
Nonetheless, I have returned to quell the insatiable group that are my readers with a little analysis from the 2011 NBA Playoffs.
When monumental instances occur, there are short-term and long-term causes for such.
For example, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg on June 28th, 1914, in Sarajevo was a short-term cause for the first World War that began one month later. Ferdinand's death and the subsequent changes were integral because as the heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian throne, the Austrian monarch governed a large territory that included a Serbia rife with an anti Austro-Hungarian movement that led to the division of the empire which was in place since 1878's Treaty of Berlin.
On the contrary, long-term causes are only realized in retrospect. The Industrial Revolution and the influx of new metals and advanced production means can be seen as a long-term cause for the current state of widespread global warming and the deterioration of the environment. As the adage goes, hindsight is 20/20, and at the time, it would have been nearly impossible to foretell the influence of the Industrial Revolution. During this generation of accelerated change, it was a means for Europe's Westernized powers to swing the mighty sword of industry at its foes, changing the make-up and balance of power in Europe. Years later, we see that the shift in focus towards the raping of resources and mass production is certainly a long-term cause for the current state of the Earth's environment.
You may be asking yourself - where is he going with this?
Simply put, the other night Kobe Bryant of the L.A. Lakers threw-down two menacing dunks in game 5 of the L.A/New Orleans Hornets series that changed the 2011 playoffs. Based on reputation and a nearly stellar, yet inconsistent regular season, the Lakers were amongst a handful of teams pegged by experts and fans alike as favorites to win the 2011 NBA title.
There were questions about the age of the team, motivations and the health of several key players. After splitting the first four games of the series, many questions were asked of the Lakers and their title hopes. Centre Andrew Bynum looked like a meniscus tear waiting to happen and Pau Gasol had the enthusiastic expression of an inmate working a chain-gang. Kobe seemed flat footed and was quick to complain about an injured ankle as a reason for why he was unmistakebly beat off the dribble by Hornets point guard Chris Paul on many a possession.
Despite the excuses and the ever-aging squad, those two dunks were a short-term cause for the Lakers inevitable trophy hoisting a month and a half down the road.
The dunks lit an essential fire under both the asses of Mr. Bryant, and his teammates.
When the Lakers win the title, feel free to congratulate me for my soothsaying abilities.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Kendrick Perkins Is Cool-As-Fuck
Let me preface this delightful little piece by saying I TOLD YOU SO... Recall when I mentioned that the Perkins trade from Boston would totally crush the morale of the team? Well, I was right - the Celtics can barely beat Carmelo Anthony and 4 retards at home these days.
Anyways, this is an article by Alan Siegel, republished with permission from Deadspin.com. Here's hoping some of you feel the same warm and fuzzy sensations I did upon completion.
Fuckin' love me some Perk.
How These Two White Guys Wound Up In This Kendrick Perkins Family Photo
Alan Siegel — Like most white guys from suburban Boston, half-brothers Brian Johnson and Justin Tsouros had never hung out with an NBA player. So when they arrived at the condo in Waltham, Mass., one evening in the fall of 2007, they didn't quite know what to expect. The place was dark. The blinds were drawn. But they knocked, because, well, they were expected. A few silent moments passed before they heard rustling, looked up, and noticed a large eyeball staring at them through a window. Then the front door creaked open, revealing an empty foyer. Again, silence. Probably sensing the sheer incredulity of his guests, Kendrick Perkins, who'd been hiding in another room, came out smiling.
"I'm just fucking with you guys," Perk said in that deep Southeast Texas drawl. "Come in."
For the next four hours, they watched television, ate Funyuns, and talked about the Kevin Garnett trade and the upcoming season. Perk was still skeptical about the deal that sent his friend Al Jefferson to Minnesota for KG. Brian remembers Perk saying that the Celtics better win a title that year or else "they're gonna blame me." At the end of the night, Perk brought Brian and Justin into the kitchen and offered them some homemade spaghetti and meat sauce. For some reason, Perk didn't want them to eat in front of him. Instead, he shoveled single portions of pasta into plastic containers and instructed his new buddies to call him later, when they were finished with dinner. He wanted to know what they thought of his culinary skills. "But don't tell anyone," he said. "I don't want people to know that I do the cooking around here."
There were other gifts. Earlier, Justin — then a junior in high school — had eyed a life-sized cutout of Perk in his Boston Celtics uniform. Naturally, Perk told Justin to take it. Justin did, but not before his host had him prop up the cardboard doppelganger next to the real thing.
You ever wonder what it's like to befriend a good-but-not-great NBA player, to drift along in the wake of his semi-celebrity, to be, in a way, his very own Mars Blackmon? For Brian and Justin, at least, it was pleasantly, irresistibly, even delightfully banal. It was Funyuns and dinner in Tupperware and sleepovers, and it was playing Xbox as Ricky Davis with the real Ricky Davis just a few feet away. It was weird, in part because it was all so normal.
It was this:
"Damn," Perk said, eyeing the cutout. "I'm big. I must be scaring people sometimes."
The spaghetti, by the way, was delicious.
* * *
In the whole history of the NBA, I'd wager, few friendships have been as unlikely as the one that sprang up between Brian, Justin, and Perk. If you wanted to be fancy about it, I suppose you could say that it had something to do with the dawn of sports blogging and the simultaneous arrival in the NBA of Millennials like Perk, athletes who routinely broke the fourth wall that had traditionally separated them from fans. Mostly, though, I think Perk and Justin and Brian were three guys who were in on the same joke.
The first meeting actually happened a few years earlier, at an open practice for Celtics season ticket holders in September or October 2004. (Justin's father, a Boston attorney with close ties to the team, had purchased a package after the 2001-02 season.) Justin may have barely hit puberty by that point, but he was an uncommonly persistent fan boy. At a post-practice autograph session organized by the team, Justin complimented Perk's hook shot. The secret to it, Perk said, was that it was "au naturel."
"I'm just chillin'," Perk said when Justin, then a middle-schooler, asked how he was doing. "Just a squirrel trying to get his nut."
Justin was smitten — even if he had no idea what the expression meant — and so was Brian, who's 15 years Justin's senior. "When I heard he had a 9-6 standing reach, I said, ‘I love this guy,' before I even saw him," Brian says. Perk quickly became one of their favorite players, even though he barely saw the court his first two years as a pro. Justin changed his handle in the Celtic Nation forum to Perkisabeast after hearing an interview in which Perk expressed his desire "to be a beast" for Boston. By the end of the 2004-05 season, Justin and Brian were Perk's unofficial hype men.
At the time, Brian was working at a newspaper about 30 miles north of Boston. That's where I got to know him. I was a sportswriter. He was an NBA obsessive, but covered business. His time at the daily didn't end well. Management moved him, in addition to several other talented reporters who were part of a futile union organizing effort in late 2005, to the paper's satellite office in New Hampshire. When he quit in the spring of 2006, he figured his journalism career was over. He needed an outlet. That summer, while vacationing with family in Rhode Island, he found one. On a wave-less day at the beach, he and Justin conceived Perkisabeast.com. They began to build the site that afternoon.
Neither Brian nor Justin really had any idea what the new project would become. At first, it was a simple tribute. But they loved Perk. And Brian, for one, thought it would be funny to mythologize an unknown late-first-round pick, crafting for him a persona that was more Bill Brasky than Bill Russell. As it turns out, the real Beast was a hell of a lot more interesting than the made-up one. "We started this thing as jock sniffers," Brian tells me. "But the Perk we ended up knowing was much cooler than the one we created."
* * *
They wanted an interview with Perk, and, somehow, Justin managed to convince the Celtics' media relations staff that such a request from such a website wasn't totally ridiculous. In 2006, Brian and Justin were allowed to attend Celtics media day. Justin interviewed Perk with Brian's Palm Pilot, but the teenager was too damn short to get the thing even close to the 6-foot-10-inch man's face. Perk noticed and said, "You want me to do that?" And so the interview proceeded with the big guy holding the Palm Pilot as if it were a microphone.
Full sizeThe questions weren't typical, at least not for a soul-crushing pseudo-event like an NBA media day. Not that Perk seemed to mind.
Justin: What does Perk put on the stereo to impress the ladies?
Perk: Is my girl gonna hear this?
Justin: What do you put on to impress her?
Perk: Like you gotta kind of go the other way with them and put on like that old Beyonce, not this one that just came out, but the last one, that was jammin'. I like Beyonce so I'll put that on and you know all that stuff that she be singin' "I'll cater to you." Yeah that's my type of stuff.
Perk liked the idea of a digital shrine to his beastliness. It wasn't official, of course. "I don't know if he knew half the crap we did in there," Brian says, "but he didn't care." (It should be noted that Perk is a Beast had a habit of flaming other NBA blogs. Bethlehem Shoals of dearly departed FreeDarko once wrote that he "personally can't stand them." Brian says now that PIAB's thin skin was just part of its ethos.) Perk would later introduce Brian and Justin to his friends as the guys "from my website." Perk even gave Justin his cell phone number (it seemed to change every time Justin saw Perk). That season, Perk had Doc Rivers's assistant leave family passes for Justin, giving him access behind the curtain. After games, Justin would ask Perk a bunch of questions, then hand over the recorder to Brian, who transcribed the interviews and put them up on Perk is a Beast. Perk even suggested to Justin that they should hang out. At the end of Boston's putrid 2006-07 campaign, Perk gave Justin one of his size-19 Adidas high-tops.
* * *
That summer Justin phoned Perk — obsessively. At one point, Brian asked Justin how many times he'd called. "Ten," Justin responded. "This week." Garnett's arrival had them a little worried about future access to the team, and to Perk. Would it evaporate? Their fears subsided a bit when they got word that they were allowed at media day, again. They came prepared this time, churning out more on-camera interviews. Brian even made sure to bring along a limited edition Perk is a Beast onesie for Perk's newborn son, Kendrick Perkins II. (Perk later returned the favor by giving Brian, whose own son was born around the same time as Little Ken, an entire box of outgrown baby clothes.) Perk told Brian and Justin to come over later. That night they ate Funyuns and talked basketball for four hours.
Perk began to treat Justin as a sort of little brother. Every so often, he'd take Justin out to dinner after games. They'd go to Strega in Boston's North End. The first time, Justin was afraid to order too much — or too little. "Just get what I get," Perk told him. That turned out to be a two-pound lobster, fettuccine alfredo, and a whole chicken. Justin ate leftovers for days.
He looked up to Perk. They got their hair cut together. ("Give him the Pat Riley," Perk told the barber when his protégé sat down in the chair. The first thing Justin's mother said when she saw him afterward was, "Oh my god.") They talked about women. Once Perk invited Justin to sleep over. Justin had been away at college, and Perk just wanted to catch up. Still, Justin was shocked.
"Why not?" Perk said. "You're family."
* * *
All of a sudden, it seemed, Perk was more than a bit player. In 2007-08, his fifth season as a pro, he became Boston's enforcer. Still, Brian, a keen observer of all things Perk, knew that the big man didn't feel like his job was safe. This was, after all, someone who never had it easy.
When Perk was 5, his mother, Ercell Minix, was murdered at the beauty salon where she worked. He was a grown man before he met his father, Kenneth Perkins, who spent his son's childhood playing pro basketball overseas. Perk's grandparents raised him in Beaumont, Texas. Although he was a McDonald's All-American at Clifton J. Ozen High, he lasted until late in the first round of the 2003 NBA Draft. After the Memphis Grizzlies snagged him with the 27th overall pick, they traded him to the Celtics. Brian sensed that Perk hated the draft. It was just a reminder that he was replaceable.
Full sizeBut then his career finally took off, and Brian and Justin were sitting shotgun. Perk is a Beast saw a jump in traffic as the championship season progressed. By then, Brian had sold an ad to Gold Rarities — High Quality PCGS & NGC Certified Coins at Competitive Prices! — the only sponsor the site has ever had.
After the Celtics clinched the title with a blowout win over the Lakers (a game in which Perk had held Pau Gasol to 11 points) the two brothers waited for a chance to see their guy. "You kept wondering when you would get big-timed," Brian says. It never happened. An hour and half after the buzzer sounded, Perk brought Brian and Justin backstage to join in on the celebration.
