My Most Ambitious Undertaking Part I (The Infield)

(Editor’s note: This post may look a little fishy to some of you out there, but allow us to clarify three things at the outset. Cousin Tonks was completely unaware that a movie named Game 6 is slated to be released this year. He was also unaware that I had asked the guys over at Misery Loves Company about this movie. He was also unaware that they had written a post with the same theme as this one. In the interest of good faith, however, here's a link to Misery Loves Company, so if interested you can read their iteration on the theme explored by Cousin below: http://nextyear.blogspot.com.)

In the months leading up to the release of this movie you will likely see many posts like this on various websites. Hell, if you told me we'd see a post like from Old Sip in the coming months I’d believe it. But just to be clear, Cousin Tonks came up with this post on his own, with no suggestion from A.F.O.M.G. or Sippy Momo. That all said, enjoy.)

Cousin checking back in, as Sip readjusts to Western Time. So as we have rehashed over here at Yankees2000, It is a very important anniversary for our Beloved Metropolitans. That’s right, 20 years since the Bad Guys Won. A story that is so ambitious and entertaining, that it could clearly be a blockbuster movie. So, I have decided to cast said movie, and for the most part used guys who will do the work basically for free. This will be a three part series, starting with the infield.

C, Gary Carter. This one is easy. A slow, team leading catcher with a head full of curly locks. I can think of an actor who played that roll to a T. That’s right, the man who gave the Oscar Caliber performance TWICE as Jake Taylor, Tom Berenger.

Now, as I peruse IMDB.com I see that Berenger he is between the voice of Einstein in Firedog and is attached to the title roll in Jonathan Toomey as well as a role in a TV miniseries based on the work of Stephen King. Berenger’s always been highly versatile and durable, so I think he could definitely fit in some time as “The Kid”.

Berenger would have to show some serious range to tap into Carter's inner and outer herb, but as he proved with last year's miniseries event "Into the West", you can never count Berenger out. Look for him to steal the show and finally get the hardware he so unfairly did not receive come Oscar season 2007.

1B, Keith Hernandez. Now, I don’t think it would be far fetched that this ego-maniac would try out for the roll himself, and if turned down, not give up his naming rights for the film. I am sure he feels his spot on “Seinfeld” has more than qualified him as a lead in a full feature length film.

However, assuming that doesn’t fly, I think with his newfound stellar ‘stache for “My Name is Earl” already in play, Jason Lee could handle the roll. As everyone else has in the Kevin Smith world, Lee has done a stint in rehab (OK maybe just Jason Mewes, and Ben Affleck), which would should Lee to tap into the inner demons that plagued Hernandez during his descent into cocaine addiction.

However, if a bitter-at-not-playing-himself Hernandez does not give up his naming rights as I foresee, Lee’s jersey might have to say “1B Mets”. It is sort of like in the original Tecmo Bowl when Randall Cunningham would not sell his name to the game and was simply QB Eagles. (Hey Randall, you weren’t fooling anyone.)

2B, Wally Backman. If anyone knows how to be a flash in the pan and then fade into obscurity only to have a troubled past catch up with him, it is Corey Feldman. Backman was an average utility player at best for most of his career, but came alive in 1986. A career .275 hitter, he hit .320 in that magical season.

Backman resurfaced years later in a bid to take over the reins of those pesky Diamondbacks, only to get fired four days after getting hired for numerous indiscretions including DWI and Harrassment Charges that surfaced. Feldman followed a similar path with a huge splash in the spotlight only to have comebacks stifled by legal and substance abuse problems.

MI, Tim Teuful. This one is easy, the only problem will get this man to leave the Singing World to enter the Big Screen. That’s right, only Ricky Martin can shake his hips to the level of the Teuful Shuffle (It drives the fans in Cleveland Crazy!)

SS, Rafael Santana. This silent but consistent role player has always been overshadowed by a more talented, more boisterous team. Much like this actor (until recently) has always been overshadowed by a more famous and boisterous older brother. You guessed it, Charlie Murphy. Maybe Raphael will break through out of the shadow much like Charlie did with Chappelle’s Show.

(Editor’s note: I was reminded Sunday night of how Rafael Santana was not mentioned once in the 1986 Mets Tape. Does anyone know what gives with that? Was he the one who provided nose candy for half the roster or what?)

3B, Ray Knight. Seemed like an all around good guy, even willing to marry an ugly woman (golfer Nancy Lopes). Was the biggest thing in the world during that series, but the rest of his career was just kinda there.

For that reason, I would have to say Alex Winter, better known as Bill Preston or even better known as the guy standing next to Keanu Reeves in the Bill and Ted movies. Unlike Feldman who succumbed to drugs and partying, it seemed like this guy just went away after the Bill and Ted movies.

It could be argued that he was the stronger player than Keanu, but somehow Mr. Reeves went on to bigger and better, where Alex just didn’t. Through an IMDB search, I looked up his wife, Sonya Dawson, but couldn’t find any pics. I doubt she is as ugly as Lopes though.

That’s all for now. Look forward to the outfielders and pitchers in upcoming posts.

- Cousin Tonks

A New Hope

What’s up guys, A Friend of Mr. Glass’ here. You know, spoken or unspoken, a cloud of uncertainty hangs over this Mets team in the minds of many a Mets fan. It all has to do with the team’s starting pitching. Pedro’s toe. Glavine’s inconsistency. Trachsel’s mediocrity. Heilman’s two pitches three-to-four times a game.

And then there’s Victor Zambrano. The clouds that surround the other four members of the rotation are temporary. Over the course of the season, the questions about Pedro, Benedict, Trachsel, and Heilman must needs be answered, but at least with them there is the hope of a pleasant outcome.

As for Zambrano, his days are forever grey, and it seems incredibly unlikely that that will ever change. It’s not that he doesn’t have potential. If he could somehow get a little control over his pitches, well, he probably wouldn’t be the ace of the staff but he could be an entirely serviceable middle of the rotation starter.

The trouble with Zambrano isn’t who he is, however, it’s who he isn’t. He isn’t Scott Kazmir, Kid K, the mostly highly regarded prospect in nearly a decade of Mets baseball who was lost in The Purge of 2004.

Unlike Zambrano, Kazmir, a fireballing lefty who blows batters away like so many lines of cocaine*, had the potential to be the ace of the staff, the third pillar of the Mets’ youth movement along with David Wright and Jose Reyes, and the greatest homegrown Mets pitcher since a young Doc Gooden.

It’s not his fault that the Mets were willing to part with Kazmir to get him, but Zambrano wears that mantle every time he toes the rubber. Every sub-par outing, every trace of that patented Zambrano grimace, hell, every walk he issues reminds Mets fans of the potential that was given away.

I’ve spent nights tossing and turning in my bed at the thought of a rotation that reads:

1. Pedro
2. Glavine
3. Kazmir
4. Trachsel
5. Heilman

Rather than:

1. Pedro
2. Glavine
3. Trachsel
4. Heilman
5. Zambrano

Imagine how exciting the former would be just because of one substitution.

Or don’t.

Kazmir’s gone, and at some point we have to get over it.

I had always thought the moment I would get over the Kazmir trade would come when Zambrano finally left the organization.

I began to rethink that timetable this past weekend, however, when I read David Lennon’s article in Newsday about Mike Pelfrey (link available here: http://www.newsday.com/sports/baseball/mets/ny-spmets254641253feb25,0,1591396.story?coll=ny-mets-print).

At last Mets fans have a pitching prospect to get excited about again. At last we have a prospect with No. 1 potential. At last, there is a new hope for Mets’ fans such as myself.

(Note: As some of you will no doubt not need to be told, the title of this piece is a Star Wars reference. When I originally conceived of this piece, my thought had been to retell the Kazmir trade through the guise of Star Wars Episode III – Revenge of the Sith.

Featuring Jim Duquette as Anakin Skywalker and Jeff Wilpon as Supreme Chancellor/Emperor Palpatine, the story was to culminate with Jim Duquette on his knees staring up at Jeff Wilpon and saying in slow, anguished speech “I’ll do whatever you (pause) ask”, to which Wilpon, flush with power, his eyes a yellow-red tinge, responds “Gooooood…” the words creepily reverberating around the walls of his chamber, organ music playing in the background.

The idea was scratched, however, when I considered how much shit I would get from old Sip, Star Wars hater that he is.)

So why am I so excited about Pelfrey? Lord knows it’s not because I’ve ever seen him pitch, but the internets are a funny thing, capable of providing information on just about anything if you look hard enough.

Having done a decent amount of research on the matter, what’s got me excited about Pelfrey is his 4-pitch repertoire, consisting of two- and four-seem fastballs, a circle change, and a slider/curve (a slurve). The more weapons the better.

I’m excited about his track record. In three seasons at Wichita State, Pelfrey compiled the following statistics (statistics read 2003-2005, Pelfrey’s freshman – sophomore – and junior years of college).

Won-Loss: 10-2 – 11-2 –12-3 (Overall: 33-7).
Innings pitched: 104.2 – 115.1 – 139.2.
ERA: 2.49 – 2.18 – 1.93.
WHIP: 0.91 – 0.95 – 0.90.
Ks-per-9 innings: 8.43 – 9.75 – 9.21.
Home runs allowed: 9 – 2 – 4.

As the numbers attest, Pelfrey dominated college ball. It’s not the same as dominating major leaguers, but it’s probably equivalent to dominating A level talent at the least, and possibly AA. When you consider that many top prospects make the jump to the big club after excelling at AA (Wright did this for example, and I believe Reyes did the same, although Mr. Glass may have had a cup of coffee with the Triple A club**), you get a sense that this kid isn’t far off.

I’m excited about his size. The one legitimate knock on Kazmir was always his size relative to the radar readings on his fastball. Kazmir is listed as 6’0”, but word is his actual height is somewhere in the 5’10”, 5’11” area. That doesn’t make him tiny by any means, but we can all appreciate that in a perfect world, the guy throwing 97 mph would have a larger body through which to diffuse the work.

According to online reports, Pelfrey’s fastball is consistently in the mid-90s, and tops out at 97. At an imposing 6’7”, Pelfrey has the kind of frame that can intimidate batters and, hopefully, stay in one piece year-in and year-out (that's been the case so far; Pelfrey is the proud owner of what perfectgame.org calls "as clean an injury record as you can possibly have").

I’m excited about his makeup. He dominated his first live batting practice session with the Wilpons, Omar Minaya, Willie Randolph and Rick Peterson all in attendance. He talks about the adjustments he needs to make and the continued need for improvement. His quotes sound like they came from the mouth of David Wright – that’s a good thing.

And I’m excited because I’m tired of thinking about Kazmir. I’m tired of thinking about what could have been and I’m ready to start thinking something positive about the future of our rotation.

With Mike Pelfrey waiting in the wings, there's reason to hope again, if nothing else.

- A.F.O.M.G.

*: Was there ever anything to this rumor, or was it a baseless part of the Al Leiter (RIP)/John Franco smear campaign?

**: Per JWill's comment, this should be revised. Reyes made the jump to the bigs from Double A, Wright had a brief stint at Triple A. Thanks for the correction.

Selling Out and Coming Clean, or, Corporate Suites: Sweet or Salt?

What’s up guys, A Friend of Mr. Glass’ here. I’ve got a confession to make, and the truth is, this isn’t easy for me. It isn’t easy because I feel guilty on the one hand and pretty good on the other, but I know I shouldn’t feel equal parts former and latter.

It’s kind of like the feeling of pissing the seat when you’re little. You're too young to care about cleaning it up but old enough to know that you’ve done something wrong. One way or another, you enjoyed yourself immensely. (My apologies go out to M.O.A.F.O.M.G. and S.O.A.F.O.M.G. – it’s just the way it happens sometimes.)

In any event, the feeling I’ve been unable to shake the past couple days is a little like that. Only I’m old enough now and I’m coming clean.

So what happened? Wednesday night I became “that guy.” You know his look, you know the cut of his jib.

He saunters into a sporting event (or, on other occassions, a dive bar) wearing his work clothes.

You ask yourself what could have possibly been so important that this asshole couldn’t have changed into something more befitting a sporting event.

And then, as the two of you part ways and he ascends to his corporate box to watch the game while you sit among the rest of humanity like a real man, you wonder whether this guy thinks his shit doesn’t stink.

That was me on Wednesday, only I wasn’t asking the questions, they were being asked of me. Wednesday night, I went to a live sporting event and watched from a corporate suite.

Now look, that may not seem like a big deal to a lot of you, and I want to say a few things up front. One, this was a Knicks game. Knicks-Heat. Knicks got slaughtered. Like completely dismantled. Needless to say.

Anyway, it was a Knicks game. I like the Knicks, but I’m not gonna lie, the passion that I’ve got for the Mets just isn’t there for the Knicks, or any other team for that matter. I’m happy to wear the fair-weather fan mantle if I must for the Giants and Knicks. I take my licks with the Mets and as a general rule I don’t take no shit from the other New York teams.

(Lord knows I loved watching Giants game with the Blondie’s crew this past season, and I legitimately rooted for them, but the truth is I haven’t thought about them once since football season ended.)

But as for the Knicks, no. I got excited when they somehow won 6 games in a row (speaking of which, this has to rank among the most improbable winning streaks of all time. The Knicks, currently owners of the second-to-worst-record in the NBA and a .283 winning percentage, beat Phoenix (.679), Washington (.519), Cleveland (.593 – beat them on their home floor no less), and Dallas (.792 – .792 for god’s sake) in a 6-game stretch leading off 2006. This feat was only slightly less improbable than Emilio Estevez leading the former District 5 over what IMDB.com describes as “the big boys from Iceland” in the 1994 ice hockey romp, D2: The Mighty Ducks. No, you haven’t just slipped into a Bill Simmons column, but surely what you’re reading right now ranks up there with the longest parenthetical comments of all time, so in the interest of sense it may help to go back to the beginning, and ignore this parenthetical) – but since then my interest has waned as the losses have mounted.

