A New Day at City?

When the late Sir Bobby Robson took over the helm at Newcastle as manager and head coach, he was met with fresh enthusiasm and a bit of good fortune. During his debut match against Sheffield Wednesday, Newcastle had one of its best ever games.

The Toon dominated Wednesday 8-0 as the great Alan Shearer bagged five goals on his own, with the match standing out as the most spectacular performance of the 2000 Premier League season.

Above, Shearer bags five against Wednesday. Photo credit: BBC

The appointment of Robson had followed a period of shakiness and a record of underperformance as Ruud Gullit, the Dutchman regarded as a splendid tactician on the pitch, and one of Holland’s best ever players, sputtered along as manager. What it showed was that “sexy football” sounded exciting, but was hard to achieve for a manager who didn’t have his players either behind him or playing their best football.

After a year at the head of Manchester City, Mark Hughes finds himself out, notwithstanding a respectable record in the face of immense pressure from new owners to take City to the top four.

The new man, Roberto Mancini, comes to the manager's role with some accolades such as Italian championships. He also carries more flamboyance and European attitude which may very well appeal to City’s owner and board given their ambitions.

As an observer, I thought to myself in August that if Man City were not at least in the top 6 of the table by Christmas, that Hughes would be fired. As of Saturday, when Hughes was fired, City sat at sixth place, but only because of a listless run and a 2-0 loss by Liverpool. Meanwhile, City barely pulled out a 4-3 win to a mediocre Sunderland.

While not cut from the same cloth as Robson, Mancini is in a similar situation, with a talented squad, presumably apt to challenge for the title if handled properly.

No need to go down the roster player by player. But with at least five top notch strikers amidst other offensive options in midfield, such as Shaun Wright-Phillips, Petrov and others, the scoring has gone well for City. Yet it is no secret that the underwhelming results lie with poor defensive play.

Wins have been impressive, as City stuck it to Arsenal twice this season, and beat up on leaders Chelsea. But seven draws this season suggest that City’s players lack either confidence or commitment to winning games while they are ahead.

If half Man City’s ties ended up as wins, let's say even against the worst of their competitors, City could be sitting in 3rd place right now. On Nov 7, City blew a lead three times against Burnley just by being clumsy. Hull scored a late but predictable equalizer just before full time on Nov 28. And City also blew a 2-1 lead against a wobbly Liverpool thirty seconds after they put themselves in the lead.

So it’s no wonder that, for a club with a new owner, tons of cash, a new stadium, and several new and expensive players, that the manager’s head would roll for not winning more games.

For Mancini, making some right moves could go along way for the new manager. With current captain Kolo Toure skipping in and out of injury, Mancini should appoint Gareth Barry as the new skipper. The midfielder has been a dependable force in City’s run so far, and stands out as the most mature and level headed player the club has.

Plus given some players’ affinity for nonsense on the field (Bellamy and Adebayor, especially), Barry’s appointment as captain would set the tone right away that it’s all serious business going forward.

Another matter will be what to do with Robinho. Either Mancini will need to make their talented Brazilian productive right away or write him off and find a way to get him out of the squad, especially if the forward starts moaning.

Lastly, the new gaffer will need to see that transfer window as an opportunity to tighten up his defensive options. City need no new strikers. But a solid, reliable set of defenders with a determined work ethic will be much more important than name or raw talent. Fans need to know that their cash is going toward committed players who share their vision for long term success, not just cocky hotshots shopping for a new destination elsewhere at the first calling.

Mancini’s time at City will likely be one of two things: either a fantastic success or a rip-roaring failure. For whatever reason, my hunch tells me the new era at City will not a repeat of the relatively boring years under Kevin Keegan.

Nor will it be the gradual slide toward the bottom of the table and lower league football that City fans endured under Peter Reid and Joe Royle. For sure, this is a good thing. Such ups and downs are all too painfully familiar for this great club.

Many would agree that it is about time that the English Premier League have a little variety at the top of the table. City provide an exciting story, and an agitating thrill against Man United's dominance from across town. Meanwhile renewed momentum at Aston Villa and Tottenham are, at least for now, giving the other big boys in red --Arsenal and Liverpool-- a reason to worry about their whether they will still be among the big four.

Toward this pursuit, only time, talent, big cash, and a little flamboyance will tell.

Frye writes weekly about sports and life. Updates can be found here at MySports/Complex and on his Facebook page of the same name. Go blue.

Football: Mounting traditions

It’s been over a decade and a half since Chucky Mullins died. Leroy “Chucky” Mullins was a cornerback for the University of Mississippi who was paralyzed after he made a tackle during a game against SEC rival Vanderbilt in 1989.

Subsequent to the injury Mullins died about a year and a half later. Since then Ole Miss has retired number 38, Mullins’ jersey number, the only Ole Miss jersey to be retired since NFL Hall of Famer Archie Manning’s. In Mullins’ honor, the players participate in the annual “Grove Bowl”.

Before the Grove Bowl, a scrimmage between the Ole Miss’s best players, one senior defensive player receives the Chucky Mullins Memorial Courage Award, bestowing on him the tradition and honor of wearing the 38 jersey for the matchup.

Parallel traditions exist elsewhere. At Moody, a bible college in Chicago without a collegiate football program, football tradition is carried through the Fall intramurals. Intramural men’s football is a big deal here and performance is observed closely. The best of the league’s players get to participate, by invitation only, in the North-South Bowl pitting the two ends of a small campus against each other for a big, big game.

What is it about Football that compels Americans to build traditions?

I have never gotten an answer to this question, and I probably never will. But I got a little buzzed on the punch, and got maybe a little insight, just by following mundane tradition for once.

That tradition was a visit, as an alumnus, to the Thanksgiving Day football game at my high school back home. It was the first time I partook in this ritual in 17 years.

