Andy Juniper2013-05-25T18:45:29-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.ca/author/index.php?author=andy-juniperCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Andy JuniperGood old fashioned elbow grease.The Leafs Lost, But Look on the Bright Sidetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.32721212013-05-14T10:10:13-04:002013-05-14T10:10:21-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
And thusly breaking the back of the Toronto Maple Leafs, and the heart of Leaf fans, thousands of whom stood in jaw-dropping disbelief (or, disbeLeaf) in Maple Leaf Square outside the Air Canada Centre, shocked, stunned, and sharing in communal sorrow. Honestly, it was as though they'd collectively been punched in the breadbasket.
Sportswriters, those sagacious seers of hindsight, and Sports Talk Radio hosts, those noisy know-it-alls, were quick to call it a choke. Headline writers went with the obvious: "Meltdown in Beantown." And while there's no denying it was a game and series the Blue & White absolutely should have closed out -- no team has ever surrendered that large a third-period lead in game seven history -- can it really be considered a choke when most of these same sagacious seers and talking heads had earlier predicted the Leafs were outmatched from the outset and could not possibly last more than five or six games against the allegedly better Bruins?
Can it really be considered a choke when the Leafs -- David against Goliath, if you subscribe to the scribes -- came back magnificently, miraculously, from being down three-games-to-one just to force a game seven?
Or was it a simple matter that the tank was finally, inevitably empty? That the Leafs had expended every last ounce of energy just clawing their way to that third-period lead in game seven? And when it came to protecting that lead, they were sucking fumes...
This morning Leaf fans -- at least those who are not still in the fetal position, sucking their thumbs -- are doubtlessly nursing hangovers, or weeping profusely into their cereal bowls. But being a cup's-half-full kind of guy, I've found the positives -- anodynes and salves -- for the hurt and heartache being suffered by a city. That's right, I've searched (and searched and searched) and found the Sunny Side...
On the Sunny Side, as one woman tweeted: "Good job #Leafs. What a series. You woke up Leafs Nation." Amen. Because if you live in the Big Smoke, or the environs around Toronto, you know that, come playoff time, the city has been somnolent and sadly sans buzz for years. Well, ladies and gentlemen, this year -- after nine awful, ugly seasons of playoff exclusion that was beginning to morph into indifference -- the buzz is back. Apathy out the door. Electricity in the air. And for the first time in eons, the city that was once the heart of hockey (with Montreal being the soul) was back in the Stanley Cup playoff picture. All told, it was good for the franchise, good for the fans, and good for the city. Hell, it was good for hockey...
On the Sunny Side, Leaf fanatics can finally change their lucky underwear -- in play now for a seriously unsanitary stretch of days -- and hack off the playoff beards that were growing unrulier by the hour.
On the Sunny Side, the loss may well enable Leaf fans to finally feel a little empathy for the Vancouver Canucks who also lost a game seven -- in the Cup final, no less -- to this same Bruin franchise back in 2011, setting off the infamous Vancouver riots. On second thought, probably not.
On the Sunny Side, sure their season has ended, but as Leaf Nation tucked itself in to bed last night -- headachy and heartbroken -- fans surely felt something they have not felt in years. Hope. For the future. No, the team is not yet ready to contend for the Cup -- pieces are missing; there are voids to be filled -- but this storied franchise seems to finally be back on its skates, moving in the right direction. Hope. For the future.
Alas, on the Dark Side: my wife, whose eyes come in contact with hockey about as often as Halley's Comet becomes visible from Earth, predicted the outcome. Seriously. When the Leafs were up 4-1, she sipped her tea, filed her nails, and matter-of-factly announced that Bruins were going to mount a comeback. And when the score was 4-2, she went so far as to suggest that the outcome would be decided in overtime. And not in favour of the locals.
Heaven help me: I'm going to be hearing about that perfect prediction for the next 100 years.
]]>There's More Than One Gay Player in the NBAtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31797362013-04-29T15:41:47-04:002013-04-29T17:17:50-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
In a story appearing in Sports Illustrated's May 6th issue, and that is now available on SI's website, a professional athlete publicly acknowledges that he is gay. The riveting, first-person story by the thoughtful and sincere Jason Collins opens, remarkably enough: "I'm a 34-year-old NBA center. I'm black. And I'm gay..."
And now we wait and see.
We wait for the reaction that will surely come in waves in the days and weeks and months to come from assorted angles: from society in general, from the sporting world, from the league, from NBA players who have played with/against Collins, and from the fans. Will the reaction be that of compassion, acceptance and appreciation for Collins and the guts it took for him to come out?
And what about the backlash: how bitter, how big, how abusive? It's no secret that the sporting world is a macho domain that, historically speaking, has been laced with homophobia. Google "NBA players fined for anti-gay slurs." In recent years you'll see guys like Kobe Bryant and Joakim Noah. And you'll see that the list is as long and ugly as the slurs themselves.
Remember when erstwhile NBA player John Amaechi came out of the closet, five years after his playing days were over? If you do, you'll surely recall former player Tim Hardaway's response to Amaechi's announcement, delivered on a radio program.
"First off," Hardaway spewed, "I wouldn't want him on my team. You know I hate gay people, so let it be known. I don't like gay people and I don't want to be around gay people..." One imagines the more open-minded members of the sporting community shaking their heads and hoping that Hardaway was but one really rotten apple in a bucket of good apples. And, of course, everyone hopes that bad apples can turn good; to that end, Hardaway has become a supporter of gay rights...
And now we wait and see.
Is the sporting world ready for this? It should be. It's been a long time coming. It's way overdue. Still, within the fantasy realm of professional athletics, there are people whose heads are buried so deep in the sand, they are unable to grasp the concept of reality, or the basic laws of averages. Which is to say there are people who, Jason Collins be damned, are fully convinced that there are no gay men in professional sports. Right. There are gay men in every worldly endeavor, from accounting to zoology, but none -- zero -- in professional sports.
For months now, rumors abounded. Granted, in the Internet age, rumors are cheaper and more abundant than ever before. But these rumors had legs. These rumors asserted that someone in the professional sporting community was prepared to come out. In fact, a group may well be coming out together (safety in numbers). In response to these rumors, leagues, teams, players voiced support, in theory. Now we will discover the depth and sincerity of that vowed support, in reality.
