Why is a unique name so memorable for a sports figure? Why do I smile when I hear the name Coco Crisp? The Crisps of the world aside, what I want to talk about today are athletes with names that only make their achievements all the greater. Today I will start a sporadic smattering of posts dedicated to such heroes.
Dick Mast: Maybe this is a poor starting point. Maybe Dick Mast is actually a good name to have . . . off the golf course. Yet, on the golf course I imagine this name leads to a lot of unruly peanut gallery comments and mental second-guessing on Mast’s part: “This putt will win it for me, Mr. Dick Mast. . . do people make fun of that name? Why won’t people call me Richard” . . . ooops, missed putt. As you can see from his career stats, Dick Mast never made it to the pinnacle of his profession. He will only go down in golf lore for his unfortunate name.
Jack Glasscock: Not only is this guy’s name “Glasscock” but he has the balls to put “Jack” before it. Granted, glasscock could have had completely different connotations in the early 1900s, but I doubt it. Although the name didn’t bother him all that much, he was the NL batting champion in 1890 (but as a recent trip to Cincy’s Great American Ball Park taught me: that title ain’t saying much). Just imagine every time you struck out on an underhand pitch, someone from the stands yelling, “Ehhhhh, good job ole’ glasscock.”
“Paul Monea was a business man who once made some money selling TaeBo workout tapes featuring none other than Billy Blanks…One of his purchases was the former home of Mike Tyson in 1999 for the price of 1.3 million. Tyson had since moved to Vegas and the home was For Sale. Monea didn’t buy it because he needed a home… he already had a much nicer home. I suppose it was to be an investment property? Regardless, from what I understand he never lived in the home. There was a period of time in 2005 when it was for sale on Ebay, but the home didn’t sell.”
See the rest of the pics here, and maybe read the rest of the accompanying text. The narrative and visuals are like a less tragic, more pathetic and sort of funnier trip through Kane’s Xanadu. But instead of the crumbling remains of an empire built by a newspaper magnate to himself, it’s the crumbling remains of a tacky mansion (with a sundae bar!) abandoned by a disgraced, bankrupt superstar and bought by a guy who made his green from inventing a form of power-aerobics popular with people waiting in long Wal-Mart lines.
Bonus Preview Featurette: Opening shot from as-yet-untitled Kane-style TV movie about Tyson– a slow track back from that pathetic tree (above), capturing a single leaf falling, with the sound of the leaf hitting the floor as loud or louder than any other element on the soundtrack.
Bonus Fun Fact: That tree is the second most pathetic tree I’ve ever seen.
Congratulations to Jon Bon Jovi, whose Philadelphia Soul won the Arena Bowl on Sunday. While many probably see the AB as an indication that NFL training camps are starting, the Bon Jovi household is celebrating its latest addition of hardware. Here’s to another season of Arena League football!
This idea comes from the poetic ramblings of Seamus McGee. Here is, transcribed below, his ramblings reproduced with an incredibly high amount of fidelity:
This has been gone over. Over and over again and again. People know this. People feel it in their blood and their other bodily portions. It is not a surprise. And yet. And yet Roger Clemens won the Cy Young in 2001. It happened. No one cared that the five people who finished behind him all had better ERAs, WHIPs, ERA+s (except Mark Mulder, who also had one more win than Mr. Bat Thrower), and fewer not-using-roids-maybes (seriously: Jamie Moyer?). They still voted for Clemens. Can we, as Americans, as patriots, as people who claim to not be stupid, agree that wins are a pointless statistic? Can we do this? Can we come together? Can we dare to dream? Example: the New York Mets, on Thursday, July 24, 2008, beat the Philadelphia Phillies. In that game, Oliver Perez recorded 23 outs and gave up 1 earned run. Billy Wagner (whose ERA+ this season is 197, which is very very good) recorded 3 outs, no runs, and one hit. Aaron Heilman recorded one out. Who got the win? I’ll let you guess. I’ll let you rack your baseball-addled brain and try to figure it out. Let’s consider. Let’s think. Let’s imagine the possibilities. Who could the “winner” be? …….. Do you have it yet? ……. Figured it out? …….. I give you respite. I salve your wounds with the glories of the double play. I sanctify you with mead and hard-earned walks.
