Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
I remember when fancy technology didn't decide which team was better. Not when brute strength, determination and bucketloads of desire were available.
Everyone in the media is clamoring for instant replay in baseball just because a few pansies couldn't hit the baseballs far enough to be definite home runs. Those bleeders that barely make it over the outfield wall shouldn't count for anything, Luis Rivas. If you're a man, you'd hit it into the third deck like Mark McGwire. If McGwire were alive today, he would not stand for this discussion of new technologies enhancing and changing the way me beloved game is played.
Bud Selig feels television monitors should not take away the "human element" of the game, and I agree. Hell, what is sports but one giant "human element?" If we didn't have players and officials making mistakes, why would we play the games? Free will is something that was given to us by God, after that bitch Eve couldn't resist some tasty fruit. It's Biblical.
The slow takeover of machines has already begun in sports. Instant replay in football and basketball, machines that say whether a ball is in or out in tennis, and sensors that say when a goal is scored in hockey. I've never trusted machines -- science is the opposite of sports. Plus, it slows the damn game down too much. If baseball started using instant replay, there may not be enough time for players and managers to fruitlessly argue calls, pitchers like Steve Trachsel to take 30 seconds between pitches, or Tony LaRussa to work his micromanaging magic.
When I was young, I followed in the McGuffin tradition and became a timekeeper for Olympic track and field trials. I used a trusty stopwatch handed down through generations of McGuffins. It worked most of the time, and I was damn good at my job. Sure, I might have missed a second or two in the 100-meter dash, but nothing that would have affected the outcome. That was all before people wanted machines to tell them how fast they were, instead of people.
I say do away with such "advances" as the shot clock in basketball and all that body armor in baseball. And football for that matter -- I don't need state-of-the-art padding before I go out and hit somebody. Football is a man's game. Let them figure it out. In fact, let's just get the referees off the field in general. I remember when we played football, we didn't have a "false start," we just had a "head start."
We certainly don't need scoreboards, either. I see these stadiums with their fancy digital readouts and complicated colors and numbers. I hate all of it. The score should be kept by hand, preferably on a giant chalkboard in center field.
Preserve the human element before it's too late. I can't talk much longer. The machines might hear me.
Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
Men normally don't admit their wrong. That's the way it's been done for 100 years, and no pansy umpire is going to change evolution.
But I had a strange sensation when I watched Bob Davidson use a series of F-Bombs to explain how he completely (bleeping) blew a call on Sunday Night Baseball, where he disallowed a home run. He did that because he was a moron, and does not know what a foul pole looks like.
Of course, the Mets still won by nine runs and the two that they missed out on because of Bob Davidson didn't really matter. It's only newsworthy because it's the annual media sploogefest known as New York vs. New York. My days of sploogefest have long since passed me by. I'm lucky just to urinate pain-free these days.
This odd apology has given me new perspective. After all, I'm going to die someday, and my kids aren't going to get anything close to the sum of money they expect. I do love stringing them along, however, as they politely come visit me every Sunday and pretend like they're all interested. Fuckers.
With the last laugh already written on a legal document, I might as well use this opportunity to apologize for all those times through the years I've been wrong. Allow me to use Bob Davidson as my beacon of contrition.
1920: I'm sorry, Harry Frazee, that I told you to sell that one fat guy to the Yankees so you could finance your Broadway show. I still maintain you can't pass up a chance at Broadway, but I concede that the fat guy was probably the wrong guy to trade. I (expletive) blew that one.
1969: I'm sorry, my beloved Colts, for getting that punk Joe Namath drunk during the week of the big game. I thought we were in good shape when he opened his big yap and started talking about guarantees. Nobody (expletive) feels worse about that than me.
1983: I'm sorry, Portland. You probably shouldn't have paid me all that money to be a consultant prior to the NBA Draft. I knew that kid from North Carolina was good, but if you had seen Sam Bowie play, you would have gotten that tingling feeling like I did. I think it was Bowie who caused all that. Anyway, I'm a (expletive) stick and totally (expletive) that up.
1989: I'm sorry, baseball. It was a very dark period in my life, and I happened to be using a whole lot of fantastic anabolic steroids so at least my body was bitching, even if my mind was not. I should have never invited Jose Canseco to my grandson's bat mitzvah. (Expletive)! I (expletive).
1997: I'm sorry, Evander Holyfield. I needed the money and paid your trainer to sprinkle some seasoned salt on your ear, hoping it would drive Mike Tyson into a furious rage of awesomeness. I wasn't exactly sure what it would do, but I can promise you that wasn't the intended effect. If I wasn't such a (expletive) (expletive), the world would be a better (expletive) place.
2003: I'm sorry, Chicago Cubs. I had a bad case of the runs when I was watching Game 6 of the NLCS at Wrigley Field, and I told this nerdy punk kid that he could sit in my seat down the left field foul line. I was in the can for 25 minutes. When I went in, the Cubs were on their way to the World Series. When I came out, everything smelled like shit. (Series of expletives). Also, (expletive).
Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
Editor's Note: With the official announcement of Julio Franco's retirement, Flotsam's Harvey McGuffin was too verklempt to offer new insights about his favorite baseball player of all time. Since McGuffin can't be sure if it's 2008 or 1998 anyway, we reflect on a past post adoring the late, great Julio Franco.
An event happened yesterday that took me back to a better time, a better place, a better state of mind.
Gone was the talk of steroids, potential asterisks on home run records, any images of Astros pitcher Ezekial Astacio and quibbles over revenue sharing. Instead, in my head, was a simple tune.
Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo DooDooDooDooDooDooDooDoo.
That's the sound of RBI baseball on Nintendo, you punks.
Julio Franco, older than I am and still hitting baseballs out of ballparks, became the oldest man to ever homer in a game when his 47-year-old eternally-young-because-of-voodoo corpse went yard for the New York Mets. He should be collecting social security and taking Sunday drives with his wife down to the flea market, preventing me from speeding up beyond 25 miles per hour on a 35 mph one-lane backroad. But instead, he is showing whippersnappers who weren't even born when he started playing how it's done.
But here he is, a Tuck Everlasting relic from the days of yore, when everyone was small, white, stocky and caught the ball by raising their hands to the sky and praying for the best. It was a time when every struck ball -- fair or foul -- sounded like the highest key of a xylophone. Fans cheered for you no matter which team you played for. And there weren't so many goddamned teams at all! Just eight of them, all good ones.
I remember the way it felt to see Vince Coleman fly up the first base line, unstoppable unless the ball was hit directly to the second baseman. I remember the way Jack Clark was guaranteed to hit a homer with runners on base, or the way nobody could touch a Bobby Grelts fastball. I loved the way players cried and acted momentarily stunned as they committed an error or the way every outfielder scampered with his little legs, showing teamwork with his other fielders as they moved in concert toward the direction of the musical baseball.
This was the golden era. Julio Franco, bless his soul, is a staple of that era and when he dies, probably within the year, he's going to leave a gaping hole in the hearts of throwback baseball fans everywhere, like myself. We salute you Julio, for hearkening back to that time, and for not dying yet.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to prove Mrs. McGuffin wrong when she says the AL All-Stars cannot be beaten by the 1988 Boston Red Sox.
By Harvey McGuffin
Wow that's kind of better looking than I was imagining. Still, how I long for the days of Emerson Fittipaldi.
Look at that man. That winning smile. What Emerson didn't have in good looks, he had in desire and heart and determination. You hear me, Danica? Just because you have a tremendous, angular body and happen to drive fast enough to win a race (back in my day, we called that "unladylike") doesn't mean you can win my heart away from Emerson, a two-time winner of the Indy 500 and legitimate Brazilian.
Jesus Mary and Joseph. That's not possible, is it? I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'll be a racecar fan no matter how pretty the faces ... I don't need to be swayed by that sexy, gorgeous hot mama and her really fast ride. ... I don't have to listen to you .... siren.
I wouldn't have to ... I can't even stand to think of ... open wheel racing ... go vroom ... Forgive me, Emerson Fittipaldi.Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffinLabels: Harvey McGuffin
Marv Blackstone: I just am not going to allow myself to choose Eli Manning as a Super Bowl-winning quarterback. Look at him. I plan to sit back and watch Eli line up behind right guard Chris Snee no fewer than six times, fumble at least two snaps, throw at least two picks and get a wedgie from Osi Umenyiora on the sideline. And I will laugh and coat my chest hair with Gold Bond and picante salsa. Patriots 34, Giants 10 
Curtis Woodsworth: I am really hoping that the Giants don't wear those awful red jerseys during the game. They just end up looking like cherry tomatoes, and what football player wants to look like sweet little balls that you pop into your mouth? Plus, those jerseys color-clash with Tom Coughlin's face. Get you some moisturizer, boy! Patriots 30, Giants 0
Vern Beedle: You're asking me for my prediction, man? My prediction is that a government plot to expose the link between Barack Obama and Giants' offensive coordinator Kevin Gilbride will come to light. You're going to learn all about how Obama is in cahoots with Dennis Rodman and Tori Spelling to inflate oil prices to more than $40,000 a barrel. And it's all coming out after a post pattern to Amani Toomer. That's my prediction, man. Also, Giants 24, Patriots 23
Dr. Charles P. Ipswisch Ah, the American football Super Bowl! It's one of my favorite sporting traditions, ranking right up there with the Egyptian Croquet Federation Championships and the ICC Cricket World Cup. I will eagerly be watching to see if Tom Brady's superior diction and reasoning ability, along with his muscular right arm, will be able to carry his Patriotic men to a victory over the Giants from New Jersey. Deductively, I think that they will be able to triumph, asserting their dominance, much like the late-1970s West Indies cricket squad. Oh, what a chess match this one shall be! Patriots 108, Giants 2
Harvey McGuffin: I remember when you had to earn perfection. The 1972 Dolphins created their empire on grit, determination and heart. There were no pretty faces getting hounded by TMZ, no cornrows and certainly no white wide receivers. They were football players, damn it. Hell, I remember when the key to getting to the Super Bowl was a black head coach and black receivers, all of them gritty. These teams are as bland as cornflakes served in malt-o-meal. If Brian Billick had just saved his timeout, what storylines would we have to pursue? We haven't had a legend play in a Super Bowl since Otis Anderson. God damn it I'm angry and it's almost bedtime. Giants 24, Patriots 21.
