Category: Sports

Dan Dierdorf Needs To Stuff It!

January 16, 2010

 

 

 

Well I have now seen it all. CBS’ Dan Dierdorf managed to announce the entire Colts/Ravens playoff game with a curious, but severe handicap…he spent the entire night with not one, but two penises stuffed in his mouth. Peyton Manning and Jim Caldwell should be well satisfied with their sacks fully drained as the former Hall of Fame lineman Dierdorf fellated both men with gusto continuously throughout the broadcast.

 

I’m not even certain Dierdorf watched the same game I did. He gushed and gushed and gushed again about how fresh the Colts looked in a feeble defense of head coach Caldwell’s gutless decision to lie down three weeks ago against the Jets, thereby forfeiting a wonderful opportunity to grab an undefeated season. Never mind that the Colts looked anything but dominant in squeaking out a win in a game that was much closer than the 20-3 score would indicate. Let there be no mistake; the Colts didn’t win this game, the Ravens lost it.

 

The “fresh” Colts averaged 1.7 yards on 25 carries, and their passing offense dinked and dunked all night, while the Ravens moved the ball on the ground at a 4.6 yard per carry clip and dominated both sides of the line of scrimmage. Manning was NOT sharp, missing receivers all night and being bailed out of two interceptions by an Ed Reed fumble, and an interference call (it’s the playoffs and Manning gets all the calls since he whined like a little bitch several years ago when the Patriots kicked his ass in Foxboro).

 

Were it not for the Ravens’ numerous penalties, fumbles, and dropped passes (and some wretched coaching from John Harbaugh just before the half), they cakewalk to a win. I understand that’s all part of the game, but to hear Dierdorf tell it, Caldwell single-handedly brought home the bacon by interrupting his menstrual cycle long enough to bring his team off the field against the Jets.

 

Then, once the game was over, Dierdorf finally guzzled down Caldwell’s load by intoning that the issue of the Colts quitting against the Jets was in the past and that Caldwell was vindicated. Dierdorf clearly doesn’t understand that there are two more wins to be had if Caldwell’s Colts want real vindication. And oh, by the way, Dan…the Colts could be 17-0 right now, on their way to perfection, and giving you abundant opportunity to pontificate further about the gutless one. Come to think of it…maybe Caldwell did us all a favor.

A-Rod the Nimrod

March 22, 2009

 

If you need the perfect example of unbridled hubris all you need to do is look at the cover of the most recent Details magazine. There you’ll see, in all his glory, Alex Rodriguez, the choke-artist third baseman for the Yankees, with his sleeves rolled up to reveal his steroid-enhanced, over-inflated biceps.

 

It would take a greater mind than mine to guess which is bigger, his arms or his ego. This, I suppose, is what passes for contrition in the world of baseball, where everyone lies until they’re busted, and players like Rodriguez, who come up small when it matters most, have a sense of entitlement to rival members of Congress. But A-Rod, who has always been faint of heart, be it with two runners on in the ninth, or while witnessing the birth of his child, has the balls to grace the Details cover–a mere month after being exposed for steroid use–thoroughly unashamed that the big numbers he has posted (albeit very few in post-season) came from a jar. Shame is clearly no consideration for a great guy who would dump his wife for a strumpet like Madonna.

 

But birds of a feather flock together, so the juicer and the lip-syncher should make beautiful music together. Rodriguez has always been hyper-sensitive to criticism, but this will be one year where he can’t claim he doesn’t like being needled.

Goodell Has no Gonads

 

February 20, 2009

 

If you checked the very back pages of your sports section today, you found the story tucked in among the daily transactions that the gutless NFL has decided to fine Steelers’ wide-receiver Santonio Holmes $10,000 for his end-zone celebration following his game-winning catch in Super Bowl XLIII. This fine, coming a full nineteen days after the fact must be music to the ears of referee Terry McAulay, whose crew was responsible for whistling a whopping eighteen penalties on game day, and now gets to tack on another for shits and grins. And on the nineteenth day, GOODELL created a nineteenth penalty.

 

Goodell, the tough-talking commissioner of the NFL, who wasn’t heard from the day after the game, when Cardinals fans were rightly upset at this missed call from a crew that hadn’t missed so much as an untied shoelace all day, snuck this fine through in typical NFL fashion…behind closed doors and under cover of night. Had the penalty been assessed during the game, as it should have been, the Cardinals would have been in excellent position to drive the field and win the game. But the NFL has long been in the business of apologizing for screw-ups that cost team games, usually throwing their own sacrificial lamb, Mike Pereira, the Vice President of Officiating, to the wolves.

 

This time, Goodell himself decided to woman up and offered the following feeble explanation. “As you know, part of this rule is to avoid having a reaction from opposing players and, from what I could see, only seeing it once, it didn’t seem like it was anywhere near that.” Sort of like saying the point of homicide laws is to prevent people from getting killed, but since Nicole Brown didn’t complain afterwards, we’ll let O.J. walk free. Oh, wait a minute–.

