Prose and Cons: STILL IN PROGRESS AT PRESS TIME...

Saturday, February 13, 2010

STILL IN PROGRESS AT PRESS TIME...

THE FLYING ANIMAL

X Games legend Shaun White says his old nickname "The Flying Tomato" has gone rotten. The 23-year old is informing everyone at this week's 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver that he now goes by the moniker "Animal."

You be the judge.

Catch White as he goes for a Snowboarding gold medal on Wednesday.

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3.01.10

Jim Bunning plunked 160 batters in his 17 seasons as a Major League pitcher. Now, the Kentucky Senator is drilling up to 400,000 of the nation's jobless in the back with a fastball that will block the extension of unemployment benefits and jumpstart the furlough of 2,000 transportation workers.

Contact Senator Bunning By Clicking This Link

SOME OF BUNNING'S CAREER STATS

184 Losses
1,000 Walks
160 Hit Batters
8 Balks
47 Wild Pitches
1,366 Earned Runs
23 Errors
.167 Batting Average (hitting)
362 Time Struck Out (hitting)

ONE TIMER...

Tedy Bruschi is more than just a man with a great party name. The 3-time Super Bowl-winner retired from the NFL this week after 13 years with the New England Patriots. Some quick facts about the University of Arizona grad: When Tedy left the UA, he left tied for the most QB sacks (52) in NCAA Division I history. Bruschi (pronounced Brewski) is the only NFL player to return four-straight interceptions for touchdowns. Off the field, he's played saxophone with the Boston Pops; and probably has the most bizarre middle names in all of sports: Lacap. Having a cool last name must come with some drawbacks.

published July 13 on BleacherReport.com

It’s difficult to discern the moment when an era comes to an end. They’re not exactly tangible as, say, a pitcher’s ERA.

When Brandon Inge, however, steps into the batter’s box at Busch Stadium III tonight for the All-Star Home Run Derby, the embattled Steroid Era may officially be kaput.

It appears baseball has finally spoken.

Inge — who’s averaged 12 long balls a year in his eight- year, 115- dinger- career — is certainly All-Star worthy this season. But he’s not the face of intimidation with the bat. The Mighty Brandon at the Bat won’t be a fairytale we regale our kids with when we sit them down on our laps years from now to bore them to sleep.

Consider the case of Mark Reynolds and his 24 round trippers this year. If the Arizona Diamondbacks’ third baseman played in the American League, he’d sit tied atop the AL in the home run race. Unfortunately for Reynolds, he plays in the National League, where he’s an all-star snub.

The man Reynolds would be tied with, Carlos Pena, needed a final-minute stay-of-execution to kill his all-star break plans. The Rays’ first baseman needed the withdrawal of Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia to punch his ticket to the St. Louis’ Summer Classic.

The phone never rang for Russell Branyon. He and his 22 homers (second overall in the AL) will stay at home in Seattle. Couple other all-star snubs Ian Kinsler and Jermaine Dye (20 homers apiece) with last minute additions Inge and Pena and nearly half of the AL’s top-10 home run leaders aren’t all-stars.

Round-tripper racism doesn’t run as rampant in the National League as it does in the American. Three of the top-10 home run leaders — Adam Dunn (23 homers), Lance Berkman (18) and Reynolds — in the NL will spend the break in their cozy homes.

It stands to argue that the fans’ affinity for juiced-up bashers may be waning. Pena finished fifth overall in voting among first basemen and was beaten out in votes by the Rangers' Chris Davis, he of 32 career dingers.

Of course, there’s still Albert Pujols, who has as many homers this years as Davis has in his career. The St. Louis Cardinals’ first baseman is on a pace to eke by Roger Maris’ 61 home runs in 1961, a mark many fans regard as the un-asterisked record.

Pujols has seemingly dodged all steroid allegations thus far in his career. Come late September, perhaps he can chase Maris – if not Barry Bonds’— single season record. Perhaps then we’ll have another home run watch on our hands — the kind that harkens back to a forgotten era.

published in Bluffton Today 06.17.09

It's while waiting to cross the street at the abnormally long traffic light that separates the old Yankee Stadium from the new, where the heartstrings begin to unravel like a cleat in extra innings.