Unlike in Chicago, high schools in Pennsylvania and much of the East Coast play their biggest rival on Turkey Day, rain or shine, whether or not the remainder of the season holds anything to play for.

I wasn’t attending per se to fulfill any ritual. No one dragged me out of bed. I guess this morning I just wanted some black coffee and a fresh look at what I thought was so important about the whole thing back then.

And on this day, hell, it was one of the best games I’ve ever seen.

During the four years I attended Hatboro-Horsham High, this matchup was always a rout in our favor. We regarded our rivals, Upper Moreland (UM), unfairly as the kids from the “other side of the tracks” with no manners and aggressive yet unimpressive football tactics; never as good as our Hatters.

As a geeky student council member, I had job of presenting roses to the Homecoming Court, a group of pretty girls voted on the court for being pretty; a strange competition in its own rite. All this, while contending with stare downs from the meat head boyfriends who escorted them to the 50 Yard Line; another ritual.

UM had their prettiness competition too. Supposedly their girls were escorted on-field not by meat heads, but by ex-cons. I didn’t start that rumor, though I wish I’d thought of it. The story went on one year that the other side’s Homecoming Queen was knocked up.

Our school killed the Homecoming Court years ago, which is probably a good thing. So now there is no superficial pageantry, no distractions, just football. It was all about the game. But back then, the trash talk was its own tradition dished out from both sides; and that was one tradition I always took part in.

UM took control of this game for the first 40 minutes of this muddle-through in the mud. They scored the majority of the points, a whopping two touchdowns, that were well earned and clinically, albeit slowly, executed. The Hatters managed to get close a few times, trudging with effort down the field, only to get stopped each time.

UM’s 14-0 score line held for a while. Within the last quarter the Hatters made it 14-7 with the extra point after a shaky ball barely got through from the kicker’s foot up to the wind between the upright posts.

Sure, the score did not impress anyone, really. This was all about a contest of wills between a group of 17 and 18 year old boys who, from my vantage point on the side line, fought like men. Maybe fulfilling tradition had something to do with it.

At one point, I looked behind me right after the Hatters had fumbled the ball. The band played some annoying, peppy tune, doing their usual rom-pom-pom, and I caught with my eye a block of about 100 disgruntled HH fans looking their way in unison with a disapproving glare.

Clearly the scowls weren’t looking forward to turkey and mash potatoes right now… Maybe just an opportunity to save face and get the ball again.

And the Hatters did.

Somehow they got the ball again after UM had dallied around for a few plays, amidst their overconfidence that this game was theirs. Near game’s end, 45 seconds sat on the clock with an opportunity for HH to fill or kill.

Within two plays, HH came within a point with a touchdown pass. Then the Hatters went for the two-point conversion, which I’ve never seen in a high school game, taking the score to 15-14.

The Hatters did more within the last 20 seconds, picking off a last chance UM pass to seal the deal.

Afterward, the band rolled onto the field, while fans stormed it. And as the tradition goes, the coach got soaked in ice water and Gatorade. Good thing it was an untraditional 58 degrees out.

The thought crossed my mind, that is must be moments like these that get every fan to the game on a holiday. What better way to warm up to the thought of an 18 course meal and boring TV shows to come.

So what are the nuts and bolts of Football’s appeal? A good win. Suspense. The challenge of a match up and the twists and turns that remind us of every day life, etc. etc.

I don’t know if that’s it, since every sport has suspense. However, there’s something about American Football that makes people engage in rituals like the tailgate before game even on much colder days.

After all, what suspense and holiday excitement can you find better than a last minute win for your home side? For me, conveniently, this great ending came as a homecoming gift upon my first return in 17 years. What a nice welcome home.

I guess I’ll have to consider coming back year after year, making it a tradition maybe, to find that suspense again and again. And if next year doesn’t carry the tradition of suspense and a big win, there’s always the next 16 after that.

I Defect.

One of my favorite movies from the 1980s is "Moscow on the Hudson”, starring Robin Williams. In this film, Williams’ character, a fellow named Vladimir, is a Russian musician who accompanies the Soviet state circus on a glasnost visit to the US and New York City.

Soviet life for Vladimir holds little more than hum drum disenchantments; from fuel shortages, and ugly, uncomfortable shoes to personal invasions by the proper authorities. Vlad and his comrades get to spend their nights off in mile-long lines to wait for third rate toilet paper.

The daily annoyances only serve to rile up Vlad and his best pal, Yuri the Clown, in this passive-aggressive and inefficient, maybe cruel, power system. From Yuri’s mouth, there is talk about defection to The West.

Later, during the big trip to the US, and Yuri the Clown not only loses his nerve but complains about his own self-defeat. In contrast, Vlad becomes incensed, takes charge of his hesitations. When the time comes to board the bus back to the airport, Vlad stonewalls. He states to his Soviet commander, “I defect" in the middle of Macy’s department store.

Without being too dramatic, I can say I have found myself in similar situations as a fan and follower of sports. Lucky not to be standing in line for toilet paper, I have been abused as a fan for years on end, by a favorite sports club that clearly doesn’t care about the fans who support it.

The club in question, Newcastle United, had been my keeper and long time favorite distraction. While I’m probably half of the problem, the club has played its own denigrating role too.

My American friends probably wonder why I get caught up in soccer in the first place. But there is something about English Football --my favorite flavor of the game-- that overshadows every other sport in the world when it comes to excitement and great sports action.

The only reasonable comparison I can make for my soccer-indifferent American friends is this. Imagine you’re a fan of March Madness College Basketball. But you get March Madness, the crazy fans, the last gasp last second wins, and all its high-stakes excitement all season long, from August to May.

English Football is a high stakes game. Every season, the worst three teams get “relegated” or demoted to a lesser league. With that, the losers get the pride-swallowing fun of playing smaller clubs in less accommodating mini-stadiums, not to mention the loss of millions in TV revenue.

