My Sports/Complex

THE BLOG HAS MOVED

2011-04-11T18:28:00.000-07:00

Hey All,

Just a heads up...

We've moved My Sports / Complex to the Chicago Tribune's blog site ChicagoNow.com. In short, we pitched the idea and they liked it. Here's why we think this is a good move:

-Increased readership in an established online magazine format, run by pros.
-Better interaction with other sports enthusiasts, bloggers and sports fans.
-Greater visibility
-Easier commenting and feedback on articles.
-Maybe the chance to trashtalk with other fans. Which is nice...

In the future you will potentially see new posts such as short stories, book excerpts and other pieces that don't fit the format of an online sports columnist.

But for now, you can connect to the new blog at either of the URLs below.

http://www.MySportsComplexBlog.com
http://www.ChicagoNow.com/mysportscomplex

Thanks for reading,
Andy

Book Excerpt: "Single at 36, Expired at 40"

2011-03-22T20:17:00.000-07:00

Below is an excerpt and a portion of a chapter from my upcoming book, with the working title, “my sports complex”. It is a fiction piece about Tugg Woodward, a newspaper columnist preoccupied with single life, women, and anything remotely linked to sports.

At age 18 men are long since out of puberty. You're a man. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

At 19 men realize they're not as “man” as they think they are. You can get a gun license and be drafted to war. You can open up a checking account, and eat as much White Castle as you want without your parents’ permission. But no beer.

At age 21 you get shitfaced and brag about it for a couple weeks. Then you get a summer job; maybe bartending, hopefully not washing dishes or gutting fish.

At age 22 men exit college or have been in a job for a few years. You either begin to hate your crappy job or catch an uppity primadonna’s syndrome called “Senior-itis”

At age 23 men start doing their own taxes, since it’s expected that you no longer rely on your parents to handle this sort of thing for you. If you're 23 and one of those guys who likes to do your taxes, and always has, then you're probably not getting out enough.

At age 25, you're starting to get “serious” about things. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

At 26 men are supposed to have some semblance of a meaningful job. Respectable furniture, a career maybe, and a car that isn’t totally falling apart. Maybe a few ties and some decent socks too.

At 28 men start to get invited to a lot of weddings. It’s a function of the fact that you’ve got a girlfriend (hopefully) and that she is getting invited to a lot of weddings. In short, her friends are getting married, and her sisters are married, so then you're next.

At 29 men worry about what soon being 30 means. Just like women do.

At age 30 men start to lose touch with popular music. And men’s music-listening repertoire encompasses what music they owned from age 15 to 30. So for me, the collection (some of which is an actual record collection) spans The Smiths and NWA to The Strokes. Which is better than the older single guy next door, whose record collection (all records, that is) spans Foghat to Falco.

Age 33, men shed a sport or give up a habit, maybe two. Or, at least that’s how it’s supposed to go if you're doing what you're supposed to, being married and being responsible. If you're 5 foot 4, you’ll probably give up watching the NBA first. And within a year you won't even know who boxing's Heavyweight Champion of the World is.

At 35 men start to grow unsightly hair from their ears. That’s about it, really.

When I turned 36 I did the usual sports nut thing and took to trying to identify --in my head— any legendary or even prominent athletes who wore number 36. There are a few but not tons.

First and most notable, there’s Jerome Bettis, who wore number 36 with the Pittsburgh Steelers, ending his career with a Super Bowl trophy at age 34. I know a lot about Bettis since he’s a fellow Notre Damer and also because I'm a Steelers fan when they're not playing the Bears. I even had the pleasure of meeting him once at an NFL promotional event. Nice guy.

Other top flight athletes who wear or have worn the 36 are Cliff Lee before he came to the Phillies; Dave Bolland of the Blackhawks; and Brian Westbrook, who wore number 36 over several NFC Championship seasons, a Super Bowl and two Pro Bowls with the Philadelphia Eagles. There’s also Jered Weaver, the All-Star pitcher for the Angels; as well as Shaquille O’Neal, who wears 36 now for the Celtics. Shaq originally wore his favored 32 for the Orlando Magic, and then number 34 for the Lakers, only because they had retired number 32 for Magic Johnson.

