Story time with George Brett

For those of you who have ever wondered what it is that managers/coaches say to players as they weave through the myriad athletes engaged in pre-game warm ups, George Brett has been kind enough to share with TDGP a sample.  Thanks to Bryan for finding this.  Take it away, George:

El Mariachi?

Apparently Delonte West spends the offseason searching for vengeance against those who have wronged him, all the while gently strumming la guitarra.

Delonte, Antonio, and Enrique parole border towns, looking to bring the corrupt to justice and play some music too.

John Wayne Plays With Sports Metaphors, Amuses/Confuses Me

Wayne sports his vintage Winchester rifle which he is reputed to have used against the Culver City Comanche during the 1952 LA County Polo Intramural Tournament. Wayne's famed hatred for "Comanche" is actually born out of this fierce rivalry and not, as many have assumed, out of his white-hot disdain for Native Americans.

In my extensive research of the UCLA Film and Television Archive I have encountered both the fantastic and the phantasmal.  The following artifact, however, takes the cake.

Derived from a program called “Bull Session,” in which Wayne and a roundtable of Vietnam veterans blast the “liberal media establishment” and “troublemakers” for undermining America’s “mission” in Vietnam, Wayne participates in the time honored tradition of the sports/war metaphor to cinch his argument.

Now we here at TDGP are quite familiar with the concept of metaphor.  Having all taught introductory public speaking for at least one year (and some having put in nearly a decade on the job-Ground Possum, I look in your direction), we have, from time to time, utilized the sports/war metaphor to explain to our students how said metaphor can be extended.  It’s easy because it’s ubiquitous.

Having said that, however, I was somewhat thrown by Wayne’s contribution to this proud tradition.  Here is the transcription:

“A lot of hard riding has been done on that polo field out at Will Rogers [State Historic Park].  The teams have been pretty well matched, and each has had its supporters.  Polo, like professional football, is kind of special.  You have to know what you’re looking at or it just seems like two teams or riders are swatting away at each other.  War is kind of special too.  You oughta know what you’re looking at.  For instance, we don’t have a program that tells us much about our allies in Vietnam.  We don’t have a public address announcer who tells us that eighty percent of our team is not fighting but trying to help the people of Vietnam climb into the twentieth century.  Nobody is giving us a play by play as our young men teach the people what bathing and toilets and healthy sanitation are all about.  There’s no color man who talks about the medical assistance our kids are giving to people who are not really a nation but maybe like Los Angeles; a group of municipalities looking for a city, a group of tribes looking for a nation.  No sports columnist is telling us like a Monday morning quarterback…no columnist is telling us…maybe…period.  Nobody is writing that this game, this ugly, dirty, deadly game can be won.  We can score more goals than they if we want to.  Now our bull session with combat veterans ends on a note of despair and a note of hope.  How do you feel?  Despairing or hopeful?  It’s your polo game.”

So what do you think of this?  I’m frankly not sure how I feel about the move.  To blend the polo and football metaphor seems sloppy, and the polo metaphor is severely neglected here.  After all, he just alludes to the concept of a team and a collection of supporters for that squad.  Is that it?  Indeed it is.

Perhaps Wayne's time on the USC football team familiarized him with the football/war metaphorical lexicon. I suspect the Duke ruminated on these terms for decades, contemplating ways in which expand and refine the metaphor. My verdict? Back to the drawing board, bro.

We sports wonks often make light of the sports world’s exuberant embrace of the overwrought metaphor.  The trenches, the rocket arm, the battle, the war; you know the drill.  Wayne, however, throws a wrench in the works.  What do you make of Wayne’s move?    I am not particularly impressed, though this may be the result of my own unfamiliarity with Polo and my discomfort with the Duke’s multisport mashup.

A critique of Wayne’s racism seems too obvious, though I do find his LA comparison interesting.  I offer this document to you, humble sports enthusiasts.  Questions?  Comments?

Top 10 Athletes Who Are Also Zombies

Pre- and Post-1997 Holyfield Fight.

Ever wondered which of your favorite athletes are most likely to chomp on your flesh and nom nom on your brain? Unlike the vampire, who has mostly camped out on tennis and basketball courts, the zombie is fairly democratic in sport selection. Here you go, in no particular order:

Jaromír Jágr. Currently in the top ten among players in NHL career goals, assists and points: First of all, dude looks freaky. Second, have you heard him talk? In English? Could you decipher it? Didn’t think so. Third, remember when his career was over after he left the Pens? He never worked right in Washington, and people decided he was over the hill, done, kaput. Then he went to the Rangers and finished second in points in his first full season there. Fourth, he was unstoppable in the offensive zone–maybe the best ever seen at maintaining puck possession while skating toward the goal. Fans often complained that he rarely seemed inspired on the ice, but it’s a shame he’s playing in Omsk these days. Except for the fact that “Omsk” sounds zombie as fuck.