In his own words, Jason Collins damn near had it all. Two state high school championships in his native Los Angeles, the NCAA Final Four, and nine playoffs in a solid 12-year NBA career. But he wanted more. His "journey of self-discovery and self-acknowledgement" brought him to where he is now: happy in his own skin, for perhaps the very first time. And publicly acknowledging that he is gay.
"Being genuine and honest," he wrote, "makes me happy."
Amen. And now we wait and see.
On the court, Collins is the kind of player who sacrifices himself for others. Off the court, he's apparently the same selfless soul. As we wait and see, as we hear others beginning to weigh-in on the matter, we leave the penultimate words to the man himself: Jason Collins, the 34-year-old NBA center. Who is black. And gay.
"Pro basketball is a family. And pretty much every family I know has a brother, sister or cousin who is gay. In the brotherhood of the NBA, I just happen to be the one who's out."
Okay, so who's next? Now we wait and see.
]]>When Spring Puts Your Golf Game On Icetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31461612013-04-24T17:54:06-04:002013-04-24T17:20:27-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
Seriously: the last time I was set to dust off and break out the clubs for the first time this season, we had a regular wrath-of-god ice storm -- in mid-April, no less! -- that lasted two days, knocked out our power for 12 hours, felled a handful of trees on our property, and left me playing pioneer (desperately barbecuing water to make coffee, for instance) instead of golf. To paraphrase Mark Twain, "the nastiest winter I ever spent was the spring of 2013 in Southern Ontario."
Yeah, it's been a miserable, dispiriting spring that's postponed the opening of the golf season for all but the fanatics. Fanatics? You know, the guys who regularly play in gale-force winds, horizontal rains and icy temps while the rest of us are hunkering down at home hoping the house doesn't blow away.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not a big baby, or even a certified fairweather flogger -- I've golfed in my fair share of inclement weather -- but for me to even consider unleashing all of my considerable inabilities on an unsuspecting course, two conditions must be met: it has to be warm enough outside so that I can actually feel my hands (and consequently, the clubs). And the meteorological conditions must exist to make it at least possible for me to play above my natural abilities and card a decent round. I refuse to go out there and have my opening shot blow back in my face.
Oh, and if I could add a third condition: I have to be able to actually see my ball. This, as opposed to the fanatics who think nothing of playing out the back nine long after darkness has fallen.
Part of what's making this spring so particularly miserable is that it follows a nastier-than-normal winter, or what George Harrison would call "a long, cold, lonely winter." Which made the hibernating golfer feel like he or she was owed something. Like an early, temperate spring. But this winter was not only harsh, it also had legs.
Further, it's been irresistibly tempting to compare this spring to last. Which we now know was a nutty anomaly, not the new norm. And which spoiled us rotten. Out golfing in mid-March. In T-shirts and shorts. Working up a sweat and a thirst. And worrying about sunscreen strength -- as opposed to the possibility of windburn. Or frostbite. How nutty was the anomaly that was last spring, wherein we tasted full-blown summer before the Ides of March? It actually got people cheering against Al Gore, and for (fore!) Global Warming!
Finally, you have to consider why people golf. As an excuse to get outside in the sunlight and fresh air. For exercise (if they forego the cart). For camaraderie (chewing the fat, having a few laughs and solving all the world's problems over a beer at the 19th hole). And for escape -- a few hours existing outside the realm of the real world, forgetting life's trials and tribulations and, instead, goofing on friends, plotting shots, trying to execute strategies and getting wholly absorbed in a game.
It's been one of those dark, disturbing springs wherein the need for escape has been enormous. The idiotic weather. Assorted natural disasters. Avian flu outbreaks. Bombs in Boston. Terror plots in our home and native land. Escape has rarely seemed this appealing -- this essential.
I'm scheduled to golf tomorrow. First round of the season. Be prepared: you may need an umbrella. Or, if history repeats, you may have to skate to work. Around fallen trees and downed hydro wires. In this, the spring of 2013, it's all just par for the course.
]]>The Bubblegum World Of Major League Baseballtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.30380562013-04-08T17:00:39-04:002013-04-08T17:27:16-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
But also because these guys, who clearly look like grown men, have actually been afforded the opportunity to be professional Peter Pans. To never grow up. To remain kids. To cooly exist in an surreal world and engage in awesomely juvenile behavior that, in any other earthly endeavor, would result in them being mocked, maligned, picked on, punched, arrested and/or shown the door. Consider:
At various points in the Blue Jays inauspicious opening series last week against the Indians, TV cameras would pan the typically euphoric Cleveland dugout and catch manager Terry Francona dipping into a big bucket of bubblegum. That's right, bubblegum. How wicked is that? A 53-year-old Grown Man/Manager spends his working hours chewing bubblegum, and his employers are not only okay with this, they actually supply it. How many other jobs can you think of where the manager routinely walks around looking like a chipmunk who has just had his wisdom teeth extracted, cheeks grossly inflated with Double Bubble?
Which brings me to the bubbles. Guys blowing 'em in the dugout. Guys blowing 'em on the field. Bubbles. In between plays. Hell, during plays. Next time your boss calls you into her office on an issue of utmost corporate urgency, make a grand entrance and loosen the mood a bit by blowing a big one that obliterates her face.
If you're oddly unenamored with the idea of bubblegum in the workplace, consider that it could be worse. Because it was worse. Way worse. Back in the day, most of these bubble blowers were chaw chewers, mouths packed with pinches of carcinogenic chewing tobacco. Which led to all the inevitable expectorating. Now, some players still chew tobacco and most players still spit: bubblegum saliva, or the shells of sunflower seeds, which the guys strategically shuck (magically, in their mouths) then thoughtfully redistribute across the landscape. All of which, I'm sure, is perfectly acceptable at your place of employ. Unless your employer is the uptight, decorum-tethered type who insists people refrain from... horking in the hallways.
Another thing baseball players have going for them is follicle freedom. That is, the right to wear their locks any which way, no matter how retro or ridiculous the hairdo may seem. Take Blue Jay outfielder Colby Rasmus' current look. It's basically an old-school mullet that's been electrocuted, like his coiffure was created by caffeine. In other words, his "do" is the utter envy of all those who must conform to the staid mores of the real world wherein, if you showed up at work with your hair all up in a Rasmus, your boss would give you two options: trim your locks, or be trimmed. From payroll.