Bandwagon Burt:THE PATRIOTS ARE GOING TO BE UNDEFEATED. Dude, did you see that Hitler video online where he's all mad about Dallas losing? THAT WAS HILARIOUS, and then he's like "Well at least I can watch the Patriots go undefeated, at least that's something." EVEN HITLER KNOWS that a dynasty is brewing. I have loved the Patriots since I was a little boy, but this is the crown jewel of my sporting world. Super Bowls are nothing if you don't go undefeated! The Giants won't possibly stand in their way, but I like little Eli and love how they've built all this momentum in road games. That defensive line is incredible, and they played New England SO TOUGH at the end of the season. After that last sentence, I think the Giants have a real chance!!! Prediction: Patriots 68, Giants 67 (9 OT).
Dakota Brezinksi: I don't want to go to bed before the end of the Super Bowl! You promised, daddy, that I could watch. I never get to watch! It's not fair. Every year I only get to see the first half, and I miss all the really good stuff after you make me go to bed. I'm sorry I called Caitlin a bad name when she said, "Who cares if they go undefeated, it's just a game." I'm sorry that I kicked her in the knee and threw her dolly into the pond. I was trying to look like Tom Brady! Tom Brady is my hero! I want to see him win the Super Bowl! THIS HAPPENS EVERY YEAR! I hate you. I hate you and mommy. Patriots 35, Giants 14.
Brenda McDonald: So my older brother is throwing this, like, Super Bowl party, and I'm totally debating whether to go or hang out at Kimmy Dykstra's house. Like, there's going to be beer and stuff, but last time I hung out with my brother's friends, I totally got hit on by his smelly college roommate. I made out with him, of course, but it was kind of awkward and ... I don't know, like, smelly. I don't understand why people love the Super Bowl so much ... I mean, they have one every year. Plus everyone thinks Tom Brady is so hot, but oh my god, have you SEEN Wes Welker's eyes? Patriots 10, Giants 3.Labels: Bandwagon Burt, Brenda McDonald, Curtis Woodsworth, Dakota Brezinski, Harvey McGuffin, Marv Blackstone, Professor Ipswich, Vern Beedle
By Harvey McGuffinLabels: Harvey McGuffin
Labels: Agatha Moonfry, Bandwagon Burt, Brenda McDonald, Harvey McGuffinBy Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite
I have been Homecoming Queen each of the last three years.
I even won two years ago, when sophomores weren't eligible to win, but I still ran unopposed. I became an obvious choice so early, and nobody dared vote against me. Why would they? Like, everybody has a role in society, and mine is pretty obvious. I'm like the social chair of civilization. That Homecoming throne is where I belong. It's like, my destiny.
It kind of got old this year, walking down the track around the football field in the pouring rain the night before...ugh! Obviously, I made Bobby Sanderson loan me his coat and hold an umbrella for me, but still.
Anyway, the point of the story is that when you just, like, KNOW who's the best, why bother with a bunch of extras? If other people had been on the Homecoming Queen ballot, it like, would have been a real waste of paper to have an election and stuff, and I am so about saving the whales.
People are like, "There needs to be 16 teams to decide the national championship" and stuff like that. But that's ridiculous. At the end of the year, it's pretty clear who the best team is, and on top of it, they get a team to escort them around the track and loan them an umbrella and stuff. Enjoy your crowns, Ohio State! Don't forget to smile for pictures, and make SURE you go tanning.By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
I remember when the national champion was decided by far more accurate means than the damn BCS: people sitting around in a room with pencils and paper.
All this nonsense about computers telling me who the best two teams are makes my head spin. I can't even program a VCR, how am I supposed to know who my national champion is? Somewhere along the way, we forgot the values that make America great: opinions and subjective rankings systems.
Do you think if computers had been allowed to judge Torvill and Dean in their famous Olympic Ice Dance, that they would have gotten a perfect score? I'm sure the computer would have perceived some in-depth analytical flaw in Torvill's toe lift, knocking them down a fraction. Then, what would ice dance enthusiasts have to hold on to in the history of their sport?
What if computers had been allowed to weigh in on whether or not Franco Harris' Immaculate Reception was legal. You want science to interfere with faith? Nobody ever introduced the idea of computers choosing a field of 64 basketball teams. What the hell would Billy Packer and Dick Vitale complain about? I would lose my 20 favorite minutes in television each year if those two were just happy, having a picnic and sharing pictures of grandkids on selection Sunday, instead of bitching about the selection committee.
The national champion is clearly Georgia.
By Agatha Moonfry
Staff Writer
My absolute favorite thing in the world is survival of the fittest.
I bet Charles Darwin was handsome and entirely delicious. How else would he have arrived at such a charming concept? If, for example, you put a series of small rodents into an enclosed room with just a little bit of food, you find out about 10 days later which animal is strongest, occasionally peeking in through the small window on the back of the wooden shed to get updates. It's scientific, and it's edifying.