It was our friend, Mr. Heilman. He got one batter out. In that at bat, he threw three pitches. He did a very nice job. I congratulate our friend Mr. Heilman. Does he deserve the win? I ask you, America, does he? He threw three pitches. Our friend Mr. Perez threw 108, and allowed one run. Many pitchers have thrown three pitches in the major leagues. Many many. Most have thrown more. Many of those pitches, in fact most, have not resulted in runs. Does Heilman deserve the win?
This is the question with which we must wrestle. This shall decide our fate. Can we move beyond the win statistic? Can we imagine the future? This example is not carefully selected. It could happen in many many many games, and does. Indeed it does. Let’s reconfigure. Let’s begin again. Let’s imagine a future world for our children, a real future. Let’s ignore wins.
Say it together: the win is the dumbest statistic in baseball. Only with a glorious, thunderous noise can our imaginations become reality. Dare to dream. Dare.
So it appears that the new Oklahoma City NBA team is currently in the process of deciding on their name. Options include the Bisons, Marshalls (I guess this is misspelled), Energy, Wind, and Thunder.
If I may make one minor suggestion. It not 1992. The singular, elemental names have lost their tingle. While this may be the case, it does not appear that America is willing to part with them. Be that as it may, these names are generally piss-poor. So I have some suggestions:
The Oklahoma City: Smoke Scream Jizz (though the Jazz might think it’s too similar) Love Desire Controversy Blood Break Damnation Divorce Civil Suit Anger Problem Addiction to Prescription Drugs Insecurity Fear of Flying Place Where The Native Americans Who Survived The Trail Of Tears Ended Up Dunkitude Erection Taint Wall of Noise Garbage Refuse (this could mean two things. it’s what miah would call polysemous) Sting Bite Chew Lick Grind Mind Rind Slice (though Kimbo might get mad, which is probably dangerous) Reek Crimewave Misdemeanor Traffic Incident
The other night I chatted with some fellow TDGP compatriots about something that has been on my mind. As I get older, I notice that athletic things (whatever those things may be) are growing incrementally harder. So, I asked to the peanut gallery: “Which professional sport do you think leaves the least wear and tear on your body?” Of course we immediately eliminated football. Those guys are prototype cyborgs by the time they are 45-50. Basketball? Those guys seem to be okay at All-Star games and such (but I am suspicious). We eventually decided on ping pong, but the video below makes it seem much more intense than I assumed. Definitely some carpal tunnel going down. So, is there a bodily safe sport? Ice Skating destroys the body, skiing destroys the body, everything eventually destroys the body. But maybe bobsledding and curling do it the least?
In the wake of Greg Norman’s collapse in the final round of the British Open, the word “choke” is once again on the tip of a lot of peoples’ tongues. Many have argued that Norman did not choke this last time, despite the fact that he held a two-stroke lead entering the final round and lost the tournament by 6 strokes. They cite his age and the fact that “he shouldn’t have even been there” as excuses for the beleaguered Shark. While I agree that his play in the first three rounds was highly unusual, he was, in fact, “there,” and once again, he failed to close the deal. He is now 1/8 in majors when leading after 54 holes. Not exactly Tiger-like. Even after a horrid start this past Sunday, he held the lead through 9 holes on Sunday, but again took a nose dive on the back. Yes, he is old, and yes, Padraig played a stellar back nine, but still, 8 bogeys in the final round is a bit chokey, I think.
But I am not writing solely to call out Norman. I want, too, to highlight Michelle Wie’s unique choke this week and to remember other classic choke-jobs. Wie, playing better than she has in two years, finished the third round of the LPGA event this week just one back of the lead. She had hit two wedges into the hole for eagle and was blasting drives like she used to when she erupted on the scene. Unfortunately, after her second round, she neglected to sign her scorecard, and so, her third round did not even count. She found out after the round she was DQed. What did she do in that scoring tent? She signs the card after every round…? This, I say, is much worse than Norman. Wie, who has still yet to win on the LPGA tour, found a creative and inventive way to choke away any chances of winning, and indeed, of keeping full exemption for next season. Bravo, Michelle, for raising the bar for the likes of Sergio, the Lakers and other contemporary choke artists.