Yep, baseball has it all -- everything you wanted when you were a kid, and everything that makes you madly jealous as an adult. Gum, sunflower seats, the right to spit at will, and follicle freedom not enough for you? Well, how about the game's tres cool secret handshakes. The guys break out these babies during player introductions, after home runs, after games. Intricate, choreographed handshakes that must have taken them all of spring training to master.The kind of secret handshakes you conjured up when you were seven-years-old, had way too much time on your hands, and were tired of cutting yourself with a dull pocket knife to do the whole 'blood brother' thing with your buddies.
Baseball teammates do indeed seem blood-brother close. The game reeks of freakish camaraderie, what with all the high-fives, hugging and constant bum patting. Try that at work. And see if you're not fired, or sued, or both.
Face it, denizens of the diamond's dugouts are living the dream. I mean, I haven't even scratched the surface of these guys being able to, well, scratch the surface (on national TV) of, well, anything that itches. Then there's the constant public adjustment -- outright rearranging by some players -- of the private parts. Seriously, try that ballsy maneuver at work when you're giving a presentation to the guys from head office...
Living the dream, I tell you, living the dream.]]>OK, Blue Jays, Let's (Finally) Play Balltag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29986672013-04-02T12:00:37-04:002013-04-02T12:09:21-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
All of which is to say that as of around 7 p.m., when 125-million-dollars-worth of terrific talent takes the field for the home side at the Rogers Centre, and knuckleballer R.A. Dickey lets fly (or lets float) that first pitch -- we will be finally able to utter those three beautiful words: Baseball Is Back.
For Blue Jays fans, it's been a long off-season. Longer than most. Because not only were the faithful pining for the return of the game they so love, they were also pumped-up to the point of near-bursting with anticipation, wildly anxious to see the new-look squad that had been creatively cobbled together in the winter by the team's inventive architect, GM Alex Anthopoulos. Fans, say hello to the likes of the aforementioned Dickey, Jose Reyes, Josh Johnson, Mark Buerhle, Melky Cabrera, Emilio Bonifacio and manager John Gibbons, returning for a second tour of duty.
All in all, a contingent that tops the AL East in many preseason polls. That's right, tops. Ahead of the rebuilding BoSox, the over-the-hill Yankees, the fluky Orioles and even the once-devilish Rays of Tampa.
How high are anticipation levels? Opening Day sold out in about three minutes. You'd have thought the Beatles had been resurrected and reunited. Hey, Blue Jays, they love you, ya, ya, ya. Suddenly it's 1993 all over again and the ballpark is a hip and happening place to be.
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And, naturally, with such anticipation comes equally high expectations. Alas, this is Toronto we're talking about, where fans tend to fall into two categories: unrealistically optimistic ("Forget the World Series, man -- can you say Ming? -- yeah, this team's an instant, automatic dynasty!"), and hopelessly pessimistic ("This team will suffer a few key injuries and become the under-performing laughing stock of the American League East Division, if not all of Major League Baseball.")
Yikes.
Truth be told, it's high time to bust out the platitudes about having to actually play all 162 games before anything is decided, and about how no team wins anything on paper. And tonight is just Game One. Granted, given the 100-plus-year tradition of Opening Days in baseball, it's a bit more than just a game. It's a game that will become, win or lose, part of team lore -- and, face it, you can't automatically say that about, say, the second game of the season, or the seventh, or the 53rd, or...
Opening Day makes old-timers turn misty. They remember the Blue Jays inaugural home opener at Exhibition Stadium in the snow like it was yesterday, or, at least, 13,500 yesterdays ago (37 years ago -- April 7, 1977 -- for those not up for the advanced calculations). They remind how the fans chanted not for stellar pitching, or the long ball, or even the home team, so much as for... beer. Exhibition Stadium, you'll recall, was a dry venue at the time; no matter, the suds would have just froze anyway.
Blustery broadcasters will tell you that Opening Day "sets the tone for the season." But that's just gasbags adding gravitas where it doesn't belong. Are they seriously suggesting that if you blow Opening Day, the "tone" for the next 161 games is in jeopardy? That said, blow Opening Month and all that anticipation you built-up over the winter starts to deflate.
Because there is a point where Blue Jay fans -- the unrealistically optimistic and the hopelessly pessimistic -- converge. And that's at the point of fickleness. Get off to a bad start, get spat upon by Lady Luck, get behind in the standings, and emergency wards across The Big Smoke will be filled with orthopedic cases. Fans hurt and hobbled. Sprained ankles. Twisted knees. Busted legs. The sort of injuries incurred when... leaping off a bandwagon.
Opening Day, er, night. OK, Blue Jays, let's (finally) play ball.]]>The Unspeakable Tragedy of the New York Yankeestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29565472013-03-27T12:11:26-04:002013-03-27T12:11:59-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
With Major League Baseball's Opening Day only six sleeps away, the polls are in, predictions have been posted, the sport's sages and seers have spoken -- and you know these guys are never wrong -- and apparently the New York Yankees are, in the words of Ed Grimley, "as doomed as doomed can be."
Doomed. Before the season even starts. DOA. Before the first pitch is even thrown. Destined to be but a shadow of their iconic selves, and possibly even a laughing stock, finishing third, or fourth, or (gasp) possibly even dead-last in the tough American League East Division. Did I mention that this is an unspeakable tragedy? And lest anyone out there think I'm overstating, consider the innocents.
Indeed, if you have the stomach for it, consider that there are three-year-olds toddling around New York today who have never, ever seen the Yankees win a World Series (honestly, I could barely type that sentence what with all the empathetic tears clouding my vision).
Never mind that there are 104-year-olds shuffling about The Windy City who have never seen the home-side win the World Series -- we're talking about the Bronx, New York, where excellence is expected and the enfants are entitled, not north Chicago where an afternoon amid the ivy in Wrigley Field is considered a blessing, win or lose (but probably lose)...
Related: The best 2013 sports photos Story continues after slideshow
Alas, the Yankees' current 'issues' are innumerable, and include:
Austerity. Finally, after a seemingly endless era of rabid fiscal forthcomingness, the Yankees have made a conscious effort to rein in the money madness that has been their hallmark for about as long as anyone but the graybeards can recall. To that end, the team lost starters Nick Swisher to Cleveland and Russell Martin to Pittsburgh. And, unfathomably, did not replace either.
Age. Face it, the team is getting long in the tooth (if based in Seattle, they'd be the Ancient Mariners) and merciless Father Time is poised to issue the inevitable beat down. Even those who are giving the Yankees a hope of contending this season are basing that slim ray of light on a starting rotation that includes CC Sabathia, 32, and fresh of elbow surgery; journeyman Hiroki Kuroda, 38; and 40-year-old Andy Pettitte, who busted an ankle last year, but still managed to limp back into the lineup.