There’s also Rasheed Wallace, the wily on-court wildman who wore 36 for the Detroit Pistons after wearing number 30, only to change it back again to number 30 from 36. Wallace even broke 36 technical fouls in a season a couple of times, setting his high in 1999 at 40.

More gentlemanly 36s are pitcher Gaylord Perry, the San Francisco Giants legend, along with Robin Roberts of the Phillies, both of whom had their 36 shirts retired long ago. More obscure, there’s Ohio State’s Chris Spielman, who played for the Lions and now commentates for ESPN. Spielman is also one of football’s great humanitarians. He’s is a consummate class act, a better 36 than Wallace for sure.

On the subject of my hometown Chicago Bears, I was pretty dismayed to find in some internet research that there’s no distinguished Bear who wore 36, not in ’85 during the Super Bowl year, not ever. But an interesting thing happened. What I stumbled upon while trying to find a noteworthy 36 was the score of Super Bowl XX which I kinda sorta had in my head within a couple of points or so. I remember watching as a kid, but forgot the scoreline, just remembering that the Bears won handily. I was reminded, in fact that the Bears beat the Patriots 46 to 10, winning by the Super Bowl by 36.

There are other things that some wouldn’t care about regarding 36 and my 36-year-old’s fascination with #36. Such as the fact that Dennis Rodman was 36 when he won his last NBA title with the Bulls. Or that likewise coach Mike Tomlin won his first Super Bowl for the Steelers at age 36, making him the youngest NFL coach ever win the big one. Or that Wilt Chamberlain’s 36 field goals in a game stands, even today, as a long time NBA record.

Numbers may just be incidental to sport. I think what it is, is that some of us sports enthusiasts have an autistic quality of being able to collect the little pieces of what interests us; it’s an autistic quality that we’re proud of, and one that helps us figure out the patterns of life.

Always terrible with numbers, I am one who is able to remember a player’s shirt number like his face or his stats in a way that suggests that I should have been good at mathematics. For example, if I was given an address to a cookout somewhere, at, say 3144 High Street, I would –knowing that I can’t juggle numbers on their own—translate this address to shirt numbers of notable players, while most normal people would write it down. But me, I‘d pack it away as something like Reggie Miller / John Riggins. That’s #31 for Reggie Miller, a perennial All-Star who played with the Indiana Pacers; and #44 for John Riggins, a Super Bowl champ runningback with the Washington Redskins. Sometimes, this practice pains me, because, dammit, I hate the Redskins.

But maybe it’s not just us fans that catch on to such useful devices. A big deal is made about numbers by the players and clubs too, and even media when they're paying attention.

I remember back in 1995 when Michael Jordan came out of retirement the first time. Since his jersey bearing #23 had been retired by the Bulls, his new number upon his return to the Bulls roster was #45. Number 45 had been his older brother’s high school basketball shirt number, and as the legend goes, the whole reason Jordan took 23 was because he wanted to be “half as good” as his brother was. Certainly, as we saw, #45 wasn’t simply just half as good as #23 was a few years earlier. In fact it seemed like, within a game or two that old #23 was back. In March of ’95 Jordan scored 55 against the Knicks in New York. And later in the fall, a few games into the ’95-’96 season Michael took back shirt #23, and picked up his old, blistering pace.

I could go on for hours Jordan, his stats, and other notable NBA shirt numbers. Eventually though, the irrational sports lover reluctantly comes to terms with the fact –at some point-- that, to the rest of the world, there are more important things than Saturday night’s game.

While some say sports obsession itself is a gender-linked, hard wired obsession, most say age is just a number. Which is true. Age is a number, and a state of mind. So, at age 36 my state of mind must be that you start noticing cool things about the number 36, and little else.

But sports obsessed men are not the only ones who put stock in numbers, using them to their liking.