That subtle, burning sensation that begins irritating your throat isn't caused by vapors off the Harlem River, Major Deegan Expressway smog, nor nearby New Jersey. It's your emotions and they're trying to scratch their way out.

It turns out that all the ESPN features and YouTube.com videos in the world cannot prep the soul for its first trip to this nexus where affluent history and unimaginable greed collide.

As you idle at the light, your youth stands defiantly still behind you, as if holding its breathe to see whether or not you'll cross the street.

In front of you sprawls what can only be described as a contemporary Roman Coliseum, erected to guard a modern-day Louvre of baseball. That is, if the Paris museum was dedicated solely to Leonardo de Vinci.

Eventually you cross the street, hoping the ghosts that demonized opponents for nearly half-a-century at the old haunt are waiting inside.

It feels familiar. The flutist who plays the "Woody Woodpecker" theme on request and the Jimi Hendrix impersonator still hone their skills outside the stadium. Their efforts earn them each a dollar from your pocket; even if that means reducing your funding for one beer inside the stadium by 20 percent.

You'll need alcohol after struggling to get through the front gates. There are more security personnel wanding people outside of Yankee Stadium than there are working the portals of LaGuardia Airport.

The woman working your turnstile explains that they search bags for rogue booze bottles and hats for knives and razor blades. She gruffly details this process moments after quickly and recklessly swiping an index finger along the inside lining of your sweaty Yankee hat.

History may be reluctant to move into the new park, but clearly stupidity had no problem finding employment there.

Inside it's easy to spot the first-timers. They're the ones gawking at the cavernous ceilings and bigger-than-life pictures. Every inch of the stadium is either covered in photos from the Bomber's golden eras or plastered with advertisments.

Gone are the dark hallways, peculiar smells and standing, indoor puddles of water -- we tell ourselves it's water -- that dogged the bowels of the old building.

Gone is the dank. Some of us really enjoyed the dank.

The trip to your seats in the left-field bleachers is a quick lap around the inside-back of the stadium. Unlike the old edifice, the bleachers aren't isolated from the rest of the ballpark like some kind of baseball Alcatraz.

The walk goes by fast when you're gawking at sushi bars and steakhouses and snapping up photos of the pristine field from the open-air mezzanine corridor. You're so busy marveling over how much the new and old fields look alike, that you completely miss your section. Eventually you tediously traverse back to your seats.

Nothing's changed in the bleachers. Testosterone still fuels the fire as each fan attempts to out-do one another. The Minnesota Twins' early lead and plenty of tailgate booze only adds to the tension. The guy wearing the Twins hat does not go unnoticed or un-harassed.

But that doesn't matter. As the sun sets, it casts a soothing orange glow upon the right-field stands. You've barely gotten the two beer cans you've smuggled in a sweater past that security guard before Yanks' first baseman Mark Teixeira has you out of your seat with a home run.

"I can get used to this," you say to yourself.

A pitch later and Yanks' slugger Alex Rodriguez is circling the bases with another home run. You haven't even sat down before Nick Swisher is flying out to the warning track.

"This is ridiculous," you say, this time aloud. No one hears you; the stadium is too busy calming down from its tizzy.

The Yanks score all ther runs they'll need in the first two-innings, save for another Teixeira long ball. During the interim, there is plenty to take in on the field, in the stands and on the hundreds of Hi-definition televisions strewn throughout the entire complex - including the bathrooms.

You correctly pick the 4-train to win the Great NYC Subway Race between the fifth inning on the centerfield jumbo-tron. They really should call it a massive-tron.

Regardless, all appears right with the world.

In the end, Teixeira winds up hitting homers from both sides of the plate and a guy named (Phil) Coke got his first career Major League save in a stadium heavily branded by Pepsi.

The evening concludes with a nice tour of the Yankees' front office lobby. You have to sweet-talk the security guard to even catch a waft of the cool air that powers out of the doors when opened. A life-size bronze statue of infamous owner George Steinbrenner keeps guard in the corner of the sterile and enormous room.