Injuries. Yep, with age you get injuries. Take Alex Rodriguez (please!). Depending on who you believe, the hard-to-embrace, rapidly declining, ridiculously overpaid A-Rod is either out for a large chunk of the season after his second major hip surgery or he's finished as a Yankee.
Then there's Mariano Rivera, the best closer in the history of the game, who tore up his ACL last year at age 42. Now 43, he swears he will retire at season's end, but not before returning to previous form this year. And while it's unwise to ever count Rivera out, skeptics will only believe he can be the Old Mo when they actually see it.
Which brings us to Derek Jeter. The Captain broke his ankle in Game One of the ALCS and at age 38 is willing himself back into shape, and the lineup. If you can imagine the daily grind on the ankle of a shortstop you can understand that this is a dicey prospect.
Insiders suggest that Jeter, who has limped through much of training camp and may well end up on the DL, is a day-to-day proposition with what the team calls an ongoing "cranky ankle..." Which is to say, he's nowhere near 100 percent healthy. Or anywhere near ready to anchor the infield full-time.
Sadly, injuries are contagious. In spring training, Curtis Granderson suffered a fractured forearm, hit by a pitch in his very first at-bat. And Mark Teixeira was sidelined with a partially torn tendon in his wrist and will be out for the season if he ends up requiring surgery.
It reached the point in recent weeks where General Manager Brian Cashman was sending out feelers to retired players like Chipper Jones. It got a little unsavory there, reeking of desperation, making people wonder if, say, Reggie Jackson might end up back in pinstripes. By all accounts he's a rather spry 66.
Optimists will likely ignore all of the above and say the team is merely in transition, that bridges will be built across these troubled waters and Yankee Pride will win over. Pessimists will call it Yankee Slide, and bury the team that won 95 games last year and finished atop the AL East.
Both factions will admit that the lineup the Yankees will field for Opening Day on Monday against their arch enemies, the Boston Red Sox, bears no resemblance to last year's playoff team that was eventually swept by the Detroit Tigers in the ALCS.
And one scribe will have the guts to stand up and make readers consider what really matters: the children. And the unspeakable tragedy of the toddlers, those little nose-mining New Yorkers, who have never seen the sky open up over The Big Apple in a World Series Championship ticker-tape parade.]]>How to Fit March Madness into Your Busy Scheduletag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.29011652013-03-18T17:20:22-04:002013-05-18T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
Yes kids, the 2013 National Collegiate Athletic Association Basketball Championship, a.k.a. March Madness, tips-off Tuesday, March 19 in Dayton, Ohio, with what is known as the First Four, wherein eight teams fight over the course of two nights for the right to be subsequently squashed by the top seeds. For all but the fanatical First Four followers, the tournament begins in earnest on Thursday. Giddy up!
Ah, the Madness. Buzzer beaters. Bracket busters. Cinderella stories (if the shoe fits, baby, wear it). More excitement than a heart can handle courtesy of a do-or-die, one-and-done format. And numbers that boggle the brain.
Sixty-eight teams. More than $3-billion wagered over the course of the 20-day tourney, between the First Four and the Final on Monday, April 8, at the Georgia Dome in Atlanta (helpful tip: given that the Final tends to end late and be so exciting that you'll need an extra cup of decaf tea before being able to even think about going to bed, call in sick now. I'm sure your boss will understand).
So, you think time is not on your side now, before the tournament even begins? Well, how you will ever manage to cram an estimated 160 hours of basketball into your tight schedule? Corners will have to be cut (honestly, do you really need to shave, shower and trim those unsightly nose hairs between now and the Final)? Creativity will be called upon ("Honey, for the next three weeks, I don't have time to put the toilet seat down, so be aware!"). And necessity will become the mother of invention (you're not a lousy parent, so of course you can help little Janey with her science project. During commercial timeouts).
If the wild and woolly regular season in U.S. college hoops is any indication, this year's tournament could be nuts. There's been no dominating force in the sport this year. It's been all about parity. In one memorable five-week period, five new teams emerged as No. 1. Entering the tournament, the top seeds are Louisville (overall top seed), Kansas, Indiana and Gonzaga.
Yes, Virginia, there really is a Gonzaga. The little Jesuit school in Spokane, Wash., (undergrad pop: 4,900) has become a big basketball deal, and is led this year by (cue O Canada) Canuck Kelly Olynyk, the pride of Kamloops, B.C., who ESPN says (set down your Timbit and brush back those patriotic tears) "can rightly be called the nation's best big man." Did I mention he's Canadian?
I keep hearing that the so-called 'smart money' in the tournament is on the Louisville Cardinals. But in a tourney like this where anything can happen, where one sub-par game can send you packing, where one magical moment by a team playing David to your Goliath can leave you collapsed on the court blinking back tears, 'smart money' is money that remains in your pocket. No bets are safe. No bets are ensured to not seem silly three weeks from now.
And yet, we try to crack the code. We become Bracket Heads (as defined by USA Today: "Those individuals who apply logic, trends and higher math to find the teams that will survive and advance"); ignorant of the fact (or simply ignoring it) that "knowledge is not always power," and the person who tends to win the office pool -- picking way more winners than wieners -- is someone who wouldn't know a Lobo from a Hoya. Granted nobody outside of Georgetown University really knows what a Hoya is...
Last week House Majority Whip Kevin McCarthy (R-Calif.) suggested that President Barack Obama spends more time filling out his March Madness brackets than he does writing a budget...
Sounds right to me. And to about a gazillion other March Madness devotees who are about to spend three weeks trying to steal time to devour this bodacious bounty of basketball, served up piping hot in a parallel universe known as Hoop Heaven.
]]>It Seems That March Madness Has Arrived Earlytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.28123832013-03-05T15:58:08-05:002013-05-05T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
We thought that the month might be slightly off-kilter from the outset when it was learned that Dennis (The Worm) Rodman, the National Basketball Association Hall of Famer known for his resolute rebounding, tenacious defense, forever-dyed dome, and assorted offensive acts of idiocy and aggression over the course of his long career, had taken his insatiable need for the spotlight to North Korea. There, he hosted basketball exhibitions, met the reclusive nation's supreme leader, Kim Jong-un, built a bridge (in his mind) between North Korea and the United States, and (again, in his mind) likely saved the world from possible nuclear confrontation.
Oh, and got his name and mug back in the news.