Steven Jackson. St. Louis Rams RB who had a great Fantasy year in 2006: In my world, a zombie is characterized by two things: coming back from the dead and moving forward in a relentless, unstoppable manner. We’ll see if Jackson’s expected revival happens this season, but one thing is for sure: the dude just keeps going forward. I once saw him run through quicksand on that shitty field in San Francisco. The Seahawks, according to reliable sources, are planning a new “coat SJax in lead” strategy this season, which I’m pretty sure will only make him angry. Also, like any zombie, he has a tendency to fumble.

Abdullah the Butcher. Semi-retired, professional wrestler known as one of the most brutal or “hardcore” professional wrestlers of all-time: Famous for stabbing opponents in the head and then feasting on their flesh. Painted as a crazy Arab throughout his career, but actually from the unofficial nation of zombie, aka Canada. Owns restaurants called “Abdullah the Butcher’s House of Ribs Chinese Food.”

Mike Tyson. Former Heaveyweight Boxing Champion, had great NES boxing game named after him: Subject of the great and aptly named Tyson documentary where he shows off his dynamic personality, disproving the age-old axiom that zombies only moan. Hid his zombieness until that fateful Summer day in 1997 when, no longer able to control his urges, tried to get at Holyfield’s brains through his ear.

Mike Gundy. head coach of the Oklahoma State Cowboys football team: Famous for admonishing a reporter for picking on one of his players, screaming and ranting for minutes in a news conference. . . what most people fail to realize is that the incident was brought on by brain-rage. You see, Gundy is a man at odds with himself. He knows he has an insatiable craving for brains, but he also knows that eating brains is not socially acceptable. As a result, he tries to deny himself the pleasure of skull-capping some poor bastard on his way to the OSU quad– until his body’s imperative affects his ability to cope with humanity. He has tried to eat dog brains, rat brains, cat brains, but that’s like drinking Vendange after Dom. Eventually, Gundy breaks down and hat-bowls some exchange student, but he always hates himself for it, and he ends up screaming a lot. It works sometimes on the practice field, but not always with the press.

Sean Johnson. Olympic champion, star dancer, zombie: If you watched closely during her appearance in the celebrity softball game at the All-Star break, when coach Bobby Knight leans in to tell her to back-hand-spring to first base, she flicks a tongue inside his ear to lube what she calls the “brain canal.” Her standard move is to wrench the neck of her victims with a jumping scissor-squeeze, holding herself up with her substantial abs to feast on the brains. And have you seen her dead, cold, bulging eyes? What most attribute to a torpor induced by years of vacantly smiling at judges is actually a manifestation of undeadness. If you see her coming up the road, you are already dead, because she has that 28-Days-Later-type zombism, not the Night of the Living Dead slow-roll. She will be on you faster than Doc Holly on a picture of Shaq. Nastia Lyukin, settle your affairs.

Ivan Lendl. Destroyer of all Tennis players from about 1984-1987. Nicknames include: The Terminator and Ivan the Terrible: “Why?” you ask. It’s simple. Zombies are often used metaphorically to represent society’s downtrodden, in effect turning centuries of representations of intellectual inferiority on its head. As the Sports Illustrated cover demonstrates, Lendl too has long been marginalized by the world. Sure, Tennis Magazine rated him one of the best players of the last 50 years. While that sounds nice, they also termed him an “overachiever,” a word better suited for someone like Jimmy Connors. Bud Collins knows tennis, and he says this dude is for real. Why? The 8 Grand Slam titles? I’ll tell you why. His single-mindedness of purpose. His drive to win and his disregard for the “image” industry with which other players were/are hopelessly enamored. Oh yes, and his fondness for eating the brains of his opponents.