"That was the most incredible moment," Brian says. "There were no owners [around], just the players, the coaches and the trophy. Everybody was taking pictures with their families and the trophy. As a sports fan, you live to be a part of that."
All Brian wanted to do was say congratulations. Perk wasn't having it. "Y'all come back and get a picture taken." Brian and Justin posed in a big group shot and got to touch the Larry O'Brien trophy. "It was," Brian says, "the complete sports fantasy."
* * *
Perk married his girlfriend, Vanity Alpough, on July 25, 2009, near Houston. Brian and Justin, who was bound for Providence College that fall, were guests. They flew out a few days before the ceremony and showed up at Perk's house in The Woodlands, a posh planned community. Their luggage had been lost, and Brian wore an oversized white T-shirt he'd bought at a drug store. Justin was in a Star Wars shirt he'd worn on the plane.
They figured they'd be able to hang out, relax, and then crash at the hotel. They were wrong. As soon as Brian and Justin arrived, they were told to get ready for the bachelor party. "These white dudes are my boys from Boston," Perk explained to his assembled friends, among them Rajon Rondo. "They run Perk is a Beast," Perk said. "They're from out of town. They don't know how we do it." Justin and Brian soon found out how it was done. "We're [at a club] in downtown Houston, with a cavalcade of the hardest-looking dudes you've ever seen," Brian said. "Right behind Perk is Justin, in a Stormtrooper T-shirt and shorts."
Still, Perk and his friends made them feel comfortable. "I didn't spend a dollar," Brian said. By the time they got back to Perk's house the next morning, he'd been up 28 hours straight. He'd gotten his wallet stolen. He'd driven his rented Kia into a drainage ditch. It was as bizarre as it was exhilarating. Brian would later admit that he felt like an alien that weekend. His wife and young son were at home, and here he was at the wedding of an NBA player almost 10 years his junior. After the reception, Brian and Justin pulled up to Perk's driveway to find Stephen Jackson in his red Rolls Royce Phantom, blasting a song by late Houston rapper DJ Screw. Perk was in the middle of it all, singing every word.
The next day, when things had slowed considerably, Brian and Justin drove back to Perk's to hang out. While Perk, Rondo and Jackson sat playing cards, Brian took on his brother in a game of NBA 2K on Xbox. Justin picked the Clippers, who had one of his favorite players, fellow wedding guest Ricky Davis. Davis happened to be in the room. Video Game Ricky proceeded to drop 50 points on Brian. Every time Video Game Ricky scored, Actual Ricky did a little dance.
* * *
In February, Perk was deemed replaceable. The Celtics dealt him to the Thunder, a trade that may cost Boston a shot at another title. Brian was numb. "Thanks for the Perk love," Brian wrote from the Perk is a Beast Twitter account. "We're crushed. It's like the kid in almost famous when the band denies the story."
Maybe the relationship wasn't so strange, in the end. I put the question to ex-Celtics assistant coach Clifford Ray, Perk's mentor, a few months ago. Why did Perk trust those guys so completely? "They weren't after anything," Ray said.
That's not to say that Justin and Brian didn't get anything out of the friendship. "In a weird way," Brian says now, "Perk was my muse." Through Perk is a Beast, he'd appeared on Comcast's Celtics Now as a panelist. He'd gotten back into journalism, co-founding Mass Device, a Boston-based online publication. He also began hosting a weekly podcast with Ray.
On the dance floor at Perk's wedding, Brian thanked his muse. By that point the reception was wrapping up. Perk had shed his giant white tuxedo coat and was wearing a wife beater.
"You saved me," Brian remembers blurting out.
Perk looked confused.
"Huh?"
"You saved my career."
"Huh?"
And then, the Beast laughed.
Anyways, this is an article by Alan Siegel, republished with permission from Deadspin.com. Here's hoping some of you feel the same warm and fuzzy sensations I did upon completion.
Fuckin' love me some Perk.
How These Two White Guys Wound Up In This Kendrick Perkins Family Photo
Alan Siegel — Like most white guys from suburban Boston, half-brothers Brian Johnson and Justin Tsouros had never hung out with an NBA player. So when they arrived at the condo in Waltham, Mass., one evening in the fall of 2007, they didn't quite know what to expect. The place was dark. The blinds were drawn. But they knocked, because, well, they were expected. A few silent moments passed before they heard rustling, looked up, and noticed a large eyeball staring at them through a window. Then the front door creaked open, revealing an empty foyer. Again, silence. Probably sensing the sheer incredulity of his guests, Kendrick Perkins, who'd been hiding in another room, came out smiling.
"I'm just fucking with you guys," Perk said in that deep Southeast Texas drawl. "Come in."
For the next four hours, they watched television, ate Funyuns, and talked about the Kevin Garnett trade and the upcoming season. Perk was still skeptical about the deal that sent his friend Al Jefferson to Minnesota for KG. Brian remembers Perk saying that the Celtics better win a title that year or else "they're gonna blame me." At the end of the night, Perk brought Brian and Justin into the kitchen and offered them some homemade spaghetti and meat sauce. For some reason, Perk didn't want them to eat in front of him. Instead, he shoveled single portions of pasta into plastic containers and instructed his new buddies to call him later, when they were finished with dinner. He wanted to know what they thought of his culinary skills. "But don't tell anyone," he said. "I don't want people to know that I do the cooking around here."
There were other gifts. Earlier, Justin — then a junior in high school — had eyed a life-sized cutout of Perk in his Boston Celtics uniform. Naturally, Perk told Justin to take it. Justin did, but not before his host had him prop up the cardboard doppelganger next to the real thing.
You ever wonder what it's like to befriend a good-but-not-great NBA player, to drift along in the wake of his semi-celebrity, to be, in a way, his very own Mars Blackmon? For Brian and Justin, at least, it was pleasantly, irresistibly, even delightfully banal. It was Funyuns and dinner in Tupperware and sleepovers, and it was playing Xbox as Ricky Davis with the real Ricky Davis just a few feet away. It was weird, in part because it was all so normal.
It was this:
"Damn," Perk said, eyeing the cutout. "I'm big. I must be scaring people sometimes."
The spaghetti, by the way, was delicious.
* * *
In the whole history of the NBA, I'd wager, few friendships have been as unlikely as the one that sprang up between Brian, Justin, and Perk. If you wanted to be fancy about it, I suppose you could say that it had something to do with the dawn of sports blogging and the simultaneous arrival in the NBA of Millennials like Perk, athletes who routinely broke the fourth wall that had traditionally separated them from fans. Mostly, though, I think Perk and Justin and Brian were three guys who were in on the same joke.
The first meeting actually happened a few years earlier, at an open practice for Celtics season ticket holders in September or October 2004. (Justin's father, a Boston attorney with close ties to the team, had purchased a package after the 2001-02 season.) Justin may have barely hit puberty by that point, but he was an uncommonly persistent fan boy. At a post-practice autograph session organized by the team, Justin complimented Perk's hook shot. The secret to it, Perk said, was that it was "au naturel."
"I'm just chillin'," Perk said when Justin, then a middle-schooler, asked how he was doing. "Just a squirrel trying to get his nut."
Justin was smitten — even if he had no idea what the expression meant — and so was Brian, who's 15 years Justin's senior. "When I heard he had a 9-6 standing reach, I said, ‘I love this guy,' before I even saw him," Brian says. Perk quickly became one of their favorite players, even though he barely saw the court his first two years as a pro. Justin changed his handle in the Celtic Nation forum to Perkisabeast after hearing an interview in which Perk expressed his desire "to be a beast" for Boston. By the end of the 2004-05 season, Justin and Brian were Perk's unofficial hype men.
At the time, Brian was working at a newspaper about 30 miles north of Boston. That's where I got to know him. I was a sportswriter. He was an NBA obsessive, but covered business. His time at the daily didn't end well. Management moved him, in addition to several other talented reporters who were part of a futile union organizing effort in late 2005, to the paper's satellite office in New Hampshire. When he quit in the spring of 2006, he figured his journalism career was over. He needed an outlet. That summer, while vacationing with family in Rhode Island, he found one. On a wave-less day at the beach, he and Justin conceived Perkisabeast.com. They began to build the site that afternoon.
Neither Brian nor Justin really had any idea what the new project would become. At first, it was a simple tribute. But they loved Perk. And Brian, for one, thought it would be funny to mythologize an unknown late-first-round pick, crafting for him a persona that was more Bill Brasky than Bill Russell. As it turns out, the real Beast was a hell of a lot more interesting than the made-up one. "We started this thing as jock sniffers," Brian tells me. "But the Perk we ended up knowing was much cooler than the one we created."
* * *
They wanted an interview with Perk, and, somehow, Justin managed to convince the Celtics' media relations staff that such a request from such a website wasn't totally ridiculous. In 2006, Brian and Justin were allowed to attend Celtics media day. Justin interviewed Perk with Brian's Palm Pilot, but the teenager was too damn short to get the thing even close to the 6-foot-10-inch man's face. Perk noticed and said, "You want me to do that?" And so the interview proceeded with the big guy holding the Palm Pilot as if it were a microphone.
Full sizeThe questions weren't typical, at least not for a soul-crushing pseudo-event like an NBA media day. Not that Perk seemed to mind.
Justin: What does Perk put on the stereo to impress the ladies?
Perk: Is my girl gonna hear this?
Justin: What do you put on to impress her?
Perk: Like you gotta kind of go the other way with them and put on like that old Beyonce, not this one that just came out, but the last one, that was jammin'. I like Beyonce so I'll put that on and you know all that stuff that she be singin' "I'll cater to you." Yeah that's my type of stuff.
Perk liked the idea of a digital shrine to his beastliness. It wasn't official, of course. "I don't know if he knew half the crap we did in there," Brian says, "but he didn't care." (It should be noted that Perk is a Beast had a habit of flaming other NBA blogs. Bethlehem Shoals of dearly departed FreeDarko once wrote that he "personally can't stand them." Brian says now that PIAB's thin skin was just part of its ethos.) Perk would later introduce Brian and Justin to his friends as the guys "from my website." Perk even gave Justin his cell phone number (it seemed to change every time Justin saw Perk). That season, Perk had Doc Rivers's assistant leave family passes for Justin, giving him access behind the curtain. After games, Justin would ask Perk a bunch of questions, then hand over the recorder to Brian, who transcribed the interviews and put them up on Perk is a Beast. Perk even suggested to Justin that they should hang out. At the end of Boston's putrid 2006-07 campaign, Perk gave Justin one of his size-19 Adidas high-tops.
* * *
That summer Justin phoned Perk — obsessively. At one point, Brian asked Justin how many times he'd called. "Ten," Justin responded. "This week." Garnett's arrival had them a little worried about future access to the team, and to Perk. Would it evaporate? Their fears subsided a bit when they got word that they were allowed at media day, again. They came prepared this time, churning out more on-camera interviews. Brian even made sure to bring along a limited edition Perk is a Beast onesie for Perk's newborn son, Kendrick Perkins II. (Perk later returned the favor by giving Brian, whose own son was born around the same time as Little Ken, an entire box of outgrown baby clothes.) Perk told Brian and Justin to come over later. That night they ate Funyuns and talked basketball for four hours.
Perk began to treat Justin as a sort of little brother. Every so often, he'd take Justin out to dinner after games. They'd go to Strega in Boston's North End. The first time, Justin was afraid to order too much — or too little. "Just get what I get," Perk told him. That turned out to be a two-pound lobster, fettuccine alfredo, and a whole chicken. Justin ate leftovers for days.
He looked up to Perk. They got their hair cut together. ("Give him the Pat Riley," Perk told the barber when his protégé sat down in the chair. The first thing Justin's mother said when she saw him afterward was, "Oh my god.") They talked about women. Once Perk invited Justin to sleep over. Justin had been away at college, and Perk just wanted to catch up. Still, Justin was shocked.
"Why not?" Perk said. "You're family."
* * *
All of a sudden, it seemed, Perk was more than a bit player. In 2007-08, his fifth season as a pro, he became Boston's enforcer. Still, Brian, a keen observer of all things Perk, knew that the big man didn't feel like his job was safe. This was, after all, someone who never had it easy.