According to Sports Illustrated, which understatedly assessed Rodman as a "relentless publicity whore" (an affront to relentless publicity whores everywhere!), The Worm "gleefully allowed himself to be used as a publicity prop by Kim Jong-un, who runs one of the world's most brutal regimes." SI further noted that this would all be over-the-top hilarious -- funnier than when The Worm showed up at a book signing (yes, Virginia, Rodman's a writer, too) in a lovely lacy wedding dress -- except for all that, you know, oppressive tinderbox stuff that North Korea's up to: the torturing of its own citizens, the building of a nuclear arsenal that threatens world peace, etc.
Still, The Worm felt the urge to let the world know that his new BFF is "an awesome guy" and that all the tension between the U.S. and North Korea could disappear if only U.S. President Obama would just pick up the phone, give Kim Jong-un a call, and... talk some hoops. Yeah, apparently they have that in common.
Meanwhile, back in America, kicker Lauren Silberman was seemingly determined to score points for the advancement of women in athletics. Specifically, she had been given an opportunity no other woman had ever had: a tryout before a collection of curious scouts at the National Football League's regional combine.
Well, without mincing words, Silberman sucked.Two kicks for a total of 30 yards. She claimed to be injured, having hurt a quad, but watching her it became apparent in her warmup, approach to the ball, and actual boot that she knew less about kicking than I know about quantum physics. Or even regular physics for that matter.
We're talking huge humiliation. On an international scale. However, rumors are now circulating that she was in it solely for publicity purposes, the proverbial 15 minutes of fame. And any publicity's good publicity, right?
Seriously: just how bad was she? A rep for the Legends Football League (formerly the Lingerie Football League) said that if she requested a tryout she would be given a great, big "no thank you" because the LFL has standards and wants only "real" football players. Ouch.
Finally, speaking of "ouch", young Rory McIlroy may have a toothache. Or not. At this point no one (beyond Rory and maybe the McIlroy entourage) knows for certain. What the world does indeed know is (a) the 23-year-old superstar golfer is having a less-than-Rory time on the links of late (b) after ascending to an embarrassing 7-over-par during the second round of last week's Honda Classic, he up and quit the course. Taking a slice of his solid reputation with him.
At the time he told reporters that he was "not in a good place mentally." Later, he said that he had teeth problems, which certainly surprised those who had talked to him and played with him. Now, rumors are rampant, running the gamut from girlfriend issues, club problems, legitimate teeth troubles, or (courtesy of The Wall Street Journal) the sudden realization that he'd left the oven on.
Regardless, the optics are all wrong for a champion who looked more like a petulant pup as he played well below his abilities and then packed it in. For his part, Rory is repentant, and is now saying that while his teeth were in fact bothering him, he left the course in frustration over his swing. So, you see: it wasn't his oven.
"What I did was not good for the tournament, not good for the kids and the fans that were out there watching me," McIlroy told SI. "It was not the right thing to do."
Bang on: it was not the right thing to do. Alas, apparently there's a lot of that going around. It's early March. Already there is more madness than one man can deal with. And there remain 14 more sleeps until the real March Madness even tips-off.]]>Paying A Queen's Ransom For Hallowed Hosierytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.27555322013-02-24T08:49:43-05:002013-04-26T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
At a live auction in New York City on Saturday night, the bloodied sock worn by Boston Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling in Game Two of the 2004 World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals was sold for (wait for it) $92,613. For a sock. Soaked in old sweat. Soiled with blood.
It speaks volumes about the wacky world of sports that someone's sock has reached such iconic status (what does this uppity sock think it is, a White House intern's stained blue dress?). Simply say "bloody sock" and most baseball fans catch the reference, while BoSox fans are likely to genuflect and praise the makers of this now-hallowed hosiery.
In case you're unfamiliar: 2004 was the season wherein the BoSox finally shed the surly bonds of the so-called Curse of the Bambino by winning the World Series for the first time in 86 long years. En route to ending that epic drought, Schilling conjured up a six-inning, one-run performance on tender tendons and a bum ankle that had been stitched up once or twice, and that was seeping blood over which announcers could not help but dote, and that the TV cameras could not help but soak up. The gutty outing propelled the BoSox to a sweep of the Cards, and said saturated sock became legendary.
But, still, $92,613? Ah, I know what you're thinking: how does the buyer even know that this is the actual sock worn by Schilling?
It speaks volumes about the wacky world of sports that following the game, the sock was supposedly sequestered, protected from potential theft, and eventually handed back to Schilling. Who, rather than tossing it in the laundry -- as would any normal, non-athletic soul -- naturally loaned it to the National Baseball Hall of Fame, which accepted the fabled sock with open arms.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
"Hey, National Baseball Hall of Fame, this is Curt Schilling calling, and I've got a bloody sock with your name written all over it!"
Alas, in the post-athletic life of many jocks, shit happens. Despite making $114-million over an 18-year career, Schilling has of late found himself in need of money. So he un-loaned the sock from the Hall and put it up for tender.
And someone bought it. Paid a Queen's ransom.
Speaking of queens, at a recent auction Queen Victoria's (not very) fetching bloomers fetched $15,000. That's right, someone paid for the right to brag about being in possession of Vic's "voluminous white silk underwear", which in comparison to the styles and standards of today's underpants, looks a lot like an old diaper. To boot, a mystery buyer -- believe it or not, some people are shy when it comes to announcing to the world that they're overpaying for someone else's underwear -- picked up singer Kylie Minogue's fire-engine-red bustier and silk underpants for a steal at $8,000. So, yes, we have confirmation: people do indeed buy weird crap. But to what end? What will the buyers do with this stuff? You can't talk about the items. By definition, they're unmentionables...
Sadly, I know sports people. I know the type of guy (not to be sexist, but trust me, the buyer is a guy) who bought the bloody sock. And I know he's the kind of sports knob who's going to host a big party with all the people in the world he thinks are his friends, and when these people are all good and snookered, he's going to make a huge production out of unveiling the sock.
"Ewww! Gross!"
It probably isn't the reaction he was shooting for when he shelled out $92,613, but it's what he's going to get. Because regardless of what he thinks of his little overpriced piece of history, it's a sock. Soaked in old sweat. Soiled with blood.]]>King James Is Ascending Into Heavens, And Coming Back To Earthtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26528992013-02-11T00:00:36-05:002013-04-12T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
Wade was making the case for his teammate's extraterrestrial-ness late Friday night after James effortlessly drained 30 points on just eleven shots -- seriously, the man barely broke a sweat and sat out the fourth quarter -- in leading the Miami Heat to a 111-89 romp over the visiting Los Angeles Clippers. And it's a case that is supported by many of the game's deep thinkers, and by fans in arenas around the league who have been watching this, The Season of LeBron, with mouths gaped open in utter awe. Highlight-reel play after highlight-reel play.