Imagine your whole baseball team getting sent “back to the minors” after a long, hard, losing season. If this happened in the NFL, the Detroit Lions would be in pee-wee football by now.

So, yes, Newcastle has had one of those seasons. Like that’s not enough. More serious, there’s been a pattern of indifference for many seasons that has been transformed into a custom.

First off, the club has been through eight coaches in seven seasons; certainly not good for stability. This comes as a result of some false starts by some of the coaches, but also shows a lack of commitment and patience by greedy execs looking for a quick fix to save their own jobs.

And like the New York Knicks, Newcastle has a knack for signing big name players who are past their peak and sliding downward, almost all for big money. The attitude appears to be to throw anything and see if it will stick.

This kind of thing infuriates Newcastle’s fans. The club was built over years and years into a successful powerhouse by carefully grooming and developing players who were not only good players, but honorable gentlemen who set an unusual example as a team who could play as a team, with egos cast aside. It is this factor that brought me in a decade ago and kept me wanting more and more.

Instead, now the focus has been on throwing around money in hopes of saving the current season, while talking big about the next. But, constant player departures have caused a backlash.

Last fall, fans paraded the stadium with signs reading “Cockney Mafia Out”, a jab at the club’s London-based owner. Others of us saw this as another step toward the abyss. Since this mayhem, Mike Ashley, the club’s owner, has twice tried to sell The Toon unsuccessfully and has resorted to selling naming rights to the stadium to raise cash.

Eight seasons have been littered with crushing and embarrassing defeats, with self-destruction a regularity. Conceding eight goals last season against Liverpool wasn’t exactly heart warming, though maybe the players should be commended for spreading the embarrassment across two games. The year before, the Toon gave up eleven against Man United.

And I can’t help but remember in April 2005 watching two Newcastle team mates duke it out on-field at a home game in front of 50,000 stunned and utterly appalled fans.

Problems crop up when disinterested money men step in and try to run a sports club like a waste-hauling business or hot dog plant. Unfortunately, sports teams are not like other businesses.

You can’t drop in a couple million and build a team quick and on the cheap. Just because you feed a thoroughbred some Twinkies doesn’t mean the sugar rush will win him the race. Probably the opposite.

Every year ESPN Magazine puts out an issue ranking all the clubs of the major four sports in America: Football, Baseball, Basketball, and Hockey. The rankings are never about wins or championships, rather ESPN squares in on the quality of the organization.

Perennial stars are clubs like the Green Bay Packers and the St Louis Cardinals. These clubs get high marks not only for building strong sports teams, but for their treatment of the fans. Good sports clubs allow fans to participate in a meaningful way, regardless of the season’s outcome.

Clubs like the Chicago Blackhawks and the Cincinnati Bengals have been past listed as “worst” franchises, namely during years when they raised ticket prices while diluting the team and sticking it to fans in general.

But indifference and incompetence convert into abuse when practiced with repetition. Sometimes, as in Newcastle’s case, players and coaches become chess pieces to narcissistic owners and the end result is an ailing, decrepit sports team.

Other times, the owners make asses of themselves at the team’s expense, as Marge Schott did with repetitive comments praising Hitler. Schott’s stupid jibes made life hell for the Cincinnati Reds and made their fans want to hide in secrecy.

Damaging the relationship with your fans isn’t only bad business. It makes the case for defection. I have a few friends back home who have abandoned the Philadelphia Eagles over their acquisition of Michael Vick. I know people who have switched college football allegiances for love, which is probably a more noble enterprise.

Speaking of, it’s important to mention that emotion and longing play an underrated part in the sports fan’s psyche.

I’ve been a strident, loyal and patient fan of the Toon for a long time. But after a while, stale bad relationships get cold and murky like old bath water.

Like many footy fans I have always had a second team. That team, Manchester City FC, representing the blue half of Manchester against the forces of evil (Manchester United), has always tugged on my heart.

Underdogs tend to do that. Maybe I’ve had a mistress all along.

For a long time, Man City games were impossible to watch; either because they were not televised, or the team was so horrendous on the field that you might reconsider watching in the first place. But like my Chicago Cubs, there has always been an optimistic and warm culture around the club that transcends the score of the game or the season’s results.

Recently, Man City has had an exciting renaissance. The club’s mystique and fan base has attracted a rich owner who has rightly invested in great players with a vision to move the club forward permanently. While tuning in to experience the games, I have also connected with other fans, at the grass roots level, which makes this new tryst of mine much more satisfying and enriching.

Counting today, I’ve seen about three fourths of City’s games, rearranging schedules to do so. I’ve also gotten up at 6am on weekends and blown off work too. As for the Toon, I’ve seen a few of their games, but the fire in my heart is out.

So where do I stand? I am no clown; I guess that makes me a defector. I defect.

Some will ask why. But, I gotta go with this. After all, the heart wants what it wants.

Frye writes weekly about sports and life. Updates can be found here at MySports/Complex and on his Facebook page of the same name.

We All Dress Like Our Fathers

“Bailiño scores 4 as Loyola crushes New Trier, 7-0”

That’s the kind of headline you dream about, as a dad, seeing in the Tribune, Sun-Times, or the Daily News someday. And that your kid, an extraordinary kid with world class talent, not only makes the paper but somehow adopts his own one word moniker worth of the likes of Péle, Shaq, or even “The Rock”.

It’s the kind of pollyanna thought that only men have about their kids, both inspiring and a bit silly. If taken too seriously, psychologists point out that pushing your kid too hard into sports (or anything, really) can be damaging.

Some parents are the kind that gets their pants in a bunch about the score of a pee wee game. Others bark and yell, or start rogue coaching their kids from the sidelines. Do this, and you don’t need a shrink to tell you that you’ll look like a loony.

My dad never pushed me into sports. Actually he never cared about sports. Except for Gardening, which is sort-of a sport, that is, if you consider The Iron Chef a sports competition.