When Perk was 5, his mother, Ercell Minix, was murdered at the beauty salon where she worked. He was a grown man before he met his father, Kenneth Perkins, who spent his son's childhood playing pro basketball overseas. Perk's grandparents raised him in Beaumont, Texas. Although he was a McDonald's All-American at Clifton J. Ozen High, he lasted until late in the first round of the 2003 NBA Draft. After the Memphis Grizzlies snagged him with the 27th overall pick, they traded him to the Celtics. Brian sensed that Perk hated the draft. It was just a reminder that he was replaceable.
Full sizeBut then his career finally took off, and Brian and Justin were sitting shotgun. Perk is a Beast saw a jump in traffic as the championship season progressed. By then, Brian had sold an ad to Gold Rarities — High Quality PCGS & NGC Certified Coins at Competitive Prices! — the only sponsor the site has ever had.
After the Celtics clinched the title with a blowout win over the Lakers (a game in which Perk had held Pau Gasol to 11 points) the two brothers waited for a chance to see their guy. "You kept wondering when you would get big-timed," Brian says. It never happened. An hour and half after the buzzer sounded, Perk brought Brian and Justin backstage to join in on the celebration.
"That was the most incredible moment," Brian says. "There were no owners [around], just the players, the coaches and the trophy. Everybody was taking pictures with their families and the trophy. As a sports fan, you live to be a part of that."
All Brian wanted to do was say congratulations. Perk wasn't having it. "Y'all come back and get a picture taken." Brian and Justin posed in a big group shot and got to touch the Larry O'Brien trophy. "It was," Brian says, "the complete sports fantasy."
* * *
Perk married his girlfriend, Vanity Alpough, on July 25, 2009, near Houston. Brian and Justin, who was bound for Providence College that fall, were guests. They flew out a few days before the ceremony and showed up at Perk's house in The Woodlands, a posh planned community. Their luggage had been lost, and Brian wore an oversized white T-shirt he'd bought at a drug store. Justin was in a Star Wars shirt he'd worn on the plane.
They figured they'd be able to hang out, relax, and then crash at the hotel. They were wrong. As soon as Brian and Justin arrived, they were told to get ready for the bachelor party. "These white dudes are my boys from Boston," Perk explained to his assembled friends, among them Rajon Rondo. "They run Perk is a Beast," Perk said. "They're from out of town. They don't know how we do it." Justin and Brian soon found out how it was done. "We're [at a club] in downtown Houston, with a cavalcade of the hardest-looking dudes you've ever seen," Brian said. "Right behind Perk is Justin, in a Stormtrooper T-shirt and shorts."
Still, Perk and his friends made them feel comfortable. "I didn't spend a dollar," Brian said. By the time they got back to Perk's house the next morning, he'd been up 28 hours straight. He'd gotten his wallet stolen. He'd driven his rented Kia into a drainage ditch. It was as bizarre as it was exhilarating. Brian would later admit that he felt like an alien that weekend. His wife and young son were at home, and here he was at the wedding of an NBA player almost 10 years his junior. After the reception, Brian and Justin pulled up to Perk's driveway to find Stephen Jackson in his red Rolls Royce Phantom, blasting a song by late Houston rapper DJ Screw. Perk was in the middle of it all, singing every word.
The next day, when things had slowed considerably, Brian and Justin drove back to Perk's to hang out. While Perk, Rondo and Jackson sat playing cards, Brian took on his brother in a game of NBA 2K on Xbox. Justin picked the Clippers, who had one of his favorite players, fellow wedding guest Ricky Davis. Davis happened to be in the room. Video Game Ricky proceeded to drop 50 points on Brian. Every time Video Game Ricky scored, Actual Ricky did a little dance.
* * *
In February, Perk was deemed replaceable. The Celtics dealt him to the Thunder, a trade that may cost Boston a shot at another title. Brian was numb. "Thanks for the Perk love," Brian wrote from the Perk is a Beast Twitter account. "We're crushed. It's like the kid in almost famous when the band denies the story."
Maybe the relationship wasn't so strange, in the end. I put the question to ex-Celtics assistant coach Clifford Ray, Perk's mentor, a few months ago. Why did Perk trust those guys so completely? "They weren't after anything," Ray said.
That's not to say that Justin and Brian didn't get anything out of the friendship. "In a weird way," Brian says now, "Perk was my muse." Through Perk is a Beast, he'd appeared on Comcast's Celtics Now as a panelist. He'd gotten back into journalism, co-founding Mass Device, a Boston-based online publication. He also began hosting a weekly podcast with Ray.
On the dance floor at Perk's wedding, Brian thanked his muse. By that point the reception was wrapping up. Perk had shed his giant white tuxedo coat and was wearing a wife beater.
"You saved me," Brian remembers blurting out.
Perk looked confused.
"Huh?"
"You saved my career."
"Huh?"
And then, the Beast laughed.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Derby Time
The English pronounce it Daar-beee, with the enthusiasm and syllabic length dependent on the number of mid-afternoon pints and glutenous spittle inducing pies.
Derbies are as much a part of the tradition of the game of football as the usage of a ball and goalposts.
The allure lies in pitting two hometown, sometimes regionally proximate clubs against each other in a battle of both clubs and passionate fan bases.
While rivalries thrive in other major professional sports, derbies are what separate soccer from the pack.
These facts are as much subjective as they are absolute; derby football cannot be matched for it's intensity and passion.
Even the subway series of 2000 between the Yankess and Mets could not compare to a chilly evening in North London with Spurs hosting Arsenal, the season hanging in the balance, as the former fight for a top 4 finish and inclusion in next annum's Champions League, the latter battling to stay within reach of Manchester United and the elusive Premiership crown.
In what proved to be the Premier League's most entertaining match of the season, Arsenal drew 3-3 with Tottenham, seemingly falling short for the title again, with United having a 6 point advantage with 5 to play. What's worse for Gunners supporters, is that another London rival, Chelsea, defeated Birmingham City to climb into a 2nd-place tie with Arsenal.
Only adding to the more than century-long rivalry between Spurs and Gunners was the importance of the match.
A derby can be identified from a distance for the consistency of tackles riddled with temerity and the reckless pursuit of the ball. Red-faced supporters scream words better left not heard by the broadcasters mics field-side and referees stand in a pit of solitude amongst the throws of insults and flagrant fouls.
Just this past weekend, Manchester City and cross-town rivals United squared-off in a hotly contested FA Cup semi-final. Even though many of the players on the pitch weren't English, and none were from Manchester, during derbies, the players assume the position of the hometown supporters and fight for a victory. Those who do not are quickly cast-off to join another club that will be more tolerant of an insolent little piece of shit Argentine.
City was victor with a 2-1 result, almost guaranteeing a trophy leading up to the final at Wembley versus minnows Stoke City.
The same applies when Newcastle and Sunderland battle for the honour of being Yorkshire's best club, or when the likes of Portsmouth, Blackpool or Southhampton knock-heads for supremacy of the South.
Sometimes these battles are more than a competition to determine the city's best, but can be an ethnic or cultural battle too. When Barcelona is pitted against Espanyol twice a Primera League season, it is the Catalans of Barcelona versus the nationalist of Spain supported by Espanyol, pitting sovereignty against nationalism.
When Inter Milan and AC Milan square-off at the shared San Siro Stadium, it is the city's original club (AC) against the one formed as a result of AC's refusal to include international players more than a century ago - hence the Internazionale name. Also in Italy, the Torino derby of Juventus vs. Torino is a case of the haves (Juve) versus the have-nots (Torino), while the Genoa - Sampdoria derby is a battle for not only the city, but also the Luigi Ferrari Stadium they share. The Rome derby featuring Roma and Lazio has oft been a lightning rod for blood-thirsty fans, reckless tackles and goalie-striking flares.
I could actually sit here all day, mentioning and analysing the various derbies contested around the world - I've only pointed-out a few of my favorites, omitting amongst others in great detail such as the 'Old Firm' between Celtic (Catholic) and Rangers (Protestant) or a favorite of mine witnessed last season first hand between Lile and Valenciennes in North-Eastern France.
As important to the game as the rules themselves, derbies continue to be a highlight for many a football fan, and more often than not, the source of a insipid taste left in the mouths of those who just witnessed their club draw with pitiful Tottenham.
Derbies are as much a part of the tradition of the game of football as the usage of a ball and goalposts.
The allure lies in pitting two hometown, sometimes regionally proximate clubs against each other in a battle of both clubs and passionate fan bases.
While rivalries thrive in other major professional sports, derbies are what separate soccer from the pack.
These facts are as much subjective as they are absolute; derby football cannot be matched for it's intensity and passion.
Even the subway series of 2000 between the Yankess and Mets could not compare to a chilly evening in North London with Spurs hosting Arsenal, the season hanging in the balance, as the former fight for a top 4 finish and inclusion in next annum's Champions League, the latter battling to stay within reach of Manchester United and the elusive Premiership crown.
In what proved to be the Premier League's most entertaining match of the season, Arsenal drew 3-3 with Tottenham, seemingly falling short for the title again, with United having a 6 point advantage with 5 to play. What's worse for Gunners supporters, is that another London rival, Chelsea, defeated Birmingham City to climb into a 2nd-place tie with Arsenal.
Only adding to the more than century-long rivalry between Spurs and Gunners was the importance of the match.
A derby can be identified from a distance for the consistency of tackles riddled with temerity and the reckless pursuit of the ball. Red-faced supporters scream words better left not heard by the broadcasters mics field-side and referees stand in a pit of solitude amongst the throws of insults and flagrant fouls.
Just this past weekend, Manchester City and cross-town rivals United squared-off in a hotly contested FA Cup semi-final. Even though many of the players on the pitch weren't English, and none were from Manchester, during derbies, the players assume the position of the hometown supporters and fight for a victory. Those who do not are quickly cast-off to join another club that will be more tolerant of an insolent little piece of shit Argentine.
City was victor with a 2-1 result, almost guaranteeing a trophy leading up to the final at Wembley versus minnows Stoke City.
The same applies when Newcastle and Sunderland battle for the honour of being Yorkshire's best club, or when the likes of Portsmouth, Blackpool or Southhampton knock-heads for supremacy of the South.
Sometimes these battles are more than a competition to determine the city's best, but can be an ethnic or cultural battle too. When Barcelona is pitted against Espanyol twice a Primera League season, it is the Catalans of Barcelona versus the nationalist of Spain supported by Espanyol, pitting sovereignty against nationalism.
When Inter Milan and AC Milan square-off at the shared San Siro Stadium, it is the city's original club (AC) against the one formed as a result of AC's refusal to include international players more than a century ago - hence the Internazionale name. Also in Italy, the Torino derby of Juventus vs. Torino is a case of the haves (Juve) versus the have-nots (Torino), while the Genoa - Sampdoria derby is a battle for not only the city, but also the Luigi Ferrari Stadium they share. The Rome derby featuring Roma and Lazio has oft been a lightning rod for blood-thirsty fans, reckless tackles and goalie-striking flares.
I could actually sit here all day, mentioning and analysing the various derbies contested around the world - I've only pointed-out a few of my favorites, omitting amongst others in great detail such as the 'Old Firm' between Celtic (Catholic) and Rangers (Protestant) or a favorite of mine witnessed last season first hand between Lile and Valenciennes in North-Eastern France.
As important to the game as the rules themselves, derbies continue to be a highlight for many a football fan, and more often than not, the source of a insipid taste left in the mouths of those who just witnessed their club draw with pitiful Tottenham.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Ruminations 17.0
What is up wardies?
Feeling a little lazy at the moment, so instead of continuing my rant on concussions in major professional sports, linked below is an article from today's Toronto Star following-up on studies performed by the University of Calgary.
One in Five Concussed NHLers Returned To Play In Same Game: Study
For all the criticisms of the Star found on this very site, I should point out that the man who penned the above article, Star staff writer Randy Starkman, has long been a supporter of both Canadian Olympic sports and amateur athletes.