There’s a theory I’ve recently discovered that seems to be universal in the minds of women, or at least the women that I talk to, and my discovery of it could have something to do with the fact that I'm now just north of age 36, as are many of my own social contacts. Most of my women friends, plenty of whom are single too, have this dangling obsession, like my sports jersey obsession, just the same about a man’s age. Particularly a single man’s age, if “still single”, plays a part in whether he is marketable in the world of eligible females. The difference in this case is that women descend heavily on one particular number, the number 40.

I'm not making this up. I’ve heard plenty of women talk about expiration at 40, and once I first heard about it, I started asking questions.

“What do you think of men who are 40 and never-married?”

And I got feedback. Plenty of it. From the ones that I've polled, the thought is that men over 40 are expired produce. I might even call this whole idea the “40 Year Old Single Rule”, which according to women applies only to men, but not to women. Specifically, the theory goes that all 40-plus still-single men are like bruised fruit at the market, spoiled milk, or skunked red wine. Damaged goods.

But loopholes, albeit small ones, exist. Sure, you might date a single guy at 40 if it was just for fun, for regular easy-access sex. Or maybe you're in Punta Cana with your girlfriends and you meet some nice lad at the tiki bar, who’s nice to look at, has a good personality. Besides, you're only here for another couple days, so who cares. Otherwise, back at home, maybe if you need a date for a double date with a girlfriend, or a stag for a holiday party --especially the dressy kinds where it’s best not to go alone— then, yes, maybe a single 40 guy could have some use. Supposedly a divorced man is a better catch though, as is one who can at least claim a broken off engagement, since each imply at least a semblance of competence and a track record of moving in the right direction.

But according to Cat, Tess, and some of the other female brains I trust, 40/Still-Single men are not the kind of man you set up with your friends or seriously consider yourself.

Sure, the theory hasn’t been officially tested in a controlled environment, or quantified by scientists or gerontologists that I know of. But along with things like the Kennedy Assassination and The Bermuda Triangle, the idea of expiration at 40 is a generally accepted rule. Moreover, The 40 Year Old Single Rule is accepted practice, just like tax accountants use GAAP.

Based on what I have heard, women’s main rationale has mostly to do with one of two things. Specifically, 40 or being almost 40 and always single warns of a couple key things that women consider a major problem:

1)Commitment-phobia. The age-old thought that a man does not want to ever be married or “tied down”. And it is assumed that this specimen, Male #1 let’s call him, is still single because he would rather be a player than a serious mate, or would continue to be a player even if he were to accept the role, officially speaking, as your serious mate.

Paradoxically though, despite the caution advised, one friend suggested her vantage point that flings are OK, since, she says Male #1, is probably good in bed.

2)The second kind, which we’ll call Male #2 is one that is totally, irreparably socially inept.

Male #2 is never-married at 40 because he’s too attached to his mother, has childish hobbies, or focuses on trivial things that demand full saturation of his mind and all of his limited emotions. Hopefully he’s moved out of mom’s house physically, but if so, it doesn’t make much difference. Or maybe he’s just a tad geeky, Quasi Modo-like. Sure, you don’t want to be mean by judging him, but you definitely don’t need to date him, and nor do your friends, even the most hapless and hopelessly single of them.

Then again, at best, he’s married to his job, one to which any woman will always play second fiddle.

He can't hold a conversation and risks boring, nervous, tedious company. He could be prone to temper tantrums or have major unpacked maturity snags that you just don't have the time or energy to deal with. And, I'm guessing, as other women would note, that this one’s probably terrible in bed. Like you even needed a deal breaker.

Beyond those descriptions there are possibly a few legitimate reasons why a man might be 40 and still single. Maybe he’s a poor, lost poet finding himself. Maybe he’s busy taking care of his elderly mother and has a heart of gold. Or maybe because he’s legally a bound slave or serf, beholden to the beck and call of some Roman-style emperor-dictator, witch doctor, or female monarch in a distant, off-the-beaten-path country. Any of which makes him no more attractive to a single girl than either Male #1 or Male #2.