Sports was something I picked up on my own, first as a spectator and then as an activity for social acceptance, growing up as a typically bored kid in the suburbs. Maybe it was the neat, colorful uniforms the players got to wear. Or, maybe joining sports was a way to get my folks to let me wear my sneakers to school even though it wasn’t gym class day.

Anyhow, sport has evolved into a lifelong passion that makes me feel like a kid (good) and also sometimes makes me act and dress like a kid (bad).

Certainly in America and Britain it is considered totally acceptable for Father and Son to support the same team and to underscore their support with matching sports garb. Some might say that’s what Saturdays and Sundays were made for. Some take it a step further, and dress up the dog too.

Likewise, as a near-insane fan of the beautiful game, I got my kid enrolled in “Lil Kickers” soccer as soon as he was age-eligible. With his enlistment he was put on a team –I think it was called the Cottontails-- and got his own uniform, with number 4 smack dab on the back.

Starting the curriculum at Lil Kickers, the kids learn how to take simple directions in a group and do an activity in sequence. They roll the ball, stack cones, knock down the cones, and eventually learn to kick, pass and score with some rudimentary skill.

More importantly, the kids are supposed to learn how to interact with each other, how to share, and to plot the first steps toward a lifelong pattern of good sportsmanship on the way to mature adulthood.

At this age, the age of toddler-hood, sharing remains a challenge and every parent is hit with a barrage of messages about how pivotal every new experience and every moment is for kiddo.

With this baggage ever present in mind, that we attended a friend’s barbeque one summer day; a ritual family gathering. It happened on a typical August Saturday; parents letting loose with a beer, some dogs and burgers in a fenced-in and relatively controlled suburban environment where the kids could play, semi-supervised.

As 3-year-olds sometimes do, my kid and others were playing with tricycles, soccer balls, footballs and big toys in the yard. Most got along pretty well while others had at times some trouble socializing.

Ironically, it was in this protective environment that my kid got in his first throw down fight with another kid, a 5-year-old who had trouble sharing and playing nice.

This 5-year-old had started to push kids out of the way, grabbing any and every toy when he felt like it. This went on for about an hour or two. He pushed a few kids out of the proverbial sandbox a couple of times, each getting into a mild but manageable altercation with Fiver. After another push, Fiver grabbed my kid by the shoulder and threw him back causing my kid to fall back on his butt in the grass.

Before I got a chance to put my beer down in enough time to run over, Bailiño got fed up and whacked Fiver in the back of the legs Ron Hextall-style, before they both hit the ground and started slapping each other.

It's OK to be mortified, Dad.

As I broke up the fight, which seemed like a brawl, with another couple of parents, my kid was both upset and fired up. The crowd of beer-guzzling, brat-eating parents and guests looked concerned and stunned. Nobody got hurt, thankfully, and we made them both apologize and shake on it.

I’m not sure where my kid got his street smarts. Surely, I never taught him how to hit like that or to retaliate against a bully like an unruly NHL goaltender.

Not pleased about the fighting, I was content that my kid at least stuck up for himself, which is more than I would have done at that age. I felt an odd mishmash of feelings ranging from the likes of “My baby!!!” to “Did you get him good?” or “Sweep the leg, Johnny!”

As a kid, I remember a fellow Philadelphia Flyers fan, one of my friend’s dads, call Ron Hextall a thug. Hextall was best known not only for being an excellent goaltender and a standout in two Stanley Cup campaigns, but also for being the guy who would step in when a player from another team got out of line or roughed up the team mates.

Of Hextall, my friend’s dad said “He’s a thug, but he’s our thug.” He couldn’t have been more right about anything.

Now, before you jump to any conclusions, let it be known I’m not raising my kid to be a thug (just a Broad Street Bully, maybe). And if he ever pulled some of the stunts that Hextall pulled on the ice, at least under my roof, my kid would be grounded for a month.

But, there is definitely something important about sticking up for yourself as you realize that sometimes the scuffle is part of Life. Perhaps this is nothing more than one of the standard rituals in a growing boy’s existence, like it or not.

It all reminds me of an advertisement that I saw a few summers ago.

Adidas ran an ad bearing the brand new jersey for Newcastle United, a big and then-successful soccer club known for their large army of fans. Adidas ran the ad worldwide all summer in 2003, trying to compete against Nike, who had just bagged the Manchester United shirt deal for $100 Million-plus.

The Adidas ad read “Some Day We’ll All Dress Like Our Fathers”. At first, I wasn’t sure right away what the marketing wonks were getting at. I already owned the shirt, so they might have had me there.

I had seen ads of a similar note for Canadian Club, stating “Damn Right, Your Dad Drank It.” Yet, the 1970s guys in the ad dressed like Kojak and Baretta didn’t make me want to drink their whiskey.

After all, who said I wanted to drink or dress like my dad?

But after a second read, I figured that the message was that we, as sports enthusiasts, spectators and players, all take inspiration from our elders such as our fathers, coaches and other figures in our lives.

Those marketing wonks were half right. But much of the time, it’s the other way around.

Frye writes weekly about sports and life. Updates can be found here at MySports/Complex and on his Facebook page of the same name.

Talking Trash Part 1 - Rocker, Ole Miss and the Big Orange

About a decade ago, the Atlanta Braves’ hot new relief pitcher John Rocker kicked off his new career and his first big crack at major sports media coverage in an interesting way. He put his foot in his mouth so hard it came out the back of his head and hit a few people in the process.

I’m not going to cough up quotes. But anyone who remembers what he said in his first big interview with Sports Illustrated magazine might recall the bad press around his words, which were an unintelligible, judgmental assembly of uninformed jibes about New York City and New Yorkers.

