EL HOMBRE KNOWS SPORTS
The great thing about the NBA Draft is that you never know who’s going to be the bust. Okay, you knew Michael Olowokandi was going to stink, A) Because the Clippers chose him and B) Well, they’re the Clippers. There may be those out there who were sure Darko Milicic was going to be a colossal mistake and who insist they could predict that Sam Bowie’s gimpy feet would make Portland look like idiots. But with few exceptions, each year’s Draft is, as new Sixers coach Eddie Jordan put it Tuesday, like Christmas. Only the nice packages aren’t labeled, so you don’t know which one contains the home colonoscopy kit and which houses the home edition of Megan Fox’s Slap-and-Tickle Workshop.
Tonight, the NBA teams play talent roulette once again with a crop of imperfect, largely undertrained and unpredictable prospects, hoping that weeks of interviewing and auditioning have led them to find someone who can help their team win. With the specter of Benoit Benjamin hanging over the proceedings, it’s possible to imagine the person who has the NBA’s antacid concession getting a beach house out of this year’s Draft.
Every single player available has some big-time questions haunting him. Even Blake Griffin, everybody’s number one pick, has his faults, particularly on defense and when he’s asked to do something with a basketball in his hands from further than a foot away from the rim. Each of the 62 point guards vying for first-round spots has his liabilities. Stephen Curry may never guard anybody. Ty Lawson can’t get it done in the halfcourt. Tyreke Evans doesn’t shoot. All the big guys measured shorter than they thought they were. And all the Europlayers are stained by the failures of many of their brethren who stumbled before them.
But let’s face it; the NBA isn’t built on 19-year olds. The Lakers and Magic had a combined one rookie on in their rotations during the Finals. With few exceptions, newcomers don’t bring playoff prosperity. The Draft is for the great unwashed. It’s a chance for Minnesota to accumulate as many picks as possible, despite not having a coach and with an owner who knows nothing about basketball. Look at what happened in the summer of 2007. The Celtics had stunk like old fish but had been hosed in the Lottery. So, they traded the fifth overall pick and some baggage to Seattle for Ray Allen and then dished former first-rounders to Minnesota for Kevin Garnett. Hello, world championship. Meanwhile, the T-Wolves are a shambles and may be trying to pin their future on a teenage Spaniard who will owe the IRS in his country $8 mil when he signs and NBA deal. (His club has accumulated so much in back taxes that it transferred the kid’s onerous buyout to the Feds.)
So, when the Raptors select DeMar DeRozan, or whatever unlucky soul gets to play with Chris Bosh for a season before watching him walk in free agency, Tronno residents shouldn’t start setting aside dough for playoff tickets. Despite all the hype by the NBA and its propaganda partners, the Draft doesn’t promise prosperity. More than likely, a high pick this year is a harbinger of more misery to come.
Nope, it’s the trades that make champions, and in today’s economic climate, the NBA is turning into league with a caste system that could soon have owners sporting bindis. The two big deals that have been consummated so far have allowed wealthier teams to acquire big-name talents in return for the expiring contracts of B and C-Listers that Kathy Griffin might even scorn. San Antonio was able to add Richard Jefferson, a 20-a-night wing that will rejuvenate its sagging offense and help the team get younger, in return for aging Bruce Bowen, complementary piece Fabricio Oberto and Kurt Thomas, whose value to a team now is more as a stock analyst than interior factor. Two days later, Cleveland acquired the Big Everything from Phoenix, which was once a showpiece franchise but is now on a cost-cutting binge. By acquiring Sasha Pavlovic’s attractive contract and The Ghost of Ben Wallace, the Suns save about $10 million and maybe more, if they can buy out Wallace. Cleveland, meanwhile, gets a Tweeting fool who can play 25 minutes a night, attract double teams and amuse locals with his hilarious comedy routine. And if he actually tries, which wasn’t always the case in Phoenix, Shaq could help the Cavs win a title. Given that this is the last year of his contract, Cleveland might actually expect maximum effort from its new road grader. Most of the time.