So that’s a long-winded way of saying that I don’t have the same emotional connection with the Knicks that would preclude me from doing anything that would detract from the experience of The Game with a team I really cared about.

And so it was that I gladly accepted the offer of attending Wednesday’s game when Client X offered my Company Y passes for 17 people in the corporate suite.

Almost as soon as I walked out of the subway station at Penn Station, I knew things were going to be a bit weird. The colleague with whom I arrived at the game was used to this routine, but not me.

As soon as we emerged from the subway I immediately began walking towards the regular entrance. No, no, she said, this way. I stared empathetically at the peons using the main entrance for a brief moment. They stared back.

Like the crazed future-man proselytizing on the street corner who’s removed his tracking tooth near the end of 12 Monkeys, “I know you… you’re one of us!” they seemed to cry out to me.

It was hard. It was like one of those moments in a movie or TV show where the heroic main character has to make a choice between his old friends and his newer, cooler, better-seated friends.

As in those same movies and television shows, I inevitably chose the company of my new friends, and after one last pensive stare I hurried along to catch my colleague. Together we entered the Garden courtesy of the side entrance, took the elevator to the 10th floor and arrived at our suite.

It pains me to write it now, but this place was like heaven. All the arena food you could eat. I’m talking chicken tenders, sliders, French fries, pigs in a blanket, chicken nuggets, hot dogs – anything you would hope for in the way of greasy, fatty sporting event food.

Not only that, it was better than the standard variety fare you get sitting in the poor people seats. (Note: I don’t actually know this for a fact; again, I’m not a regular at Knicks games, so I can’t say how the suite variety hot dogs compared to the regular concession. What’s certain is that the food in this suite at MSG was a hell of a lot better than anything on the menu at Shea Stadium, but I suppose that was inevitable on some level.)

Not only was there the traditional arena fair, there was also a massive three-meat sandwich sliced to perfection, a vegetable platter with dip, and freshly baked tortilla chips with two varieties of salsa and a bowl of guac to boot. Shomik, if you’re reading this, this place was heaven. Get your shit together with your boss and get us a suite down at Camden Yards sometime.

On top of all that, there was all the booze you could drink. Now, being that A.F.O.M.G. was rubbing elbows with his coworkers, many of whom were anywhere between 10 and 20 years older than him, this wasn’t a rage and let rage environment. I had one gin and tonic. In keeping with the theme of the evening, it was the best gin and tonic of my life.

On another night though it would have been over – the Glass would have been shattered by 10 p.m. Gin, Seagram’s, Heineken, Corona, Budweiser, Vodka -- pick your poison, they had it all.

Just when it couldn’t get better, it did. There he was. The man, the myth, THE DUNK!

John Starks.

Not in our suite but directly outside. I didn’t get an autograph (had nothing for him to write on), but I sent him my best from all the readers at Yankees 2000, which he seemed to appreciate.

So where does that leave me now? Are the days of sitting in the stands like any commoner gone?

Well, yes and no. The truth is, I may need to watch all my Knicks game from the corporate suite, at least for the foreseeable future.

Between watching Knicks fans leave en masse from Wednesday’s game with 8 minutes left in regulation and hearing the World’s Most Famous Arena become as quiet as a tomb, I decided that I just wasn’t missing all that much by sitting away from the sea of humanity.

Besides, when Client X gives tickets to Company Y, everything is free of charge – it’s a pretty sweet fuckin’ deal.

But what about Shea? Could I really leave behind the upper right field nosebleeds (famed site of O.O.T.G.C.O.A.T.)? Or the lower loge seats made famous by Nails’ season ticket plan? Or the field box seats immortalized by a young, hungry A.F.O.M.G. sent by the Hound to get a ball from Willie Randolph? Or any of the other countless seats around the stadium that I’ve watched the boys from in my life?

I’m happy to say I just couldn’t see that happening.

I’m like everyone else. I could do without the heavyset guy sitting in front of me rocking the terrible farmer’s tan and reminding you of the fact that Mets fans, in general, are not specimens of particular physical beauty.

I could do without the moment when the duh-duh-duh-dun-duh-duh! ends and a few people embarrassingly cry out “charge!”

I could do without Bret Saberhagen spraying me with a super soaker loaded with bleach.

But Mets games wouldn’t be the same to me without the sounds of the crowd.

Or the off conversations you have with fellow fans.

Or the sticky floors.

Or the stink of beer and the B.O.A.F.O.M.G. fourth inning special (jumbo pretzel, hot dog, mustard).

Or the thrill that accompanies each foul ball hit in your general vicinity, which looks, for one brief moment at least, like it's coming right at you. (Note: Catching a foul ball was one of the best experiences of my life. Foul ball off the bat of Doug Glanville, summer 2002. I was flush with all the enthusiasm of a rising sophomore in college. The Mets were on their way to a 75-86 finish. It was good to be alive.)

Or perhaps most important of all, the possibility of sharing an awkward high five or hug with a complete stranger when the home team gets a clutch home run or a pivotal strikeout.

So in the end, the whole experience really was like one of those TV shows. I went with my newer, cooler friends, had a great time, and realized in the end that the times we shared were hollow and devoid of the meaning and sentimentality that defined my relationship with my old friends. I took stock of everything, and in the end, my relationship with my old friends is better for it.

But don’t tell that to the suckers in the stands at Madison Square Garden. For now at least, they’re on their own.

GO NEW YORK, GO NEW YORK, GO NEW YORK, GO!

- A.F.O.M.G.

Alright, full disclosure. I’m reading Bill Simmons’ book at the moment. From the look of it, I’ve got another week and change before I’m through with it, so you’re just going to have to bear with me through this little stretch. Although I’ve gotta say, I really enjoyed writing this post, so we’ll see what happens. A Friend of Mr. Simmons’? Stay tuned.

I Am So Back!

So I think back to one of my fondest childhood memories. One was a basketball league that I played in called Safe Haven.

It was a rare combonation of affluent private schoolers like young Sip and kids from the innermost of innercities.

Despite our differences, both racial and financial, we all became friends. Sure I got called a different member of the Hurley's for most of my life but it was cool.

As we got older though, things started to change.

I saw my first gun at 11, heard my first sex story when I was 12 and by the time I was 14, well just imagine.

Safe Haven became Streetball. Players wanted to score points, dunk the basketball and essentially generate street cred.

It might not sound like great basketball, but man was I sucked in.

As the streaky white shooter my frequent 8 for 23 performances were not looked down upon as ballhogging or chucking. Quite the contrary. Instead I was known as a sharpshooter who would put up around 20 per game.

You heard words like, "throw it off the backboard so I can dunk it," "get down" or "pass me the ball or I'ma kill you."

You never heard words like, defense, teamwork, dedication or championship...

Truth be told, Safe Haven was one of my fondest experiences. I truly loved it.

Which is why, as of the 2 p.m. acquisition of Steve Francis on Wednesday, I am back on the Knicks' bandwagon.

As I talked with my pal Ben, all we could think about was this Safe Haven roster that Isiah "Rebuilder" Thomas has put together.

Marbury= 8 for 23
Francis = 8 for 23
Jalen= 8 for 23
Jamal= 5 for 17 (doesn't get ball enough)
Q Rich aka The NBA SM = 3 for 13 from 3 pt range
Nate Robinson= I can't do shit but I sure can DUNK= STREET CRED

No defense, no passing, no chemistry, just dunks, bad shots, no defense and no chemistry.

Welcome to Safe Haven basketball my friends.

The Knicks have become a satire of what is NBA basketball. In a league where pick and rolls and ball movement on offense along with solid defense has elevated teams like the Spurs, Pistons and this year the Mavericks, the Knicks feature absolutely none of that.

This team has zero chance of ever winning, but like my Golden St. Warriors, they should be pretty fun to watch when they are losing.

I'm picturing the huddle now. LB in the middle drawing up a defensive play.

You have Steph whispering to Jamal about the girl he canoodled with the night before.
You have Q Rich on his cell phone calling Darius Miles.
Nate Robinson in the corner practicing dunk moves.

And you wonder why this team is 15-38...And my buddy Ben officially owes me 100 pushups in public and a 10 taco jack in the box session thanks to our over/under 45 win bet. Pretty sad that it took place at game 53.

So while I am stoked to be back on board with the Knicks, a fan that is looking for this team to win any time in the next, say, five years (and by win I mean get an 8th seed in the playoffs) you are shit out of luck.

So now it's time to quickly abuse Isiah, who yesterday sounded off the biggest load of bullshit I think has ever been said by an adult:

"New York has never been through rebuilding. It's ugly. It's dirty what we're doing. There's a lot of embarassing nights."

If this quote were said by the GM of the Magic or the Bobcats I would understand, but Isiah, time to tear him a new one.

Everything, minus stockpiling late 1st round draft picks, that Isiah has done has been the opposite of rebuilding.

He traded Nazr Mohammad (whose cheap contract ends after this season) for two late first round picks (both around 28-30) and Malik Rose (who is owed roughly 8 mil per for the next 3 seasons).

Sadly enough, this was the closest thing he did to "Rebuilding."

His other moves.

Trading Kurt Thomas, whose contract ends this year for Q Rich who makes 8 per for the next 4 years.

He traded Antonio Davis whose contract ends this year for Jalen's whose ends next year and a 20 something pick.

And now today, in his latest attempt to rebuild the Knicks, he trades for Steve Francis who has three years and 40 million dollars left on his contract.

This ensures the Knicks to have no cap room for at least those three years (Marbury, Francis and Curry alone take up almost the entire cap.)

Combine that with the fact that they have no No.1 pick next year and have to swap their top 5 pick with the Bulls next year and the Knicks have done everything but...Rebuild.

I shouldn't say that. They did rebuild their team. They made it about 100 times worse than it was before.

There is no hope in Knicks Country. Besides Frye, Lee and Robinson, the entire team is past its prime. So even when the kids get better the vets will be worse.

Man this is fun to write. Either way, I'm back. The Knicks won't be playing NBA basketball, but truth is, I'm more of a college guy anyway.

But my first basketball love was always my ghetto Saturday basketball league, Safe Haven. I loved the smell of Cuji Sweaters and Top Pop, I loved the dunks, no defense, stupid fights, players fighting their coaches.

You might say I was predisposed to love the current state of Knicks basketball.

Go New York Go New York Go...I'm back.

Now lets get "C Fluid" Charles Smith back on board.

VCD,

SM

Wiser With Age

In 1993 he reached his prime. Never would his athletic prowess be matched. Never would the fans love him as much as they did that fall. Never would girls chase him or guys admire his strength, perseverence, and his unfailing ability to come up big when the pressure was on.

The years crept on and slowly his skills regressed. But he still went on. His career was admirable still. At the turn of the millenium his body had shrunk but still he remained a part of something special. Some loved him for his perseverance, others hated his place in the world where rings are constantly on their mind.

But now in 2006, it appears the guy needs to hang things up. He has joined a special group but he is half the man he once was. He is out of place. He is almost hatable. How could this have happened to what was once such a nice story?

Who is this mystery man you ask?

You might think you know, but you're off and shame on you for thinking it was him.

No my friends, it is not Julio Franco we are talking about. He is the man and he'll be duly praised later in this column.

The man I describe is none other than the greatest Notre Dame linebacker to hit the big screen, Daniel "Rudy" Rudiger.

See I loved Rudy. I'm one of those cheesy sports guys who loves cheesy sports movies that in the movie's finale you feel chills as the star makes the big play to win the game. I live for that shit.

While most of you guys loved those geenie movies where little munchkins go looking for rings that save worlds and what not, I was never a fan.

Give me sports or teenagers and leave the not goblins and space troopers for the next guy.

But shit really hit the fan for Daniel "Rudy" Rudiger on this season of 24. Here comes one of my favorite characters onto my favorite show.

Seems like a slam dunk, no?

But not the new Rudy. The post-Rings, 60 lbs. heavier bitch Rudy who fucks with Jack's universe and with no warrant tries to lay the law down on our good pal Bill Buchanan.

I had more conversations last night about how much Rudy sucks, how this is tarnishing the image of that "5-foot nothing, 100-pound nothing, without an ounce of athletic ability" son of a bitch.

I loved him in his prime and to see him get older, fatter and awfuler kills a young Sip. It really does.

In contrast, NEW MET, Julio Franco puts a smile on the young one's life. I always admired this guy, but reading an article about him in the Post on Tuesday sealed the deal.

The guy is old and he knows it. So he eats healthy, consuming a ton of egg whites a day, and "goes to sleep as early as possible."

Franco brings wisdom, leadership, and a very solid right-handed bat off the bench. He can give Delgado a day off against a tough lefty and DH in interleague games.

I think he was by far and away my favorite of "Wheel and Deal's" signings.

We didn't overpay, he didn't make a splash, but this is the type of guy that we need on this team.

We all remember how valuable Marlon Anderson was last year. It's the little things that win ball games, and sometimes it's the little guys who set everything in motion. Everyone remembers Rockin' Robin's Grand Slam Single in 1999, but would we ever have gotten there if Shawon Dunston, former great turned standout roleplayer, hadn't battled the shit out of Kevin McGlinchy leading off the 15th?

Besides, when you consider that 2/5 of our rotation doesn't figure to make it past the 5th inning with any consistency, you can't put a price on a guy who can put in a quality AB in the Mets' half of the 6th inning. Sad but true.