On that note, what is the best choke of all-time? Who is the single-best choker? My non-Norman golf vote is for Mickelson/Montgomery/Furyk in the 2006 Open. Mick truly gave it away, and Montgomery bogeyed from around 130, middle fairway. He has still never won on US soil. That’s pretty solid. In other sports, the 90s Kings and Blazers gave it up yearly to the Lake-show after building seemingly insurmountable leads, and I gotta say, this past Superbowl was pretty much a choke for the Pats. The Giants played OK, but they should not have won that game. Thoughts?
In The Man From Left Field, great American Burt Reynolds plays Jack Robinson, a former major leaguer suffering from amnesia following a string of personal tragedies, including (I think; it’s kind of hard to tell) the death of his wife during childbirth. His haggard frame haunts the left field of a Miami little league field, where a ragtag team whose parents are too poor or too disinterested to buy them uniforms eventually corner him in the dugout and convince him to coach them.
Reynolds directed the film, and his up-tempo, let-the-image-tell-the-story style (as seen to great effect in 1976’s Gator) leaves plenty of room for interpretive play. Just because the film cuts abruptly from Reynolds smashing a guy through a fence to him dancing with co-star Reba McEntire doesn’t mean it doesn’t flow. Think of it as the continuity of the amnesiac mind, a mind that forgets what the previous shot was, yet intuitively understands it.
It’s a classic American sports film: there may be clichés, but they’re the right clichés, and if Robinson and his scrappy charges fail to win you over, well, then I feel sorry for you. If I have to bring any complaint against the film, it’s the fact that Joe Theismann, who plays wealthy and dickish local Phil Corey, is underused.
The Man From Left Field has been playing on Ion recently, and is available through Amazon. If you see just one sports movie this year, make it this one.
Jerry Manuel sort of resembles New York’s new Governor, David Paterson. In addition to the less than striking resemblance, both earned their positions while their organizations were in disarray. Coincidence? Christian Bale: the new king of the Hollywood blockbuster franchise, turning around bankrupt traditions (assuming Terminator 4 works out, which it will…trust me). Bill Parcells: the king of turning around bankrupt football franchises (assuming the Dolphins works out, which it will…believe me)
The Doc has learned that, in an unprecedented move, CBS has agreed to swap veteran color commentator Billy Packer for legendary NFL quarterback Brett Favre.“This is a coup for us,” CBS President Les Moonves told reporters at a hastily called news conference this afternoon.“We have long valued Mr. Favre and welcome his homespun Mississippi-isms as part of our sports coverage.He will go a long way toward offsetting Jim Nantz’s utter lack of personality.”When asked how Favre would perform providing commentary for sports he does not actually play, Moonves replied candidly, “Hey, we employed John Madden for 85 years and that did not kill us.”When cornered by this trepid reporter at the ESPYs, Favre stated that he was “somewhat perplexed” by this change of events but that he would see out the rest of his contract.“Besides,” he happily noted, “Moonves promised me all the babies I could eat!”ESPN has been abuzz about this strange turn of events and pundits have predicted that the 68 year old former Wake Forest basketball player will likely have a passer rating of 35.2 but will still beat the Lions twice.Calls to Packer’s home were not returned but a source close to the commentator said that the broadcaster was happy for the opportunity to do something new and was eager to play just as long as the team did not feature any non-whites or non-heterosexuals.Green Bay general manager Ted Thompson could not be reached for comment.
Dick Mast: Maybe this is a poor starting point. Maybe Dick Mast is actually a good name to have . . . off the golf course. Yet, on the golf course I imagine this name leads to a lot of unruly peanut gallery comments and mental second-guessing on Mast’s part: “This putt will win it for me, Mr. Dick Mast. . . do people make fun of that name? Why won’t people call me Richard” . . . ooops, missed putt. As you can see from his career stats, Dick Mast never made it to the pinnacle of his profession. He will only go down in golf lore for his unfortunate name.
Jack Glasscock: Not only is this guy’s name “Glasscock” but he has the balls to put “Jack” before it. Granted, glasscock could have had completely different connotations in the early 1900s, but I doubt it. Although the name didn’t bother him all that much, he was the NL batting champion in 1890 (but as a recent trip to Cincy’s Great American Ball Park taught me: that title ain’t saying much). Just imagine every time you struck out on an underhand pitch, someone from the stands yelling, “Ehhhhh, good job ole’ glasscock.”