How's that for positive reinforcement of the city's largest source of back-up shit tickets? Having said that, I have a hard time taking anybody named Randy seriously.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving on. How about a little well-deserved Star hating. In today's Entertainment section, a lengthy profile of the play Calendar Girls can be found on the front cover.
I'm not one to judge other's forms of entertainment, nor am I here to bash a courageous sans-clothing performance by a bunch of old English ladies that has raised nearly $5 million (CDN) for Cancer research- Kudos to the women for their equivalent of The Full Monty.
The problem I have is with the photo on the front page of the Entertainment section featuring a promotional shot for the play. It features the six naked women from the play, each of whom has a strategically placed item veiling their unmentionables from the public view.
Nevertheless, and as usual, the Toronto Star has fucked this one up because there a bloody titty there for all to see. Look, to get me wrong, I like tits. A lot. But when I'm enjoying my morning coffee, I could do without seeing the right nipple of a woman in her 60's.
If you'd care to see it for yourself, it's the second lady from the left and she is old as fuck.
Fuck it - here's a link to the photo if its still up on the site.
Calendar Girls - Toronto Star
Perhaps I'm making mountains out of mole hills here, but void of a fantasy for nailing octogenarian librarians against the periodical racks, this photo does nothing for me. Shame on you Toronto Star for not employing people who can adequately fact check, edit, and for that matter, write.
I cannot wait to read tomorrow's letter to the editors, in hopes of finding a letter laced with vitriol and a tone of seriousness, something I hope has not be misinterpreted in this post - because I'm just playing around with y'all sensibilities.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In realization of the fact that the above is more or less a piece of fluff, I've got to run, but fear not, the time travel research is coming along well and I should be able to post something later tonight about a famous man who died 56 years ago yesterday.
Feeling a little lazy at the moment, so instead of continuing my rant on concussions in major professional sports, linked below is an article from today's Toronto Star following-up on studies performed by the University of Calgary.
One in Five Concussed NHLers Returned To Play In Same Game: Study
For all the criticisms of the Star found on this very site, I should point out that the man who penned the above article, Star staff writer Randy Starkman, has long been a supporter of both Canadian Olympic sports and amateur athletes.
How's that for positive reinforcement of the city's largest source of back-up shit tickets? Having said that, I have a hard time taking anybody named Randy seriously.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving on. How about a little well-deserved Star hating. In today's Entertainment section, a lengthy profile of the play Calendar Girls can be found on the front cover.
I'm not one to judge other's forms of entertainment, nor am I here to bash a courageous sans-clothing performance by a bunch of old English ladies that has raised nearly $5 million (CDN) for Cancer research- Kudos to the women for their equivalent of The Full Monty.
The problem I have is with the photo on the front page of the Entertainment section featuring a promotional shot for the play. It features the six naked women from the play, each of whom has a strategically placed item veiling their unmentionables from the public view.
Nevertheless, and as usual, the Toronto Star has fucked this one up because there a bloody titty there for all to see. Look, to get me wrong, I like tits. A lot. But when I'm enjoying my morning coffee, I could do without seeing the right nipple of a woman in her 60's.
If you'd care to see it for yourself, it's the second lady from the left and she is old as fuck.
Fuck it - here's a link to the photo if its still up on the site.
Calendar Girls - Toronto Star
Perhaps I'm making mountains out of mole hills here, but void of a fantasy for nailing octogenarian librarians against the periodical racks, this photo does nothing for me. Shame on you Toronto Star for not employing people who can adequately fact check, edit, and for that matter, write.
I cannot wait to read tomorrow's letter to the editors, in hopes of finding a letter laced with vitriol and a tone of seriousness, something I hope has not be misinterpreted in this post - because I'm just playing around with y'all sensibilities.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In realization of the fact that the above is more or less a piece of fluff, I've got to run, but fear not, the time travel research is coming along well and I should be able to post something later tonight about a famous man who died 56 years ago yesterday.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Book Of The Week: Golf In The Year 2000 (aka What We Are Coming To)
As many, or both of you may know, I've been a little consumed by time travel and the theories that both support its existence, and those that use what proof is available to negate its existence. Either way, the existence of time travel cannot be absolutely supported, nor rejected, based solely on the empirical data we have at our disposals. Cynics will tell you it is impossible, however their pessimism is unfounded for lack of scientific support.
Nonetheless, I have been reading several texts of both fiction and non-fiction at my leisure in hopes of garnering a better understanding of the various concepts behind time travel.
Having just now finished Michael Crichton's Timeline, I find myself more adequately versed in the understanding of Multiverses as an alternative to the actual displacement of time and a humans ability to travel within the fabric of it. The conceptual understanding of Multiverses suggests that time cannot be travelled, rather multiple universes exist very similar to our own, which can be visited using a complex means of destroying our partical make-up, only to re-establish it in another time. Per se, this concept does not infer the existence of time travel, rather it denies it. The explanation for it's existence, as introduced in Crichton's gripping work of fiction, but later supported my own heightened googling abilities, speculates that particles on earth are affected by particles in other universes, thus the varying properties of particles i.e. waves, etc.
While my novice understanding of science, specifically quantum physics and the understanding of quanta, slows my ability to grasp such concepts, I remain intrigued nonetheless.
The new found obsession with the varying theorems for the existence of time travel has led me to another book - and alas, this week's Book Of The Week.
I must preface this brief book review by pointing out the fact that I had a great deal of difficulty finding this book, only to discover the Toronto Public Library system had a sole copy. Unfortunately, the book was at the Toronto Reference Library downtown on Yonge just north of Bloor and was only available to be viewed as a reference in the stacks.
As much as I enjoy sifting through reference books amongst the city's homeless people, I vowed to find an alternative - only to find it online, in PDF form. Upon discovering this luxury of convenience, I became both pleased by the efficacy with which I could now read the book, and dismayed by the fact that books are found for free on the internet. Took me a few days to get through this one consistent with my aversion to reading dense quantities of text in PDF form, but alas, I made it.
Let us return from the tangent shall we?
Golf In The Year 2000 (also titled as What We Are Coming To) is a brief read of a novel penned J. McCullough in the late 1890's. It centres around a young Scottish golfer named Alexander J. Gibson, who succumbs to a deep sleep in 1892, only to awake in the year 2000 to a very different land from the one he knew.
The book is as much about time travel as it is about the evolution of societies and 19th century Scottish golf traditions. Where Crichton deluges readers with dense scientific reasoning, McCullough simply describes a place 108 years in the future that is quite similar to the one we currently inhabit. Much like Gene Roddenberry's outlook of future civilizations on Star Trek's maiden voyage, the brilliance of this work is its soothsaying qualities.
The author suggests the existence of high speed rail travel, televisions, digital watches and most noteworthy, the equality of men and women in both daily life and the workforce.
There are several similarities between the context of this book and Jules Verne's The Lost Novel: Paris in the Twentieth Century. In both fictional works, the narrator provides in assessment of modern amenities from the perspective of somebody firmly entrenched in the morays of the time and culture from which they originate.
Golf In The Year 2000 doesn't engage itself in a debate over time travel, but it does mirror many other similar works in the sense that it predicts a time very similar to our own that must have theoretically been a stretch for the author. The contemporary update of the novel features footnotes for many of the 19th century British language, and is a delight for both fans of golf and speculative literature.
Nonetheless, I have been reading several texts of both fiction and non-fiction at my leisure in hopes of garnering a better understanding of the various concepts behind time travel.
Having just now finished Michael Crichton's Timeline, I find myself more adequately versed in the understanding of Multiverses as an alternative to the actual displacement of time and a humans ability to travel within the fabric of it. The conceptual understanding of Multiverses suggests that time cannot be travelled, rather multiple universes exist very similar to our own, which can be visited using a complex means of destroying our partical make-up, only to re-establish it in another time. Per se, this concept does not infer the existence of time travel, rather it denies it. The explanation for it's existence, as introduced in Crichton's gripping work of fiction, but later supported my own heightened googling abilities, speculates that particles on earth are affected by particles in other universes, thus the varying properties of particles i.e. waves, etc.
While my novice understanding of science, specifically quantum physics and the understanding of quanta, slows my ability to grasp such concepts, I remain intrigued nonetheless.
The new found obsession with the varying theorems for the existence of time travel has led me to another book - and alas, this week's Book Of The Week.
I must preface this brief book review by pointing out the fact that I had a great deal of difficulty finding this book, only to discover the Toronto Public Library system had a sole copy. Unfortunately, the book was at the Toronto Reference Library downtown on Yonge just north of Bloor and was only available to be viewed as a reference in the stacks.
As much as I enjoy sifting through reference books amongst the city's homeless people, I vowed to find an alternative - only to find it online, in PDF form. Upon discovering this luxury of convenience, I became both pleased by the efficacy with which I could now read the book, and dismayed by the fact that books are found for free on the internet. Took me a few days to get through this one consistent with my aversion to reading dense quantities of text in PDF form, but alas, I made it.
Let us return from the tangent shall we?
Golf In The Year 2000 (also titled as What We Are Coming To) is a brief read of a novel penned J. McCullough in the late 1890's. It centres around a young Scottish golfer named Alexander J. Gibson, who succumbs to a deep sleep in 1892, only to awake in the year 2000 to a very different land from the one he knew.
The book is as much about time travel as it is about the evolution of societies and 19th century Scottish golf traditions. Where Crichton deluges readers with dense scientific reasoning, McCullough simply describes a place 108 years in the future that is quite similar to the one we currently inhabit. Much like Gene Roddenberry's outlook of future civilizations on Star Trek's maiden voyage, the brilliance of this work is its soothsaying qualities.
The author suggests the existence of high speed rail travel, televisions, digital watches and most noteworthy, the equality of men and women in both daily life and the workforce.
There are several similarities between the context of this book and Jules Verne's The Lost Novel: Paris in the Twentieth Century. In both fictional works, the narrator provides in assessment of modern amenities from the perspective of somebody firmly entrenched in the morays of the time and culture from which they originate.
Golf In The Year 2000 doesn't engage itself in a debate over time travel, but it does mirror many other similar works in the sense that it predicts a time very similar to our own that must have theoretically been a stretch for the author. The contemporary update of the novel features footnotes for many of the 19th century British language, and is a delight for both fans of golf and speculative literature.
Friday, April 15, 2011
AU REVOIR LES ROIS DU SACRAMENTO
While it's hardly a sacrament to move an NBA franchise (see what I did there?), I must say, today I'm feeling sorry for the people of Sacramento.
Sure, I felt bad when the city of Seattle voted against using tax dollars to replace the Key Arena, thus having the Supersonics moved to Oklahoma City, the country's 48th largest television market. However, they also have the Seahawks and Mariners to support. The Mariners have Ichiro Suzuki, arguably the best hitter of our generation and the Seahawks play in the NFL's worst division, giving prosperity to the fans with the beckoning call of each NFL season.
Sacramento has nothing.
The Colts left Baltimore in the middle of the night to the anguish of its fervent supporters. Years later, they returned as the Ravens, and despite the loss, the city had a period of adequacy at the hands of the Orioles that helped fill the void. Baltimore recovered; sure the Orioles blow, but the Ravens won a Super Bowl and have proved to be an iconic representation of a gritty, blue-collar town. Plus, Baltimore has The Wire - the best television show ever created takes place on the streets of B-More. Shout outs to McNulty and Bunk. You too Omar and Snoop. Anyways, where were we?
Sacramento has nothing.
The Kings ownership group, led by the two aloof Maloof Brothers who also own the Palms casino in Vegas, want to move the team to Orange County/ Anaheim for the 2011-12 season in hopes of generating more revenue from the multinational companies in the area. Apparently Sacramento cannot support its own club, or so the Maloofs say.
The city of Sacramento stood behind their Kings, who were transplant themselves, last moving from Kansas City to the capital of California, helping launch the careers of Chris Webber, Hedo Turkoglu, Mike Bibby, Gerald Wallace, Peja Stojakovic and many others.
During the 1990's, ARCO Arena in Sacramento was the most challenging place for opposing teams to play. Especially the Lakers, who despite the best efforts of C-Web and the gang, were always a sobering reminder of sorts to the Kings and conspiracy theorists who believed the playoffs were rigged to benefit the larger market teams and television ratings for the Finals.