No deal is perfect, but this one is pretty close. If there's one aspect of the deal that you can criticize, it's the fact that he'll be one year shy of his 50th birthday by the time his contract expires. Was a 2-year deal necessary for a 47-year-old? Maybe, maybe not. But the truth is that there's no one in baseball who takes better care of himself, and to lock up a winner like him, a guy who can be a mentor to the team's many Latin youngsters, well, it was worth it.

This guy has aged about as well as possible. His OBP dipped to .348 in 2005 down from .378 in '04. His average likewise fell from .309 to .275. At the same time, his home run numbers went from 6 to 9 in 90 less at-bats, and his slugging percentage increased from .441 to .451.

Perhaps most telling of all, however, is that his ABs-per-strikeout rate has held steady for the most part, although there was a slight increase in 2005. Franco struck out once every 4.1 at-bats in 2005, up from a four-year average of once every 4.57 at-bats between 2001 and 2004. There's an increase there but I'm not ready to say this guy finally lost it at age 46 based on that alone. If we see another season of decline here in 2006, well, 2007 could be a long year. But as it is, his numbers don't seem to indicate that his bat speed has fallen off a cliff.

Franco may not put up the kind of numbers he did 1991 when he won the batting title as a member of the Texas Rangers, but he'll turn in some quality ABs, spell Delgado as necessary, and be a far more productive mentor than Gerald "Ice" Williams ever was. All of which is to say, as Julio enters his 29th spring training, we here at Yankees 2000 are pulling for him.

Call me crazy, but I'm happy. I'm a hell of a lot happier with Julio than I am with Rudy.

Seriously, what the fuck happened to that guy? Whatever it is, he needs to get on the Julio Franco Workout Plan if he ever wants to redeem himself.

That's right put in work,

SM

Finally Someone Said it...

Young Sip is back. Overwhelmed by the large crowds and bright lights of the city I once called home, I needed AFOMG to step up his game, which of course, he did. Anyway, it's great to be back, so here we go.

For years I hated him. He was that cliched superstar who never put up the huge numbers and never looked like he could hit a fastball. He was that guy who just sort of got away with things and people absolutely loved him.

He was the golden boy of New York when I thought it should have been Happy Will, who was busy dominating the New York Private school basketball season.

He was Jumpman, the fist-pumping, model-dating, dude-dating (away from the cameras) pretty boy. He was Deej, DJ, the Captain.

In case you don't get it, I'm talking about Derek Jeter.

Since the day he entered baseball I've hated him. He became the leader of the Yankees through their late-90s run at glory, which for many obvious reasons I despised.

Over the years, however, I realized that my hatred and bashing of young DJ may have been misplaced. As I look back I realize how clutch the guy was. As much as we talk about how big players step up in big games, that's basically all Jeter did. Despite underwhelming numbers during the regular season, Jeter was always the Yankees' guy in October.

As much as I thought his "leadership" was a camera act, all you read now is quotes by players like Roger Clemens calling him the greatest teammate they ever had.

Why the DJ jocking? Let's not go that far. I still hate the fucker and his corny inside/out swing. I believe he is past his prime and will only receive respect based on where he was five years ago and not at all because of his current level of play (for instance, the Gold Glove he inexplicably won last season). He still drinks wine coolers.

I bring up Jeter's accolades only because in a way he deserves them and because it helps me segue to his replacement as the biggest bitch in baseball, his good pal Alex Rodriguez.

Over the last couple of months A-Rod has been absolutely bashed in the media and young Sip has been flashing that movie star smile from California to New York.

Ozzie Guillen called A-Rod a "hypocrite" for choosing not to play for the Dominican team: "Alex was kissing Latino people's asses... He knew he wasn't going to play for the Dominicans. He's not Dominican."

First off, kudos to Ozzie Guillen. Great manager and a hell of an interview.

But Guillen makes a great point. All A-Rod does is kiss ass.

He kisses the media's ass by speaking only in cliches and saying everything that he is supposed to say.

He kisses Major League Baseball's ass by trying to be the "perfect guy," clean cut and always smiling.

He came to the Yankees and kissed George Steinbrenner and Joe Torre's (Mr. Steinbrenner and Mr. Torre, to A-Rod, respectively) asses.

Whether he was genuine or not, no one likes a suck up. A guy who is "too perfect" becomes unrelatable.

But I think all the A-Rod bashing is beginning to make more sense. People have always hated him, but now, over the course of ten years, people in baseball have noticed a trend with Alex Rodriguez that have finally made them tune in.

Simply put, Alex Rodriguez is a loser.

Last week, in one of my many rants abusing Smiling Isiah and the Knicks, I highlighted Stephon Marbury as being the annual winner of the "Stephon Marbury Award" for the player who switches teams every couple of years making his old team better and his new team worse, despite being a "marquee" player.

Steve Francis and Shareef Abdul Rahim belonged in that category.

Yet, A-Rod may be the worst case as the winner of the "Stephon Marbury Award" in baseball.

First off, wherever A-Rod goes, his team sucks and his old team gets better.

In 2000, the A-Rod-led Mariners won 91 games. After losing their superstar pretty boy in the offseason, the Mariners went on to set records in 2001, winning 116 games.

By that point A-Rod hard jumped ship to Texas where the team went on to three straight seasons in the cellar of the AL West.

From there, A-Rod left the Rangers for the for the Yankees, where he was expected to be the final piece in the Yankees' return to glory.

In this time, the Rangers have grown to a near .500 team and appear on the brink of breaking out. Meanwhile, the Yankees have become perennial postseason losers, they blew the biggest lead in playoff history in 2004 to the Red Sox and lost in the division series this year to the Angels.

In each of these series', when his team needed him most, A-Rod was nowhere to be found. He disappeared in games 4-7 in 2004 and then hit .133 with 0 RBI against the Angels in the ALDS. A-Rod also interrupted the Yankees' momentum in the critical stretch of Game 6, 2004, with his infamous bitch slap of Bronson Arroyo, and then again in Game 5, 2005, when he grounded into a double play after Jeter led off the 9th inning with a single.

(Editor's Note: RIP Doug Mientkiewicz.)

The Yankees, once a World Series team basically every year can't find the fall classic any more. Thanks, A-Rod.

So while A-Rod is the clear winner of the "Stephon Marbury Award" in baseball, his case is far worse than Starbury's.

Look at the names Marbury, Francis and Rahim. While all these guys are good players and some-time All-Stars, they are not marquee players.

A-Rod is supposed to be the best player in baseball, or if not the best, he is definitely in that top tier, his name mentioned in the same breath as Barry Bonds and Albert Pujols. And yet his teams never enjoy the kind of success you'd think would be coming to a team with a player at the absolute top of the field. You don't see Shaq switching teams and his team losing. You do see that with Alex Rodriguez.

He talks constantly about winning a world championship, yet if it ever happens he will become the first and last player in the history of baseball to win a World Series as the "best" player in all of baseball, while being the sixth most valuable player on his team...

Jeter, Sheffield, Matsui, Randy Johnson, Rivera.

Jesus, you can even make a case for Aaron Small.

Either way, I love seeing the A-Rod bashing and truth is, the guy deserves it. He's done nothing in his career but put up great but nonetheless meaningless numbers.

Now he is a Yankee, where making the playoffs is a given. So unfortunately for A-Rod, he has far fewer outs than the average ballplayer.

All he can do to lift this stigma is dominate a postseason.

"When you play as miserable as I did in the most important five games of the year, it kind of fuels you going into the [next] year," A-Rod was quoted in the New York Times this morning. "It fuels you tremendously. I do feel my career will not be complete without a championship."

Let's hope it never happens. Few things would make me happier than A-Rod never winning a championship. Long live the Curse.

NEW METS,

SM

On a side note, that red headed kid that I used to bash. Turns out he's a pretty reasonable kid. So to Eric "the red head," my apologies.

Presidents' Day Hodge-Podge

Hey everyone, A Friend of Mr. Glass' back at you again. Me and Sip had a little debate as to whether it was worth posting today, today being a holiday and all, but we decided that the few of you who have a job to go to today would appreciate an update.

Besides, checking out the papers Saturday morning, I came across several stories and blurbs that piqued my interest.

As regular readers of the Mets blogosphere may be aware, Willie Randolph cops a lot of shit from a lot of fans. I'm not just talking about the FireWillies of the world. For those unfamiliar with FireWillie, he's a regular contributor to the message boards over at MetsGeek. There is no momentary lapse in judgment, no ill-fated decision by Randolph that FireWillie has forgotten.

Now look, taking Willie to task for certain in-game decisions he's made is fair game. We as fans have every right to criticize him for mistakes he makes. That time in September when he allowed Braden Looper to blow the save twice in Atlanta? Give Willie hell, he earned it.

So I don't object to that kind of critique. But I do wonder whether we as fans sometimes underestimate the level of influence (or is it interference?) that front office types can wield in playing time decisions.

One of Willie's much bemoaned "decisions" last year was to keep Kaz Ishii in the starting rotation through the first four months of the season.

OK, interlude. Read the Notebook at the bottom of this article: http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/baseball/story/392381p-332780c.html

Or if you don't feel like reading it there, here's the important part:

Randolph described the second-base job as a "real competition" and said he's been "told by management, for the most part, that we're going to play the best people." The manager added, referring to the $8 million owed this season to Kaz Matsui: "Obviously you have to consider stuff like contracts. That's the reality of the game. But still, when it gets down to it, we're going to try to pick the guy that deserves to win the job."

Let's keep our Kaz's straight here. We're talking about Ishii, but the blurb above about Matsui is instructive. Sometimes things like contracts or front office egos get in the way of wise player decisions, and it wouldn't surprise me if the grief we direct towards Willie for Ishii's playing time doesn't at least deserve to be spread evenly between the manager and his superiors, chief among them Omar Minaya.

Think about it. First-year General Manager Omar Minaya convinces his bosses, the Wilpons, to trade the league-minimum earning Jason Phillips for fifth starter Kaz Ishii and his $2.5 million contract. Is it possible that he instructed Willie to stick with the guy so long as he didn't completely stink up the joint?

I know a lot of us think retrospectively that Ishii was terrible from Day 1, but the truth is that if you look at his game log (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/players/gamelog?playerId=5006), you'll see that he pretty much traded good start for bad start through the first two months of the season. After that, the wheels never came off exactly, but we all know the story, the guy just wasn't good. No, that's not strong enough. Ishii was bad. Awful even. So he lost his job in the rotation by July 31.

For a lot of us, July 31 came 9 losses too late. We point to Jae Seo. We point to Aaron Heilman. Why on earth did Willie run Ishii out there every fifth day when he had two guys in his queue who consistently performed better throughout 2005?

Well, I don't know that this is the reason necessarily, but it occurs to me that maybe Omar expected the guy he imported to be the fifth starter to actually be the fifth starter. It occurs to me that maybe a first year manager like Willie Randolph wasn't given the same control that a Bobby Cox or Tony LaRussa might have been.

Looking at the quote above about who gets playing time at second base, Willie is saying that the decision in this case is his, but also implicitly that these decisions are not always his own. Sometimes when a player gets playing time incommensurate with his results, it can be instructive to look at the size of the checks the front office is cutting on his behalf before calling for the head of the manager.

Before moving on to the other article I wanted to highlight, one other bit in that Notebook also caught my eye:

Tom Glavine indicated he would be willing to discuss a contract extension with the Mets this spring, allowing him to return to Flushing in 2007.

You know, we here at Yankees 2000 give Glavine a lot of shit. Tommy the Spy. Benedict Glavine. Tom "Nina Myers" Glavine. Traitorous nicknames come fast and furious with Tommy Ballgame.

Glavine appeared for all the world like he was still on the Braves' payroll in his first season with the Mets, and then again during the second half of 2004 and the first half of 2005, fueling speculation that he was, in fact, an embedded Brave. Like the suspected embedded Yankee Mike Stanton, it seemed the most plausible explanation for the drop-off in quality from Glavine was that he was still taking orders from John Schuerholtz or Bobby Cox.

But you know what? For all the crap I give Glavine, I still kind of like him. He's a class act. He's taken his lumps as Mets. He lost his two frornt teeth for chrissakes. He's only shown flashes of being the pitcher we signed him to be.

But the truth is that now, with the team looking like it has a serious shot of making the playoffs, there's a part of me that respects that Glavine has been with this team through some seriously bad times, and I'm happy for him that he may have a chance to be part of it's honest-to-goodness renaissance.

So here's to you, Tommy. For your sake and mine I hope you find the same success throughout 2006 that you did in the second half of 2005.

So what else is going on? Right. Ladies and gentlemen, the award for Crazy Motherfucker of the Year goes to...

Albert Belle!

As you can read about here, http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2334039, it turns out Albert Belle tracked his ex-girlfriend with a GPS monitor, meaning he could locate her anywhere on the planet if he were so inclined. Now I'm not sure how he did that necessarily. Did he implant it under her skin like that ex-marine did on 24 during the fourth season? Who knows?

A month back or so I read an article in the Boston Globe that basically speculated that the reason Albert Belle would never make the Hall of Fame was that he was too much of an asshole to ever get voted in. Looking at his numbers (http://www.baseball-reference.com/b/belleal01.shtml) they really are quite impressive. They may not warrant enshrinement in Cooperstown necessarily, but they warrant consideration.

But as any follower of baseball throughout the 1990s knows, Belle was basically a jerk through and through. And if it's the case that he's not making the Hall because of his bad behavior, well, stories like this one can't help.

Anyway, that's all I got. Good weekend these past few days. Went down to Baltimore, good town. Check out the Blue Moon diner for breakfast if you're ever in the area -- you may need to wait but the hashbrowns are worth it.