All of which is not to suggest that in previous seasons he was a slouch. On the hardwood, the Akron, Ohio, native seems to be merely fulfilling his destiny as he evolves from wunderkind to a plain ole wonder to behold. The 28-year-old's career stats already speak for themselves, likewise the accolades already bestowed upon him -- the Olympic gold medal, the NBA Championship, the three MVP awards, etc. And yet, each season, the beast known as LeBron only seems to get better.
Which, I suppose, is why no one is at all astounded at his inclusion on the All-Other-World Team. No, what astounds onlookers is how he seems to be ascending into the heavens, and coming back to Earth, all at once.
Lets' face it, as great as LeBron truly is, he's been... unlikable. He's acted unlikable. He's won assorted Most Unlikable Polls. In fact, he's been unlikable to the degree where people who don't even know him, absolutely hate him. Most of this stems from The Decision, wherein he dumped his Cleveland Cavaliers in favor of taking his talents to South Beach (hands up all those suffering through a Cleveland-like winter who wouldn't have taken their talents to Miami right now if given the chance).
Okay, I wasn't suggesting that the hatred was warranted, or that LeBron James is actually unlikable, but, rather, that the perception of the man -- all entitlement and arrogance -- has unsurprisingly really, really rubbed people the wrong way.
However, this season it seems something odd has been transpiring. LeBron has again upped his level of brilliance. And (gasp!) he's slowly begun to sway public opinion in his favor -- a softening about the edges, a sweetening of the soul -- by doing little things that cast him in a more favorable light, and that have him seeming more personable. More real. More... down-to-Earth.
Maybe he dumped his entourage -- handlers and enablers. Or maybe he just quit listening to these guys who, historically speaking, seemed to have offered-up bad advice on top of really bad advice. Maybe (the cynic shouts) he is just working harder on his image to maximize his earning potential. Or maybe, just maybe, the true LeBron James is finally being given a chance to shine through.
Picture LeBron back in late-January, running onto the court to bear hug some random guy who had just nailed a half-court shot for charity. See the joy on LeBron's face. Not even Meg Ryan could fake that kind of ecstasy.
Or picture LeBron last Friday during the Clippers game, asking a fan in the stands who'd caught a ball, to give him back the ball. And when the guy finally did, offering-up a limp-fish of a pass, LeBron fired it back at him, demanding a return pass with a little more guff on it. It was a classic little bit of comedy -- something a jokester like Bill Murray would be inclined to do.
Confession: I don't know the real LeBron James. Didn't know him when everyone was making him into an unlikable monster. Don't know him now, as he seems to be transforming into a likable man. But perception means a lot in the world of celebrity. And right now, King James is ascending into the heavens, and coming back to Earth, all at once.]]>Super Bowl Sunday: Best Of Times, Worst Of Timestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26107032013-02-03T11:33:24-05:002013-04-05T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
And if you're wondering what the dickens that means, consider: Super Bowl Sunday is indeed the best of times. At the culmination of a superb season of football, after a riveting regular season and a playoff run that only ramped up the excitement, the big game finally arrives.
Super Bowl XLVII. All pretenders have been exposed, all but two contenders have fallen, and we're left with The Clash Of The Titans. Or, at very least, The Clash Of The Two Teams That Remain Alive At The End Of The League's Annual War Of Attrition.
And finally, the answer to the mystery that has been unfolding before our eyes since September: what team is tops in the National Football League? The San Francisco 49ers or the Baltimore Ravens? And, please, for the sake of those who are all Jim-and-John-ed out, don't say the one that's coached by a Harbaugh...
Ah, but it is also the worst of times. Forget the seven-layer bean dip (bean there, done that), the crazy-gooey guacamole and incendiary chili, there are parts of the Super Bowl that are impossible to stomach. Things like the interminable layoff between Championship Sunday and Super Bowl Sunday. The heinous hype leading up to the big game. And the coverage overkill.
Honestly, it's like being waterboarded, but by sports-speak and platitudes in place of water. Is it even possible for anyone to watch the entire thousand hours of pre-game coverage (without mercifully slipping into a coma), replete with interviews and insights that tend to be about as hard-hitting as the tackles at the Pro Bowl, repeated viewings of Ray Lewis' caricature dance (is the guy a Raven or a Rockette?), and talk, talk, talk about the Super Bowl commercials? After Lewis and the Harbaugh boys, the most talked-about person in the universe on Super Bowl Sunday is... model Kate Upton. Who was also the most talked-about person at the last World Series.
I'm sensing a trend.
And speaking of the worst of times: for casual fans of the game -- and for those who have less-than-zero interest in the contest, but have nonetheless taken it upon themselves to invade your personal space just to partake in the party (that's right, weird Uncle Willard, I'm talking about you) -- the Super Bowl is all about the booze and the blarney, the social and the spread (the average American will consume a full day's calories -- 2,000 -- in under three hours; ah the Super Bloat). But to football fanatics, this is all blasphemy. Forget the All-American orgy that is the Super Bowl. To the fanatic, it's about the Bowl, not the blowout.
To boot, that poor unsuspecting fanatic is about to be blindsided. A long period of darkness is about to descend. Indeed, when the Vince Lombardi Trophy is awarded to the winning team's owner, and then duly handed off to The Last Harbaugh Standing, then, and only then, does the fanatic realize. It's over. For another year. So long football, see you in September.
Like the hangover after a big game ain't bad enough, there are seven solid months of withering withdrawal. Friends will invariably try to console. There's always hockey and basketball, they will say, and baseball's spring training opens soon.
Alas, it ain't the same. Not for the fanatic who lives for Sundays and his/her football fix.
]]>Two Idle Weeks Before the Super Bowl Are Too Manytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25678902013-01-28T13:40:29-05:002013-03-30T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
You know, there are those who argue that the two-week wait for the big day is unnecessary, idiotic and evil.
Unnecessary because, for an entire, epic, regular season these guys bash heads every week (admittedly, they're tossed one bone at some point in the season in the form of a bye), so why the week off?