Don't believe me? Think I'm blowing smoke up ye asses?
Think again.
Recall a few years back, when ex-NBA referee Tim Donaghy (no relation to Jack) was imprisoned for fixing games and betting on their results? That Irish bastard was a crook and a thief, his actions forever tarnishing the legacy of the NBA.
Do I have any evidence to support this?
You better believe it. Let's go back in time to the 2002 Western Conference Semifinals. Unfortunately, the video below does not have an embedding option, so you'll have to click on the link. Please watch it in its entirety, it is really well done.
2002 WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS - KINGS GET SCREWED
Was my claim of trickery that blasphemous? How the fuck was that a foul on Mike Bibby? Shaq could have sexually assaulted Vlade Divac's first born court side without penalty.
Let's face it. Chris Webber ran the fucking series and Vlade got hacked more in the lane than those poor boys in Jeffrey Dahmer's basement. And all the while, Tim Donaghy and Dick (Knick) Bavetta stood-by, blowing their whistles like they had a quota to meet.
Seriously? That buzzer shot at the 4:37 mark was well after the clock. Talk about a miscarriage of justice.
* Why "Knick" Bavetta?... find the link on the right to the game when Bavetta pretty much sealed a win for the New York Knicks and an undeserving loss for the Raptors.
Understand one thing - for the announcers to find fault in the officiating and point it out on national television, there must be something wrong (8:25 mark). Dismiss whatever buffoonery escapes the mouth of Bill Walton, he's an ex-Laker and a moron to boot.
And with that, the Lakers were off to dismantle the Nets and win another championship. The Kings were never the same, and today, nearly 9 years later, they are likely without an NBA franchise.
Sure, I felt bad when the city of Seattle voted against using tax dollars to replace the Key Arena, thus having the Supersonics moved to Oklahoma City, the country's 48th largest television market. However, they also have the Seahawks and Mariners to support. The Mariners have Ichiro Suzuki, arguably the best hitter of our generation and the Seahawks play in the NFL's worst division, giving prosperity to the fans with the beckoning call of each NFL season.
Sacramento has nothing.
The Colts left Baltimore in the middle of the night to the anguish of its fervent supporters. Years later, they returned as the Ravens, and despite the loss, the city had a period of adequacy at the hands of the Orioles that helped fill the void. Baltimore recovered; sure the Orioles blow, but the Ravens won a Super Bowl and have proved to be an iconic representation of a gritty, blue-collar town. Plus, Baltimore has The Wire - the best television show ever created takes place on the streets of B-More. Shout outs to McNulty and Bunk. You too Omar and Snoop. Anyways, where were we?
Sacramento has nothing.
The Kings ownership group, led by the two aloof Maloof Brothers who also own the Palms casino in Vegas, want to move the team to Orange County/ Anaheim for the 2011-12 season in hopes of generating more revenue from the multinational companies in the area. Apparently Sacramento cannot support its own club, or so the Maloofs say.
The city of Sacramento stood behind their Kings, who were transplant themselves, last moving from Kansas City to the capital of California, helping launch the careers of Chris Webber, Hedo Turkoglu, Mike Bibby, Gerald Wallace, Peja Stojakovic and many others.
During the 1990's, ARCO Arena in Sacramento was the most challenging place for opposing teams to play. Especially the Lakers, who despite the best efforts of C-Web and the gang, were always a sobering reminder of sorts to the Kings and conspiracy theorists who believed the playoffs were rigged to benefit the larger market teams and television ratings for the Finals.
Don't believe me? Think I'm blowing smoke up ye asses?
Think again.
Recall a few years back, when ex-NBA referee Tim Donaghy (no relation to Jack) was imprisoned for fixing games and betting on their results? That Irish bastard was a crook and a thief, his actions forever tarnishing the legacy of the NBA.
Do I have any evidence to support this?
You better believe it. Let's go back in time to the 2002 Western Conference Semifinals. Unfortunately, the video below does not have an embedding option, so you'll have to click on the link. Please watch it in its entirety, it is really well done.
2002 WESTERN CONFERENCE FINALS - KINGS GET SCREWED
Was my claim of trickery that blasphemous? How the fuck was that a foul on Mike Bibby? Shaq could have sexually assaulted Vlade Divac's first born court side without penalty.
Let's face it. Chris Webber ran the fucking series and Vlade got hacked more in the lane than those poor boys in Jeffrey Dahmer's basement. And all the while, Tim Donaghy and Dick (Knick) Bavetta stood-by, blowing their whistles like they had a quota to meet.
Seriously? That buzzer shot at the 4:37 mark was well after the clock. Talk about a miscarriage of justice.
* Why "Knick" Bavetta?... find the link on the right to the game when Bavetta pretty much sealed a win for the New York Knicks and an undeserving loss for the Raptors.
Understand one thing - for the announcers to find fault in the officiating and point it out on national television, there must be something wrong (8:25 mark). Dismiss whatever buffoonery escapes the mouth of Bill Walton, he's an ex-Laker and a moron to boot.
And with that, the Lakers were off to dismantle the Nets and win another championship. The Kings were never the same, and today, nearly 9 years later, they are likely without an NBA franchise.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Nutcracker
Hardly a new phenomenon, the production of Nutcracker is a Harlem tradition unlike any other - more so, what the Masters is to golf, or duct tape to kidnapping and abduction practices, Nutcracker is to the lasting heritage of the fine people of Harlem World.
I stumbled upon this article from the New York Times from September of last year, and must say, despite the battered and bruised nature of my liver and esophagus today following an experiment with fine bourbon, I'm intrigued by this.
Moonshine for the people north of the Mason-Dixon line ya!
Fuck them confederates and their bourbons and mashed whiskeys, up here, we Yankees like to mix up some Nutty in our parents basement and sell it on the block with a nug of shitty outdoor.
That's what I call a combo. Enjoy the article and check back real soon ya hear and I may have a Nutty contact or two.
IN HARLEM, A HINT OF A PREVIOUS ERA AS PEDDLERS STEALTHILY QUENCH A THIRST
I stumbled upon this article from the New York Times from September of last year, and must say, despite the battered and bruised nature of my liver and esophagus today following an experiment with fine bourbon, I'm intrigued by this.
Moonshine for the people north of the Mason-Dixon line ya!
Fuck them confederates and their bourbons and mashed whiskeys, up here, we Yankees like to mix up some Nutty in our parents basement and sell it on the block with a nug of shitty outdoor.
That's what I call a combo. Enjoy the article and check back real soon ya hear and I may have a Nutty contact or two.
IN HARLEM, A HINT OF A PREVIOUS ERA AS PEDDLERS STEALTHILY QUENCH A THIRST
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
BYU Honour Code - An Investigation
You may remember a little more than a month back, when Brigham Young University's third-leading scorer and leading rebounder Brandon Davies was kicked-off the school's men's basketball team for a violation of the school's "Honour Code."
BYU is a Mormon university in Provo, Utah, that has a code of conduct all students must agree to. All students are obligated to sign said "Honour Code" stating that it is a direct violation if a student swears, consumers tobacco, alcohol or caffeine, and takes part in any sexual activity, regardless of if it's with somebody else or alone.
That last statement pretty much eliminates anybody I've ever known from attending the school.
By booting Davies from the team, the school put ethics before athletic success and was heralded by the media as standing-up for their belief system. Sports Illustrated even went so far as to claim BYU as "America's Team".
Like Hova said, pardon me as I laugh at that, but a school built on such strong ethical standards is hardly the mirror image of a gluttonous, morbidly obese people consumed by their own consumption.
Moving on.
Don't misinterpret what I'm saying - I am not one to judge different belief systems and their standards. Nor am I one to judge a privately funded University who stipulates the importance of maintaining such ethical standards, regardless of how unrealistic they may be.
The issue I have with such decisions to at best, suspend students, is that it appears with a little investigating that specific students were singled-out based on such stipulations that do not by any means present a microcosm of the University's enrollment.
Deadspin resident wordsmith Luke O'Brien and ex-BYU professor Darren Smith have compiled all of the valid evidence, creating a well-supported case that minority student athletes, namely black athletes, were made an example of by the school.
Please take the time to click on the links below and draw your own conclusions. The main piece is brilliantly written and constructed by Mr's. O'Brien and Smith, keeping in mind that evidence is well-provided and Mr. Smith himself had an experience with the school's "Honour Code".
1). THE TRUTH ABOUT RACE, RELIGION, AND THE HONOR CODE AT BYU - DEADSPIN APRIL 13th.
2). TWO DECADES OF HONOR CODE VIOLATIONS: A GALLERY
3). IN HIS OWN WORDS: RAY HUDSON, RUNNING BACK (2004 - 06)
4). IN HIS OWN WORDS: TICO PRINGLE, DEFENSIVE BACK (2006)
BYU is a Mormon university in Provo, Utah, that has a code of conduct all students must agree to. All students are obligated to sign said "Honour Code" stating that it is a direct violation if a student swears, consumers tobacco, alcohol or caffeine, and takes part in any sexual activity, regardless of if it's with somebody else or alone.
That last statement pretty much eliminates anybody I've ever known from attending the school.
By booting Davies from the team, the school put ethics before athletic success and was heralded by the media as standing-up for their belief system. Sports Illustrated even went so far as to claim BYU as "America's Team".
Like Hova said, pardon me as I laugh at that, but a school built on such strong ethical standards is hardly the mirror image of a gluttonous, morbidly obese people consumed by their own consumption.
Moving on.
Don't misinterpret what I'm saying - I am not one to judge different belief systems and their standards. Nor am I one to judge a privately funded University who stipulates the importance of maintaining such ethical standards, regardless of how unrealistic they may be.
The issue I have with such decisions to at best, suspend students, is that it appears with a little investigating that specific students were singled-out based on such stipulations that do not by any means present a microcosm of the University's enrollment.
Deadspin resident wordsmith Luke O'Brien and ex-BYU professor Darren Smith have compiled all of the valid evidence, creating a well-supported case that minority student athletes, namely black athletes, were made an example of by the school.
Please take the time to click on the links below and draw your own conclusions. The main piece is brilliantly written and constructed by Mr's. O'Brien and Smith, keeping in mind that evidence is well-provided and Mr. Smith himself had an experience with the school's "Honour Code".
1). THE TRUTH ABOUT RACE, RELIGION, AND THE HONOR CODE AT BYU - DEADSPIN APRIL 13th.
2). TWO DECADES OF HONOR CODE VIOLATIONS: A GALLERY
3). IN HIS OWN WORDS: RAY HUDSON, RUNNING BACK (2004 - 06)
4). IN HIS OWN WORDS: TICO PRINGLE, DEFENSIVE BACK (2006)
Monday, April 11, 2011
R.I.P. FREE DARKO
A website that originated as a means of discussion for a group of childhood friends obsessed with fantasy basketball became the talisman of a long list of irreverent basketball blogs - the website is Freedarko.com and today they posted their final piece.
I have been a fan of Free Darko for years and am sad to see them go. Essentially, Free Darko started as a blogspot site that emphasized the idiosyncrasies and subtle points of professional basketball. After countless posts over the years and two successful books about the N.B.A., the site published its final post Monday.
It's fitting that the final post would be a collection of testimonials of praise from fellow basketball writers, since the two men at the helm of FreeDarko deserve to have a light shone on them much in the same way they did for many of the NBA's unheralded and under appreciated.
The site was maintained primarily by auteur extraordinaire Bethlehem Shoals (Nathaniel Friedman) and illustrator Big Baby Belafonte (Jacob Weinstein), who chose pseudonyms when the site first began, only to find it as a launching pad to greater avenues and the return to the usage of their given names. Other key contributors throughout the years include SilverBird 5000, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief and Brown Recluse Esq.
There's only so much I can convey pertaining to the brilliance of FreeDarko.com. For years it has been one of the first things I looked at each and every morning, and it has forever changed the way I look at the NBA.
If you truly love the NBA, please take the time to search their archives - it is well worth every minute spent. If you love Shoals' work, check-out the NBA playoff blog he has over at GQ.com if you have a chance.