Svetlana Khorkina. Russian gymnast and seven-time Olympic medalist: Although somewhat similar to Lendl in her unrelenting drive to succeed, Khorkina most merits “zombie” status for her appearance. Beloved in her native Russia, well known for its zombie-philia, Khorkina is mistakenly believed to have translated gymnastics fame into a modeling and political career. In fact, her appeal to Russian zombie enthusiasts is rooted in her human-flesh-only diet and her amazing stamina. Fueled by man and not limited by the need to process oxygen, Khorkina has put together an impressively long career in the brutal gymnastics world while simultaneously putting her zombie parts to work in Playboy and in making little zombies.

Albert Pujols. Perennial All-Star, NL MVP, World Series Champion: Yes, this guy can hit the lights out of the ball, but have you ever wondered why? Sure, the fame, the glory, the money. But, maybe, just maybe, he his power hitting prowess hides a deeper truth: Pujols is one of the slowest guys in the league. He wants you to pay attention to his hitting, if only to hide his inner-zombie. Doubles to him are triples to any other major leaguer and inside the park home runs to the likes of Carl Crawford and Jose Reyes. He is so slow that John Kruk, the fattest of fatties, suggested putting Pujols on his Slow Motion list (people who you would consider pinch running for in the first inning). Upside of being a zombie? No need for steroids, Pujols feasts on human brain. St. Louis must be a waste land.

Al Davis. Owner of the Oakland/Los Angeles/Oakland Radiers: Briefly considered changing motto “Just Win, Baby” to “Nom Nom” as he has ruthlessly sucked the brains out of himself, the Oakland Raider organization, and Raider fans. Why do you think Mike Shanahan was always so hell-bent on beating the Raiders every time he played against them with Denver? Do you think it has anything to do with that time he woke up–after a long night in the office–with Al Davis prepared to go ape-shit on his skull? Most likely.

Top 10 Athletes Who Are Also Vampires

Vlade the Impaler's NBA reign of terror: 1989-2005.

Ever wondered which of your favorite athletes might also be a vampire? Ever fretted about who you shouldn’t invite into your house? Or are you a fangbanger and really want to starfuck a vampire? Well, the boys at TDGP have complied a list for you, in no particular order (also, notice the apparent correlation between vampires, tennis, and basketball):
 

Vlade Divac. Center for Lakers, Hornets, Kings and strong Euro-flopper: I’m not sure what evidence you need for this pick beyond his name. This guy is straight up vampire. In fact, he may be the Prince of the Vampires. Throughout his career he effectively used flopping on the basketball court to make him look weak to hide his true identity. But, really, what kind of big man can be that big and that mobile? Only one kind: a vampire.

“Nasty” Ilie Năstase. #1 Tennis Player in the World 1973: Why is Vlade Divac only the Prince of Vampires? Well, because this dude is the King. Hailing for Romania (ringing any bells Bram Stoker fans?), he basically glamoured everyone in tennis in the early 1970s before focusing his vampiric skills in other areas, becoming the Wilt Chamberlain of tennis vampires, bedding more than 2500 women. And by “bed” I mean had sex with and then drank their blood. Also, the man is a quote machine: “I haven’t reported my missing credit card to the police because whoever stole it is spending less than my wife.” And the pithy: “Hello, racist.” (Upon meeting any players from South Africa, due to the country’s Apartheid government.) True vampire, indeed.

Roger Federer, All-Time Grad Slam Champion Leader with 15: Let’s face it, people: Roger Federer is a vampire. He is straight Lestat-mode. Do you remember those Anne Rice books where Lestat becomes a rock star, and the audience sort of knows something is not quite right, but they think it’s somehow all part of the show, so they look the other way? Yeah, it’s like that with Roger. If you watch closely enough– or, better yet, if you get a camera on him with a high shutter rate– you can see that he actually moves with preternatural speed. The angles he produces and the way he moves his opponents around the court is actually in large part due to him feinting and psyching them out at such speed that they only subconsciously see his machinations. Rafa has a not-supernatural, but still above normal subconscious recognition, and so, can occasionally break through the smokescreen. Basically, though, the deserts of Dubai are littered with empty shells.

Avery Johnson. Coach, motivator, announcer, blood-sucker: The most cogent evidence of him being one of the line of Vlad– this quotation from 2003: “The Dallas Mavericks are a great ball-team because they play together on the court. A lot of people discount the effectiveness of five players at a time working toward a common goal of scoring more points that their opponents within a structured and refereed time frame. But I have always been one who supports this manner of play, and who has never wavered from that conviction. Also, I drink blood.” Pretty straight-forward, people. Also, you seen his mouth-ware? Damn.