It's here where lost-and-found is kept.

Among the lost, however, is not the missing wallet you seek. At least you still have your 20 oz. plastic souvenir cup. The one that cost $10.

It'll sit in the back of your cupboard with the rest of the novelty cups that trace your Yankee lineage back to your first game when your were 10 years old. On a shelf it will sit for eternity - or until the Yankees decide they need a new stadium. Maybe one day you'll drink from it; or perhaps you'll use it to one day mix paint or plant seeds.

No matter its use, it'll always serve as tangible proof that one day, you had the courage to cross the street.

PROSE & CONS 04.20.09

I’d like to personally thank Boo Weekley. It’s because of him that I had to permanently add the term “ain’t” into my

Microsoft Word’s dictionary. I simply got tired of dealing with the scribbly, red line telling me that it’s not a word. I wouldn’t dare tell the two-time defending Verizon Heritage - the PGA's annual Hilton Head Island stop - champ that ain’t just ain’t a word. The pseudo word is firmly entrenched in his vernacular.

Instead of fighting it, I suppose it’s time to welcome back the Lowcountry’s favorite adoptive son.

Unless you’ve been living in a cave with your head under your armpits for the last two days, undoubtedly you’ve heard that the Verizon Heritage has lumbered back onto Hilton Head Island.

You’re going to hear a lot about Boo in the days to come. I know what you’re thinking: I’ve already heard enough about this guy and the tournament hasn’t even started. I alone have written three articles in the last 24 hours on the 35-year-old from Wilton, Fla.

The story of Boo is an important one. The guy is a real-life Happy Gilmore — a breath of…well fresh air isn’t the correct term…for the Tour. Weekley’s been able to accomplish what John Daly was never able to do, despite having a similar following.

Despite spending time at last year’s Heritage, I didn’t quite get the full Boo experience. I figured the stories of his redneck ways had to be overly exaggerated.

Boy, was I wrong. This guy’s a walking cartoon character.

This is a guy who referred to the Sea Pines Lighthouse as a deer hunting stand, said he likes the Sea Pines course because it’s “fat-person friendly” and rode a replica 1700s- style wooden driver along the fabled 18th fairway like it was a wild stallion. All in a five-minute span during Monday’s opening ceremonies.

Calm down my fellow fat people. Boo referenced himself as one of us.

Before I could hit the Sol Blatt Jr. Expressway on my way home to Bluffton, I was enamored with the guy.

Tuesday proved different. When I approached Weekley on the driving green he was gruff, as if someone had just kicked his favorite hunting hound. He answered all my questions but seemed to be annoyed before I got to him. After observing his driving, he looked more annoyed and gingerly favored his left leg a bit.

On Friday he missed the cut at the Masters. On Monday he blamed it on over-practicing. One has to wonder if his leg hurts more than he is leading on. If so, let’s hope he can play through the discomfort. There are a lot of people here hoping he becomes the first golfer to win three-straight Verizon Heritages.

It’s funny how a complete goof can un-starch the collars of some of Sea Pines’ most uptight people. Fact is, he’s a stand up guy; one who will sign autographs forever, donates proceeds to wounded vets and said he wants to walk the course on the fans-side of the ropes just to be with common folks like himself. He's even allowing Paul Olson, a disabled vet, caddy for him during the week's practice rounds.

That ain’t too bad.

SPRING TRAINING

Countdown Toward History

!! EUREKA !!

'ANY DAY NOW; news that's bound to break'

Saturday, February 13, 2010

STILL IN PROGRESS AT PRESS TIME...

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3.01.10

FROM THE MOUTHS OF ATHLETES...

FROM THE MOUTHS OF ATHLETES...

ONE TIMER...

ONE TIMER

ONE TIMER

FLY, REDNECK, FLY

ONE TIMER

ONE TIMER

published July 13 on BleacherReport.com

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PHEATURE PHOTO

published in Bluffton Today 06.17.09

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FROM THE SEATS...

PROSE & CONS 04.20.09