Thanks for reading and enjoy some of Big Baby Belafonte's stuff below:
I have been a fan of Free Darko for years and am sad to see them go. Essentially, Free Darko started as a blogspot site that emphasized the idiosyncrasies and subtle points of professional basketball. After countless posts over the years and two successful books about the N.B.A., the site published its final post Monday.
It's fitting that the final post would be a collection of testimonials of praise from fellow basketball writers, since the two men at the helm of FreeDarko deserve to have a light shone on them much in the same way they did for many of the NBA's unheralded and under appreciated.
The site was maintained primarily by auteur extraordinaire Bethlehem Shoals (Nathaniel Friedman) and illustrator Big Baby Belafonte (Jacob Weinstein), who chose pseudonyms when the site first began, only to find it as a launching pad to greater avenues and the return to the usage of their given names. Other key contributors throughout the years include SilverBird 5000, Dr. Lawyer IndianChief and Brown Recluse Esq.
There's only so much I can convey pertaining to the brilliance of FreeDarko.com. For years it has been one of the first things I looked at each and every morning, and it has forever changed the way I look at the NBA.
If you truly love the NBA, please take the time to search their archives - it is well worth every minute spent. If you love Shoals' work, check-out the NBA playoff blog he has over at GQ.com if you have a chance.
Thanks for reading and enjoy some of Big Baby Belafonte's stuff below:
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Lightning - As Described By A 14-Year Old Girl
Hey whaddup girls - time for a totally rad science lesson from the smartest girl ever who is totally 14 and loves wearing Uggs with shorts LOL!!!
So, this morning I totally awoke to the sounds of lightning. Holy friggin' loud - could you keep it down a notch, somebody's trying to sleep. I was totally getting to second base with Nick Jonas in this dream I was having and his sticky digits were half-way up my new training bra. FML!
The lightning was literally the loudest thing ever and had me thinking, what's the deal with lightning anyways.
Just like when I heard rumours of a supposed locking of the lips with my BF Bieber and that Mexican whore Selena Gomez, I turned to the my hot pink Dell notebook and the internet for some guidance.
Like, Control, Alt, Delete this friggin' lightning LOL AMIRITE???
So, as it turns out, lightning is a product of static electricity. Just like when I wear that ratty toque Grandma Esther knitted me and it makes my hair all frizzy - like, really, I need a sponsorship deal with John Frieda's Frizz Ease like yesterday!!!!!!!
Either that or a new Grandma LOL AMIRITE girls???
In the warmer months, the air (atmosphere bitch!) has more variance of temperatures, so like the hot air totally tries to rise to the top and friggin' rubs-up against the cooler air like Josh did at the school dance when we listened to Coldplay and he totally got a boner in his khakis hehe LOL FML!!!
So when the warm air comes into contact with the cool air, it makes static electricity, which makes friggin' lightning duhhhh!!!!
This happens way less in the cooler months because there is less variance in the temperature and density of the air.
Bieber Rules - Lightning Sucks
Love xox Hilary Madison Smith xox
P.S. Nick Jonas' solo album is totally musically diverse... it's totally like the Jonas Brothers but without Kevin and Joe AMIRITE???
P.S.S. Somebody should totally throw that tortilla-making tunnel digger Selena in front of a bus LOL.
So, this morning I totally awoke to the sounds of lightning. Holy friggin' loud - could you keep it down a notch, somebody's trying to sleep. I was totally getting to second base with Nick Jonas in this dream I was having and his sticky digits were half-way up my new training bra. FML!
The lightning was literally the loudest thing ever and had me thinking, what's the deal with lightning anyways.
Just like when I heard rumours of a supposed locking of the lips with my BF Bieber and that Mexican whore Selena Gomez, I turned to the my hot pink Dell notebook and the internet for some guidance.
Like, Control, Alt, Delete this friggin' lightning LOL AMIRITE???
So, as it turns out, lightning is a product of static electricity. Just like when I wear that ratty toque Grandma Esther knitted me and it makes my hair all frizzy - like, really, I need a sponsorship deal with John Frieda's Frizz Ease like yesterday!!!!!!!
Either that or a new Grandma LOL AMIRITE girls???
In the warmer months, the air (atmosphere bitch!) has more variance of temperatures, so like the hot air totally tries to rise to the top and friggin' rubs-up against the cooler air like Josh did at the school dance when we listened to Coldplay and he totally got a boner in his khakis hehe LOL FML!!!
So when the warm air comes into contact with the cool air, it makes static electricity, which makes friggin' lightning duhhhh!!!!
This happens way less in the cooler months because there is less variance in the temperature and density of the air.
Bieber Rules - Lightning Sucks
Love xox Hilary Madison Smith xox
P.S. Nick Jonas' solo album is totally musically diverse... it's totally like the Jonas Brothers but without Kevin and Joe AMIRITE???
P.S.S. Somebody should totally throw that tortilla-making tunnel digger Selena in front of a bus LOL.
Paris To Roubaix - Results and Video
Belgian Johan Van Summeren claimed his first Paris To Roubaix win with a torrid kick over the final stages to capture a surprise victory for an unsung member of one of cycling stronger squads.
Van Summeren completed the 258km-long course in six hours seven minutes and 28 seconds.
The Team Garmin rider created a gap with 13 km remaining to beat perennial favourite and Swiss rider Fabian Cancellara, who narrowly edged out Dutchman Maarten Tjallingii and countrymen Gregory Rast (see video hyperlinked below for footage from the final kilometre.
Paris To Roubaix 2011 Top Ten:
1. Johan van Summeren (Bel/Garmin) 6hrs 07mins 28secs
2. Fabian Cancellara (Swi/Leopard) +19 seconds
3. Maarten Tjallingii (Ned/Rabobank) same time
4. Gregory Rast (Swi/RadioShack) same time
5. Lars Bak (Den/HTC-Highroad) +21 seconds
6. Alessandro Ballan (Ita/BMC Racing) +36 seconds
7. Bernhard Eisel (Aut/HTC - Highroad) +47 seconds
8. Thor Hushovd (Nor/Garmin) same time
9. Juan Antonio Flecha (Spn/Team Sky) same time
10. Mathew Hayman (Aus/Team Sky) same time
The race had plenty of torn lycra, bloodied knees and horrific crashes for the thousands who lined the course, including a narrow escape from the path of a motorcycle by two of cycling's heavy hitters, Cancellara and Thor Hushovd. The near frightening moment is captured below, at the 3:25 mark, during one of the final cobblestone stretches on the passage of the Carrefour Des Arbres.
CARREFOUR DES ARBRES - A LATE COBBLESTONE STRETCH
LINKS TO OTHER FOOTAGE:
TOM BOONEN AND OTHER CRASH WITH 68KM LEFT (INCL. CANADIAN MICHAEL BARRY:
CANCELLARA, HUSHOVD AND BALLAN ATTACK:
FINAL KILOMETRE - VELODROME FINISH (ROUBAIX)
UPDATE:
As a little icing on the cake of an upset win for the Belgian, he proposed to his girlfriend at the finish line - she said yes.
Van Summeren completed the 258km-long course in six hours seven minutes and 28 seconds.
The Team Garmin rider created a gap with 13 km remaining to beat perennial favourite and Swiss rider Fabian Cancellara, who narrowly edged out Dutchman Maarten Tjallingii and countrymen Gregory Rast (see video hyperlinked below for footage from the final kilometre.
Paris To Roubaix 2011 Top Ten:
1. Johan van Summeren (Bel/Garmin) 6hrs 07mins 28secs
2. Fabian Cancellara (Swi/Leopard) +19 seconds
3. Maarten Tjallingii (Ned/Rabobank) same time
4. Gregory Rast (Swi/RadioShack) same time
5. Lars Bak (Den/HTC-Highroad) +21 seconds
6. Alessandro Ballan (Ita/BMC Racing) +36 seconds
7. Bernhard Eisel (Aut/HTC - Highroad) +47 seconds
8. Thor Hushovd (Nor/Garmin) same time
9. Juan Antonio Flecha (Spn/Team Sky) same time
10. Mathew Hayman (Aus/Team Sky) same time
The race had plenty of torn lycra, bloodied knees and horrific crashes for the thousands who lined the course, including a narrow escape from the path of a motorcycle by two of cycling's heavy hitters, Cancellara and Thor Hushovd. The near frightening moment is captured below, at the 3:25 mark, during one of the final cobblestone stretches on the passage of the Carrefour Des Arbres.
CARREFOUR DES ARBRES - A LATE COBBLESTONE STRETCH
LINKS TO OTHER FOOTAGE:
TOM BOONEN AND OTHER CRASH WITH 68KM LEFT (INCL. CANADIAN MICHAEL BARRY:
CANCELLARA, HUSHOVD AND BALLAN ATTACK:
FINAL KILOMETRE - VELODROME FINISH (ROUBAIX)
UPDATE:
As a little icing on the cake of an upset win for the Belgian, he proposed to his girlfriend at the finish line - she said yes.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Suspend Nick Swisher
Let me preface this brief post by providing two key variable;
1) I hate the fuckin' New York Yankees.
2) I participate in an extremely hardcore and labour intensive online Fantasy Baseball league with 11 other gentlemen from all over the U.S.
My first round pick Evan Longoria had been shelved for 15 days, and Twins 2nd Baseman Tsuyoshi Nishioka was performing adequately in his place.
This league does not a designated slot for disabled lists, so you can see the problem I face especially considering I own Rockies hurler Ubaldo Jimenez who is also on the 15 day DL.
With those variables considered, I must also preface the following video by saying I played baseball for years. I understand the existence of an unwritten rule stating that a baserunner should do everything within the rules to disrupt an opposing player at a base.
Yankees troglodyte Nick Swisher does more than this, sliding well off the base path, sweeping, rather kicking his leg, striking the Twins player in the patella and shattering his fibula.
Fucking prick.
Also, Nishioka was playing in only his 5th game as a Twinkie since signing from Japan where he was a perennial All-Star and all-around nice guy.
Post-game, Swisher met with Nishioka following a positive X-Ray result. The Twins 2nd baseman said he had no hard feelings against Swisher, a sentiment that was echoed by other Twins players and longtime manager Rod Gardenhire.
Regardless, this was a scrappy play taken a little to far.
Nonetheless, Nick Swisher is a prick and the Yankess suck.
1) I hate the fuckin' New York Yankees.
2) I participate in an extremely hardcore and labour intensive online Fantasy Baseball league with 11 other gentlemen from all over the U.S.
My first round pick Evan Longoria had been shelved for 15 days, and Twins 2nd Baseman Tsuyoshi Nishioka was performing adequately in his place.
This league does not a designated slot for disabled lists, so you can see the problem I face especially considering I own Rockies hurler Ubaldo Jimenez who is also on the 15 day DL.
With those variables considered, I must also preface the following video by saying I played baseball for years. I understand the existence of an unwritten rule stating that a baserunner should do everything within the rules to disrupt an opposing player at a base.
Yankees troglodyte Nick Swisher does more than this, sliding well off the base path, sweeping, rather kicking his leg, striking the Twins player in the patella and shattering his fibula.
Fucking prick.
Also, Nishioka was playing in only his 5th game as a Twinkie since signing from Japan where he was a perennial All-Star and all-around nice guy.
Post-game, Swisher met with Nishioka following a positive X-Ray result. The Twins 2nd baseman said he had no hard feelings against Swisher, a sentiment that was echoed by other Twins players and longtime manager Rod Gardenhire.
Regardless, this was a scrappy play taken a little to far.
Nonetheless, Nick Swisher is a prick and the Yankess suck.
Where Amazing Happens Sometimes: Interpretations of Rules
Greetings loyal fans;
Today, I would like to focus on something that I've mentioned here once before - the inconsistent interpretation of rules by officials in the NBA.
Yes, today will be another post about sports, a post with a lighthearted approach - my apologies to all those who are enamoured with reading about the prevalence of concussions or grammatical and syntax errors.
One of the problems with the NBA is the consistency with which some calls are made, and others are not. The charge/block call has become such a marginal decision that it's as subjective as asking somebody what their favourite film is.