Marv Albert. Famous Announcer: The only thing more famous than his voice are his teeth. The only vampire to stand trial in the last 50 years in the United States for his vampiric proclivities. Thought he could get away with laying down 15 chomper bites and not get caught. Finishing move, “The Backpack,” has become the Donkey Punch of vampire feeding session techniques.

Jeff Van Gundy. Former NBA Head Coach and Brother of the Master of Panic: Secret vampire for a number of years, as evidenced by the dark, Mondale-esque bags beneath his eyes. Came out of the coffin in public when he grabbed onto Alonzo Mourning’s ankle and tried to drain him on live television. Suspiciously, Marv Albert was calling the game, which has led many in the Vampire community to surmise that Van Gundy was making an offering to Lord Albert.

Novak Djokovic. 4th-ranked Tennis Player, Winner of 2008 Australian Open: Have you seen how this guy wilts in the sun? Endurance issues? Yeah right. It’s not the length of time, people. It’s the time of day. Though some might suspect that Federer is a blood sucker (I think he’s something else, perhaps Hermes?), he appears to excel in the day while Novak repeatedly cites “cramps.” What Grand Slam final did Djokovic win? The Australian. You can bet the roof was closed on that day. Seriously, he would win all matches if they were played at night and far away from churches.

Jess Settles. “Former” Iowa Hawkeye Basketball Player: Settles’ vampire identity is often overlooked. Yes, he is a crusader for God. In this postmodern, TrueBlood world, however, the two are not so mutually exclusive. Why is he a vampire? Just look at his career at Iowa (a hotbed for vampires, by the way): 1993-1999! While his bio cites “continued health problems” behind his prolonged college basketball career, I suspect otherwise. In fact, I’m fairly sure that Settles has been a part of Iowa basketball since its inception in 1901, re-joining the team every other generation under a different name.

Pat Riley. Former NBA Championship Winning Coach of Lakers, Knicks, and Heat.: Not only does he have that Transylvanian hair (Dracula: the Original Guido), Riley is Mr. Vampiric Opportunist. He trademarked “three-peat,” which dates back to the ’30s as a joke expression, and which Byron Scott reinvented for the Lakers in the 1988 season. He dug into Stan Van Gundy (who, after this last NBA finals, now seems to have deserved it) just in time to win a title with the Heat. His winning smile clearly masks an enormous set of fangs.

Pete Weber. Famous, Crotch-chopping Bowler: The only guy with a better greasy widow’s peak than Riles, Pete Weber’s bowling birthright is perfectly appropriate: he wears sunglasses _indoors_, and thrives beneath the flourescent lights of the bowling alley. His crotch chops are the stuff of legend, stabbing into the hearts of his opponents before they can get to his. Though he’s softened a bit lately, PDW remains pure cold-blooded evil.

Sports Journalism Needs an Enema

D.J. Byrd is your typical Indiana dude. Unfortunately for him he's getting covered by a typically poor sports journalist.

I’m quite familiar with the sports coverage of Indianapolis’s major newspaper, the Star.  You can sometimes catch their featured writer Bob Kravitz on PTI.  If I had to identify the collective body of work to flow out of those keyboards, I’d call it “forgettabley bloggish writing tinged with attempted folksiness and unintended cliches.”  Take the following article for example.  It discusses a Purdue basketball recruit who loves to mix his passion for hoops with his passion for “shredding” to the likes of AC/DC.  Of course, he does sometimes like to tone it down a bit, playing Dave Matthews Band from time to time.  If I had a nickel for everytime I walked by some dude strumming DMB on his guitar during my undergrad years, let’s just say I wouldn’t be trying so desperately to cash in on my blogging career.  I certainly do not have a problem with the subject of the story.  He’s an Indiana kid, as am/was I.  Hey, we grow up with limited options and thankfully neither of us chose to do meth (which, aside from basketball, farming, 4H, and playing music, is the only other activitiy available).  My problem is with the journalists who can find no other way to tell this story.  The kid played basketball a lot growing up.  No shit!  He’s a nationally ranked bball player!  This article reminds me again why I find the Star so simultaneously amusing and aggravating, and why I have such a low opinion of sports journalism.

TDGP Round Table: Crying in Sports

Cried because he was no long #1, awwww so sad.

Today we are rolling out our new feature, the Round Table. Ever read a post by Rawley and wish Ground Possum had something to say? Well, this forum feeds that desire and hopefully whets you for more. It will give you, the readers, a topic of utmost importance and a range of TDGP voices on the issue at hand.