Saturday and Sunday morning found me in D.C., which gave me a chance to see the World War II monument in the National Mall for the first time. I hate to say it, but the monument is a little underwhelming. I think the idea is that you're supposed to feel completely surrounded by the memorial, which is meant to evoke the all-encompassing nature of the struggle and the nation's commitment to winning it.

The monument is dug into the ground so that from most vantages the only things visible are the rest of the monument and the George Washington monument rising in the distance. The symbolism there makes sense enough, but at the same time I found it a little wanting, which is really too bad.

But let me leave you on a baseball note. I was reminded yesterday of that awesome billboard of Dwight Gooden that was on the side of that building in midtown for what must have been 10 years. That billboard was the best. Can you imagine if the Mets' farm system produced a guy who turned pro and put together the kinds of season Doc had in 1984 and '85? Mike Pelfrey, we're looking at you, buddy, we need this.

- A.F.O.M.G.

Working for the Weekend, Lima-Time, and Slammin' the Door on Sammy

What's up guys, A Friend of Mr. Glass' here. Sorry to say that I'm not going to be able to give you the full update you deserve. Truth is, I've been paralegaling my little heart out all week, and by this point I'm just living for the weekend. The good news, of course, being that this isn't just any old weekend, this is... wait for it... a three-day weekend, the best kind of weekend in the game.

Now for some of us that's less exciting than for others. Sippy Momo for example. Not to take anything away from his responsibilities here at Yankees 2000, but the truth is that blogging is, traditionally at least, more of a moonlighting type gig than a full-time endeavor. To the extent that he has defied that conventional wisdom, every weekend for old Sip is a three-day weekend, or a seven-day weekend when you think about it.

Sip, if you're reading this, we kid because we love. It was great seeing Sippy all Cali-ed out last night, the first time I'd seen him since he moved to San Francisco. You should have seen this kid on the poker table, first one to bust out and all it took was an hour and change. But hey, ladies, I'm here to tell you that his tan looks great.

Speaking of people looking great, how 'bout that Jose Lima's wife? I think I've seen exactly one photograph of Mrs. Lima (first name unknown) in all the stories I've ever read about her. She's standing next to her husband, shirt pressed tight against her skin, breasts jutting far, and undoubtedly artificially, away from her body. If you've seen the picture you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. But in case I can't explain, let Otter from "Animal House": "she's got a pair of major league yabos." And with that, it appears that Omar Minaya has filled the void of hot player wives created when he traded away Anna Benson last month.

As for whether he's filled the void of credible arms available should one of our starters go down with injury (created when Anna's husband, Kris, was traded), well, given that Jose just eked out a sub-7.00 ERA last year (and I mean just eked out, the guy had a 6.99 ERA in 2005), I don't think we should hold our breath. Seriously, this guy has Scott Erickson written all over him, or, if not Erickson, James Baldwin.

Oh, and for the record, it wasn't like Lima had one of those short seasons where all the numbers get skewed. He wasn't like those rookies who bat .427 in 28 at-bats. Lima started 32 games last year, so he had all the time in the world to get untracked, tracked, and untracked all over again.

Lima's had an incredibly unpredictable career (he's a former 20-game winner for god's sake), but the truth is I want no part of this guy on our roster. Memories of Erickson and Baldwin aside, I detest his mound celebrations.

When you're a starter who has had a 6-plus ERA more than once in your career, you lose the right to show up the other team. If he goes on to win 20 games for us this year I'll probably get over it, but in the meantime, Omar gets a big thumbs down for this pick-up.

(This in spite of Pedro Martinez's response when he heard the Mets had signed Lima, immortalized in today's New York Times by Ben Shipgel:

"It's Lima Time," [Jay] Horwitz said.
Martínez abruptly ended his call and swiveled his head as Horwitz finished his conversation.
"That was Jose Lima?" Martínez said. "Why was he calling you?"
"Because we signed him, Pedro," Horwitz said.
Martínez's eyes widened.
"We signed him for real? Oh, not Jose Lima!"
Martínez buried his face in his hands and started laughing uncontrollably.
"Lima!" he shouted. "Oh, no! This is going to be one crazy clubhouse!"

Frankly, this exchange may make the whole Jose Lima experiment worth it. You gotta love Pedro, geri-curl or no geri-curl.)

So what else is going on? Well, Sammy Sosa has decided to retire. It's amazing how popular this guy was just a few years back and now that he's retiring he's pretty much a forgotten man. Is this the fate of all suspected juicers? If it is, hopefully that's a sign that the steroids era is ending, that fans are sick of second-guessing all of their favorites, and that players are tired of being suspected (or at the least, tired of worrying about being caught).

Let's hope. I mean look, I love watching these guys sock dingers as much as the next guy, but let's go back to 1986, as immortalized by the 1986 Mets Tape, for a moment. Watching that video, you see a bunch of players who look more or less like we do. Watching them at the time was sort of like watching your dad play baseball, only they were infinitely better than you, your dad (sorry Hound) or anyone else's dad could ever be.

And it was fun in a way. It was superhuman without being alien. It was more accessible watching the Straw slug a home run than watching Mark McGwire with his ridiculous Popeye arms do it.

So maybe the steroids era is finally ending, and if it is, good riddance. Give me the days when HoJo could lead the NL in home runs with 38 (I think it was 38) and I'll take them any day of the week.

Anyway, that's all for now. It's about 1 p.m. and I am racing to get out of here by 5 so I can drive down to Baltimore and D.C. for the weekend. Big ups all, enjoy your three-day weekend. As for you Sip, just keep doing what you do.

- A.F.O.M.G.

Even in Paradise...

Sometimes the inspiration for hating the Yankees comes in the most unexpected places. There I was in Maui, miles away from ordinary, and the troubles of work, the big city, and hating the Yankees were supposed to be stowed away in my room back home. I thought I was safe.

Maybe I should have seen it coming that day when the skies of paradise turned gray and stormy. As the weather took a turn for a few hours, I did what any patriotic American would do and headed for the local mall. I’m not much the superstitious sort, and it’s been my custom to pick up a new hat at the beginning of each season. I thought, why not, here I am, kill two birds with one stone.

I walk in and receive a one-two punch to the gut and balls, respectively, as I stand face to face with a huge wall of Yankees hats, parked in rows and columns like so many IROC’s at a Bon Jovi concert. White on black, white on white, white on pink, white with green (eh?), curve brim, flat brim, fitted, one-size fits all, trucker, mesh, and denim. Issues of bad taste aside, WTF?

Here I am, about as far away from New York as I could possibly be without leaving the States, and I still have to put up with this shit? I stepped back and did a quick review of the baseball selection: 50% of the hats were Yankees, 40% were Dodgers, and another 10% were decidedly random, like Cubs or Braves. There were two White Sox hats.

“Can I help you?”

“Yea, I’m looking for a Mets hat. . .”

A blank stare is always nicer when a tanned woman delivers it while you’re on vacation.

“The New York Mets? Or maybe you know them as The New Mets? No? They play in the same city as the Yankees?” I say pointing to the wall of garbage.

“We don’t have any, they’re too far away.”

“But you’ve got all those Yankee hats, they’re about 10 miles from each other!”

“We don’t have any.”

Time to change the subject.

"So is everyone in Hawaii a Yankees fan?" I asked, innocently enough.

"Well, not really. People around here just sort of jump on the bandwagon. . . "

And that's just the point, Lisa. Just like my former roommate, the model, who wore her cute little pink Yankees hat around the streets of SoHo in August, Hawaiian fans are clueless – for them, wearing a Yankees hat isn’t about the team or the sport. For most, it’s just a brand, a variation on the swish and it only reminds me why I hate Yankees games and most of their and their bandwagoneer fans. The hat associates its wearer with the cover of Jay-Z’s black album or the video for 50’s “How We Do.”

I mean, it’s sweet – wearing one immediately brands you as cool, like getting a barbed wire tattoo or dating a chick with huge fake ones. You know, for a second, as I wrapped things up with my sales associate at Lids, I almost felt bad for the real Yankees fans, the ones that liked the team when they sucked, before Giuliani enshrined them as America’s team, and before every kid in Maui had no choice but to wear their pall-bearer hats… So today I’m offering a chance for redemption from baseball hell.

From now until Opening Day, any Yankees fan who loves the sport and is tired of overpaying for tickets because all the seats are full of loud-mouth’d bankers and starving models, come join us in Shea. No questions asked. Your first Italian Sausage is on me.

Pitchers and catchers report today. Let’s get ‘er done boys.

- TEC-9

Back To NYC...Home to the Worst Team...EVER

So Thursday I head back to the Big Apple for about a week. Have to get my shoulder checked out from my August surgery, see some friends, hit up Blondies, Virgils, Ruth's, Chris, Andy's Deli, my barber, Marky, Ricky, Danny, Terry, Mikey, Davey, Timmy, Tommy, Joey, Robbie, Johnny, and Brian, among my other favorite places in NYC.

So New York, here I come. Your number one son is coming back to grace you.

San Fran has been a blast. When I came out here the Warriors were the talk of the town. 12-7 with more young talent than you knew what to do with. Since my arrival the Warriors have stumbled to the tune of 11-21.

It's been bad, but not too bad. It has been fun. At least it's not the 1993 Mets. The 1993 Mets, pre New-Mets, were supposed to be the talk of the town. With superstar Bobby Bonilla, big bat Eddie Murray, and what looked like a solid rotation headed by the Doc and Bret Saberhagen, the Mets were poised to make their run. 1993 was now, or so we thought.

The result? 59 wins.

I never thought it could get worse in New York City. The Mets were a joke. They were supposed to contend and they ended up the worst team in baseball.

Sounds familiar.

In the midst of the Warriors 11-21 run there are the 8-25 New York Knicks. Not too bad, huh? Filled with bright young talent, a hall of fame coach, a new man in the middle in Eddy Curry, and a new sharpshooter in Q Rich, this was the year.

At least I can say that when I was 11 I was naive.

I'm sorry to write another piece about how bad the Knicks are, but the truth is I find these pieces truly enjoyable. Plus, I'm excited to get to where it all began, the world's most famous arena.

These Knicks are the most disgraceful sports team to ever hit New York.

They should have absolutely everything in the world going for them.

They have the most money.

They play in New York, the center of the basketball world.

They play in the world's most famous arena.

Players dream of becoming a Knick.

So how the hell is it all possible? How can they be this bad. Surprise, surprise...Isiah

It is approaching trade deadline time and Isiah is the hot name in the industry. I chatted with big Maciej and the big fella about ways to make the Warriors better. The first thing we thought, how could we rip off Isiah?

So a number of trades are being discussed.

The two big names being discussed are Steve Francis and Kenyon Martin.

This smells like turnaround.

Steve Francis earns an award every single year that is named after none other Stephon Marbury himself.

"The Stephon Marbury award" goes to the "superstar" who gets traded every two years whose former team significantly improves from the trade while the new team gets worse.

Other candidates include Warriors chucker Baron Davis and Shareef Abdur Rahim.

Wouldn't it be great if somehow Isiah could get his hands on all three of these guys?

He could run a three guard lineup with Boom D, Stephon, and Francis with Abdur Rahim at the 4 spot and Eddy Curry's half a heart in the middle.

I think it could happen. I could see the headline now. "Knicks trade Frye, Lee, Ariza, Robinson and their 1st round picks from 2007-2013 in a four-way deal that netted them Francis, Davis and Rahim."

Why not?

These are the new Knicks.

But no matter how bad the Knicks are it's not going to return my homecoming. Tommorow I return. I'll probably hit up the St. Johns v Seton Hall game at the garden just because Big East basketball is the thing I miss the most. Then of course there is the New York Post, the greatest piece of paper on the east coast and a cause of many the argument between myself and AFOMG, a loyal Daily News reader...Salt.

I'm going to blast "City of Blinding Lights" and "New York" when I touch down in the city.

Excuse, this rant, I'm just excited. Excited to read about the Mets every day in my local paper and to read about what big moves the Knicks will make to further suckify this season and then go on to further mess up their future.

New York City.

VCD,

SM

Another Reason to Hate Valentine's Day

So today is Cupid's Day. It's the day when lovers across the country grace their significant others with flowers, chocolate, teddy bears, and if you're my cousin Dan, probably a new Giants jersey. Just kidding, Danny.

I've never really been a big Valentine's Day guy. By no means do I hate the day or whine about it as a pathetic Hallmark holiday. I just find myself in the position where I don't want to give a girl the wrong idea by gracing her with the sweetness of the Sip. So we will see.

But there are many out there that do hate Valentine's Day. To some it's corny, to others it's depressing.

Well for all you cynics out there, I have yet one more reason to hate Valentine's Day.

None other then George Steinbrenner.

George Steinbrenner, for those who follow New York sports is many things, a great guy not being one of them. Unqualified Asshole is probably more fitting (for a refresher, follow this link: http://espn.go.com/page2/s/list/steinbrenner.html).

But we'll give the guy his due. He is committed to winning, he's a savvy businessman, a dedicated horse-owner, and my god does he know how to wear a turtleneck.

But he is not a good guy.

But you wouldn't know that today, of course, not on the day when love is in the air. No, today the headlines read "George Steinbrenner, HEART OF GOLD".

This guy has about as much of a heart of gold as Muriel Lang in the 1992 box office juggernaut, "It Could Happen to You", co-starring a younger, less-of-a-toolbox Nic Cage.

So the story out of Bumble Fuck, Arkansas is that some kid saved up all his money to take a trip to Yankee Stadium this summer to watch his beloved Yankees.

The kid, Jonathan Farrar, claimed that "the Yankees are my main love in life."