Since the elimination of hand checks in the late 90's/early 00's, the emphasis has been put on offense, and more often than not, the benefit of the doubt goes towards the player with the ball. I imagine Commissioner David Stern's logic is that fans will stop showing-up in droves to watch a team of defensive stoppers like the Grizzlies' Shane Battier and Tony Allen, but would arrive court side an hour early at half-mast for a team of shooters like the Golden State Warriors, who couldn't spell the word if you gave them a DE followed by a FENCE.
Which reminds me, David Stern is a brilliant man and a genius in sales. He could sell a fence to his next door neighbour if need be.
Anywho - where was I?
A hierarchy in the NBA exists where a veteran like Dwyane Wade can penetrate and always expect a foul to be called in his favour, while a rookie or fringe player will have that same call whistled against him. Michael Jordan thrived on this double standard.
One rule that I wish was more consistently enforced is the 10-second violation for foul shooters. According to NBA rules, once the player is handed the ball by the referee whilst standing at the charity stripe, he has 10 seconds to shoot his free throw.
Orlando's talismanic centre Dwight Howard has been called on it a few times, but nonetheless, not consistently enough to dissuade him from continuing the practice of setting-up shop at the line and spending 15 seconds to mentally prepare himself for a brick.
During the Christmas Day matinee tilt between Howard's underachieving Magic and the Boston Celtics, it seems Paul Pierce was aware of this rules infraction, and like myself, wanted to take a proactive stance concerning it - watch Pierce at the :43 second mark:
I'm as surprised that Howard didn't chuck the ball in Pierce's direction as I am that Glen "Big Baby" Davis didn't crack his trademark sheepish grin while standing on the line and witnessing P-Squares' actions.
Further, it seems the rest of the league has caught on, and even Bobcats rookie Gerlad Henderson had the cohones to point out Howard's obvious rules infraction to an official on Wednesday night:
Damn I love the NBA and the subtle displays by some of its players.
Today, I would like to focus on something that I've mentioned here once before - the inconsistent interpretation of rules by officials in the NBA.
Yes, today will be another post about sports, a post with a lighthearted approach - my apologies to all those who are enamoured with reading about the prevalence of concussions or grammatical and syntax errors.
One of the problems with the NBA is the consistency with which some calls are made, and others are not. The charge/block call has become such a marginal decision that it's as subjective as asking somebody what their favourite film is.
Since the elimination of hand checks in the late 90's/early 00's, the emphasis has been put on offense, and more often than not, the benefit of the doubt goes towards the player with the ball. I imagine Commissioner David Stern's logic is that fans will stop showing-up in droves to watch a team of defensive stoppers like the Grizzlies' Shane Battier and Tony Allen, but would arrive court side an hour early at half-mast for a team of shooters like the Golden State Warriors, who couldn't spell the word if you gave them a DE followed by a FENCE.
Which reminds me, David Stern is a brilliant man and a genius in sales. He could sell a fence to his next door neighbour if need be.
Anywho - where was I?
A hierarchy in the NBA exists where a veteran like Dwyane Wade can penetrate and always expect a foul to be called in his favour, while a rookie or fringe player will have that same call whistled against him. Michael Jordan thrived on this double standard.
One rule that I wish was more consistently enforced is the 10-second violation for foul shooters. According to NBA rules, once the player is handed the ball by the referee whilst standing at the charity stripe, he has 10 seconds to shoot his free throw.
Orlando's talismanic centre Dwight Howard has been called on it a few times, but nonetheless, not consistently enough to dissuade him from continuing the practice of setting-up shop at the line and spending 15 seconds to mentally prepare himself for a brick.
During the Christmas Day matinee tilt between Howard's underachieving Magic and the Boston Celtics, it seems Paul Pierce was aware of this rules infraction, and like myself, wanted to take a proactive stance concerning it - watch Pierce at the :43 second mark:
I'm as surprised that Howard didn't chuck the ball in Pierce's direction as I am that Glen "Big Baby" Davis didn't crack his trademark sheepish grin while standing on the line and witnessing P-Squares' actions.
Further, it seems the rest of the league has caught on, and even Bobcats rookie Gerlad Henderson had the cohones to point out Howard's obvious rules infraction to an official on Wednesday night:
Damn I love the NBA and the subtle displays by some of its players.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Paris To Roubaix
Without a doubt, one of my favourite events on the sports calendar is Paris to Roubaix, a gruelling one-day cycling race commonly referred to as 'Hell of the North'.
Since its inception in 1896, the race started in Paris and finished in Roubaix, Belgium, only to have the starting position moved 60km north-east of Paris centre to Compiegne in 1968. The race is an annual staple of the cycling campaign and typically takes place on a mid-April weekend.
I recall vividly a year ago today, sitting in my hotel room in the Montparnasse arrondissement of Paris, plotting my means of travel to Compiegne, only to run out of time as I left my preparations short. My life is nothing if not consistent.
Having long been intrigued by cycling, I fell in love with Paris to Roubaix years ago when my friend and avid cyclist Marty let me borrow the DVD Road To Roubaix. Below is the trailer to the DVD.
,
The terrain, notably the 27 cobblestone paths (setts), make the race as challenging as it is rewarding, an achievement of a lifetime for many riders, and a joke to others.
The course is maintained annually by a collective group of volunteers known as Les Amis de Paris-Roubaix who formed in 1983 to preserve the tradition of the race and ensure the quality of the course and the safety of the riders. For North Americans, it's can be difficult to fully graps the passion much of Europe has for cycling. In many of the western European nations, cycling is more than a sport, but a way of life. For the people of the North and Belgium, Paris To Roubaix is their World Cup.
This year's installment of Paris To Roubaix takes place this Sunday with American sports channel Versus providing coverage. In Canada, you won't find the race on your dial, so I suggest visiting either www.cycling.tv or www.steephill.tv for live streaming video, highlights and interviews.
Here's a wrap-up of last year's race provided by Versus.
Thanks for reading folks - I hope some of you have the chance to check-out the race, and if not, I'll be sure to post a results video as soon as it is made available.
Since its inception in 1896, the race started in Paris and finished in Roubaix, Belgium, only to have the starting position moved 60km north-east of Paris centre to Compiegne in 1968. The race is an annual staple of the cycling campaign and typically takes place on a mid-April weekend.
I recall vividly a year ago today, sitting in my hotel room in the Montparnasse arrondissement of Paris, plotting my means of travel to Compiegne, only to run out of time as I left my preparations short. My life is nothing if not consistent.
Having long been intrigued by cycling, I fell in love with Paris to Roubaix years ago when my friend and avid cyclist Marty let me borrow the DVD Road To Roubaix. Below is the trailer to the DVD.
,
The terrain, notably the 27 cobblestone paths (setts), make the race as challenging as it is rewarding, an achievement of a lifetime for many riders, and a joke to others.
The course is maintained annually by a collective group of volunteers known as Les Amis de Paris-Roubaix who formed in 1983 to preserve the tradition of the race and ensure the quality of the course and the safety of the riders. For North Americans, it's can be difficult to fully graps the passion much of Europe has for cycling. In many of the western European nations, cycling is more than a sport, but a way of life. For the people of the North and Belgium, Paris To Roubaix is their World Cup.
This year's installment of Paris To Roubaix takes place this Sunday with American sports channel Versus providing coverage. In Canada, you won't find the race on your dial, so I suggest visiting either www.cycling.tv or www.steephill.tv for live streaming video, highlights and interviews.
Here's a wrap-up of last year's race provided by Versus.
Thanks for reading folks - I hope some of you have the chance to check-out the race, and if not, I'll be sure to post a results video as soon as it is made available.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Concussions
Last week ex-NHLer Keith Primeau discussed the problems of concussions as part of a panel investigating the negative consequences of head trauma in sports. Primeau expressed a desire to have a better understanding of what exactly constitutes a concussion, and what are both the short and long-term causes of such trauma. He also expressed fears of growing old prematurely and suffering from Alzheimer's as a result of a half dozen known concussions he'd suffered throughout his career.
He has joined the growing list of professional and amateur athletes who have pledged to have their brains donated to science.
In the past, professional athletes would go to great lengths to hide the fact that they had suffered a concussion, fearing that it might reduce the amount of playing time or dissuade management from re-signing the individual.
In hopes of not making a sweeping generalization of sorts, many men, especially professional athletes, have more pride than is good for one person. This pride manifests itself when it comes to injuries and how they're interpreted by the team, management and fans.
These are but a few reasons why in the past, pro athletes have chosen to disregard the consequences of trauma to the head.
The scientific understanding of concussions has also evolved over the last decade, and now even Major League Baseball has a mandatory 7-day disabled list for its athletes that suffer a concussion. Without a doubt, American football and hockey are clearly the flag bearers for the concussion issue in this new era of introspective reasoning, but studies show that a large number of soccer players unknowingly suffer concussions, especially younger children, as a result of heading the ball improperly.
Minnesota Twins 1st baseman and British Columbia native Justin Morneau missed the better part of last season with concussion-like symptoms stemming from a collision with Jays shortstop John McDonald. Only the January was he able to begin fielding balls and participating in light workouts.
Professional leagues have, and must take further steps, to ensure the safety of their players.
Sidney Crosby has been out since suffering trauma to the head in Pittsburgh's first two games in January. He continues to experience the same concussion-like symptoms that shelved Morneau for nearly 8 months. The NHL desperately needs its Ovechkins and Crosbys to continue scraping-by in the sun belt states that have showed an aversion to the game despite Commissioner Gary Bettman's vast expansionary moves.
The leagues need their stars to be fit and ready to play, and beyond that, fit to lead prosperous lives after they retire.
The Dave Duerson story is a sad reminder of the negative consequences of veiling traumatic injuries suffered while playing.
In today's Globe & Mail, sportswriter Allan Maki put together a well written piece about the Canadian Football League, its stance on concussions relative to the University of North Carolina study and the grim reminder that pro athletes face lives of pain and mental anguish following their playing days.
CFL veteran Doug Brown says it best in the article - enjoy.
Life Expectancy of 55 Shocks CFLers Into Push for Safety - Globe & Mail
He has joined the growing list of professional and amateur athletes who have pledged to have their brains donated to science.
In the past, professional athletes would go to great lengths to hide the fact that they had suffered a concussion, fearing that it might reduce the amount of playing time or dissuade management from re-signing the individual.
In hopes of not making a sweeping generalization of sorts, many men, especially professional athletes, have more pride than is good for one person. This pride manifests itself when it comes to injuries and how they're interpreted by the team, management and fans.
These are but a few reasons why in the past, pro athletes have chosen to disregard the consequences of trauma to the head.
The scientific understanding of concussions has also evolved over the last decade, and now even Major League Baseball has a mandatory 7-day disabled list for its athletes that suffer a concussion. Without a doubt, American football and hockey are clearly the flag bearers for the concussion issue in this new era of introspective reasoning, but studies show that a large number of soccer players unknowingly suffer concussions, especially younger children, as a result of heading the ball improperly.
Minnesota Twins 1st baseman and British Columbia native Justin Morneau missed the better part of last season with concussion-like symptoms stemming from a collision with Jays shortstop John McDonald. Only the January was he able to begin fielding balls and participating in light workouts.
Professional leagues have, and must take further steps, to ensure the safety of their players.
Sidney Crosby has been out since suffering trauma to the head in Pittsburgh's first two games in January. He continues to experience the same concussion-like symptoms that shelved Morneau for nearly 8 months. The NHL desperately needs its Ovechkins and Crosbys to continue scraping-by in the sun belt states that have showed an aversion to the game despite Commissioner Gary Bettman's vast expansionary moves.
The leagues need their stars to be fit and ready to play, and beyond that, fit to lead prosperous lives after they retire.
The Dave Duerson story is a sad reminder of the negative consequences of veiling traumatic injuries suffered while playing.
In today's Globe & Mail, sportswriter Allan Maki put together a well written piece about the Canadian Football League, its stance on concussions relative to the University of North Carolina study and the grim reminder that pro athletes face lives of pain and mental anguish following their playing days.
CFL veteran Doug Brown says it best in the article - enjoy.