Some people were offended. I wasn’t but I did think Rocker was an idiot, for at least no other reason than bungling his first chance to speak publicly to national sports media and more importantly the fans. Instead of nailing it like a professional, he wrecked it by sounding like a hooded cretin.

I doubt that Rocker meant to use his interview with SI as an opportunity to showcase personal prejudices, which may or may not have been that deep anyhow. Tongue tied and his brain shutting off, I think Rocker just got caught up in the moment, fumbling his true intention, which was nothing more than to talk a little trash about his team’s rivals, the New York Mets.

Rocker loved pitching for the Braves, and loved Atlanta. He was a local boy who loved his clan so much so that he took it upon himself, alone, to carry the burden of denigrating Atlanta’s arch rivals, their fans, and the city they play and live in, leveraging every offensive stone he could throw.

Ultimately, Rocker’s intent was noble, but his delivery was poor. Noble, if you think talking trash about a rival sports team is a fair enterprise. I must admit that trash talk is one thing that I and John Rocker share. And the fact is that we share it with the rest of the world.

I’ve talked trash about rival sports teams ever since I was a kid. If you are committed sports fan in any form, you have talked trash too.

Clearly, sports trash talk is more of an art than a science, and a lot of it is tied in with good old fashioned sectional conflict, in the Civil War sense.

The Braves/Mets rivalry was a good example of this, as two clubs with riled up fans (who were not local rivals per se) competed in the same league for the same prize: a crack at the World Series.

But local rivalries --or the “derby”, as the local match up is called in some parts of the world-- cook up the best trash talk and some of the best names used to denigrate the other side, all in good fun of course. Among some of the really good ones:

Massholes, used to describe the Boston Red Sox fans, and New England Patriots fans, who are chiefly one in the same, by New Yorkers primarily.

Cheeseheads, used to describe Green Bay Packers fans, by Chicagoans. Wisconsin has a lot of cheese, you know.

But back to the derby…

The first time I ever experienced local derby trash talk en masse was at age 18 attending my first high stakes college football game. It was a Southeastern Conference match up, when Mississippi (or “Ole Miss”) played Tennessee at the Liberty Bowl in Memphis. This game, technically a home game for Tennessee, was a big deal since the winner would clinch the division and play in the Sugar Bowl.

The game was moved to Memphis, which is closer to Ole Miss, in order to accommodate a much bigger crowd and a live national broadcast by CBS on a Saturday night. Anticipating a long shot Sugar Bowl trip, Ole Miss fans brought sugar cubes and blasted from their tail gate vehicles “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard.

The sugar cubes found their alternate purpose as fans flicked them onto the sidelines and pelted the mobile CBS camera men.

Other Ole Miss supporters, dressed up in their coat and tie combos, had brought orange slices to toy with. I remember seeing a Tennessee player going out for a warm up pass, and taking an orange slice right in the face mask.

The symbolism of the oranges was tied to the old pejorative tagline Ole Miss fans made up about Tennessee that “Nothing sucks like a Big Orange.”

But the Big Orange was everywhere. That is, tens of thousands of Tennesseans, dressed in blinding traffic-sign orange sweatshirts, were there filling two thirds of the stadium, howling as you’d think people from the Smokey Mountains would do.

After Ole Miss blew the game, thanks to their punter’s hesitation and a blocked kick that was returned for a touchdown, I left the Liberty Bowl with my dad, a quiet guy who had never been to a Southern college football game before. I think he felt threatened just a bit.

Heading toward the parking lot, we were accosted by loud and taunting, yet non-violent Big Orange folks chanting “Go to Hell Ole Miss, Go to Hell!”

Tennessee was the favorite in that game, and they won it as everyone had expected them to. But the Big Orange must have been miffed simply by the thought that some other college team might take a shot at their crown in the SEC.

For that reason alone, talking trash seemed the only appropriate remedy.

Since I can’t make it back for the Ole Miss/Big Orange game this weekend, I’ll have to settle. Instead it will be a Thanksgiving visit home, with a chance to cheer my old high school football team in the big game against the cross town scum.

Sorry about that. As an adult, I’ll have to try to behave myself during my trip, but sports trash talk runs deep and old habits die hard. Forgive me.

Baseball, Democracy's Game.

It’s no wonder that Baseball is America’s national past time. If you believe that America is truly the land of opportunity then the game of Baseball explains a lot about who we are as Americans and what we value.

Come to think of it, Baseball also should be the “national past time” of Canada, all of Western Europe, France especially, and all of the countries that make up the entire free world.

The fact is that there are some interesting things about baseball that you probably never noticed that correspond to our needs as free people, our way of life and to everything we aspire.

When you consider how it is played, Baseball seems to have been designed precisely by our Founding Fathers, or at least by seasoned politicians with good intentions.

In case you don’t believe me, here’s what I’m talking about.

All are created equal
Baseball requires you to be neither tall nor fast, nor muscular, nor supremely fit. If you hit well, throw well, or have other skills, who cares whether you are a “natural athlete”? There is running involved, but only so much.

Baseball is a pretty diverse game, with players from everywhere of various skill sets. Many of the best come from poor, politically unstable countries. I have seen guys at the amateur level who don’t look the least bit athletic hit the ball out of the park against the most fit pitcher. And we’ve all seen women who are better than most men on the field.

At the pro level, chunky guys from David Wells to Carlos Zambrano have successfully played at the top level, not to mention players with a terrible sense of style like the mullet clad Randy Johnson. Babe Ruth wasn’t very fit or pretty either.

Pedigree might work for thoroughbreds, but it doesn’t hold a dime’s value in Baseball.

Everyone gets their turn.
What other team sport gives everyone a chance to hit the ball. If you are playing Basketball or Soccer, you’d better be fortunate enough to have someone pass the ball to you. Screw up once and you reduce your chances of that in the future. But in Baseball, you get your share of quality time with the ball. Every one gets an at-bat.