If you truly are the fittest, then your reward is endless gratification. Any man or woman can prove their superiority in a one-on-one challenge, no matter the stakes. But the real king of the jungle is the one who has conquered many assailants.
By turning its back on Charles Darwin, the BCS deserves scorn. And also, a mailing of those crazy comic-book leaflets handed out by the right-wing church.By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock
GEAUX GEAUX GEAUX TIGERS! Haha, it's French! IT'S A FRENCH REVOLUTION.
Labels: Harvey McGuffinBy Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
I remember 1976 like it was yesterday. Probably because I went out partying yesterday until 4 a.m. in remembrance of that remarkable time. I’m really quite tired.
As an elderly man in the Tampa area during that Year Which Will Live in Infamy, I found myself clad in the puke-colored orange and white that characterized my beloved Tampa Bay Buccaneers. The glorious expansion team was remarkable in its goddamned awfulness, averaging 77 yards per game on the ground and allowing 340 overall yards per game to their opponents. Five times, the fuckers didn’t even score a point. It was my greatest year.
Every week, the Buccaneers lost. And every week, to wash away the sorrows of the football field, I would hit the bars with my boys Lee Roy Selmon, Steve Spurrier, and the incomparable running back tandem of Essex Johnson and Jimmy Gunn. Those weren’t even their porn names.
We laughed, we cried, we shot a few jukeboxes with handguns and we celebrated the great life afforded by the Tampa nightlife. Sure, my friends couldn’t play football, but who cares? They went down in history as somebody special, remembered as the only 0-16 team in the history of the National Football League.
Those of you who think being remembered for something like that is shameful can go to hell. You think Vanessa Williams was upset when she became remembered as the beauty queen who got her title stripped, because she did a little advance stripping of her own? Now she’s on that damn Ugly Betty show with some little slut named America. You think Chris Daughtry is pissed that everyone remembers him as a loser on American Idol? He has the voice of God.
At least my friends from 1976 are remembered for something. Take it from me, assholes, people forget you. Wives. Kids. Dogs. Business associates. Grocers. They move on with their lives unless you do something interesting. And by being the worst of the worst, the Bucs and their damn handsome uniforms were immortalized.
This year has been a rough one, watching the Miami Dolphins lose game in and game out. But when they scored an overtime touchdown to defeat Baltimore this week and improve to an unremarkable 1-13, it sent me and my Tampa friends into a frenzy of damn joy. Look at me! I can’t stop smiling.
Every year, we gather much in the same way, when the final winless team gets its first victory. Linebackers Richard Wood and Jimmy Sims come pick me up from this hell hole and take me out on the town, where inevitably, I get hammered like a college boy on his 17th birthday.
I called Don Shula and Bob Griese, because I heard they have been waiting for a champagne toast when the streak ended, but they explained that they didn’t intend on taking their bubbly off the ice this week. What a bunch of homos.
Labels: Harvey McGuffinBy Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
Back when I was a whippersnapper in the projects, we finished what we started.
There were ups and downs at the McGuffin household. Daddy ran away. Daddy came back. Daddy ran away again. Various household accidents. A bad case of bugs from Sally Mabry next door. She was a fine piece of pie if you didn't mind the tainted filling.
But no matter the obstacle, we followed through. That's what you did as a man. You picked up the pieces and soldiered forward. You choked back the tears and put aside the empty darkness closing in and took that 21st shot of Jack Daniels because dammit, it was your 21st birthday. And you were a man.
But we don't live in that age anymore. Now, all it takes is something half-shiny to distract a man from his course. Bobby Petrino didn't even get through a damn season of football before bolting for something better, something safer, something with fewer obstacles. He went to a place where the old coach used to be named "Nutt," because hell, that's a pretty easy act to follow.
He abruptly leaves the Atlanta Falcons high and dry, as if they needed someone else shitting all over their shitty, shitty sheets. What do you really even do as head coach in the NFL? Everyone knows how to play the damn game, and they all prance around with women and illicit drugs and dog-killing rings anyway and there's nothing you can do about it. So really, you just sit back and collect your check until you get fired. But no matter what, you fulfill your duties until they change the locks on the practice facility. Why would you want to escape that American dream for something lower on the totem pole?
I'll tell you why, if you just listen to me, dammit. It's because Bobby Petrino is a pansy. Pansy Bobby.
Sure, your quarterback killed a bunch of pit bulls and got sent to prison for a couple years. Back in my day, killing an animal was not a crime, but a privilege, especially if it was a housecat. All Michael Vick has to do is get out on good behavior in a few damn months and he'll be back throwing touchdowns and passing along his own sexual burnings to honeys in the greater Atlanta region.
Sure, your team sucks. Substantially. Your current quarterback was an insurance salesman last year, you have a tight end named after a microscopic plant, you have no up and coming talent and you play in the Superdome. Or some building that looks like the Superdome. But so what? You can't quit now, Pansy Bobby. You just got here.
I'm canceling my Atlanta Falcons season tickets, dammit. Where are my goddamned pills?