The lesson is clear: NFL teams may build through the Draft, but NBA powers load up by fleecing poor teams in the kinds of deals little brothers make with their older siblings before Mom or Dad vetoes the swap. Hey, Johnny, why don’t you give me your iPod for this cool rock? Sure, Ricky. You’re the best. Look at this season’s finalists. The Lakers didn’t quite give Memphis a bag of magic beans for Pau Gasol, but it was close. The cash-strapped Grizzlies single-sourced the trade with L.A., much to the dismay of every other team in the league, who would have surrendered more for the big man. Orlando, meanwhile, convinced Houston that it was a good idea to give the Magic Rafer Alston in a three-way with Memphis. At least the Rockets got Kyle Lowry out of the deal. The Grizz ended up with a whole lot of nothing, which fit in well with the rest of its roster.
Thursday night, you’re going to hear a lot about the great futures of those drafted and how much the league’s untouchables helped themselves by selecting a point guard with many questions about his game. Disregard that and pay attention to two things: Which contenders are conning economically-challenged rivals into surrendering valuable players in return for detritus, albeit cost-effective detritus? And which clubs are trying to dump salary in the hopes of having enough cap room next summer to make runs at the unprecedented bonanza of talent expected to hit free agency? By the time Friday dawns, the cast of Clean House will be able to pick about 10 of next year’s Lottery participants, and the short list of candidates for the Larry O’Brien Trophy will be established. That’s what “happens” in the NBA right now, and it’s not the best news for fans of the league’s cellar denizens.
It’s even worse for Oklahoma forward Blake Griffin. The Clippers are taking him.
* * *
EL HOMBRE SEZ: Now that Maria Sharapova is out of Wimbledon, does the tournament still go on?...Cowboy Quarterback is down in Mississippi throwing to high schoolers. Sounds like he’s preparing to play for the Raiders, not Minnesota…Say what you want about the NHL and its follies, but the one thing the league does right is its Winter Classic. Pairing the Bruins and Flyers in Fenway Park on New Year’s Day is a genius move and will no doubt result in high ratings and a bonanza for ticket scalpers. Now, if the league could do something about its sagging franchises, stinky TV deal and the perception (mostly among Detroiters) that it favored Pittsburgh and Freddie Mercury in the Stanley Cup finals, everything would be fine…Here’s a shocker: The BCS rejected the Mountain West Conference’s proposal for a college football playoff. That means another five years of choosing college football’s national champion on paper. In a related story, the Red Sox were just named World Series champs because they have the best record in baseball right now…Congratulations to the U.S. soccer team for its landmark win over Spain Wednesday. Seems like the Americans specialize in these uprisings, only to return to hit-and-miss play afterward. The challenge now is for the squad to play well Sunday in the Confederations Cup final, build momentum through World Cup qualifying and then send a team to South Africa next summer that doesn’t lose to Ghana.
* * *
YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT? It’s time for Phillies manager Charlie Manuel to move Jimmy Rollins out of the leadoff spot for an extended period of time. Rollins hasn’t been the same player since his 2007 MVP campaign, and his inability to get on base is killing the Phillies’ offense. Rollins continues to swing at bad pitches, still tries to pull the ball, hits way too many fly balls and refuses to work walks and agitate the way a true leadoff man should. When Rollins is going well, he’s a tremendous weapon, but that hasn’t happened for a while. Manuel needs to drop him until Rollins starts hitting again, and more importantly, shows that he’s interested in doing the things to set the table for teammates, rather than trying to be a slugging shortstop. Make the move, Charlie. It’s time.
* * *
AND ANOTHER THING: Is El Hombre the only one who sees the irony in the timing of Donald Fehr’s announcement that he is stepping down as the head of the players’ union? In a couple days, Manny Ramirez will be back with the Dodgers after his 50-day suspension for using a drug related to steroid use. Perhaps Fehr can serve as the emcee at Ramirez’s press conference, since it was in large part due to Fehr’s refusal to allow drug testing in Majoke League Baseball that the steroid era was able to blossom. Marvin Miller will always be remembered as the man who brought free agency to baseball, while Fehr’s legacy is one of aversion, avoidance and acrimony. Fehr, in concert with serial back-turner Bud Sellout, helped create a climate in which players abused performance-enhancing drugs for more than a decade and tainted the game’s reputation. Miller belongs in the Hall of Fame; Fehr shouldn’t get a vote. And to all those Dodgers fans who used to rail against Giants supporters who backed BALCO Bonds all those juicy years: You have become colossal hypocrites because of your undying support for a drug abuser and a lout.