Life Expectancy of 55 Shocks CFLers Into Push for Safety - Globe & Mail
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Treevenge: A Film Short
Greetings to the motley crew of rapscallions, petty thieves, sex offenders, perverts, and the legally blind that flock by the thousands daily to this website - your commitment has not gone unnoticed.
Thanks to you, I am now able to monetize the site by inserting subtle Google ads, allowing me to forsake my dreams of becoming an oceanographer to put the entirety of my focus and energies towards this site.
Imagine my delight when I received a check for $0.31 this morning.
I know what you're thinking; I'm probably going to cash it and buy 5 mini sour keys. Well my friend(s), you'd be wrong as fuck - I'm going to buy that commemorative $2 multi chromatic bill celebrating America's National Parks as seen on late-night television and have it sealed in a melamine casing that will forever preserve its value.
Fuck investing in an ever-growing resource like gold when I can buy a bank note of less value than a dog-eared and coffee stained Sergei Berezin rookie card.
My apologies for running off on a tangent there, but I wanted to throw a little filler your ways since today's post is nothing more than the embedding of a 16 minute short video by Jason Eisner, the Canadian responsible for Hobo With A Shotgun.
Mr. Eisner entered a contest in conjunction with the 2009 South By Southwest festival to create a short film, only to win the competition and have it optioned for major theatrical release.
The short, titled "Treevenge", couldn't be more Canadian if it starred Anne Murray and Burton Cummings as feuding parents of twin, ginger Minor Bantam hockey hosers played by Eugene Levy and Rick Moranis.
Anyways, enjoy the short and hopefully I'll have something of a higher intellectual standard for my followers foaming at the mouth for the byzantine content of norm.
Thanks to you, I am now able to monetize the site by inserting subtle Google ads, allowing me to forsake my dreams of becoming an oceanographer to put the entirety of my focus and energies towards this site.
Imagine my delight when I received a check for $0.31 this morning.
I know what you're thinking; I'm probably going to cash it and buy 5 mini sour keys. Well my friend(s), you'd be wrong as fuck - I'm going to buy that commemorative $2 multi chromatic bill celebrating America's National Parks as seen on late-night television and have it sealed in a melamine casing that will forever preserve its value.
Fuck investing in an ever-growing resource like gold when I can buy a bank note of less value than a dog-eared and coffee stained Sergei Berezin rookie card.
My apologies for running off on a tangent there, but I wanted to throw a little filler your ways since today's post is nothing more than the embedding of a 16 minute short video by Jason Eisner, the Canadian responsible for Hobo With A Shotgun.
Mr. Eisner entered a contest in conjunction with the 2009 South By Southwest festival to create a short film, only to win the competition and have it optioned for major theatrical release.
The short, titled "Treevenge", couldn't be more Canadian if it starred Anne Murray and Burton Cummings as feuding parents of twin, ginger Minor Bantam hockey hosers played by Eugene Levy and Rick Moranis.
Anyways, enjoy the short and hopefully I'll have something of a higher intellectual standard for my followers foaming at the mouth for the byzantine content of norm.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Ruminations 17.0
Hey kids,
Don't have a whole heck of a lot to say today. It's 10:10pm here in the big city and it has just now began to snow. Seriously - it's starting to snow.
Needless to say, this wasn't on today's forecast. Must be that bloody unpredictable lake effect again. For chrissakes, I skated to Shoppers today to grab some Q-Tips and a pack of Zags with a seasonal spring wind at my back. A few hours later, Mother Nature has reared her menopausal spotted head in this direction and it's covering the grass I raked just hours ago with a light blanket of fresh snow. Fuck.
Anyways...
Recall a little while back I was penning a short story about time travel for the Star's fiction competition. Well, I hit an obstacle or few and instead decided to submit a story about an African-American playing professional basketball in French and his slow acclimatization to the better way.
Needless to say, it was pretty shit and will never be published on this very site.
Regardless, I did a fair bit of research on a specific understanding (see variation) of time travel for the story, and have continued delving deeper into these concepts when the time permits. Without a grasp of either science or math, I find myself reading and re-reading the same articles ad nauseum.
As a result I have just tonight started reading H.G Wells' Time Machine again, for the first time since I was around 13.
When I'm done I plan on doing a little something something on the man that is remembered for 4 works of science fiction, and as remembered, I mean widely criticized, despite writing 4 million words of fiction and 8 million words of journalism throughout his career.
His work is now considered to be novice and ideologically driven, but take my word for it, I'm a chapter and a half in a fuck is this way more exciting than the first time I read it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For those of you at work looking to kill a few hours, somebody has gratefully organized a Wikipedia page detailing some of the more bizarre means of dying.
It's a hoot.
Wikipedia Bizarre Death Registry
Check-out the one from 1993 of the Toronto Lawyer and his run-in at the Toronto Dominion Centre.
Thanks for reading - stay fit and have fun - Bodybreak!
Don't have a whole heck of a lot to say today. It's 10:10pm here in the big city and it has just now began to snow. Seriously - it's starting to snow.
Needless to say, this wasn't on today's forecast. Must be that bloody unpredictable lake effect again. For chrissakes, I skated to Shoppers today to grab some Q-Tips and a pack of Zags with a seasonal spring wind at my back. A few hours later, Mother Nature has reared her menopausal spotted head in this direction and it's covering the grass I raked just hours ago with a light blanket of fresh snow. Fuck.
Anyways...
Recall a little while back I was penning a short story about time travel for the Star's fiction competition. Well, I hit an obstacle or few and instead decided to submit a story about an African-American playing professional basketball in French and his slow acclimatization to the better way.
Needless to say, it was pretty shit and will never be published on this very site.
Regardless, I did a fair bit of research on a specific understanding (see variation) of time travel for the story, and have continued delving deeper into these concepts when the time permits. Without a grasp of either science or math, I find myself reading and re-reading the same articles ad nauseum.
As a result I have just tonight started reading H.G Wells' Time Machine again, for the first time since I was around 13.
When I'm done I plan on doing a little something something on the man that is remembered for 4 works of science fiction, and as remembered, I mean widely criticized, despite writing 4 million words of fiction and 8 million words of journalism throughout his career.
His work is now considered to be novice and ideologically driven, but take my word for it, I'm a chapter and a half in a fuck is this way more exciting than the first time I read it.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For those of you at work looking to kill a few hours, somebody has gratefully organized a Wikipedia page detailing some of the more bizarre means of dying.
It's a hoot.
Wikipedia Bizarre Death Registry
Check-out the one from 1993 of the Toronto Lawyer and his run-in at the Toronto Dominion Centre.
Thanks for reading - stay fit and have fun - Bodybreak!
Friday, April 1, 2011
The King of Walks - Barry Bonds
Those who know me well - beyond the semi-anonymous veil of the internet that protects my true identity - will acknowledge that I am a baseball junkie.
Last night, I took part in my second online fantasy draft of the week, this time with some of my fellow Deadspin commenteriat, and I was so enveloped in the enjoyment of sifting through middle relievers and their stats that I hardly noticed 3hours of my life had just passed me by.
The season started yesterday, and despite the difficult weather conditions for baseball, I soaked it all in as if it were opening day 1985 and I sat with my mother at Exhibition stadium fawning over my favorite Blue Jays.
Being a baseball fanatic these last few years has been a challenge. For some reason, the U.S. Supreme Court has stepped in with their Mitchell Report and started imposing their will on Major League Baseball, having not just athletes, but the stars that carried the game speak under oath concerning performance enhancing drugs that WEREN'T EVEN ILLEGAL when they were allegedly used.
This situation has forced many of this generation's stars to swallow their pride and admit to the usage of drugs that despite being completely legal at the time, are considered an ethical injustice with regards to the puritanical traditions of baseball.
Forget the fact that following the lockout in the 90's, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa's efforts to smash Roger Maris' home-run record of 61 completely revitalized the game and brought-back the interest of the national audience.
Forget the fact that the allure of the 'Home-Run' generation of Major League Baseball spiked both attendance and viewership numbers. All of this is irrelevant when considering the archaic means MLB and its owners use when governing the game.
Forget the fact that the use of drugs are not the only means of bettering a player, and that Tommy John surgery repairs a pticher's elbow by taking a tendon from the leg and inserting it in the arm. Sure, Human Growth Hormone, which is used to allow the body to rehabilitate quicker is taboo, but taking a piece of your leg and putting in your fucking arm is perfectly okay.
And finally, please forget the fact that these men care about their legacies and image, and sometimes have too much pride to admit their fault. We canonize the likes of former Yankees starter Andy Pettitte for admitting his errors when cornered, but burn others at the stake for hiding the truth - something I believe most of us would identify with if put in a similar position.
It's baseball.
Motherfucking baseball folks - take a step back and realize the athletes are only trying to better themselves both for their personal gain, and OUR ENJOYMENT. They are the ones selling tickets, not the pasty fat cats in the press boxes whose parents left them the team or bought it themselves following the Dot Com boom of the late 90's.
FUCK.
I just wanted to let off a little steam, but I can't help but be a little sad, that the best pitcher of our generation, Roger Clemens, has perjured himself in court by lying about his HGH use, and the greatest hitter I've ever seen is currently embroiled in a courtroom drama similar to that of Mr. Clemens.
I could go on and on about the Bonds trial, but Ben McGrath at the New Yorker has done an impeccable job of it so why not click on the link below ad enjoy a brilliant article that covers the entire thing in-depth.
King Of Walks - New Yorker
Enjoy and thanks for reading.
Last night, I took part in my second online fantasy draft of the week, this time with some of my fellow Deadspin commenteriat, and I was so enveloped in the enjoyment of sifting through middle relievers and their stats that I hardly noticed 3hours of my life had just passed me by.
The season started yesterday, and despite the difficult weather conditions for baseball, I soaked it all in as if it were opening day 1985 and I sat with my mother at Exhibition stadium fawning over my favorite Blue Jays.
Being a baseball fanatic these last few years has been a challenge. For some reason, the U.S. Supreme Court has stepped in with their Mitchell Report and started imposing their will on Major League Baseball, having not just athletes, but the stars that carried the game speak under oath concerning performance enhancing drugs that WEREN'T EVEN ILLEGAL when they were allegedly used.
This situation has forced many of this generation's stars to swallow their pride and admit to the usage of drugs that despite being completely legal at the time, are considered an ethical injustice with regards to the puritanical traditions of baseball.
Forget the fact that following the lockout in the 90's, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa's efforts to smash Roger Maris' home-run record of 61 completely revitalized the game and brought-back the interest of the national audience.
Forget the fact that the allure of the 'Home-Run' generation of Major League Baseball spiked both attendance and viewership numbers. All of this is irrelevant when considering the archaic means MLB and its owners use when governing the game.
Forget the fact that the use of drugs are not the only means of bettering a player, and that Tommy John surgery repairs a pticher's elbow by taking a tendon from the leg and inserting it in the arm. Sure, Human Growth Hormone, which is used to allow the body to rehabilitate quicker is taboo, but taking a piece of your leg and putting in your fucking arm is perfectly okay.
And finally, please forget the fact that these men care about their legacies and image, and sometimes have too much pride to admit their fault. We canonize the likes of former Yankees starter Andy Pettitte for admitting his errors when cornered, but burn others at the stake for hiding the truth - something I believe most of us would identify with if put in a similar position.
It's baseball.
Motherfucking baseball folks - take a step back and realize the athletes are only trying to better themselves both for their personal gain, and OUR ENJOYMENT. They are the ones selling tickets, not the pasty fat cats in the press boxes whose parents left them the team or bought it themselves following the Dot Com boom of the late 90's.
FUCK.
I just wanted to let off a little steam, but I can't help but be a little sad, that the best pitcher of our generation, Roger Clemens, has perjured himself in court by lying about his HGH use, and the greatest hitter I've ever seen is currently embroiled in a courtroom drama similar to that of Mr. Clemens.
I could go on and on about the Bonds trial, but Ben McGrath at the New Yorker has done an impeccable job of it so why not click on the link below ad enjoy a brilliant article that covers the entire thing in-depth.
King Of Walks - New Yorker
Enjoy and thanks for reading.
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