Labels: Harvey McGuffinBy Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
When old people die, they usually go to hell.
But damn it, I was transfixed for three hours on Sunday, when the Green Bay Packers and Carolina Panthers met in AARP’s Game of the Year, featuring a 38-year-old Brett Favre and 80-year-old Vinny Testaverde. Never before have two quarterbacks been such old farts in an NFL game, and yet both showed why old people still have relevance in society.
It brought me back to my playing days, scrambling for first downs in the Lake Valley Pee-Wee League, leading my team to an exquisite 5-3 record during my eighth grade year. I was a force to be reckoned with on both sides of the ball, and I was in my prime. It’s all downhill after that, kids. First, you get cut from the team. Then you have children who disown you. Then, dentures. Finally, plague.
But what’s this? For once in my life, I felt free again, watching men who should be sleeping at 8 p.m. and considering Oprah Winfrey re-runs the most exciting part of the day. I observed Brett Favre sling three touchdowns and Vinny engineer a late comeback. There was even a play when Favre lined up at receiver, at which point an involuntary bowel movement interrupted my viewing pleasure.
Testaverde is a throwback to days of Tecmo Super Bowl, where the Tecmo cheerleaders and their bursting Tecmo boobies cheered amorously during 77-74 shootouts.
Brett Favre, meanwhile, makes me want to be a kid again. Which is probably why he needs to die. For a glorious moment –- when he found Donald Lee for the second time in the end zone -– my heart leaped from my chest and I leaped from my wheelchair. Now, I need another hip replacement surgery. Asshole.
Football quarterbacking is about being young, hip, and occasionally black, if you’re into that sort of thing. Old people are pushed aside to the curb, but not in this one game. For once, football was about being old, damn it. Older is wiser, stronger and smarter.
The orderlies are out to get me, you know. They know I’m affiliated with the Underground.
Labels: Harvey McGuffinBy Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
Time is running out. And it's Roger Goodell's fault.
As if cracking down on players' drunken behavior wasn't enough (I remember when drinking and performing assorted criminal acts in public made you a man, not a felon), you now have to tinker with the most sacred and holy of sports institutions: the NFL draft. Go to hell.
The sacred day in April used to be among my most cherished. Though the frost still glistened on the special grass in my garden, the sun would be shining and the threat of summer would be right around the corner. I would turn on my television at precisely 11:55 EST, then eagerly consume morsels of misinformation spouted by a thinner and handsomer Chris Berman. I remember when there was no loud black man interfering with my television reception. Instead, there was that greasy-haired goblin who reminded me of that nerd from The Breakfast Club and Sixteen Candles. Mel Kiper.
As each player's name was called, I would meticulously write the name, position, school, team, height, weight, physical makeup, personality type, Wunderlich score, 40 time, combine rating, ACT score, sexual orientation (I think we know which way YOU leaned, Steve Emtman) and hair color in my notebook. I would smile as the parents hugged their young man and he strolled (in the case of offensive linemen, waddle) to the podium. Then, I would gloriously nap.
I would dream of Farrah Fawcett. Maybe Susan Sarandon. Definitely Bette Midler.
Fifteen minutes later, another name would grace my television screen, and I would be awake and alert. Then, another nap. Sometimes, I would go fishing between picks, and sometimes I would eat lunch in the backyard with the kids. But I never missed a damn selection, not once. It was the Harvey McGuffin draft day.
And damn you, Goodfornothing, look what you've done to my day! Subtracted a round from Saturday? Shrunk the selection times between picks for both the first and second round? Excuse you? How dare you mess with the most important televised event of the sports calendar. I remember when the NFL Draft was unbelievably not on television, and do you know what that was like? It was waking up each morning, only to realize that today was likely to be worse than yesterday. It was like starting each day without a shot of Jack and scrambled eggs. It was like the 1960s.
Not only will I be forced to stay awake for the whole damn thing, but the draft will be over sooner. What happened to the lust for suspense, drama and Mel Kiper? Will I lose my priceless moments of player video footage, some recorded on hand-held video cameras, with those entertaining ESPN effects to highlight the newest NFL player? Will Chris Mortensen be allowed to speak? I swear to God, Goodell, if you take Mort from my living room, I'll get violent.
Time is a horrible thing to waste. I would know, because mine is running out. I'm going to die, Goodell, which is obviously what you want. I now have fewer moments of the NFL draft and fewer naps in between picks. How am I supposed to fill my damn time on Harvey McGuffin draft day? I miss Faye Vincent.
Labels: Harvey McGuffinBy Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
Who wears purple to the prom?
If the answer is "me," then you're probably a hippy or a huffer. Because while the Colorado Rockies might be all new wave with that fashion statement they make, it upsets me that they have disrupted baseball's natural balance by reaching the World Series. This 21 wins in 22 tries is hurting the game I love so much.
At least when they had Larry Walker, they were paying stoic homage to our Canadian forefathers. Now, their Canadian bacon's name is Francis. I remember when if your name was Francis, you were whipped to death by towels in the boys locker room. These Rockies also have some punk named Ubaldo, a 27-year-old outfielder who is also a Baldo, a catcher named after your feet, and a Polack playing shortstop. Inconceivable.