That's nice and all, kid, but you're from Arkansas. As AFOMG observed via e-mail from the New York Office yesterday, this story would be a lot sweeter if the kid had any business being a Yankee fan. But you know what? Fine. We're willing to accept that this favorite son of Little Rock, Ark. grew up bleeding Yankee navy blue.

So anyway, this kid had saved up $1,000 to make the trip to NY to celebrate a belated 13th birthday. But, when he found out that his middle school was going under and needed the town's help he gave his money to the school, instead.

I gotta say, what a good kid. It really is a nice story, even if it is about a Yankee fan from Arkansas. My purpose here isn't to take anything away from Jonathan. He made about as noble a gesture as you can expect out of a 12-year-old kid, and he's done enough to convince me that maybe, underneath it all, some Yankee fans aren't actually the scum of the earth.

So my beef's not with Jonathan, but rather with George Steinbrenner. Steinbrenner was informed of the kid's story, one can only imagine by his PR people, and contacted the kid. He invited him up to NY for a game this summer, told him he could walk the field etc., and then even gave the kid his $1,000 back.

What a guy.

Steinbrenner did what anyone with a bilion dollars and a baseball team could do.

But it's the way he did it and what he didn't do that bother me (mostly because I am a bitter Mets fan.)

Steinbrenner's actions and quotes made the story less about the kid and more about the Yankees and himself. In an effort to further their place as the almighty franchise, Steinbrenner went public with the story. I guess you can't knock him there. It is good PR.

"We're going to honor him and welcome him," Steinbrenner said through his spokesman Howard J. Rubenstein. "We're going to give him a New York Yankees welcome."

How sweet, George. You mean you're willing to buy this kid a plane ticket, reimburse him a thousand bucks, and give him a tour of Yankee Stadium? Again, high marks for PR-value, but if Steinbrenner really cared about this kid or about his story there is a lot more he could have done.

This kid was willing to give up his dream to support his community. Why couldn't Steinbrenner earmark one of his many millions of dollars that'll probably end up going to the next Raul Mondesi help the kid out where it was truly important? Why not help this kid's town, pledge $100,000 to the community, and actually make a sacrifice that is, in fact, something of a sacrifice?

This kid was willing to sacrifice, he was willing to give up everything he had, because he is a good person. A thousand bucks is no insignificant chunk of change to a 12-year-old kid (or to a 23 year old blogger, for that matter.)

Steinbrenner gives the kid his money back, a ticket, and a tour.

Clearly, Steinbrenner doesn't give two shits about this kid or his story. Instead, he cared about getting the Yankees their monthly dose of good press.

Call me a cynic, but on this day of love and romanticism, I wanted to show my anger.

As AFOMG put it a few months back, you don't hear much about David Wright's foundation. He doesn't crave the spotlight or use his foundation to better his image. He does it because he knows he should.

Well Georgie, if you really care, go to the next step. Build this kid his dream baseball field in his hometown. Help build a new athletic facility for his middle school. But don't offer something that you give to your pals because you can. Do something because you care, otherwise your actions are completely transparent. And while you're at it, pay my goddamn rent already. Geez!

George Steinbrenner is starting to rank up there with President Charles Logan and this girl I met out in San Fran as my least favorite person of the year (Johnny Damon, for those curious, was the 2005 winner. That doesn't disqualify him from the running, but based on 2006 alone he doesn't quite crack the list).

Anyway though, enough of the bitterness.

Happy Valentine's Day to all. Chipper, get Mom's some roses and a Newsweek, classic Momo style.

Best to all.

VCD,

SM

100 and Counting...

Contrary to popular belief, writers need to get amped up to share their thoughts with the world. Over the last 4 months I have developed a daily routine that pumps me up and calms me down, putting me in the perfect mental condition to be the best scribe that I can be.

It goes a little something like this.

I stand up from wherever I was sitting. I walk to the bathroom. I hop in the shower. I get out of the shower. I return to my room.

I dry off. I grab my laptop and walk to the mirror and remove my towel.

From there I swing my lap top over my head, completely naked looking in the mirror and repeat the line, "Sippy's the best. Sippy's the best," ten times and then go to my desk and sit down.

Call me crazy, but that's how I get my game face on.

Actually... it's not. I'm usually sitting on my couch in a hoody or gray sweatshirt wondering what the hell I'm going to do with my life.

But I didn't completely fabricate that routine. Indeed, it was more of a loving tribute to one of the greatest Mets of all time. A Met who for one and a half seasons brought, speed, OBP and an unmatchable charisma to Shea, serving as the tablesetter for one of the best Mets teams of the last 15 years. In his down time, this player ran shit in the Shea Stadium poker circuit.

Well over the weekend, he came back.

The Mets announced that Rickey Henderson is being brought back to serve as an instructor at their sping training camp in Port St. Lucie. Somewhere, Steamin' Mikey Lehman is smiling at his frat house and JawnJawn730 is preparing for another Opening Day with No. 24 on the back.

And I could not be more excited.

So today, a landmark day here at Yankees2000, this being our 100th post on this site, we pay tribute to one of the greatest Mets of our generation, maybe the biggest asshole in the history of the game and more so, the coolest...Rickey Henderson.

Before I get to Rickey, I'd like to thank AFOMG for helping out a young, inexperienced Sip through these first 100 posts. I was never much of a writer. That stems from never being much of a reader.

The one thing I always read a lot of was sports, so writing sports was not too hard a transition. Nonetheless, AFOMG, keep up the great work. If I'm giving innings 1-8, then he is Billy Wagner out of the pen.

Except of course that he is the spitting image of John Rocker.

Anyway, and of no greater importance than AFOMG, it is RICKEY TIME.

The greatest article I have ever read appeared in Sports Illustrated in the summer of 2003. In short, it paid tribute to Rickey's amazing baseball abilities, but more importantly, gave us tremendous insight to the outrageous character that is Rickey.

There are so many great Rickey stories.

My favorite, as memorialized at the top of this column, was that Rickey's pregame ritaul had him standing in front of a mirror naked, swinging a bat around his head shouting, "Rickey's the best."

There's the one where a team called Rickey to ask him why he hadn't cashed his signing bonus. His response was that he was waiting for interest rates to go up.

Or the time he framed his first million dollar check and put it on his wall not realizing that it was a real check that needed to be cashed.

And finally, the one true to all Mets fans, when Rickey saw John Olerud wearing a helmet while playing the field, Rickey said, "Rickey knew a guy in New York who used to that, too."

Well Rickey is back. His goal, according to Mets.com, is to tutor Jose Reyes on the intracacies of basestealing and plate discipline in the same fashion that he did to Roger Cedeno back in 1999 when he had his one good season. Reyes' issues with getting on base are well-documented, and if Rickey can teach him a thing or two, well, Josie'd be learning the the greatest of all time.

I'm praying that we bring Rickey back to Shea in a more long-term role. Yes, he continues to hold out hope that some major league GM will come calling, and no, not everything about the way he played the game makes him the perfect role model for young players. Who could forget the time Rickey stood in awe of a towering blast he had hit, only to find himself on first base with a single when the ball ricocheted off the top of the wall? When asked why he didn't run out his drive, which would have been a standing double for Ramon Castro, Rickey responded, "What did you expect me to do? Sprint?"

It's just Rickey being Rickey and truth is, he may not be perfect, but the guy is pure entertainment.

So welcome back, Rickey. We are glad to be sharing 100 with you. To all the haters, salt.

To the rest, we're just going to keep rocking and rolling in the months to come.

VCD,

SM

Man Am I Old

(Note to "JWill": A.F.O.M.G. has responded to your post on the message board at the bottom of yesterday's post.)

20 years. We're not talking Five For Fighting's 100 years*. We talking 20 years.

Man, my brother's 27 years old, but we talking about 20 years.

Yeah, I've been alive for 23 years, but we talking about 20 years.

20 years!

It just sort of hit me on my favorite thinking spot how long it's been since the Mets won a World Series. When AFOMG talked about this being the 1986 Mets' 20th year anniversary, I paused and felt completely weird.

20 fucking years.

As I sat there and listened to Cat Stevens' "Father and Son", in the midst of my further development of New York City real estate brokerage (which will change the way twenty-somethings find apartments in NYC, coming 6/06) my buddy Big Maciej came in and kept on hinting that the song was about me (the son) and as he so eloquently put, Old Chipper** (the father).

As you all may know from this site, I'm a big fan of Sippy Momo Sr. The man is just a good guy and deserves some recognition (especially when I struggle for other stuff to write about. I guess he is one of those bright spots in my mind, same way my mom and brother are, the Mets are, AFOMG is in joining this journey with me).

I bring up my dad because he was there with me 20 years ago when it happened. This is my oldest memory of my father and almost the oldest memory of my entire life. It was at a time when every Mets fan knows where they were, but few my age can truly remember.

I don't remember that much of the '86 World Series. As much as I tried, it was hard for a young, fiery, but sleep-deprived Sip Jr. to make it to the end of each game.

So it was October 25th, 1986. Fresh off a day on the slopes at the Lakeridge Mountain, the Momo's returned to their quaint condo in Lakeridge, Connecticut, about 2 hours north of NYC.

Some of my fondest memories took place in this house. But none fonder than this one.

It was probably 11:00 p.m. and a Young Sip had fallen asleep in the guest bedroom right outside of the living room. He tried endlessly to stay awake but it just couldn't happen. After all, I was working with about 4 years and 6 months under my belt.

The Mets were down 5-3 heading into the bottom of the 9th inning. Gary Carter led the rally with a 2-out single. Kevin Mitchell (he of the greatest single season ever) followed with another single, and then Ray Knight singled.

My brother raced into the room and forced me out of bed. My mother was upset because she knew there was zero chance of me every going back to sleep (despite certain shortcomings, she is usually right on).

So I ran into the living room, sporting those pajamas with the feet sewed on to the bottom. Man did I love those pj's. I dragged my yellow blanket, already devastated by 4 years of abuse by a fiesty Sip.

I curled up in a ball on my couch, all 3 feet of me, next to Sip Sr., again, known on the streets as Old Chipper.

As I've said before and will say again, Chip is a man of few words. But when he speaks he is usually on point.

So with the count 2-2 and Kevin Mitchell (pre-intense steroid abuse) standing on 3rd base, Chipper tapped me on the shoulder and smiled.

"Wild Pitch."

Bob Stanley reached back and fired... a wild pitch. Mitchell came into score to tie the game which was of course followed by Mookie's groundball that "gets by Buckner."

But all I could do was admire my pops. I was 4 years olds and I thought the man was god. He made the greatest call in the history of my 4 year career.

To this day, when the Momo's will talk Mets baseball, that moment comes about. Since that time, Old Chipper has turned into a bit of a jinx, but that's not really important.

He is responsible for maybe the biggest pitch in Mets history, I thoroughly believe that.

And the fact that that that pitch is approaching 20 years old makes me feel REALLY REALLY OLD.

Either way, The 1986 Mets have lived on in my memory since that dream season.

The"1986 Mets: A Year To Remember" tape remains up there with "Major League", "Good Will Hunting" and of course, the Keanu Reeves smash, "Point Break", among my favorite films. I think I've seen it 1000 times.

So to all you Mets fans. The miracle happened 20 years ago. It will happen again. I'll experience a World Series with AFOMG, Nails and the whole crew cause it kind of just has to happen.

No God would let Kobe Bryant get three rings but not allow D. Wright to get one.

Have a great weekend all.

VCD,

SM

*: Editor's note: Did anyone else watch "The Office" last night? For my money it doesn't get much better than for an episode of that incredible show to end with Michael getting a kiss from Jan, the screen going dark, and then lighting up again with that Chase commercial featuring the sweet, textured voice of John Ondrasik as he alternately celebrates and laments the passing of time in the 2004 hit smash, "100 Years". And for those of you who object to Five for Fighting going corporate, lay off. Face it, The Battle for Everything wasn't the hot seller that America Town was, and the guy's gotta eat.

**: Hey, Chip, if you're reading this, did you get the official Yankees2000 business card that I left with the doorman in your building this morning? Please let Sip or me know somehow.

New Mets, 1986, and Johnny's Overture to Red Sox Nation

What’s up guys, A Friend of Mr. Glass’ here. So it’s been a while hasn’t it? It’s been a while a) since I posted, and b) since this site had any honest-to-goodness baseball content.

Now that’s not a knock on young Sip, who’s been a soldier over the past month and change. Open up the sports section this morning and flip to the pages on the Mets. Not a hell of a whole lot doing, is there?

For much of the past month, that’s been the story line on the boys. But every once in a while during this mid-winter swoon leading up to the day pitchers and catchers report (just a week away by this point), you come across an article or two that get the good old baseball blood flowing.

Yesterday was one such day. Over lunch yesterday I happened upon the following three articles: one of which features a bold prediction for the Mets’ prospects in the year ahead, the second a certain anniversary that will be observed at Shea several times during the upcoming season, and the third an advertisement taken out by Yankees2000’s worst person alive, Johnny Damon.

Without further ado:

1. MLB.com declares Mets favorite in NL East.

(http://mlb.mlb.com/NASApp/mlb/news/article_perspectives.jsp?ymd=20060207&content_id=1307889&vkey=perspectives&fext=.jsp)

As Jim Molony writes in his lede, it ain’t easy to easy to pick against the Braves and their tyrannical 14 consecutive NL East titles. “And yet,” Molony writes, “the more you compare the rosters, weigh the various team factors and consider the dynamics of the 2006 National League East Division as we head into Spring Training, a case can be made that this will be the year a team finally puts an end to Atlanta's amazing run.

“That team is the New York Mets.”

Readers of this site know that I’ve been very hesitant to call the Mets or anyone other than the Braves favorites in the NL East. There have simply been too many years when the Braves looked vulnerable, only to somehow find a way to come out on top once again.