-EH-
Showing posts with label donald fehr. Show all posts
Showing posts with label donald fehr. Show all posts
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The End of the Innocence
EL HOMBRE KNOWS SPORTS
That Bud Sellout is on quite a roll these days. First, he pressures espn – which acquiesced like Austria to the Anschluss – into suspending a radio host for having the temerity to criticize him using some colorful language. Not long after that, he called a Minneapolis newspaper columnist to harangue him for writing an unflattering column. Now, the $17 million man is actually entertaining the idea of some sort of punishment for Alex Rodriguez after his recent lukewarm mea culpa about going on the Bonds plan to enhance his already-substantial skills. You have to give Sellout credit for nerve. Here’s a guy who, in conjunction with union toughs Don Fehr and Gene Ozra (and a supporting cast of filthy-rich owners) presided over the whole steroid/HGH mess, and now he’s trying to convince us he’s “heartsick” about what’s happening today. He’d have a better chance getting us to believe he isn’t the highest-paid invertebrate on the planet.
What a week for baseball. The Rodriguez mess broke last Saturday. Then came Miggy’s teary confession of lying about his PED use. Coming quickly are federal perjury charges against Roger Clemens, who all but threw a splintered bat at members of a Congressional committee last year – at least those who weren’t asking him for autographs. Throw in Houston hurler Roy Oswalt’s self-indulgent tirade about being “cheated,” and you have a soap opera worthy of prime-time airing on Telemundo.
Only this isn’t fiction. Alas, it is the state of the “American Pastime,” that pastoral athletic ideal that serves as a metaphor for new beginnings and is romanticized as a chief method for fathers to relate to their sons. Baseball will certainly weather all of this, in large part because the general public doesn’t have the stamina – maybe it needs a strenuous off-season conditioning program – to put in the effort necessary to understand what has happened and what it means. The vast majority of fans just wants to root, root, root for the home team and spend $7.50 for 12 ounces of beer. After a while, the talk of steroids, who’s worthy of Hall of Fame induction and federal lawsuits gets tedious. It’s much more fun to obsess over whom you want to make the backup second baseman on your fantasy team (here’s a vote for Bar Refaeli, who has great range) than to ponder the impact of nearly two decades of deception. That’s absolutely natural. What’s important now aren’t jail terms, suspensions, the record book or made-for-TV mea culpas that lack serious follow-up.
Baseball as we knew it and loved it is a memory. Our love affair with the sport has turned into a business relationship. Yes, the “good, old days” were characterized by a willing naiveté that looked past the faults of diamond heroes and focused on the game’s idyllic persona. We didn’t care that Babe Ruth drank or caroused. The blatant racism that persisted into the 1960s (and became latent after that) was largely ignored. Greenies? Bahhh! Spitballs? Thrown by “characters,” not cheaters. We overlooked it all, in the name of preserving the game’s innocence.
No more. Sellout, Fehr and their constituents have fattened their bank accounts with our money, in the pursuit of a business model that preyed on the nation’s thirst for wholesome sports entertainment, sort of an unholy union between “Field of Dreams” and “Wall Street.” We, of course, gobbled it up. And we’ll continue to flock to games (Pittsburgh excepted) with the kids.
The difference now is that baseball’s secrets have been revealed, and we can see the game as it truly is. Fighting helps hockey sell itself. Football depends on snot-bubble hits that could paralyze but absolutely titillate. Pro basketball has embraced narcissism. And college sports perpetuate the student-athlete myth while selling luxury suites to cocktail-swilling alumni. Against that backdrop, why should be expect baseball to be any different? So what if the local pharmacy sponsors the local Little League nine, instead of Chico’s Bail Bonds? Baseball is a business, not a panacea for winter blues or inter-generational family strife.