 

But don’t you worry….Goodell and Pereira are putting the finishing touches on a new rule that will fine players for wearing their socks too high. You can close the barn door now, Roger, the cows are gone.

Golf is the Only Sport That Matters

 

 

February 2, 2009

 

 

The time has come, at last, to deposit the NFL in the “Dustbin of Sports” alongside the charter member NBA, steroid-abusing MLB, and the sports of cycling, boxing, tennis, and track and field. Yesterday the Pittsburgh Steelers won Super Bowl XLIII by defeating the Arizona Cardinals in a thriller, but what I’ll most remember about the game was the omnipresence of referee Terry McAulay who got more face time than Pacman Jones at a sleazy strip club. The game was awash in penalties—18 accepted in all—and violated what used to be an understood maxim in big games…”Let ‘em play.”

 

But the NFL becomes more and more ludicrous with each passing season. Terry McAulay and his crew essentially took away any rhythm that might have otherwise been established. I’m not going to cry for the Cardinals…there were egregious calls on both sides of the ball, but it did seem as if the Cards got the short end of the stick. A ridiculous late hit call on Ben Roethlisberger, a no-ejection on James Harrison for a street mugging, a ticky-tack chop block call on Edgerrin James, and a critical no-call on what should have been a no-brainer when Santonio Holmes used the ball as a prop in his end-zone celebration after scoring the winning TD. And then, on the last play of the game, with everything at stake, the booth review team thought it unnecessary to have a look at Kurt Warner’s fumble—even though numerous viewings of the tape still don’t yield a definitive answer.

 

This is the same Terry McAulay whose crew screwed the Titans in their playoff game against the Ravens earlier in the Divisional playoffs when they missed a delay of game penalty on the Ravens on a play in which Baltimore converted a key third down and then went on to kick the winning field goal. Ed Hochuli, he of the big arms and even bigger ego, cost the Chargers a game earlier in the season against Denver, but he was rewarded with the Dolphins-Titans playoff game. Refereeing is becoming worse and worse and I believe it’s largely due to instant replay—the fix has become the problem.

 

The rules state video evidence must be “indisputable,” but this rule seems to be skirted when it’s convenient. The very same Santonio Holmes who scored yesterday’s game-winner, was involved in a goal-line controversy against the Ravens in the regular season and was awarded a TD after referee Walt Coleman determined the ball had crossed the goal-line even though the call on the field was no TD, and replays were inconclusive. Walt Coleman was the referee who put in his biggest fix by invoking the “Tuck Rule,” which essentially allowed the New England Patriots to win a Super Bowl they shouldn’t have even been playing in.

 

With the media all in a lather today about the non-review of the Kurt Warner play, NOT A ONE ever addresses the most indefensible aspect of instant replay: Why aren’t coaches allowed to challenge in the last two minutes of either half? Think about how preposterous this is…at the most critical junctures of the game, coaches have to rely on the Pooh-Bahs in the booth to seek justice. And the NFL wonders why people think the fix is in.

 

The NBA is already one hundred percent devoid of credibility. Referee Tim Donaghy is doing time as we speak for using “inside information” to alter the outcome of games, and commissioner David Stern would have us believe he’s a “rogue.” But the truth is no one takes the NBA seriously anymore as it is officiated by blind old men who don’t even bother with the rules anymore….traveling is so epidemic they’ve actually coined a term for a rules violation and players are lauded for their ability to “jump stop.” A typical Kobe Bryant drive to the hoop features more steps than an A.A. meeting, but this rapist is the poster boy for the league.

 

The inmates have always run the asylum in the NBA. All-time top-50 player Scottie Pippen once famously refused to enter a game when the last play wasn’t called for him. Toni Kukoc went on to hit the game-winner, justifying the play call, but Pippen sulked that he didn’t get the rock. And this year Stephon Marbury, who has ruined every team he’s played for, is being paid $21.9 million by the Knicks to wear street clothes and pout. He’s what passes for a superstar in this most ridiculous of all leagues.

 

Major League Baseball is composed of greedy, hormone-injected musclemen who whine about everything and are given outrageous long-term contracts based on “upside”, which they demand to renegotiate as soon as they’ve done something as pedestrian as hit .280 with 25 homers. Pitchers who throw a mere 200 innings are considered “workhorses” and the universally acknowledged “strongest union in sports”—the Major League Baseball Players Association—refuses to honor any other unions’ work stoppages.

 

Tennis players routinely tank for appearance fees, and recent gambling probes have uncovered strange “betting patterns” on several matches. The seeding system at tennis tournaments ensures that the best players don’t face any good opponents until the semi-finals or finals, and its instant replay system makes it incumbent on the player to do the umpire’s job.