All in all, it’s a pretty simple calculus that Molony’s cooked up here. It looks a little something like this:

Mets get better + Braves get worse + [(-1)(improvement in other NL East teams)] = Mets win division

Let’s start with the Braves. With a final record of 90-72, Atlanta finished 2 games ahead of Philadelphia in 2005.

They did it on the strength of an MVP-caliber season out of Andruw Jones, strong starting pitching, an excellent second half from Rafael Furcal, a strong debut from rookie Jeff Franceour, and a bullpen anchored by Kyle Farnsworth.

Looking at that list, it’s plain that there’s been some overhaul on the Braves’ roster; Furcal and Farnsworth are gone. Beyond that, they’ve got nothing but uncertainty in their bullpen and question marks at four positions (catcher, first base, and the corner outfield spots) to boot. They’re depending on a resurgence from Edgar Renteria (which, admittedly, if past reclamation projects like Johnny Estrada are any indication, can probably be anticipated).

Most ballyhooed of all Atlanta’s changes, however, is the defection of Bobby Cox's right hand man, Leo Mazzone, to Baltimore. Mazzone’s Midas Touch will be replaced by former Mets goofball Roger McDowell. He does have minor league experience, but this is McDowell’s first gig in the big leagues as a coach and he’s got big shoes to fill.

The Mets, meanwhile, are undoubtedly a stronger team. The acquisitions of Carlos Delgado and Billy Wagner addressed the team’s most glaring needs – pop in the lineup and a fearsome bookend in their bullpen.

But we’re also banking on injury-free seasons from injury-prone or high-injury-risk players like Pedro Martinez, Mr. Glass, and Cliff Floyd, as well as a resurgence from Carlos Beltran and the continued late-career renaissance of Tom Glavine.

Also, our fifth starter is Victor Fucking Zambrano. And our fourth starter is Heilman, he of the consistently inconsistent resume as a starter. Our third starter is Steve Trachsel, .500 hurler extraordinaire, now fully recovered from back surgery. If I’m not inspiring confidence right now, perhaps there’s a reason.

Alright, maybe I’m being a little overly critical here. I was never a big fan of Kris Benson's – he always seemed to wear down at some point and the truth is I would be more comfortable giving the ball to Trachsel in a big spot that Benson. Heilman really seemed to turn the corner in 2005, and if he didn’t earned the shot to start after his incredible 0.68 ERA in the second half of the season, he never will.

But my official advice is don’t pop those champagne bottles yet. The Braves still have a dominant 1-2 combination heading their rotation in Tim Hudson and John Smoltz. They’ve still got the Joneses, who besides being the two most loathsome Braves players not named John Rocker in lo these many years of their supremacy, are also really good at beating the Mets. And they’ve still got Bobby Cox, who’s about as good a manager in baseball as you’re likely to ever see.

As for us, we’ve got two unknown quantities in our rotation and a relative degree of uncertainty in our bullpen. Lord knows we shouldn’t have any uncertainty after trading two starting pitchers for bullpen arms, but for those that contest I would mention that we have no left-handed specialist and we’re hoping for bounce-back years from Chad Bradford and Jorge Julio.

That said, I’ve got more confidence in the Julio/Bradford-Sanchez-Wagner bullpen than I did in last year’s Manny Aybar-Roberto Hernandez-Braden Looper trifecta, but Julio and Sanchez have their work cut out for them if they’re to be as effective as Heilman and Hernandez were in 2005. The edge has to go to the 2006 bullpen, but it’ll be interesting to see what kind of seasons Rick Peterson and co. can milk out of our primary setup men.

As for our lineup, Minaya’s wheeling and dealing should pay dividends here. A lot of us are hoping to see a lineup of Reyes-Beltran-Wright-Delgado-Floyd-Lo Duca-Diaz/Nady-Kazuo/Anderson Hernandez, but fear we’ll see Reyes-Lo Duca-Beltran-Delgado-Floyd-Wright-Diaz/Nady-Kaz/A-Hern. No matter how Willie configures his lineup, it should be an improvement from last year, and you can bet that he'll still get his subs fresh toasted.

It bears mentioning that the offensive upgrade came at the expense of our defense (goodbye Doug Mientkiewicz and Mike Cameron, hello Carlos Delgado and Victor Diaz!), so that’s a definite minus.

But for me it all comes down to two things.

First is that we’re keeping our fingers crossed on a lot of things in the starting rotation. Pedro’s health. Tommy’s production. Steve being slightly better than .500. Heilman proving he can do it as a starter. Zambrano not driving us to suicide. If one of these guys falls or falters, we’ve got Brian Bannister and Alay Soler to step in, neither of whom has ever thrown a pitch at the Major League level.

All of which is to say that our rotation is a high risk-high reward bunch. It could be very good, it could be bad, it could be completely uneven. We’ll just have to see how it plays out.

And ultimately that brings us to point No. 2. Until the Braves fall, the NL East belongs to them. I appreciate Molony’s support and I hope he’s right, and, yes, I certainly believe he could be right. But we here at Yankees2000 are pretty set in our pessimism, so we’ll say the Mets are forever looking up at the Braves until the morning after game 162 comes and we open our sports pages to see New York standing above Atlanta, finally looking down.

Here’s hoping that day arrives Oct. 2.

2. Mets announce 6-game 1986 pack to commemorate the 20th anniversary of our last World Series championship.

http://www.nypost.com/sports/mets/61564.htm

A nice gesture and well earned, don’t you think?

Indeed it is a nice gesture, only there’s one problem. The teams the Mets are set to play in those six games are the Astros, Yankees, Orioles, Pirates, Phillies, and Rockies. Any name in that bunch stand out to you? If you were a fully cognizant Mets fan in 1986 (or, potentially, if you were reared on the 1986 Mets Tape), the Astros might. But for those living strictly in the here and now, it’s the game against the Yankees that will almost certainly stand out.

Man, oh man, I can already hear the shit-talking from the Yankee fans when we roll out the red carpet for the 1986 team. Possible lines of ridicule include mentioning that the last time we won the World Series was 1986, or that the last time we were in a World Series we lost, oh right, to them.

Now don’t get me wrong, we’re Mets fans and we can take it; we’ve been dealing with this shit since 1996 after all.

But still. It seems like a mistake to invite your last championship team back to soak up the adulation when half the freakin’ stadium will be cheering for the other team and jeering the heroes of the hosts (with ample ammunition no less).

But I suppose we’ll cross the bridge when we come to it. And hey, if Molony’s right and the Mets are in first place it’ll all be a lot more palatable won’t it?

3. Johnny Damon takes out full page ad in Boston Globe thanking Red Sox fans.

http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2323617

Good to see he’s putting that $52 million he’s collecting from the Yankees to good use, don’t you think?

"Many thanks to the great fans of New England and the city of Boston. It was a privilege and an honor," the ad said.

This statement is drenched in disingenuousness. If it was a privilege and an honor, if you really gave a damn about the great fans of New England or the city of Boston, you’d still be there.

Anyone remember how much Edgardo Alfonzo wanted the Mets to retain him after the 2002 season? Remember how he rented advertising space on taxicabs around the city to say thanks to Mets fans for their support? They looked a little something like this:

"I felt I had to do that because the fans made me a good player and a good person," Alfonzo said. "You've got to appreciate that. There are always a lot of great memories when I come back to play in New York."

For Alfonzo, the sum of those memories meant that he was desperate to play for those fans again. He lowered his asking price, he begged Mets management to bring him back to the only organization he’d ever known and the fans he’d loved.

Damon did no such thing. He went for top dollar and today he wears the uniform of those fans' greatest enemy. For Damon, the sum of those memories can be calculated in one fat 52 million dollar check.

Johnny, if you’re reading this, I can only hope your advertisement now adorns dartboards across the good city of Boston.

That's all I got.

- A.F.O.M.G.

NEW KNICKS

So we were sitting there at Opening Day this past year, when all the talk of the "New Mets" was going down.

Me, AFOMG, TKID, and JawnJawn730, the best of friends all excited for another season of what would be memorable Mets baseball.

We kept on joking about the New Mets. New seemed to replace New York so that the Mets were now the New Mets and not the New York Mets.

So it only took the forty drinking, wifebeater-wearing, rockport-sporting JJ730 to start chanting about the "New Bears." For some strange reason the kid is a huge Bears fan and was getting excited for football season, which, from where we sat then, was a good five months in the offing.

Nonetheless, JJ730 was fired up and New Bears became a bit of an inside joke.

I tell you this only because of the importance of the word "new." Since JJ's wild Opening Day run, "new" has become a huge part of the vocabulary of me, AFOMG, and Cousin Jason.

New Bears!
New Schubes!

And of course, New Knicks!!!

The irony about it is that the Mets last year remained, for the most part, the same old Mets. They got you excited then broke your hearts and in the end we still love them.

Well, the "New Knicks" under the leadership of Isiah Thomas remain, in fact, the same old Knicks.

Before the season fans got excited.

THE KNICKS SIGN LARRY BROWN, GREATEST COACH OF ALL TIME = THE METS SIGN CARLOS BELTRAN, GREATEST POSTSEASON HITTER EVER

ISIAH THOMAS TRADES SWEETNEY AND 2 TOP 5 PICKS FOR EDDY "12, 9, HEART ATTACK" CURRY = METS TRADE KAZMIR FOR ZAMBRANO

THE KNICKS ARE A CHAMPIONSHIP TEAM THIS YEAR- ISIAH THOMAS = NEXT YEAR IS NOW- METS FANS

The comparisons stop there. For the first time in a long time, the Mets appear to be in decent shape. Most Mets fans are more optimistic than I am, but truth is, that's great.

I am a pessismist and as I have said many times before, it is great to hear the optimism around Shea, and it's great that that enthusiasm isn't entirely misplaced. It's not like the hope-against-all-hope enthusiasm that Mets fans entered 2004 with, let's put it that way.

But the NEW KNICKS...The train just keeps on rolling.

This past weekend Isiah "Dumbest Person in the Whole World" Thomas traded Antonio Davis' expiring contract for Jalen Rose (Signed thru 2006-2007) and a first round pick (via Denver) which should translate somewhere in the high teen's low 20's.

The value here was in the expiriring contract of Antonio Davis. The NBA functions under a soft salary cap. Players are allocated a % of the league wide revenue, roughly 57%, which translates to a cap around $45 million dollars for each team.

The Knicks have a payroll well over $100 million dollars. They can do this for two reasons.

"The Larry Bird Rule"- A team may re-sign its own free agent for any amount up to the maximum player salary" if he played for the team for the prior three consecutive seasons (or, if he changed teams, he did so by trade).

It is for this reason that the Knicks were allowed to sign Allan Houston to a $100 mil deal a few years back despite being massively over the cap.

Mid Level Exception: A team may sign one or more free agents to contracts with first-year salaries totaling the amount of that season's mid-level exception, an amount based on the league's average player salary.

Isiah Thomas was smart enough to use this exception, inking Jerome James, the Knicks' 14th man, to a roughly $6,000,000 per-year salary that will feed James' family and incense knowledgeable Knicks fans for the next 5 years.

It is the goal of most teams to get under the roughly $45 million dollar salary cap so that they can sign upcoming free agents. Teams try to clear upwards of $13 million dollars so that they can offer free agents the maximum contract allowed by the league's collective bargaining agreement.

It is for this reason that the Raptors, like so many teams, were willing to part with a mid 1st round pick to swap Rose's contract for Davis'.

This trade will allow the team to get substantially under the salary cap so that they can target a top level free agent (someone who is or potentially will be an all-star)

Isiah Thomas is saying (while smiling and molesting women), "Hey, we get a 1st round pick and its not like we could have gotten under the cap anyway."

Welcome to the world of marginal gains, Isiah. The Raptors free up the money to sign an all-star. You've just gotten your hands on Ersan Illyasova or whomever else you could get with the 18th pick.

There is so much more that Isiah could have gotten for Davis' contract. "Expiring contracts" in the NBA are about as valuable as anyone not on the all-star team.

Come the trade deadline, teams would have been lining up for Antonio Davis. To give you an idea of one trade that is surprisingly plausible, the Knicks probably could have had a shot at packaging Davis, Penny Hardaway's expiring contract and a bunch of their kids to the T Wolves for Kevin Garnett.

This is clearly as good as it would get, but come mid February when Kevin Mchale sees that the Wolves are awful (note: they made the Warriors look like Michael Jordan's Bulls on Saturday) he could decide to blow the whole thing up, get way under the cap, and add some young talent.

Instead, the Knicks get #18 and Jalen Rose, who is rumored to be the least "Larry Brown" type player in the NBA (he plays no defense and in uncoachable). But also, and this is where it gets good, is that Isiah gets to deflect the recent sex scandal that has the Knicks front office in intense shock and embarassment.

So on top of being an awful, and I mean awful GM, the guy gets himself in the middle of a sex scandal.

How does he try to get out of it...By becoming an even MORE AWFUL GM.

Isiah, I truly hate you. You're the reason I stopped being a Knicks fan. That and the courtside Warriors tickets supplied by the official SF of Y2k.

On that note, another reason the Knicks suck is that they don't have any sweet Euros. I sat at last night's game in front of Andris Biedrins' kid brother.

For those who don't know Andris, he is a sharp, long power forward from the lovely country of Latvia known for his rebounding and shotblocking. He is the gold standard of Latvian basketball.

Well his little brother, a 6'5 14-year-old, is truly amazing. He sat there and grunted the entire game, unable to speak English. He reminded me of Sloth from "The Goonies." He got most excited when the Warriors mascot, Thunder, was hopping around the stands on stilts. Forget Sloth, this kid was a giant, Russian version of Artie from "What's Eating Gilbert Grape?"