The last week has driven that home. The sport has been laid bare by a climate fostered by Sellout, whose lack of leadership makes Boris Yeltsin look like Winston Churchill. After years of sidestepping the steroid question and failing to push the union for a testing program with teeth, he now goes on the offensive, challenging those who question him and saying he might just impose some justice on Rodriguez, who by the way, was only exposed because someone in the baseball family broke a confidence. That is the last vestige of a coward. Sellout has been about profit and self-preservation, the hallmarks of business these days. (The New York Times reported Thursday that 696 employees of Merrill Lynch received bonuses of at least a mil last year.) For him to try to preserve his fetid legacy through intimidation smacks of petty tyranny.
The dollars may continue to pour in, but baseball has officially lost its innocence. The magical words, “Pitchers and catchers report in X days” no longer symbolize a fresh beginning and the onset of spring. They signal another convening of the bottom-line owners and the Machiavellian players. So, step up and watch the drama, folks, and don’t forget to come out to urine sample night at the ballpark, when any fan who has a higher level of Winstrol in his system than the star slugger gets a new liver.
* * *
EL HOMBRE SEZ: So, Michael Phelps needs a couple months to decide whether he wants to swim in the 2012 Olympics, does he? No problem. Just as long as he doesn’t let Ricky Williams help him make the decision…Adam Jones is gone; Me-O is next. Sounds like a couple of great first steps toward contention for the Cowboys. The big question is how False Face Jones is going to handle life without a daily soap opera. Anybody else think he is more interested in creating interest through a season-long spectacle than by fielding a winning team? He’s making big money either way…espn’s decision to suspend Scott Van Pelt for his on-air comments about Bud Sellout was the worst example of corporate kneeling seen in a long time. Face it, the “Worldwide Leader” is no more a news-gathering organization than Lawrence Taylor is Fred Astaire. They may masquerade, but neither delivers. Behind every espn story is a carefully-protected corporate relationship. Firing Van Pelt for disparaging Sellout (with no profanity or slanderous comments) was cowardly, even by espn standards...Lance Armstrong’s efforts to have an independent entity test him for performance-enhancing drugs this cycling season fell through. Armstrong wanted to show he was clean, and he probably is. That’s why he won’t win the Tour de France. Here’s a suggestion: Instead of applying transparent testing methods to today’s samples, why doesn’t St. Lance allow his urine from Tour triumphs gone by to go through the rigorous scrutiny?...Check out this collection of merchandise on the NFL’s damaged goods table: Plaxico Burress, Anquan Boldin and Chad Johnson could all be available this off-season. The league should slap an “As is” tag on all of them and find out who’s stupid enough to pay up…NASCAR swings back into action Sunday with the Daytona 500. Even the left-turn crowd isn’t immune to the recent economic downturn. Some sponsors have bailed. Some team owners are cutting staff. And fans have resorted to shaving their favorite drivers’ numbers into their back hair with disposable razors, instead of fancy trimmers.
* * *
YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT? The argument for the best college player in the city has begun, and despite three worthy candidates, one stands above the rest. Temple’s Dionte Christmas, Villanova’s Dante Cunningham and Saint Joseph’s Ahmad Nivins have all had fine seasons and are integral to their teams’ success this year. But Nivins has been the best of the bunch. Christmas can score, but when he gets crowded on the perimeter, his offensive game suffers. Give him credit for not getting too frustrated by teams that devote extra manpower to keeping him under control, but if he could take people off the dribble more expertly, he wouldn’t have to worry about his long-range game’s suffering. Cunningham is a tremendous story, having matured from a complementary piece to one of the top frontcourt performers in the Big East and is certainly worthy of all-conference consideration. But he has a strong supporting cast, particularly at guard, which forces other teams to focus on the outside and leaves some room for Cunningham to operate. He has taken full advantage of his opportunities but has also had a lot of help. Nivins, on the other hand, goes it almost alone some nights. The Hawks have few reliable options besides him, so Nivins must shoulder the scoring load, while still pulling down double-digit rebounds each game. Granted, the level of competition Saint Joseph’s has faced isn’t Big East-caliber, but Nivins has been outstanding no matter who he has faced. He’s big, athletic and has improved his shooting and handling skills immensely this year. If he had a guard who could feed the post, he’d be averaging 30 a game. It’s a close race, but the nod here goes to Nivins.