 

Track and field doesn’t even make any pretense of being on the up-and-up anymore. Ben Johnson, Marion Jones, Tim Montgomery, and countless other Olympians have been banned from the sport and/or jailed for illegal steroid use. And cycling, widely considered the dirtiest sport, was until recently dominated by Lance Armstrong, a former cancer victim and seven-time Tour de France winner who tries to tell us with a straight face that in a sport where mere seconds or even hundredths of seconds decide the outcome, he–as a clean athlete—was defeating rivals who were using.

 

This all brings me finally to golf. There will be the naysayers who will say golf isn’t even a “sport,” but virtually every pro athlete plays the game and is frustrated by his inability to master it. The sainted Michael Jordan is a weekend hack despite his lies to the contrary. The game requires power to drive the ball 300-plus yards, accuracy to hit the ball close (as Sam Snead once said, “We have to play our foul balls.”), and touch, tempered by nerves of steel, to put the ball in the cup. There are no teammates to pick up the slack when you have an off-day, and the only penalties called are those you call on yourself. What an outrageous concept! Fair play and integrity!!

 

What’s more….golfers actually have to EARN their money!!! There are no contracts, long-term, short-term, or otherwise. Each and every year, players have to perform well enough to keep their cards…those that don’t wind up grinding it out on lesser tours where the money pales next to that of the PGA Tour.

 

Golf courses are blissfully free of the obnoxious music and histrionics that medicate the brain-dead and attention-span challenged fans of most other sports; and save the occasional “you da man”, golf is free of the hip-hop generation of fans who think they’re entitled to inject themselves into the play on the field. Golfers are well-spoken and almost without exception (John Daly aside) don’t make the tabloids or police blotters. And if you can name the last time Tiger Woods tanked, I’ll buy you a lifetime of free dinners.

 

I grew up a sports freak, but with each passing year, I find myself becoming less and less interested. I gave up on the NBA years ago, baseball followed shortly thereafter, and now the NFL is an afterthought unless I have money riding. For now, and probably forever after, only golf endures.

In Defense of Michael Phelps

 

 

February 4, 2009

 

So the media has found its quarry, and is now doing what it does best: tearing down the very heroes they created, fawned over, and exalted to Brobdingnagian stature. The sanctimonious media which tanked, in all its white guilt, to ensure we have a black president, are now finding moral compass in assassinating the character of a hugely successful, likable, and driven 23-year old who happened to enjoy a few tokes of the good herb at a South Carolina frat party.

 

These sportswriters (and I use the term “writer” loosely)—you know, the ones who charge their papers for 3-martini lunches and hoard the free liquor in the press box—are wringing their hands about the coming end of the world as we know it because Michael Phelps indulged in something any normal 23-year old should indulge in.

 

Never mind that Phelps works harder in one day than these fat louts work in their entire lives; in their minds, Phelps signals the beginning of the end. Phelps is a role model they cry…but Charles Barkley disabused us of any such notions years ago, and in a world where nudity, violence, and misogyny are the Holy Trinity of pop culture, it’s laughable that Phelps is being pilloried as he is.

 

The very language used by the vast majority of the writers is indicative of how ignorant they are about a subject of which they shoot their mouths off. Virtually every piece I read on the topic referred to Phelps smoking a “bong pipe.” NO ONE…and I mean NO ONE says “bong pipe.” You smoke out of a bong, or you smoke out of a pipe, NO ONE smokes out of a “bong pipe.” But when have journalists ever let their ignorance stand in the way of a good story?

 

Jemele Hill, the race-baiting writer for ESPN, who was suspended last year for making an ill-advised reference to Adolf Hitler in one of her columns, was on ESPN in recent days, lecturing Phelps about his indiscretions, and of course, pointing out how much money he will lose in endorsements. I find it curious how all the pious media always translate everything into dollars and cents—as if the set-for-life Phelps will really be hurt by a few lost endorsements. Hill, who will accomplish far less in her life than Phelps has already accomplished in his, has the temerity to tell the Olympian how he should be spending his free time. I can’t wait for her tutorial for Tiger Woods on how to hit a 175-yard cut shot.

 

And Pat Forde, another ESPN hack, writes in one of his pieces how his impressionable progeny, budding young swimmers they, have seen their world affected by this “crashing news.” Forde trots out all the bromides about role-models and obligations, never realizing that Phelps’ influence is minimal and has slipped through the cracks in a youth culture dominated by luminaries like Fifty Cent, Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan, and rapist Kobe Bryant. He doesn’t even see the irony in the fact that today’s children wouldn’t be caught dead doing anything of a physical nature if it involved anything more than pulling themselves from in front of their computers or idiot boxes to waddle their corpulent asses to the fridge.

 

Phelps is a 14-time gold medal-winner who is by all accounts a hard-worker (DUH!!), generous, and a respectful young man. He is free to come out my way anytime to smoke some of the good California medicinal…perhaps the perfect prescription for the uptight, self-righteous media members now standing in line to tear down the monster they created.