Our first installment will be about crying in sports, originally suggested by Rawley. Athletes cry for a variety of reasons: winning, losing, injury, breaking up with their teammate, and we hope to investigate the social, moral, economic, and political implications of this moment. So, without further ado:

Rawley:
I think that the world of sports (and here I include its myriad bodies of fans) has a very ambivalent attitude toward crying. On the one hand, I think it is read as one of the most visible markers of the ever elusive “authenticity” in an industry (and yes, we all should know by now that even mainstream college athletics are part of this vast capitalist machinery) otherwise believed to be detached from the realities of the average person’s day-to-day life. Soaring player salaries in the major leagues (more so for men than for women, obviously), coupled with the 24 hour sports/news/entertainment cycle, the explosion of message boards/blogs/et cetera, and other factors has led to the kind of over-exposure of these athletes that breeds a cynical, class (and certainly race) based antagonism toward those who “have it made,” so to speak. This, naturally, lends to an overall skepticism about the motivation behind these athletes’ participation in sports. “Is it just for the money?” we wonder. Despite this vast gulf between us, the fans, and them, the athletes, we (as predictable participants in celebrity culture) look for and consume areas of commonality. We eat up the Jimmy Roberts puff pieces about so-and-so doing something great for his community, “giving back.” We (well, certainly I) rabidly consume stories about Peyton Manning’s handwritten letters to other NFLers who “played the game the right way.” We like to tell ourselves (and be told) that athletes are people too, and yes they certainly are. They have foibles just like the rest of us. Often these are used to frame a specific game, to craft those well worn human interest narratives that, producers hope, will lend athletics the larger metaphorical gravitas that they so want it to have. One would think that the act of crying would then lend itself to the further authentication of sport, as it suggests that athletes care more about the sweet smell of victory/agony of defeat than they do the often immense injection their bank account receives at the end of the week. It seems, however, that crying, particularly when done by male athletes, is often met with an uneasiness. This is certainly not always the case, but more recent episodes involving Adam Morrison (during the 2006 NCAA tournament) and Terrell Owens (in the wake of the Cowboys’ 2008 playoff loss to the Giants) have been met with overwhelming mockery. Why? Do we doubt the emotions behind the display? Do we think that they have clauses activated in the event that their tear ducts see enough action? Or is it that this lionization of the culture of the male athlete, who reaps substantially more money than their female counterparts (blowing away the still present and outrageous pay inequalities between non-athlete men and women), has been imbued with so much testosterone (by athletes, media, fans, culture in general) that the display of this kind of emotion (as opposed to doing a military salute, patting a teammate on the ass, pounding one’s chest, laughing, taunting, etc.) seems less than manly. The potential for contradiction is tremendous here, for a gesture that seemingly epitomizes the cultural desire for authenticity in sport, crying, is routinely framed as undesirable (weak, bizarre, “feminine,” and so on). Perhaps the discourse surrounding the act of crying provides us one of the most promising windows into the simultaneously homoerotic and homophobic world of men’s sports. Maybe I’m just reading too much into this. Maybe I’m pontificating so much because I get paid by the word. In the end, everyone cries. I cry all the time, though normally within the confines of a dark closet for fear of further shaming myself before the outside world.

Jon Cryer would have usurped the ubermensch in 1987 had it not been for Lex Luthor's idiocy or that radioactive blonde guy.

However, if town criers were well respected men-about-town, and Jon Cryer is a well respected television actor, should we not also praise the sporting crier for his commitment to his craft? Sure, they have never compelled their respective towns to hear tell the day’s important news. They have never been Ducky or the 1/2 in 2 and 1/2 Men. They do, however, suggest a passion for their profession that (even if we are skeptical about the existence of authenticity) deserves kudos from the culture(s) that surround them.

Doc Hollywood:
The Doc has already taken a pictorial montage stab at the subject at hand. It was some of my finer work. “Speak with images!” they told me back in blog school and, gosh golly, I try. Boy, do I try. Thus, I have little to add except this:

Usually, I don’t believe anything I see on the internet. I don’t like to call things fake (fake/real? who cares?), I prefer the more open-ended term staged. So, I just think that, while the emotions are real (tears, etc), most athletes have been in front of cameras for a long time and they know how to milk the story/angle. That being said, I do enjoy the athlete who is clearly emotional, but breaks it off before the money shot, like the T-Mac clip above. It’s like going right to the precipice, but not over. All the build up, but no disaster. Somehow that’s more impactful to me. And, come on, can’t you feel a lil’ bit for T-Mac?