To sweeten the deal, everyone gets several chances. Like cats, you have nine lives if you’re swinging a bat in a baseball game, with nine innings to play for. You may not get to bat in all nine, but you’ll get a few chances at least. If you can’t hit the ball in nine innings, then I guess you weren’t cut out for this. At least not today, pal.

Ground level entry.
In America, families tend to get their little ones involved in the socializing activity of “team sports” with Baseball as the first proving ground. Little kids play the version know as Tee Ball, which doesn’t involve the complications of hitting a moving ball, just one sitting on a tee when you are ready. We adults, with our bad knees and spare tires play “Slow Pitch Softball” or “Baseball for Crusty Old People”.

With increasing comfort, you can ease into a life long pursuit in this past time if you so choose. No matter what level of skill you acquire, if any, you can still enjoy the game for fun.

Other sports aren’t so kind to the beginner or amateur. With Hockey, you need to learn to skate first.

In Boxing you need to be tough from day one…tough enough to get punched in the face repeatedly. I’m not up for that, and I don’t think you are either. Besides there’s no Slow Pitch version of Boxing.

Everyone has their own free space.
Most sports have positions, which are generally nothing more than titles, like in the business world.

In Basketball, positions have certain functions that are predicated mostly on size, shape and speed. Your center is the big guy, and your point guard is your short, fast guy. The others fall in between, but if you are lucky to have Michael Jordan on your team, then you have a shooting guard.

In Rugby, positions are an absolute joke. Same with Golf.

But in Baseball you get not just title but your get your own territory. Outfielders get the most territory, which they need for fielding hit balls from an opposing batter. Sort of like goal keepers in Hockey, Soccer or Lacrosse except that there are three of them doing this job.

Pitchers get a pedestal to go with theirs. So do catchers except that they must share a little of their real estate with the umpire. Infielders get their own smaller space too, but get to guard the bases, which is a pivotal locum of power in the game.

What this points to, is that we claim our territory not only when it comes to our home, the car we drive (and where we park it), but where we stand, run and play in recreational games. And we love this part of it.

Free speech
In Baseball, you talk it up all you want. Usually you talk dirt about the batter to distract him. Try that in Basketball, you’ll get a technical foul and give points to the other team. In Soccer, what the world calls Football, you will get either a red card or get head butted in the chest (see World Cup ’06).

To get thrown out in Baseball requires the extreme. You have to spit and kick dirt at the umpire.

What else?
Back to France (yes, I was serious about this). The French actually invented the liberté, fraternité, egalité that our US Constitution was founded upon. Sorry to say, we stole it from the French.

But give the French a chance. So they have an attitude problem and hate everything that Americans like. I bet they’ve got a pretty good swinging arm thanks to those baguette thingies they’re always carrying around.

But for now, the French national past time will continue to be wearing a beret while smoking.

India, a former pseudo-socialist country that doesn’t know Baseball is crazy about Cricket. Cricket is a sort of tedious, bureaucratic, longer version of Baseball, in which the matches go on sometimes for three days. Don’t blame the Indians for their national pastime. You can blame both colonization and the British.

The Irish play Celtic Football, which is like Rugby but with a soccer ball. Some might wonder if they know the difference between one ball and another, or care.

And Pakistan’s national past time is field hockey. Pakistan’s team is so good at it that they have won the Olympic Gold. Don’t tell them that this is a women’s sport.

Thus, since you can’t force democracy on the world, other countries will have their own national past time. But we can try.

In life, we often strive for more to “get ahead”. We may move to gather up more room for our nest. We might build a McMansion with a big yard. Then we extend the nest with swimming pools and big outdoor toys.

But when you come right down to it, all we need is a chance to play and maybe just a little bit of personal space. People everywhere, not just in America, basically want the same things. And for that, Baseball is one game that gives you all you need.

Enjoy the Series, Go Phils.
Frye

Frye’s blog and other musings are up at MySportsComplex.Blogspot.com and Facebook. Watch out for swinging baguettes.

Why I Like Becks.

(reprint from Sep 20, 2009)

I don't follow the MLS, but it was easy to notice if you watch the news, the way LA Galaxy fans reacted to David Beckham, their only world class player, against AC Milan this weekend.

They jeered him, taunted him, flipped the bird, and all that could be expected. Perhaps it is remarkable that Galaxy fans --like their fair weather sports cousins, Lakers Fans, Dodgers Fans, Dallas Cowboys fans for that matter-- actually made an appearance. They tend to be better than other sorts fans in LA, an entertainment town.

Could be Lindsey Lohan and Jack Nicholson, each an easy celebrity sighting, were in the front row. Nonetheless, the fans got their rocks off, and the squad gave their usual flacid 90 minutes on the pitch, against a bunch of 40 year old Italian grandfathers.

The gripe, according to the fans, seems to be that Becks was disloyal by taking time off in the MLS post-season by playing in Italy.

And that's it. Instead of sitting on his butt, Becks played. And he played for a top team, in the top flight of what may be the best league in the world. In actuality, Becks got fit, kept his skills sharp, scored a few, and came back more prepared than any of his teammates could even hope for. Not bad, considering most of LA were by the pool, or spent the spring of '09 auditioning for a spot in a bad Lifetime TV mini-series.

So, enough about the weekend. And enough about LA sports fans, with all of their wanton celebrity-sighting obsessions, and their fake boobs, colagen injections, smog and bad traffic. But, I'd like to say a few things about David Beckham that most of the country and the world football establishment probably don't want to hear. Or things that, obscurred by media and celebrity, have even not been considered.

Whether you hate his celebrity, or his ten year association with Manchester United, or his wife and her association with the Spice Girls, or his hair styles, or that fact that there are better athletes in the world who are less famous than him; or whatever you can muster about Becks, there's one fact that stands on its own. That is, that time after time David Beckham has delivered. For England, for club, for the English Football Association or for the MLS.