Idiotic because it leaves the poor football fanatic with no football to be found on the in-between Sunday, save for the charade known as The Pro Bowl, wherein some of the best players in the National Football Conference half-heartedly take on some of the best players in the American Football Conference in a colossal snoozefest from sunny Honolulu. Honestly, this is a game even NFL commissioner Roger Goodell finds hard to digest, and has threatened to axe if the players don't actually... try. Yeah, Mr. Goodell, go ahead and go all Lizzie Borden on this baby. Axe to the max.
And evil because it leaves the North American Sports Media Machine with idle hands. And way too much spare time. Not a productive combo. So what happens is the hype is revved up to the point where everything is overanalyzed and overblown and the game has an impossible time living up to that hype.
To that end: if I hear one more word about the fact that this is the first time in league history that two brothers have faced each other in the big bowl as opposing coaches -- Jim Harbough at the helm of the San Francisco 49ers and his 15-month-older brother John piloting the Baltimore Ravens -- I may go batty (ah, battier). Which is to admit, I've already had my fill of HarBowl, or BroBowl, or (insert your own inanity).
Of course, it's not just the Super Bowl-specific stories that get blown out of proportion during the off-week. No, it's any story that can be linked to the sport for the sake of starved fans. Top story last week? Tom Brady's moat. Yep, Tom Brady has already stolen your life -- he's the star quarterback for the New England Patriots, his wife is Brazilian supermodel Gisele Bundchen, and he has a brand-spanking new $20-million 22,000-square-foot home in California which, according to the Detroit Free Press, comes replete with "a resort-style pool, massive play area for children and a common medieval fortress system." That is, a moat.
Ah, Tom, livin' large, grabbin' life by the moat.
And in other off-week snooze, er, news: a poll by USA Today Sports found that only 39 per cent of NFL players polled approve of commissioner Goodell. The rest, not so much (hey, didn't see that coming; most people love their bosses)...
Alas, football fanatics, we've finally turned the corner. Super Bowl Week is upon us. Flex your glutes and show off your tattoo. Slip into your favorite-team underpants -- boxers, briefs, or sassy thong, however you roll. Slather on your face paint. The San Francisco 49ers touched-down yesterday in The Big Easy. Today, it's the Baltimore Ravens turn to take New Orleans by storm. Only six more sleeps until Super Bowl XLVII (which, in case you don't know, is Roman numerals standing for... I don't know what).
]]>How Sports Heroes Become Punchlinestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25055942013-01-18T17:51:45-05:002013-03-20T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
No, Little Dude: Not funny!
I thought of this incident this week as disgraced cyclist Lance Armstrong and Notre Dame linebacker Manti Te'o became punchlines on late-night talk shows and social media -- Armstrong for his two-part confessional with Oprah Winfrey, wherein he admitted to being a serial cheater, a chronic lier, and an "arrogant prick" back in the day; and Te'o for apparently having been a part (unwittingly, or otherwise) of a huge hoax wherein he allegedly fell head-over-cleats in love with, well, a non-existent dead girlfriend.
Admittedly, some of the Twitter punchlines were gut-busters. Saturday Night Live's Seth Meyers weighed in on Manti: "These Te'o jokes are all very funny but let's all try and remember that a person who never existed is dead." While The Sports Junkie tweeted that "An Amber Alert has been issued for Manti Te'o's girlfriend..." As for Armstrong, Glenn Stout coined a powerful pun: "Bike-o path." While ESPN's Dan Rafael was more casually philosophical: "At least Armstrong's girlfriend existed..."
Not funny? Actually, funny but drawn from the deep, dark well of black humour. We laugh, but these stories are honestly more sad and sick, than funny.
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The Te'o story broke on Wednesday (thanks to the sports website, Deadspin). It probably should have broken earlier -- way earlier -- but journalists who really should have known better ran with a story that apparently seemed too good to fact-check. According to Deadspin:
"A Mormon linebacker who led his Catholic school's football program back to glory, Te'o was whipsawed between personal tragedies along the way. In the span of six hours in September, as Sports Illustrated told it, Te'o learned first of the death of his grandmother, Annette Santiago, and then of the death of his girlfriend, Lennay Kekua..."
Only, a little investigative reporting revealed that Kekua didn't die -- could not die, in fact, because she did not exist. It was, Deadspin revealed, all a huge hoax. A hoax that media outlets across North America are still trying to unravel. Manti says, via a statement, that he was the victim of a "sick joke," although he has yet to come forward to answer the myriad questions that seem to implicate him in this sick joke. Here's Mike Downey's take on CNN regarding where we are with this story, and how we got there. A fascinating read.
Slightly less fascinating was Armstrong's weep-fest with Oprah, wherein the erstwhile King of Cycling (dethroned and disgraced) finally came forward to confess to what everyone, save for the ostriches, already knew: that his storied career was built on doping and deceit. A Tour de Farce, if you will.
So, shouldn't we be applauding Armstrong for finally telling the truth? Perhaps, if we believed he had seen the so-called light, that all he now wanted was to set the story straight, repent and atone for his egregious errors. Actually, insiders say that Lance and his Merry Band of Enablers -- a band whose ranks have admittedly thinned out considerably of late -- are, according to a story in the New York Times prior to the Oprah interviews, "wondering if a confession could mitigate Armstrong's lifelong ban from Olympic sports." Seems Lance wants to compete in triathlons.
Nothing at all self-serving about that, Lance. Nothing at all. As for the Oprah sessions, let's just say that it was hard to take watching Armstrong acting contrite, while being unable to recall the number of people he's sued, raked over the coals, and ruined for, well, being honest. And getting in Armstrong's way.
As author John Acuff tweeted: "Hardest part of the Armstrong situation is the folks he sued into bankruptcy for libel because they told the truth."
To understate, it's been a bizarre week in the always wacky world of sports. A week that has been mined for fabulous fodder by late-night talk show hosts and social media alike. A week that in reality was just so... "Not funny?"
No, Little Dude. Not funny!]]>Looking Forward to a Short and Sweet Hockey Seasontag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.24580952013-01-12T08:43:15-05:002013-03-14T05:12:01-04:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
At long last, after 113 days of labour lunacy, peace on ice. Now, fasten your seat belts. Whirlwind training camps to open Sunday. Abbreviated 48-game schedule commencing next Saturday.