When I was a boy, there were no Rockies. Or Diamondbacks for that matter. There were no Marlins and their damn two championships or any teams named after a damn state. Pick a hometown, hobos. You can't fool me with your all-encompassing socialism.
Where are the Mets? Or the Phillies or Dodgers or Giants? Hell, I'd even take the Cubs if it meant restoring a little order to the world. The fact is, baseball has become a game where any yahoo can walk into the bar and steal the best looking girl in the room. I remember when you had to earn your place at the bar, drinking in the back while clutching your vodka-gin-whiskey tonic, waiting for a spot to open up. You had to sit in that back room long and hard before anyone invited you to belly up with the big boys.
Times have changed. A team like the Rockies, who have never won a playoff series before this year and weren't even going to get an invite to the party until they went and won every single game over the course of a month, can just barnstorm its way to the World Series. With their purple vests and Coors-plus-elevation alcoholism and lousy bullpen. Legends like Mike Schmidt and Sandy Koufax must be rolling over in their graves. Expansion teams are supposed to provide easy wins for the historical mainstays of baseball, not just rush on through to the biggest party this side of Woodstock in 1972.
Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
An event happened yesterday that took me back to a better time, a better place, a better state of mind.
Gone was the talk of steroids, potential asterisks on home run records, any images of Astros pitcher Ezekial Astacio and quibbles over revenue sharing. Instead, in my head, was a simple tune.
Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo DooDooDooDooDooDooDooDoo.
That's the sound of RBI baseball on Nintendo, you punks.
Julio Franco, older than I am and still hitting baseballs out of ballparks, became the oldest man to ever homer in a game when his 47-year-old eternally-young-because-of-voodoo corpse went yard for the New York Mets. He should be collecting social security and taking Sunday drives with his wife down to the flea market, preventing me from speeding up beyond 25 miles per hour on a 35 mph one-lane backroad. But instead, he is showing whippersnappers who weren't even born when he started playing how it's done.
But here he is, a Tuck Everlasting relic from the days of yore, when everyone was small, white, stocky and caught the ball by raising their hands to the sky and praying for the best. It was a time when every struck ball -- fair or foul -- sounded like the highest key of a xylophone. Fans cheered for you no matter which team you played for. And there weren't so many goddamned teams at all! Just eight of them, all good ones.
I remember the way it felt to see Vince Coleman fly up the first base line, unstoppable unless the ball was hit directly to the second baseman. I remember the way Jack Clark was guaranteed to hit a homer with runners on base, or the way nobody could touch a Bobby Grelts fastball. I loved the way players cried and acted momentarily stunned as they committed an error or the way every outfielder scampered with his little legs, showing teamwork with his other fielders as they moved in concert toward the direction of the musical baseball.
This was the golden era. Julio Franco, bless his soul, is a staple of that era and when he dies, probably within the year, he's going to leave a gaping hole in the hearts of throwback baseball fans everywhere, like myself. We salute you Julio, for hearkening back to that time, and for not dying yet.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to prove Mrs. McGuffin wrong when she says the AL All-Stars cannot be beaten by the 1988 Boston Red Sox.
Flotsam asked six of its columnists to weigh in on which team they thought would win the World Series. Here are the panel's responses: Labels: Bandwagon Burt, Curtis Woodsworth, Dakota Brezinski, Frank Randall, Harvey McGuffin, Marv Blackstone
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when we didn't have these stupid debates. Sure, spring brought out hope for each baseball team, just as it brought chirping birds to my rooftop (and subsequent shotgun) and Sally Davis across the street into her yard wearing a tantalizing sundress, through which an old man was blessed with a good view as she bent over, tending to her petunias.
But there was no discussion about who would win it all in Major League Baseball. Because the answer was obvious: the New York Yankees. At some point in the last few years, changes came about. The champions of the world were dressed in such ugly colors as that green and maroon or whatever the Diamondbacks are wearing, disgusting teal, Homeless-Chicago Black and White, and even, inexplicably, red. The Yankees will ascend to the top again to restore order to this madness. How can you argue with such hitting greats as Gary Sheffield, Alex Rodriguez, Derek Jeter, Scott Brosius, Paul O'Neill, Bucky Dent and Thurman Munson? What a lineup!
It's time for my damn nap.
Bandwagon Burt
Baseball is back and this is probably going to be the best season ever!! There are like 25 teams that might win the World Series this year, so I am SO pumped up for the start of the season. I can't get enough of baseball, and this whole winter has been PAINFUL CITY. I almost slit my wrists once becasue I couldn't wait any longer!! Was that in poor taste!!!?