* * *
AND ANOTHER THING: Brett Favre has retired. Again. That’s enough about him. No tears. No career retrospective. No maudlin Chris Berman tributes. Nothing. We went through the nonsense last year during the first “retirement.” He doesn’t get another go-round. Good riddance. Go ride the tractor, Brett. See you in five years in Canton.
-EH-
That Bud Sellout is on quite a roll these days. First, he pressures espn – which acquiesced like Austria to the Anschluss – into suspending a radio host for having the temerity to criticize him using some colorful language. Not long after that, he called a Minneapolis newspaper columnist to harangue him for writing an unflattering column. Now, the $17 million man is actually entertaining the idea of some sort of punishment for Alex Rodriguez after his recent lukewarm mea culpa about going on the Bonds plan to enhance his already-substantial skills. You have to give Sellout credit for nerve. Here’s a guy who, in conjunction with union toughs Don Fehr and Gene Ozra (and a supporting cast of filthy-rich owners) presided over the whole steroid/HGH mess, and now he’s trying to convince us he’s “heartsick” about what’s happening today. He’d have a better chance getting us to believe he isn’t the highest-paid invertebrate on the planet.
What a week for baseball. The Rodriguez mess broke last Saturday. Then came Miggy’s teary confession of lying about his PED use. Coming quickly are federal perjury charges against Roger Clemens, who all but threw a splintered bat at members of a Congressional committee last year – at least those who weren’t asking him for autographs. Throw in Houston hurler Roy Oswalt’s self-indulgent tirade about being “cheated,” and you have a soap opera worthy of prime-time airing on Telemundo.
Only this isn’t fiction. Alas, it is the state of the “American Pastime,” that pastoral athletic ideal that serves as a metaphor for new beginnings and is romanticized as a chief method for fathers to relate to their sons. Baseball will certainly weather all of this, in large part because the general public doesn’t have the stamina – maybe it needs a strenuous off-season conditioning program – to put in the effort necessary to understand what has happened and what it means. The vast majority of fans just wants to root, root, root for the home team and spend $7.50 for 12 ounces of beer. After a while, the talk of steroids, who’s worthy of Hall of Fame induction and federal lawsuits gets tedious. It’s much more fun to obsess over whom you want to make the backup second baseman on your fantasy team (here’s a vote for Bar Refaeli, who has great range) than to ponder the impact of nearly two decades of deception. That’s absolutely natural. What’s important now aren’t jail terms, suspensions, the record book or made-for-TV mea culpas that lack serious follow-up.
Baseball as we knew it and loved it is a memory. Our love affair with the sport has turned into a business relationship. Yes, the “good, old days” were characterized by a willing naiveté that looked past the faults of diamond heroes and focused on the game’s idyllic persona. We didn’t care that Babe Ruth drank or caroused. The blatant racism that persisted into the 1960s (and became latent after that) was largely ignored. Greenies? Bahhh! Spitballs? Thrown by “characters,” not cheaters. We overlooked it all, in the name of preserving the game’s innocence.
No more. Sellout, Fehr and their constituents have fattened their bank accounts with our money, in the pursuit of a business model that preyed on the nation’s thirst for wholesome sports entertainment, sort of an unholy union between “Field of Dreams” and “Wall Street.” We, of course, gobbled it up. And we’ll continue to flock to games (Pittsburgh excepted) with the kids.
The difference now is that baseball’s secrets have been revealed, and we can see the game as it truly is. Fighting helps hockey sell itself. Football depends on snot-bubble hits that could paralyze but absolutely titillate. Pro basketball has embraced narcissism. And college sports perpetuate the student-athlete myth while selling luxury suites to cocktail-swilling alumni. Against that backdrop, why should be expect baseball to be any different? So what if the local pharmacy sponsors the local Little League nine, instead of Chico’s Bail Bonds? Baseball is a business, not a panacea for winter blues or inter-generational family strife.
The last week has driven that home. The sport has been laid bare by a climate fostered by Sellout, whose lack of leadership makes Boris Yeltsin look like Winston Churchill. After years of sidestepping the steroid question and failing to push the union for a testing program with teeth, he now goes on the offensive, challenging those who question him and saying he might just impose some justice on Rodriguez, who by the way, was only exposed because someone in the baseball family broke a confidence. That is the last vestige of a coward. Sellout has been about profit and self-preservation, the hallmarks of business these days. (The New York Times reported Thursday that 696 employees of Merrill Lynch received bonuses of at least a mil last year.) For him to try to preserve his fetid legacy through intimidation smacks of petty tyranny.