So after the game, a 22 point blowout over the Nuggets in which Big Dre had 6 blocks, he and Big Zarko Cabarkapa rolled into the players lounge rocking blazers and tight jeans.

They were the classic Euros except they happen to be close to 7 feet tall each. They sat down on the table next to us and all we could do was sit there, smile, and eavesdrop.

Zarko and Andres were just like Andre's kid brother. They sat their telling potty jokes in Russian and broken English and laughed like deep voiced ogres. They were truly entertaining.

And boy can these guys dress. The Knicks lack these types of talents.

Two years back they got us excited in a pair of second rounders in Maciej Lampe and Slavko Vranes only for us to never see them grow.

Back seven years ago they selected Frederic Weis over a "desperate to play for the Knicks" Ron Artest because they were trying to get Euro.

And what has it got them? The Knicks suck, have no future and most importantly, they have no Euros. I hate you Knicks, Isiah, and all the Yankee fans that support them.

To the Mets fans, as the fired up West Canaan Running back Wendell Brown (played by Eliel Swinton, who thanks to IMDB I know played professionally for the Chiefs) once said, "We cool, Mox."

VCD,

SM

The Importance of Closing

A lot of people think the responsibility of closing out a game in the ninth inning lies squarely on the closer's shoulders. It's a "buck stops here" kind of mentality. You've got one guy out there dealing to the opposition with his team three outs away from getting the W.

Win, lose or draw, that one man sent out there in the ninth inning becomes the lightning rod for praise or ire. Bottom line, these people say, is that the closer is responsible for everything that happens out there.

In 2005, the Mets sent Braden Looper out there whenever they needed to close out a win. He would go on the mound with his 94 mph 2-seamer and save the game 75% of the time.

Braden was skilled but not dominant. Simply put, the guy wasn't a closer.

Still, every game Braden would make his pitches and the umpire, who probably has a bigger impact on Braden's night than anyone else, calls the pitch a ball or a strike.

Braden can do his best to make his pitch, but in the end, the only person that can call it a strike is good old Blue. On a fundamental level, it is the umpire who is the true arbiter of worth.

This year we have Billy Wagner at the back end. Wags is a guy who has shown he can get it done. At the same time, just like with Poops, all Billy Wagner can do is try and make his pitch and in the end, hope the ump calls it a strike.

Why this simple rundown on the closer, the umpire, and balls and strikes?

Because Monday was my day to shine.

The lyrics of Eminem's "Lose Yourself" ran constantly through my mind.

"You only got one shot/ do not miss your chance to blow,/ cause opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo!"

I was fired up. My adrenaline was flowing unlike it had in quite sometime. I needed to finish. In 2005 I was Braden Looper: I was solid but didn't have the experience or the demeanor that a closer needs. In the end, I came up short. We lost.

But next year is now for young Sip.

Conditions were perfect. 70 degrees and Sunny, Maciej and Danny D cheering me on. I stood there at 2 p.m. hopping up and down. A little of Maciej's spaghetti on my T, but I was calm and ready just the same. This was my time to become one of the greats.

The umpire arrived, he was a 5'8 asian dude who didn't speak great English. He looked at me, I looked at him. This was gametime and we were both very, very serious.

I could not resort to my 2005 form. I needed to become a superstar.

ABC I thought: Always Be Closing.

2:20 p.m. -- It's just me, the clear blue sky, and the umpire, and the game is nearing its conclusion. It's the 9th inning, we're three outs away, and I am feeling as loose as ever.

"Turn right at the corner," he said... STRIKE 1!

"Switch into the left hand lane now"... Strike 2!

The crowd is on its feet. I can smell the victory and man does it smell sweet. I think about my parents and how long they have waited for this day. I think about all my friends who told me that this day would never happen. I think about our close family friend Joel, an older brother type for me who is 28, banking his way to god knows how much money but still has never made it to the level that I was slowly approaching.

0-2 Count, 2 outs, bottom of the ninth.

"Please pull over and turn off your engine." He struck him out! He struck him out! And the Mets win it. The Mets win the ball game! The Mets win! They win!"

I could see my fans with big smiles on their faces. I did it.

So on Monday, young Sip became a man. At 2:45 p.m. PT, my Asian pal signed over the piece of paper. And with that, I became a licensed driver.

There are a lot of people I want to thank. First and formost, Jesus Christ, who I could feel guiding my arms at every turn.

My mom and dad, brother. Friends, family. D Wright, Andres Biedrins. My agent Jon Zimelis over at Gersh. Without you guys I never could have done it. God... I know I'm forgetting somebody!

Keanu.

Without you, Keanu, none of this would have ever been possible. You are my light. My biggest inspiration. Thank you.

If not for me putting on the windshield wipers when the umpire asked me to make a left turn signal, this could have been a 9 pitch inning. Either way, I emerged today. I finally came out of my shell.

And I'll tell you this, If Sippy Momo can get a driver's license, then the Mets can win the whole fucking thing.

VCD,

SM

PS.. Whoever posted that comment yesterday, you make a very well thought out and insightful point. I will look into it more later this week.

Reflections on Super Bowl Sunday

So I just woke up. I had originally posted what I now realize is about 10 lines of complete incoherence (is this a word?) but decided you all deserved better than that, so here I am, up at the crack of dawn.

How early are we talking? It's 7:30 a.m. on the west coast, so yes, most of you have been up for hours. To an unemployed, unshaven, sweatpant-wearing blogger like me though, the world hasn't opened this early in some time.

Last night we had what was maybe the most fun Super Bowl I've ever had. Just a really good party.

After an amazing game of touch football in which I was removed from my normal position, quarterback (please note: If I was 6'4, 220 I would have been playing on Super Bowl Sunday. This is basically my only qualm with my father. That and he reads too much. Still, love you, Dad) because the big fella didnt want to go Aaron Boone on us. Still came down with 2 td's and about nine spills in the San Francisco mud.

The game was a ton of fun, and I had an excuse to break out my Marc Boerigter jersey for the first time in the state of California.

The weather was 70 and perfect. After the game we returned home where one of big Maciej's girlfriends had basically prepared a 90 course meal.

As the game rolled by about 35 of nearest and dearest showed up for what was perhaps the most boring Super Bowl of all time.

Luckily for me, I basically drunk pounded the pants off the Steelers when I woke up Sunday morning. And after Seattle's botched final drive, in which a touchdown would have resulted in a meaningless 2 pt conversion that could have taken me to backdoor cover hell, I was a ton richer, and perhaps even in rent money for the sunny month of February.

Please note: Placing unnecessary wagers within the first 2 hours after waking up from a heavy night of drinking is probably the stupidest thing you do. Luckily for young Sip, it worked out this time.

So Danny D was in town. Kid is a pro and in fact, I think he pulled the unthinkable, bringing a coed back to my house after a post-Super Bowl trip to the local tavern and taking her down on my living room couch.

This couch, for those who know me, kind of reminds me of the 6-day-old buffalo wings and flat cherry coke that used to pertrude my refrigerator circa 1995.

We ran a succesful box pool.

Of course, the two big winners, Mike and Mike, are succesful I-bankers/Adidas spokemen and will take their minor fortunes straight to the shitter.

Either way, the party was just a ton of fun and I consider myself a pretty happy Sip. In fact, the only party I've seen better since Ive been out here was Bodhi''s beach party that culminated in a night of surfing in which Johnny Utah, played by Y2k hall of famer Keanu Reeves, truly cements his place in the group.

So today used to be my least favorite day of the year.

On the east coast, it would be 30 degrees, stale and dull and there would be 6 weeks until pitchers and catchers report. I considered the day after the Super Bowl to be the start of a lull period in sports when all I had was basketball, my #3, and yearned for Opening Day.

Instead, now I have Golden St. Warriors basketball to root for, the best Big East since AI, and Felipe Lopez, a top 5 recruiting class for Georgia and 70 degree sunshine to keep me smiling.

Life ain't so bad these days. I'm starting to really like it out here.

Today I'm supposed to have my road test. I'm thinking of pushing it back because I don't want to be the first person in the history of license getting to earn a DUI at his road test.

Either way, I'll let you guys know tommorow.

That's all for now.

VCD,

SM

Tonight Was a Good Night

What's up all,

So over the last couple of Fridays I have served up some interviews with a ton of celebs. Some have been true... well, most have been untrue. Today's post is something else entirely. I promise you now, on my love for my father, that the following recap of the night that was is true. It shouldn't have been a great night, but that's exactly what it turned out to be.

As I write this, the truth is I'm pretty bombed. It is 3 a.m. here and I am sitting on my toilet seat spitting out what was my most recent meal. Take the fact that I am writting while doing my dirty work as evidence of my commitment to this blog.

The following takes place between 6 p.m. and 3 A.M., the day of the Golden State Warriors' loss to the San Antonio Spurs.

Bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum...

1:35 a.m. - I am sitting at IHOP with Roommates Maciej and Jordan and OBF MD. A good night was just had. I order a chicken fried steak. It seems right at the time. I also order a coke. I close my eyes and think about the events that brought me here...

6 p.m. - Fresh off a cute little conversation with Julia H, my cute little SF girl friend, I am figuring out my night.

6:12 p.m. - Me and roommate Timmy decide to go to the Warriors/Spurs game as opposed to not going. I understand that this is upwards of a $40 investment. Between transportation, drinks and dinner I am spending a ton of money that is better off going to groceries, but hey, I can't resist Warriors basketball.

7:14 p.m. - Me and Big Maciej get off the train to the game and have serious talk about my life, the girl that I love back in NYC, and my future in SF.

7:30 p.m. - I arrive at our seats and see Eva Longoria sitting 2 rows in front and 3 seats over from me. She is smoking hot in person.

7:36 p.m. - Introductions... Tony Parker is introduced, all the drunk people in my section heckle him and yell at Eva, who is really, really hot.

8:41 p.m. - The Warriors are up 2 at the half. This is not abnormal... The Warriors dominate the first half. For all you bettors out there, pound the Warriors' first half line. They always come out great and choke in the 4th...

8:43 p.m. - Me and Big Maciej go to the player's lounge looking for Eva...no bites. We go to a concession stand and throw daps to Terry Porter.

8:55 p.m. - Surprise, surprise...The Warriors are down 4 with 9 minutes left in the 3rd...

9:46 p.m. - Somehow, and I mean somehow, the Warriors are tied with 3 minutes left. Eva looks amazing. I am a few beers in, the courage has worn loose and I have already started shouting "Depserate Point Guards!" when T Parker reached the line, commencing a serenade of "you don't deserve her." My section likes me.

9:49 p.m. - The Warriors are down 3 with a minute and change...there is no way they can win this game

9:53 p.m. - Of course, the Warriors lose. An attempt at a 3 at the buzzer by D Fish falls flat and leaves the the Warriors short.

9:55 p.m. - Me and Big Maciej make bets on when Adonal Foyle will be in the players bar. It usually takes him 14 minutes from the final buzzer to be dressed and at the bar....

10:19 p.m. - WHERE THE HELL IS ADONAL? We sit in the lounge and look at the table next to us. There are a bunch of Persian tool boxes with 5-6 women, aged 30, all of whom are perfect from the neck down. I'm talking the fakest breasts money can buy, perfect bodies...etc...Except their face reminds me of well, the giant load I just left in my toilet.

10:26 p.m. - Troy Murphy enters the bar. He is completely out of NBA dress code. Long sleeve t, sweats, and sneakers. Of course, he goes straight to the strippers. Was really funny considering the man often brags in the clubhouse about how the night before, "he shot a porno."

10:30 p.m. - MD comes into the clubhouse.

10:50 p.m. - We arrive back in SF. We get some pizza and a few pitchers. We are going to meet with my little biddy and some of her friends, one of whom roommate Maciej is into. Unfortunately, Maciej's ex happens to be at the same bar so we need to stall a little bit

11:20 p.m. - We finally get word that Maciej's ex is leaving the bar so we head over.

11:30 p.m. - We arrive, good old times. My little girl, fresh off a sweet Coldplay concert with Sippy Momo himself is in awe of the situation greets young Sip with supreme happiness. This girl is adorable, but no girl from home. J Schubes knows.

1:20 a.m. - The night is coming to an end. Little Coldplay girl has to go home to go to work the next day. To think the girl has to go to fucking work.

1:25 a.m. - Me, Maciej, Jordan and MD head to IHOP

We arrive where I first began...AND NOW IT GETS GOOD.

1:50 a.m. - We are talking the night just the four of us. It is Sex and the City for Dudes. A depressing night, no one is getting ANY (Pops, son is a virgin) and we are all preparing for a night of disgusting food. I look down at an appetizer when in he arrives....

1:50:43 a.m. - "What's going on fellas." I look up, OF COURSE. As if my SF journey hasn't been adventourus enough, who is it? Once again, it's my old friend from a few weeks back, ERIC BYRNES

1:51 a.m. - Byrnesy joins us at the table with his pal growing up. I'm pretty sure he is wearing the same clothes he wore the last time I saw him a few weeks back. I immediately wish that J Schubes was here. He would be creaming his pants right now.

1:52 a.m. - Byrnesy starts talking girls. He is the most outgoing person in the world: "If you're looking for pussy you go to NY, LA, or South Beach...but you guys want to know the next best place? Scotsdale, AZ." Byrensy just signed with the D-backs and is a homeowner in Arizona and loves the talent out there.

1:55 a.m. - We are talking geography and transportation... "So Byrnesy, when you come into the city how do you get in?" asks my buddy Big Maciej.
"Well a bunch of things, bro," says byrnesy with intense enthusiasm. "Sometimes, I'll crash on my bro's catch. But mostly I'll just grab a limo. They charge just like $500 for the night," he nudges at Mike. Mike acknowledges and I yearn for employment.