Of course, in hockey-mad Canada this ratification and return to normalcy is a huge whoop-dee-doo (since the agreement was reached, fanatics across the country have been spotted doing the Happy Dance in their official NHL-logo underpants while joyfully shooting warm, watered-down, odiously overpriced arena beer through their noses). In other areas of league commissioner Gary Bettman's over-extended universe -- areas such as the Sunbelt States of America, where hockey lags in popularity well behind lingerie-league darts -- the ecstasy is muted, to the point of appearing almost like indifference. Or obliviousness.
OK, perhaps not everyone north of the border is altogether enamoured with the return of hockey. Some Canadian fans will surely refuse to forgive the league and the players for the absurd, avaricious four-month disruption to their puck fix. Likewise, some Canadian fans will simply refuse to forget how the duelling bozos on both sides of the dispute curb-stomped their hearts before finally brokering a deal which, most experts agree, could have easily been reached months ago, if not for all the posturing and finger-pointing on both sides. Hell, there are more than a few cynical conspiracy theorists out there suggesting that the whole labour mambo was choreographed, that the two sides knew from the beginning that they would do the dance of the disgruntled and then finally pair up for a shortened season come January.
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Regardless, history (and surveys) suggest, that approximately 97.6327 percent of all true hockey fans will come skating back to the sport. Which is not to suggest that the league and players will escape this insanity unscathed. It's estimated that over the course of the lockout the players lost some $821-million in salaries. Likewise, the league took a shot or two to the financial groin.
Further, while dyed-in-the-wool fans flock back, the league may well have lost those fans in both Canada and the United States who previously existed on the periphery of the sport (which, in the case of Sunbelters, is most of the fan base). I'm referring to those who were kind of interested in hockey, but kind of not all that interested in hockey. That is, those who would for sure watch a hockey game, if Duck Dynasty repeats were not on television, and the local watering hole wasn't featuring half-priced pickled eggs. And, consequently, a farting contest.
Face it, these people said hasta la vista to hockey right around the time the league shot itself in the foot and began cancelling games. These people simply moved on to other things and quickly discovered they could get along just fine without the NHL. In order for the league to return to prosperity, it has to either lure these people back with promotions and gimmicks, or woo other periphery people into the fold.
In summary, it seems the lockout had no winners. Only big losers.
But wait... a close personal friend and industry insider who wishes to remain anonymous (let's call him Led Zeppelin IV), suggests that the lockout was not a bust for hockey fans, but, rather, a boon. Led says that aside from the world of economic hurt this whole debacle wreaked upon the sport's myriad satellite industries, there isn't a whole lot of downside to the lockout-abbreviated season.
Huh?
"Well, for starters, we get a one-week training camp in place of the usual month-long snooze-fest. How great is that?
"Secondly, we get a shortened season. Let's face it, the typical season is way too long. If you're a true hockey fan you can't even pretend to be interested in most of those early season match-ups -- honestly, it's impossible to get excited about two bottom-feeders clashing in November when nothing's at stake, and the level of play is minor-peewee, at best. The shortened season inherently injects excitement, intensity and purpose into each game."
True that (as the kids on some horrible sitcom would say).
This is precisely what the National Basketball Association discovered last year following their own lockout lunacy. When the two sides settled, and the league tipped-off in time for its annual Christmas games, fans and media alike were like my buddy Led Zeppelin, giving the truncated season a whole lotta love. Indeed, the NBA was shocked to discover that many fans actually favoured the league permanently ditching the first third of each season, and playing a shorter and more meaningful schedule.
With all that in mind, I suppose we rejoice. Hockey's back. With a brand-new season. Sweet -- and short.]]>Black Monday Could Be the NFL's Hit Dramatag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.23923692013-01-01T09:30:27-05:002013-03-03T05:12:01-05:00Andy Juniperhttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/andy-juniper/
Not convinced? Consider: the league has somehow managed to magically transform its so-called "NFL Player Selection Meeting" -- that is, its springtime draft of newly eligible players -- into a broadcast bonanza with what seems like thousands of hours of torturous televised chitter-chatter spliced between riveting visuals of young men being selected, and then (wait for it) pulling their new team's jersey on over their hulking frames. Be still your beating heart.
Oh, and pre-season -- you know, the dullest time in any sport, the time teams spend whipping their charges into playing shape, weeding out the slugs, and crafting the club that will take the field once the season starts for real. Well, the NFL, in cahoots with HBO, turned this onetime snoozefest into a reality show called Hard Knocks that follows a team through training camp with embarrassing invasiveness. Broken dreams. Curb-stomped hearts. Call it, Train Wreck TV.
And yet, every year on the Monday after the last Sunday of the regular season, the league unofficially holds its annual (seemingly drunken) firing fest -- canning coaches, jettisoning general managers, offloading administrators -- as the wise people who hired all these apparently inept people in the first place, conclude at once not that they made horrible hiring decisions, but, rather, that their team has decided "to move in a different direction."
Yeah, not backwards.
Alas, this year's version of Black Monday, as it has come to be known, saw nearly one-quarter of the league's head coaches axed within scant hours of each other. Say goodbye to Pat Shurmur in Cleveland, Norv Turner in San Diego, Ken Whisenhunt in Arizona, Andy Reid in Philadelphia, Romeo Crennel in Kansas City, and Lovie Smith in Chicago -- three of whom have Super Bowl coaching experience (Whisenhunt, Reid and Smith). To boot, five GMs and assorted executives were all told to not let the door hit them on the backside on their way out.
Happy New Year! (Cue creepy Donald Trump voice): "You're Fired!"
And yet, oddly enough, the league seems to do little to capitalize on all this inherent drama. Seriously, the NFL should turn Black Monday into a wild and wooly reality show: Spring Cleaning Comes Early. Or, better still, a game show: Off With Their Heads. Or, bare minimum, just make the day even more of a ghoulish spectacle than it already is. How about this:
Position the head coaches for every single NFL team in a long lineup. Then, have an announcer -- I'm thinking Ryan Seacrest -- say: "All those men who think they still have a job as a head coach in the National Football League, take one step forward..." Then as they all naturally step forward, Seacrest would chime in with something like, "Ah, not so fast, Lovie..."
That's right, Lovie's out. He squeezed double-digit wins out of a team that has a sieve for an offensive line. And injuries galore on both sides of the ball. But, he's out. And because he's such a crappy coach, four teams are reportedly knocking on his door, less than 24 hours after the Chicago Bears showed him the door.
Yeah, let's turn this manic Monday into must-see TV. And let's borrow the motto from another inane reality show, Big Brother. That is, "Expect the unexpected". And, oftentimes, the nonsensical. Change for the sake of change.