The dollars may continue to pour in, but baseball has officially lost its innocence. The magical words, “Pitchers and catchers report in X days” no longer symbolize a fresh beginning and the onset of spring. They signal another convening of the bottom-line owners and the Machiavellian players. So, step up and watch the drama, folks, and don’t forget to come out to urine sample night at the ballpark, when any fan who has a higher level of Winstrol in his system than the star slugger gets a new liver.
* * *
EL HOMBRE SEZ: So, Michael Phelps needs a couple months to decide whether he wants to swim in the 2012 Olympics, does he? No problem. Just as long as he doesn’t let Ricky Williams help him make the decision…Adam Jones is gone; Me-O is next. Sounds like a couple of great first steps toward contention for the Cowboys. The big question is how False Face Jones is going to handle life without a daily soap opera. Anybody else think he is more interested in creating interest through a season-long spectacle than by fielding a winning team? He’s making big money either way…espn’s decision to suspend Scott Van Pelt for his on-air comments about Bud Sellout was the worst example of corporate kneeling seen in a long time. Face it, the “Worldwide Leader” is no more a news-gathering organization than Lawrence Taylor is Fred Astaire. They may masquerade, but neither delivers. Behind every espn story is a carefully-protected corporate relationship. Firing Van Pelt for disparaging Sellout (with no profanity or slanderous comments) was cowardly, even by espn standards...Lance Armstrong’s efforts to have an independent entity test him for performance-enhancing drugs this cycling season fell through. Armstrong wanted to show he was clean, and he probably is. That’s why he won’t win the Tour de France. Here’s a suggestion: Instead of applying transparent testing methods to today’s samples, why doesn’t St. Lance allow his urine from Tour triumphs gone by to go through the rigorous scrutiny?...Check out this collection of merchandise on the NFL’s damaged goods table: Plaxico Burress, Anquan Boldin and Chad Johnson could all be available this off-season. The league should slap an “As is” tag on all of them and find out who’s stupid enough to pay up…NASCAR swings back into action Sunday with the Daytona 500. Even the left-turn crowd isn’t immune to the recent economic downturn. Some sponsors have bailed. Some team owners are cutting staff. And fans have resorted to shaving their favorite drivers’ numbers into their back hair with disposable razors, instead of fancy trimmers.
* * *
YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT? The argument for the best college player in the city has begun, and despite three worthy candidates, one stands above the rest. Temple’s Dionte Christmas, Villanova’s Dante Cunningham and Saint Joseph’s Ahmad Nivins have all had fine seasons and are integral to their teams’ success this year. But Nivins has been the best of the bunch. Christmas can score, but when he gets crowded on the perimeter, his offensive game suffers. Give him credit for not getting too frustrated by teams that devote extra manpower to keeping him under control, but if he could take people off the dribble more expertly, he wouldn’t have to worry about his long-range game’s suffering. Cunningham is a tremendous story, having matured from a complementary piece to one of the top frontcourt performers in the Big East and is certainly worthy of all-conference consideration. But he has a strong supporting cast, particularly at guard, which forces other teams to focus on the outside and leaves some room for Cunningham to operate. He has taken full advantage of his opportunities but has also had a lot of help. Nivins, on the other hand, goes it almost alone some nights. The Hawks have few reliable options besides him, so Nivins must shoulder the scoring load, while still pulling down double-digit rebounds each game. Granted, the level of competition Saint Joseph’s has faced isn’t Big East-caliber, but Nivins has been outstanding no matter who he has faced. He’s big, athletic and has improved his shooting and handling skills immensely this year. If he had a guard who could feed the post, he’d be averaging 30 a game. It’s a close race, but the nod here goes to Nivins.
* * *
AND ANOTHER THING: Brett Favre has retired. Again. That’s enough about him. No tears. No career retrospective. No maudlin Chris Berman tributes. Nothing. We went through the nonsense last year during the first “retirement.” He doesn’t get another go-round. Good riddance. Go ride the tractor, Brett. See you in five years in Canton.
-EH-
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