1:58 a.m. - The pain in my solarplexus is unmatched. It feels like I just drank a ton of shitty beer and then just ate chicken fried steak from IHOP... Oh wait...

1:59 a.m. - Byrnesy confirms that Josh Byrnes, the recently hired GM of the DBacks, is a really good guy. We talk a lot about Sabermatrics and the guy is actually very knowledgable and impressive. He knows a lot about the Harvard school of baseball. It's a really interesting talk.

2:04 a.m. - Conversation somehow gets to the recent A&E movie about American Airlines Flight 93... Byrenesy gets truly involed

2:19 a.m. - Byrnesy has been talking for 15 minutes straight. He is truly passionate about the subject. He turns out to just be a really good guy, that happens to have been blessed with decent baseball skills and much more, an intense passion for life.

2:16 a.m. - We all wonder if Byrnesy is juicing. Dude is fucking jacked

2:19 a.m.: The check comes...Byrenesy pulls it away immediately. This guy knows how good he has it.

2:22 a.m. - We sit in the parking lot. We offer Byrnesy an invite to our Super Bowl party to which he offers a maybe but probably not, because he is already committed. MD has given us 64% clearance that Zarko Cabarkapa will be at our house which means that there is a 22% that Andres Biedrins will be in attendance... Life is really good.

2:42 a.m. - We arrve home. My stomach is truly killing. I walk immediately to the toilet and sit there for 20 minutes, starting this column from my favorite place in the world

3:02 a.m. - I leave my toilet seat and come to my living room couch. Maciej is playing Jordan in FIFA and Jordan is humping the floor comparing his FIFA game to Darnell Jefferson's freshmen season in "the program."

3:03 a.m. - I check my gmail and see that my former love turned fatal attraction "Psycho Janie from Georgia" has asked me to be her friend on the Facebook. I haven't spoken to this girl in 18 months since she tried to move into my house at the end of my senior year of college when she was an 18-27 year old run away. She was beautiful and had a sweet southern accent and tried to murder me in my sleep. Let's just say that I am genuinely freaked out right now.

3:05 a.m. - Jordan tells me that I have improved my FIFA game tremendously but that I play the game way too much.

3:06 a.m. - Bout ready to go to sleep I realize that I spent last night eating with two of the sweeter white athletes the Bay area has to provide. I got a pretty sweet contact with the A's today that may hook me up with a job (Note: this is sweet contact Part III none of whice have worked out so far)

3:07 a.m. - I remember that my good pal and only friend that I look up to, Danny D, is coming into town tommorow and I get really fired up.

Good night all. Life ain't so bad. GM in 6 years.

VCD

SM

New York is Dead

(Note:" The following post contains an NSFW picture, specifically, the exposed buttocks of Team Facelift's Fat Jew. It's very tastefully done but you probably want to avoid the lower third of this post if your boss is lurking nearby. That said, enjoy.)

Mesh hats and Uggs floating through the city. Rich waspy kids rocking blazers and blowing coke on the street. Awful Long Islanders with their hair gelled to a statue getting ready for a night out at one of NYC's finer one word clubs.

These things embarass our city.

New York has so much. It has such a rich culture, tremendous architecture, vast diversity and, most importantly to me, a great sports culture.

I never gave New York it's due. But having been in San Fran I realize now that New York is a pretty great sports city. I think other cities are more passionate. I spent four years in Philadelphia and will admit that that city as a whole cares more about its teams than NY.

Still New York has always been a great place to watch a game.

Back when the Knicks were led by Pat Riley I rocked my "Tough Town, Tough Team" t-shirt with intense pride.

As Dan Devine once said, "No one, and I mean no one comes into our house and pushes around."

In the late 90's and beggining of the millenium, Chipper Jones and John Rocker would enter Shea to the chorus of intense boo's, batteries and anti-hick remarks.

New York was simply put, a tough place to play.

That ended Tuesday. I thank god I wasn't there to experience it first hand because if I had been I might have been reduced to tears.

Indeed, every ounce of toughness New York ever had as a sports town ended with the sounds of 3 letters.

M.V.P!

Kobe Bryant came to the garden last night and dominated the Knicks. The Lakers defeated the lowly Knickerbockers 130-97 in yet another embarassing loss for the Larry Brown-led Knicks.

But this result isn't abnormal. The Knicks suck and as we have told you here before, will continnue to suck for at least 5 years. There is zero hope for this team. ABSOLUTELY ZERO.

But that is another story.

Tuesday night, while I was white boy dancing to the sweet sounds ofChris Martin, the garden was serenading Kobe Bryant with a welcoming, positive chant of MVP, MVP!

What has happened to New York?

Even in the days of Michael Jordan, when every person in the country was enamored by the greatest basketball player ever to play the game, Michael received a mixed greeting an player introductions, and then was constantly booed and heckled for the remainder of the game.

But on Monday, Kobe walked in. And Kobe is the worst.

Sure he may be great, but he is a dickhead, a cliched super star, and really, really unlikable.

He is the guy that gets girls that every dude hates.

He is a wine connoisseur.

He drinks latees.

He isn't tough. He isn't New York basketball.

Unfortunately New York has changed.

In this era when half of the city is in love with Derek Jeter and the other half is in love Alex Rodriguez, New York has turned into something that I never could have imagined it would become.

New York has become LOS ANGELES.

Sports have become an event instead of a passion.

Sports have grown and nice instead of tough and mean.

We were supporting Kobe Fucking Bryant.

This guy is Derek Jeter except for one thing. He didnt lead a New York team. As much as I hate Derek Jeter, I can see why Yankee fans love him. He is the clear leader of the Yankee powerhouse and championship run of the last 10 years.

But this is Kobe. We as New Yorkers are trained to hate him.

Yet we let him come into the Garden and greet him not with boos, but with the warmest of welcomes. We give him a cheer that has only been earned by one player in our lifetimes, Patrick Ewing, when he was leading the Knicks to Eastern Conference second fiddle in the early 90's.

All I can think about is the lyrical masterpiece that is "New York is Dead," by my good pals, Team Facelift.


The song talks about how everything in New York has changed, been corrupted by the yuppie invasion.

Lyrics include:

"Every fly bitch under 30 thinks she's pretty/ thinks she's a character on Sex and the City."

"A couple years ago/ every bum passed out holding a bottle/ now every homeless cat is a male model."

"New York is dead/ people riding horses."

The song is pretty awesome and the show is great. We consider them the official white rap group of Y2k.

Still, these guys are right.

New York is dead.

If Kobe Bryant, the most hatable superstar in the NBA can be greeted the way he was, maybe New York no longer deserves its respect. Maybe the city is so corrupted that it has become LA, where phoniness is real.

Ashamed,

SM

An Ode to Gambling

While Sip takes in the light contemporary sounds of Coldplay with their unique mix of rock and pop, cousin is checkin in with a top ten list of his own. I, like Young Sip, despite also being dealt a pretty great hand in life, am in a more comfortable place when I am miserable. But also like him, I do have certain things that make me happy. And at least ten of them related to America’s Actual Favorite Past Time: Gambling. So in deference to the Gambling Holiday that arrives this Sunday, Here are my top 10 reasons why gambling is great.

10. The Box Pool.

Super Bowl Parties are a double edge sword. The great thing is, they are an excuse to get bombed at 6PM and eat unnecessary amounts of fried food without feeling guilty about it. The downside is these get-togethers mix two great tastes that don’t taste great together, that being women and sports.

Therein lies the beauty of the box pool. It is gambling that will even keep the most sports-uninterested girl from flapping her irksome gums during the game. It takes absolutely no skill at all, and outside of the initial irritation of having to hear her inevitably ask the question, “Are these numbers good?” it keeps them paying attention to the game and not holding awful side conversations about God knows what. The downside is, even if there are only two chicks there, they will inevitably win two of the quarters.

9. Maverick.

Before Infamous Jew-Hater Mel Gibson made the beautiful “Braveheart”, and Anti-Semitic “Passion of the Christ”, he brought us “Maverick”, probably one of the most fun movies of all time. With an ensamble cast including Jodie Foster the only time she looked bangable, Alfred “Doc Ock” Molina as the Spaniard, James Garner, and James Coburn, I am no movie buff, but there must be at least 600 Oscars in that bunch.

However, what made this light-hearted movie so great was that it was about the poker game we all grew up with. Now don’t get me wrong, I love Hold’em as much as the next guy. But something will always bring me back to the 5 card draw and the seven card stud games we grew up on.

The simple days where we it was unheard of to fold and it was tough to win a hand without a royal flush because deuces, aces, one eyed faces, and the suicide king were all wild. And when the Commodore utters the lines, “I have two pair 8’s and 8’s, it is probably one of the highlights of my movie watching existence.

8. Proposition Bets.

As I write this I am in the process of watching the Nets- Pistons Game. Antonio McDyess just blocked a Vince Carter lay up, and it brought me to my feet. Am I a Pistons Fan? Do I hate the Nets? Did I bet on the Pistons? Did I bet on the under? The answer to all of these questions is in fact, No. I found a nice prop bet of Vince Carter over/under 25 points, and I took the under.

By the time you read this I will have won or lost (won) a few bucks, but as a gambler I found yet another way to make an event that is thoroughly uninteresting AND I have no idea how to bet on, exciting.

7. NBA Basketball has been made watchable.

Growing up I was about as big a Knicks fan as you could find. However, with the succession of horrendous GMs that culminated with the worst GM in sports history, Isaiah Thomas, the sport has been rendered unwatchable for me and many in the tri-state area.

Unwatchable, that is, until I decided to start placing wagers on games. There is a whole new dynamic to a sport when you can actually root for a team that gives you a reason to root for them. Yet, another reason that gambling is such a wonderful thing and which leads me to Number 6…

6. This Super Bowl has been made watchable.

I hate the Steelers. I couldn’t care less about the Seahawks. The reasons for my feelings on this have been covered in previous posts by Young Sip. I too go to Blondies and have to hear the awful, awful Steelers fans dominate the bar. And there is just nothing entertaining about the Seahawks. Ask yourself this question, “Have I ever met a Seahawks fan”?

Few things intrigue me about this game, one being the over/under on times we have to hear this week that Jerome Bettis is “Going Home” to Detroit, and the Seattle celebrities they try to find to interview about their “favorite” team.

However, throw some size on the game, and all the sudden GO SEAHAWKS!!

5. “Rounders”.

This movie made poker. Granted, the backlash of having to hear every hack poker player recite the memorable lines ad nauseum has made me hate hearing them, but this movie started a revolution.

Plain and Simple, poker rooms fill, and the WSOP is one of the highest rated shows on cable the last few years, because of the exploits of Mikey McD and Worm. Despite another cast chock full of Oscar-caliber actors, it was panned by the critics as horribly acted (most notably at the time, current It Girl, Gretchen Mol playing “the chick”). However, the gambling emotions seemed legit. Damon really had me convinced when he went back to Teddy KGBs. It was like Buckner returning to Fenway.


On top of that, Teddy KGB is the most quotable movie character in history. I will not take arguments on that.

4. Atlantic City/Las Vegas.

Although these two Meccas of Degenerate Living are vastly different, I group them together for the sake of this argument. That is because gambling has found a way to turn two of the biggest wastes of space in our great country into two of my favorite places in the world.

I am a man who loves his New Jersey, that being said, South Jersey is a different story. That place sucks. And, there is nothing trashier then the area right around the Atlantic City strip. I think the two most indicative aspects of the area are the “Gun Free School Zone” signs, and the nearly 100% chance you will see stray dogs fighting. However, Donald Trump and Gambling have managed to take that area and turn it into one of the most enjoyable and trendy places within driving distance of NYC.

Similarly there is nothing as worthless as the state of Nevada. Until they decided to legalize gambling, the biggest thing going on there was extensive military testing. Look it up. It is also the only place bringing in billions in revenue, that if I walk away saying I won a grand and that I own the Bellagio, people understand exactly what I mean.

(Note: when we take Vegas by storm mid-March and kill shit sick nice it will move up to number 1 on this list)

3. Fantasy Football.

It is a fact: over the last 10 years Fantasy Football has been the single biggest boost to NFL popularity. Unlike fantasy baseball, which was in reality created first, the NFL has embraced the hobby, and it has paid off in large dividends.

There is no way for the fan to feel closer to the sport then having his own team. In the same way that the NBA has found new life in my world, Arizona Cardinal games mattered this year because I had Larry Fitzgerald. I also didn’t have to bet on EVERY game, because I had a stake in all of them through my fantasy team.

(Note: I was Division Champ/Fantasy Champ, bringing in a cool $975 -- yet another reason to love gambling.)

2. March Madness.

Bracket Pools/48 games in the first 4 days make this the greatest gambling weekend of the year. When else in your entire life do you get to live on the edge of your seat for 40 minutes as a die-hard Santa Clara fan? Either you went to Santa Clara, or you had Arizona losing in the second round and the first round loss has everyone that had the two seed going all the way (like inevitably a young Tonks did, because he picked 'Zona every year) already knocked out.

1. The Back Door Cover.

I have experienced many highs and lows in this lifetime. But nothing compares to that moment in a blowout when only the people with action on the game are still watching. A pick six for no reason, when all hope was dead. Going for it from the one when a kneel will do the trick. They are sporting moments made solely for the gambler, and that is why they are so damn special. When you get to stand up and cheer in a 30-point blow out, you know it is something special.

That’s all for now. Good luck on the Super Bowl and Happy Betting.

And as always, GO KNIGHTS! I'ts signing day, and the Knights got TWO **** recruits. Big Day on the Banks.

- Cousin Tonks