Ground Possum:
In recent memory, I can think of a number of incidents where high-profile athletes have cried– first, Tiger Woods broke down at the British Open, his first major win without his Dad. He wept openly in his caddie, Steve Williams’ arms. (This one is also reminiscent of Jordan’s first championship run after his father’s death.) Second, Jelena Dokic was emotional nearly every step of her Australian Open run, as it marked the real beginning of a massive comeback. Third, Kevin Garnett cried after capturing his first NBA championship, declaring that “Anything is possible.” And fourth, just about a month or so ago, Roger Federer cried upon finally winning the French Open after having been so close so many times. The win gave him an all-time major tie with Pete Sampras at 14.

These incidents are acceptable ones. Tiger was releasing his grief at not being able to hug his greatest influence after a major win. Dokic was recovering from leaving the sport because of deep depression caused by an allegedly abusive father and coach. Garnett was relieved at finally validating a career that had been mired for a decade with a mediocre team. Federer had known he was good enough to win the French and that this win would silence all doubters, including himself. I have no quarrels with any of these tear-fests.

And, in general, I guess, I have no real problem with crying at one’s own achievement. Athletes at the highest levels must be under immense personal and public pressure to win, win, win, and it is only natural that meeting lofty expectations comes with an emotional response. By the same token, when athletes fall just short of those same expectations, I can also understand an equally emotional response. Finishing fourth at the Olympics must be a crushing experience. Losing a game seven in the NBA finals or the World Series must be devastating. Falling to penalty kicks in the World Cup Finals might call up the waterworks. Etc.

So when is crying inappropriate or unacceptable? I guess I’d have to say when it is insincere. When Terrell Owens cries about the press criticizing Tony Romo, his credibility is strained, to say the least. Brett Favre also comes to mind– not that his tears are insincere, but that his 15 retirements have all come with tears, and his has never been sincere about actually leaving the game.

Otherwise, there is only one other kind of crying that is not acceptable crying: crybaby crying. Here, I would nominate Maria Sharapova as a key offender. She is the most maddening person to watch, looking to the coach’s box with every single point, pouting when she is being beaten, and teary and defiant when she loses. Also, Jamel Hill points out that Andrei Kirilenko has famously cried for not getting enough PT.

All this said, I do admit that some crying, though meeting my “acceptable” criteria from a human perspective, irks me. Adam Morrison’s crying before the game was even over in the 2006 NCAA’s did not make me a fan of his. Dick Vermeil certainly feels things deeply, but I am not sure I would like to hang out with him. Seems like if we got the wrong appetizer at a restaurant, he might break down on the spot. And Kobe’s crying at the alleged rape press conference was annoying, because his wife was the one who should have been upset.

So, to cry or not to cry? Only if it is “organic” to the plot and/or advances the story. Or maybe if you can see your femur sticking out of your leg. I’ll look the other way on that one, too.

Van Gundy Sighting?

Stumbled across this wilst walking the streets of Hanover, New Hampshire:

Van Gundy peddles his wares amongst the relative anonymity of over-educated New Englanders.

Following the well documented debacle that was the NBA Finals, it would appear that TDGP’s favorite punching bag has taken to the road.  While I cannot speak personally to the magic show, I’m confident he will bring his famous “Vanishing Championship” trick to New Hampshire’s Upper Valley.

The Art of the Sky Hook

Interesting ESPN video on Kareem’s sky hook.  Why don’t more big men use this?  Because it maximizes the big man’s height advantage.  I like how Dwight Howard identifies it as “hot.”  If “hot” means “it’s something I won’t even approach” then I guess Howard’s statement rings true.  Really, why don’t more big guys use this more often?  Because it will score you a lot of points?

Great moments in sports integrity

Apparently the NFL has a new rule allowing its teams to place one advertisement on practice jerseys.  It appears that this move enables teams to “maximize revenue” without “compromising the integrity of the game.”  Right.  Wow, practice jerseys.  That’s a real score for corporate America.  Also, thank goodness teams are keeping the fans in mind.  We don’t want to see athletics tainted by capitalism, particularly when it comes to the actual contest.  Honestly, will there ever come a day when the sports entertainment industries stop this ridiculous charade, quit alluding to some chivalric age of virtuous enterprise, dragons, magicians, sportsmanship, ogres and shit?  Methinks not, fair lady.

Hey, football and integrity are universal.