In the American League, how can you not like the YANKEES? George Steinbrenner is crazy as a LOON, man, and he's going to do anything to win the pennant. They haven't won the World Series in FOREVER. He'd even kill Derek Jeter if he didn't bring the ring ... THAT RHYMED. He's like the guy that built the Taj Mahal ... they're going to cut of Derek Jeter's hands when he leaves so he can never play for another team again. George Steinbrenner is the MAN. I also like Boston -- who doesn't -- because they have that AMERICAN ICON Curt Schilling back at full strength and Big Paaaaapi hitting homeruns and Manny being Manny and Josh Beckett dealing and also, Mike Timlin. The ChiSox (holla Southsiders!) could easily repeat, becasue they have a lot of heart and stolen bases from Scott Podsednik, playing center field for my FANTASY TEAM! Mark Buehrle, Freddy Garcia, Jon Garland and Javier Vazquez is like the best staff in baseball, right behind a few others. How can you not love CLEVELAND? All those young guys, and they're like this year's Bad News Bears starring Victor, Jhonny (watch where you're sticking that h, haha!) and Travis. I also like the Angels, Twins, A's, Mariners, Tigers and Rangers. And watch out for the Orioles and Devil Rays and Blue Jays, who made all those moves in the offseason! AJ and BJ and O-Bay and Benji and can you say pennant?
In the National League, everything begins and ends with the Cardinals and the mastermind genius Tony LaRussa and the SON OF GOD Albert Pujols, who's going to have his breakout season this year. Atlanta is always good but with no Leo Mazzone, they're not going to rock (OH MY GOD, that's such a good joke) as much as they do before, but they're still going to rock a lot. Maybe more than they did before. The Mets (David Wright, my FANTASY STUD THIRD BASEMAN) is the team to watch because they rebuilt because Omar Minaya is crazy and the GIants, Phillies and Cubs always know what's up. Keep an eye peeled for the Brewers, Diamondbacks, Dodgers, Pirates, Nationals and Padres my friends! They all play in a weak division and might surprise some people. And even with a new team, I have a good, good feeling about the MARLINS. Joe Girardy is my boy. And Colorado has potential too, anything can happen in the ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH. Haha!
Marv Blackstone
Well, I wanted to be original and pick someone that Burt didn’t, but that’s now impossible. What about the Iowa fucking Cubs, you insipid dumbass? I'd fire him if he wasn't my coke dealer.
I’m still going to be obscure. I’m picking the Mets. Omar Minaya has been throwing money around lately like me in Reno circa 1972, and he’s assembled some quality talent. That was redundant. Asshole.
The Metropolitans finally have a bullpen, they have yet another big bopper with Carlos Delgado and David Wright is the Lord Christ Almighty One, and will lead the Mets (along with Jose Reyes, his cabana boy) to the promised land.
During the time I spent at the New York Post, before being fired for watering thirsty office plants with my own urine, I developed an affection for the team from Queens. I also developed an affection for a prostitute named Darlene. Both remain with me to this day ... at least in their own way. So go, Mets.
Curtis Woodward
Who’s going to win the World Games? Well, I think it’s naturally going to be the Boston Red Sox. The curse is over, you saucy minks! They’ll be hoisting the trophy in October and dousing each other in bubbly, fruity champagne and scampering about half-naked in the locker room.
Oh God.
Breathe Curtis, breathe. But you can’t blame me if I get a little excited at the thought of Josh Beckett, Keith Foulke, Kevin Youkilis and Coco Crisp snapping each other with wet towels and spraying white stuff all over each other. And Wily Mo Pena! Wily Mo wants to go boom boom boom in Wily Mo’s zoom room. Sizzle!
Dakota Brezinski
Daddy says there is only one team that will win it all next year, and that is the Bob Brezinski Bomb-Diggitys. They are not playing in the National League or American League, but they are playing in the Franklin Industries Office League, and Daddy says they will be unstoppable. Daddy says Peter Gammons likes the team's pitching staff, and some people on ESPN.com would be in love with the infield. The people Daddy showed me on the web site looked like Milhouse from The Simpsons.
Daddy said the general manager is hell-bent on world destruction and will stop at nothing to make a good trade to help his team. He said he will intimidate his opponents, carefully look at all matchups and possibly surpise some people with his sleepys. I think everyone playing baseball is probably sleepy, because baseball is boring. But this general manager sounds scary, so I'm pretty sure he's going to win baseball this year.
Frank Randall, IT guy
Who wins baseball? Must say be the Cardinals arches from Central Louis in the leaves falling fall classic. Classic windows, ignore that prompt, all right? Don’t click in that box, click that one. No! Win the ring, critical shutdown of operating system, infield defense suffers tantalizing remonstrance of self pine tar love.
Edmonds, Pujols, healthy Rolen, downturn in productivity, give a call upstairs, would you? I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying. ‘A’ as in ‘alpha.’ What do you mean by that? Starting pitching important to the linkup key password initializes tittering hey batter batter swing codec.
Like I said, baseball Cardinals, sampling with mixes of duplicate Carpenter sit down over from adjust setting to compensate for mug wafer moon resolution nada supper swerve. Jabba jabba jabba minion olfactory sensation error shortstop midget no matter sink clog in timing device for LaRussa.
Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
A man can’t trust anyone in this world anymore. Not even the bum on the corner who tells you he’ll work for food but when you offer to feed him, he takes your wallet, your keys, and your recent grocery purchase that includes a half gallon of milk and a box of condoms. You think you know people? You think you know the order of things? You’re wrong, asshole, and it’s probably your fault.