Need an example? October 2001, England play home to Greece in a World Cup qualifier. Yet much of the England squad, having boozed it up the night before, can't pass the ball, can't kick, can't do squat. Nigel Martyn's goalie mitts are made of marshmallow, Owen and Heskey can't get a foot on the ball. Scholes is having a bad game, and even Gerrard looks hung over. All they have to do, since Germany meanwhile can't beat Finland, is NOT LOSE and they've got their place in World Cup 2002

Down 2 -1 against a slow albeit spirited Greece, Becks takes a free kick putting it net-side 3 minutes into extra time. England advance, sparing the team and country the embarassing thought of having to fight Ireland for a World Cup spot.

Another example... May 1999, Man United are down 1-0 against Bayern, the Kings of Europe. With both central midfielders and their captain suspended, Becks takes on the central role. With 3 minutes left he serves up two corner kicks, resulting in two goals last-minute to win the coveted European Cup for Man United, their first Euro Cup in 30 years.

Then there's business: He's a one man marketing machine. Becks has brought more to America's Major League Soccer, in terms of interest and sponsorship dollars, than they ever could without him. That's important considering he was on one of the MLS's worst teams last year. He did the same for England, Man United and Real Madrid selling more jerseys than all other players combined.

That aside, Beckham's style of play is team-oriented. His passing is spot on. And just when you find yourself complaining about how much he's getting paid, his high level of visibility, etc, there he goes scoring again. And usually on a free kick, in a goal down situation. Yet, football pundits, English and otherwise, take their shots at Becks for one reason only: that they are bothered by his fame.

On Fox Football Fone-in, Steven Cohen moans week after week, about how Becks is "ruining football" while moaning further about Becks not appearing on their show (with its 10 x 4 foot studio). Chances are, if Beckham was scoring for Cohen's beloved Chelsea, he might spare us all and stop his moaning in general.

Meanwhile, Alexi Lalas, the uninformed commentator, failed manager, former US player and one-time grunge band musician habitualy bags on Beckham, while praising many third rate US players as 'brilliant". Note to Lalas: the US has never had a world class male player. Never.

The stats stand firm on their on too: 63 goals for Man United as a midfielder...not bad, and 17 goals for England. But much of what Becks brings to the game is professionalism, quality play, and a decent amount humility for a man who is bigger than Oprah and Madonna in most parts of the world.

One thought might put it in perspective. In the late 1980's, a lot of folks complained about Andre Agassi's fame, and when he started winning Grand Slams they shut up. Beckham, short of that timely luxury, has been good from the start.

So, I implore you football fans...or soccer fans as my fellow Yanks might call themselves: Pop open a quality beer, and enjoy the kicks while Beckham is still playing, and before he's retired soon. Even if it is once every four years, circa World Cup. At age 34, it's fair to say that you won't -for much longer-- have Becks to kick around anymore.

Yours in Joga Bonito,
Andy Frye

Camaraderie & Shared Addiction

Back in late December 2001, after the fall of the Taliban, Afghanistan held its first soccer match in 5 years.

No I didn’t have tickets. According to the news reports, it was a makeshift event, put together probably for no other reason than to let the people breathe for the first time in a long, long while. Here a team of US Army GIs was assembled to play 11 rag tag Afghan footballers going as “Kabul United”.

The stadium could hold 20,000, yet 40,000 showed up.

Kabul Stadium used to stage executions every Friday, most carried out with a Kalashnikov at the half line. This time no executions, just an uneven dirt field fit for of 22 players ready to kick off in front of a lot of fans. Supposedly, Kabul Stadium could hold 20,000 spectators. Yet 40,000 showed up.

As a huge fan of both sports and the free world, this was one of those moments that made me whimper with emotion, almost cry, like a sixteen year old girl watching a Julia Roberts flick.

Love for sport is a shared addiction. Sport is one of those things, like many of Life’s past times that you look forward to every day. For some it might be getting up at the crack of dawn to hunt quail. For others it is a slow-paced chess game by the breezes of Lake Michigan.

While for some, spectating is not just watching a game played by others, but participatory activity. This goes for any good crowd, one comforted at a baseball park in America or another at a soccer match in the poorest of nations.

I remember as a typically poor twenty something hearing some of my smoker friends tell me about the shared addiction concept.

Specifically that, if you smoke, not only is it not rude, but it is no sweat to bum a smoke off another person bearing cigs. Common as a way to make acquaintances, your generous host would only expect this of you and later return the favor. Moreover, you would share a certain camaraderie and enjoy the experience together like a holy sacrament.

My gut tells me that being a sports fan no different. Sure, sports can be a generic first step in a conversation like talking about the weather. But sports talk is, most of the time, a topic warmer than Florida.

Addictions sometimes become abusive...

I think about the first time I took my kid to a Cubs game, and how it stirred up conversations for weeks. Everyone wanted to get the play by play of our kid’s sacramental birth rite. Everybody wanted to see pics.

As we left the stadium with kiddo in stroller, I picked him up a souvenir Cubs ball. One block later we walked by a typical Wrigleyville open air sports bar, one with the bouncers hanging out front. The big bouncer looked at my kid holding the ball and said, “Nice!”

It must not have occurred to bouncer boy that my 3 year old didn’t actually catch a pop up or pick off a ball in-play, Steve Bartman style. But that didn’t matter, it was the enthusiasm shared at that moment that counted.

But like anything, sometimes we can go too far. Thinking about “addiction” in the American context, it is a word that usually comes with baggage. An addiction is something that you try to shake…something that you don’t want if you know what’s good for you.

Right? Just ask a Cubs fan.

After Christmas one year I was with extended family at Universal Theme Park in Orlando. I saw this short, stocky old orange haired woman wearing a Dutch soccer jersey. She saw me curiously scoping to view the logo on her shirt and said, “Feyenoord! [which is the name of the club]… I’m Dutch! Rotterdam!”