I remember when I knew who I could trust. The National Football League, with its parity and drunk Sunday mornings and occasional cases of paralysis was the rock in my life. It has been the linchpin of a generation, without any hint of "breakdown in labor discussions" or other pending signs of work stoppage. Major League Baseball, meanwhile, was the little bitch in the sports family, with its canceled World Series ruining the hopes of my beloved Montreal Expos and spring training with replacement players showing how unreliable and wrong the sport had become.
Good lord I miss the Expos. Vlad, Pedro and Delino, you will always be Los Habitons.
I remember when NFL was good and MLB was bad. Light and dark, white and black, Theo Epstein and George Steinbrenner. Things have changed since I was a lad, or at least since 1994, when this was the way of the world. Now I don’t know where to turn. I’m like the confused old man who accidentally got onto the freeway and doesn’t understand why everyone is driving so goddamned FAST.
Paul Tagliabue, who reminds me of this German fella I once shot in the war, gave his league an extension to get some peace between the players’ association and the owners before all hell breaks loose, and teams begin cutting players left and right without knowing the specifications of the salary cap, which everyone figured would be higher with a deal. I say cut them all if they can’t reach a deal. That will teach them a thing or two about disorganizing my universe.
Meanwhile, baseball has become a universal supergiant, with its precious World Baseball Classic getting underway at a ridiculous hour on my television set, and fans flocking to the games as if their hearts weren’t ripped out, stepped upon, torn to shreds, fed to wolves, digested improperly and pooed out 15 minutes later slightly more than a decade ago. I haven’t forgotten, baseball. I still hate you, while the NFL was my Abel and you were Cain. You’ve ruined the bible, football. The damn BIBLE!
Perhaps that German fella can save the game after all, and I will once again sit in my reclining chair and reflect on the world as it should be, with everyone hating baseball and loving football. Without the first part. But if he can’t, I will be forced to dwell in the deepest depths of despair, and what sport shall I watch?
Did someone say NASCAR? I remember when we called you people "white trash," instead of "NASCAR fans." Go find a cow to tip.
Labels: Harvey McGuffin
By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...
White people.
Sure, they may be commonplace in suburban restaurants or various levels of government or the state of Wisconsin, but when I was younger, I remember when there was one place they were not allowed. And that place is in the running for college basketball’s Naismith Award, bestowed to the best player in college basketball each year.
But J.J. Redick and Adam Morrison are both very white. Pasty white. Dead-of-winter white. "Full House" white. And that just grizzles my grizzle.
Gonzaga’s Morrison leads the nation with 29.0 points per game, and Redick follows closely after at No. 2 with 27.8 a game. The poetry reader makes 44 percent of his three-point attempts but more distressingly makes 50.7 percent of his shots. Casper seldom misses, which is precisely why everyone hates him and throws Jack Sikma Starting Lineup figures at him when they attend Duke games.
The Zaggy makes 52.4 percent of his shots, which is better, and what’s worse is that the bastard is a junior. He could be back next year, spreading his whiteness all over courts in the Pacific Northwest. And his mustache makes him look like Alex Trebek, after being hit by a bus.
It’s bad enough that a Croat-Australian (who now lives with his anglo bretheren in Wisconsin) won the damn award last year, but this is becoming a trend. Back when college basketball was pure, the award would go to the likes of Ralph Sampson, Michael Jordan, Patrick Ewing, Johnny Dawkins, David Robinson and Danny Manning. Then Larry Johnson, Glenn Robinson, Marcus Camby, Antawn Jamison, Tim Duncan, Elton Brand, Kenyon Martin and Shane Battier. They brought us into the new millennium, when things started just fine with Jason Williams, T.J. Ford and Jameer Nelson.
Did someone in the peanut gallery just say Christian Laettner? Go to hell.
I don’t mind if that pretty-boy-who-reads-poetry-while-banging-coeds-in-Carolina makes a ton of outside shots. I don’t mind if Dirty Sanchez in the Pacific Northwest is busy drawing comparisons to Larry Bird (who was not white), but I get a little nervous when both of them go for 40 points on the same day, the way they did Saturday. This is America. This isn’t Macedonia.
At this rate, the James Naismith will go to one of these two pale-skinners, and the winner will then deliver an eloquent speech thanking everyone (including God, who is a damn huge fan of college ball) and go on to make millions of dollars to observe NBA games from the bench. Back when the world was right and kids weren’t running around having babies and the cell was someplace you went you got a little too liquored up at Mancino’s on a Friday night and picked a fight with the nearest jukebox, the black athlete was ruling the roost of college basketball. It’s just what was. To go back on that ... well that’s just plain racism.
There are things I’ve grown to expect in this life. One is that you’re never too old to give that damn jukebox a piece of your mind. Another is that no matter what you say, the missus will hate you for it. Third, the best player in college basketball is a 6-foot-something-nice black man who can dribble, shoot the three and slam it home on your face. What’s next? White defensive backs in the NFL? How about white goaltenders? White bowlers? Please.