One time my turnout to watch the football match got me invited to a wedding. Of course I went.

I wasn’t trying to make conversation, really, though she was. She then showed me every sport-related tattoo she had, all of them the same actually. There, then, a red encircled letter F on her shoulder, one on her other shoulder, then her calf, and her tailbone. I was hoping her pants wouldn't drop to show me the others.

I’ve been told that acquiring tattoos is also a common addiction. For this strange lady, it was a dose of both. But most of us don’t take our shared addiction for sport this far per se. Most of us are generous with it in the best of ways.

With fellow adult sports fans I’ve used a variant of this bumming-a-smoke tactic more than a few times and it’s worked out well. Out of the blue, you might ask a stranger about a score. Or the Michael Vick dog-fighting controversy. Sports banter works well not only for killing boredom at the airports, but for breaking the ice.

I’ve even forged some long term friendships starting at the tail end of a comment about last night’s game. One time my turnout to watch the Arsenal/Chelsea match got me invited to a wedding. (Of course I went.) But, sports camaraderie can sometimes be softer, just as a courteous nod.

Shania Twain used to start her concerts in every city with that city's key sports club on her fine figure. Visiting big towns with split team allegiances, a trip like London's visit would bring out an England rugby shirt, no local teams.

Visiting New Jersey she poshed a Nets shirt to mitigate the controversial pick between Jersey’s other sports teams, the Giants and the Jets (ha ha). In Moline, Illinois, where farming is a sport, Shania wore a John Deere shirt. (I’m not kidding.)

Similarly, about a decade ago I went to the House of Blues in Chicago to check out the final tour of A Tribe Called Quest, the Queens NY rap trio who have sold millions of records with strong beats and a library of sports references.

HoB is a great place to see a show and they could have started the usual boastful rap act. Instead they kicked off with the sounds of Dusty Springfield and stepped casually on stage one at a time wearing Chicago Black Hawks jerseys.

I couldn't help but see this as anything other than a huge gesture of respect to the fans and people of Chicago. For whatever reason, this meant a lot to me.

Certainly these guys, like most men…kids in a candy shop, could have just been stocking up like any sports addict also suffering from life as a shopaholic. But at this moment in time, I think the trio on stage were just sharing the love, and the drug as any other good fellow addict would do.

Frye's new blog is up at MySportsComplex.Blogspot.com, as well as on Facebook, and Twitter. Updates pending release from rehab.

City vs Arsenal: Ire and Fire

As a rabid 18 year old sports fan, my favorite time of year used to be March Madness. Pull up a bucket of KFC, a case of cheap beer brokered by a friend's older brother, and watch countless hours of college basketball, repeating day after day for two weeks.

How times, and tolerance levels have changed.

Maybe 'Madness isn't my thing anymore, since I'm no longer in college. Plus, I've realized that as a 5' foot 7" white guy I'll never make it in the NBA. But then again, maybe it was always the passion not the play that brought me in and kept me for so long.

I remember Princeton fans, educated and arrogant, chanting in other languages. While fans of the small institutions--Davidson, Gonzaga, various unheard-of catholic schools-- carried their teams beyond their actual talent.

Or, Duke fans in '89 throwing condoms on the court as a means to taunt an opposing coach about his philandering (No, it wasn't Rick Pitino).

Sure, college basketball probably still does stir passions for many. But the only other place I've ever seen an equally consistent level of passion is soccer, best in the form of English Football.

For better or worse, I saw that taunting, condom-throwing ire, that friction, and that passion this weekend. Yet no actual condoms needed be thrown.

The match up: Manchester City vs. Arsenal.

To draw an American baseball parallel, this would normally be the Cubs versus the Cardinals. Often a sweep in favor of the Cards. But imagine this year the Cubs just signed Derek Jeter, Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, and Albert Pujols. And a time machine arrives from 1923 with Babe Ruth. Got me?

Man City has a legend for a coach, lots of new money, lots of big names. But team chemistry is in question.
Arsenal has not won the trophy in a few years, but is a perrenial success story. With aware and tempermental fans (much like Cubs fans) Arsenal feels a need for a win not only to solidify their power house status, but also because they lost two key players, Adebayor and Toure, to big money at Man City a few weeks ago.

So the game kicks off and the level of play is world class on both sides. In years past, I have seen this match up end 4-0 to Arsenal, with the first goals scored in under 10 minutes. But it's different, and pleasantly agitating.
Players nudge and foul, badger the official, and cheap shot each other. Ornery fans want their piece but are stapled to the sidelines where they should be. Yet the play is still top shelf, not sloppy for a second.

City score once. Arsenal pull one back after halftime. Man City score once more, and lead the tussle 2-1 over Arsenal, unusual itself. But not before an late set of wild fires.

At 80 minutes, Toure picks up the ball mid-field, hits it long and finds Adebayor whose head strikes it to the back of the net. 3-1 to City.

As if 3-1 wasn't enough Ade sprints the whole length of the pitch, Forrest Gump style, to conclude with a taunting slide right in front of opposing fans. He gets booked, yellow card held high, tempers ignited but all damage done. We think.

Adding salt to the sting, City score a fourth goal, and the Arsenal fans --normally a pouty bunch-- surround me at bar look like Droopy Dog but with red scarves. Arsenal score a consolation to make it 4-2, but losing passions sear to humiliation, as their fans walk out while City fans celebrate like it is a new year.

Great score, great game. Both clubs scored goals galore, passed well, knocked the ball around, but that wasn't the point. The play is never the point. It's always the passion that fuels the performance, and the ire, angst, agony and thrill is what brings the fans back game after game, year after year. Players too. No wonder Brett Favre won't retire.

Whatever it is...If we could bottle all of this up and sell it, the world would be happy and healthy, and we'd all be billionaires.

Yours in joga bonito,
Andy