Sounds like a tough rap, being 40ish and single. If you're a man and you have put yourself in this position, you'd better damn well enjoy it or at least not be bothered by the stereotypes about you, right or wrong. Because according to everyone else, unmarried women mainly, it’s like you’ve dropped out of high school and since then have barely held down a pizza delivery job. Or like you’ve done time. Or both.

But that's all according to the prevailing logic. Anyhow, don't ask me, I'm only 36. I've got a few years until they start looking at me with suspicion.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex. All the thoughts and opinions expressed are that of the character, not necessarily the creator. And this is all you’re getting about the book for a while.

Written words © 2011 Pics courtesy of the NBA.com store "customize your jersey" tool.

Book Excerpt: "Comic Moments Following Me"

2011-03-01T18:07:00.001-08:00

Below is an excerpt, and one of the shorter chapters of my upcoming book. The working title, “my sports complex” is a fiction piece about a preoccupied sports writer.

“Gay Gadgets for Guys is now following you on Twitter!”

That was the first email I got when I woke up this morning. I don’t usually get accosted by such things before 8am.

I’ve got this Twitter account as an extension of my life as a professional sports writer and as an unofficial extension of my newspaper column. Just about every journalist has one except perhaps for that quintessential complainer Andy Rooney. And I'm glad Andy Rooney doesn’t have a Twitter account, because he’d only go onto to 60 Minutes and say “Ya know, maybe it’s just me…” and then bitch and moan about his Twitter fix.

Technically speaking, the account by which I am known as @TuggTweets is mine and only mine. But even though it is not affiliated with the Philadelphia Globe, I do have to watch what I say, not only keeping it clean (for the most part) but also keeping what I put out there strictly about today’s game or tomorrow’s sports world, in line with what’s happening in sports. Not my haughty opinions or flippant hourly obsessions.

Sure, social media had changed the way we interact with each other, and it has probably even pushed the boundaries of what we’re comfortable saying. Much of the feedback or “tweets” as they call them come in the form of fan responses; some who agree, some who think my daily diatribes are full of it, and some who just want to shout out as loud as they can digitally about the Phils, Giants, Cliff Lee, LeBron, Tiger Woods or whatever else. Likewise, every time a new user or fan decides to follow me I get an email informing me of it.

This morning’s blurb on my BlackBerry was a special one though, because it’s not every day that I get notification that gay men with toys are “following” me, albeit following me on Twitter, not literally following me, but virtually following me. Hey, I’m all for gay rights and for the community, so that’s no issue. I just think that there’s a chock full of comic value laden in almost every little thing that comes your way. Later, when I took the time to read the email, I found the email’s corporate disclaimer about my right to report Gay Gadgets for "abusive behavior" or “spam” a bit hilarious too. I guess if I am afraid that Gay Gadgets is spamming my account then I can just go ahead and block them. I suspect though that in some quarters that could be considered digital cock blocking.

But it made a little more sense when I read the info within, which took a second to tell me where this came from.

“@GayGadgetsXO follows a user who follows you:
* Tess Morgenstern - http://twitter.com/TessSaysF_Alot”

It makes a lot of sense that this early morning charm came directly by way of my stand up comic friend, the potty-mouthed Tess, as her online moniker, @TessSaysF_Alot, aptly describes her humor and the potency that goes with it. The link to, or the “follow” by the gadgets guys probably isn’t an intentional joke, nor do I think she put them up to it. But it just demonstrates the odd way by which we all cross-pollinate in the digital age. I tweet the same way I write, about the same old things. About sports, day in and day out. Every once in a while like today, the boomerang comes back to me with a big dildo attached to it. Such is the life of a full time writer and semi-professional smart ass.

But the mention of Tess, serendipitously name-dropped by my new friends in the gadget business, brought to mind a funny episode that happened the same day I saw her last, a week ago. My cell went off and I heard what sounded very clearly like a kid’s voice, and then it went like this…

“Hello, this is Tugg.”
“Hello,” says the little voice.
“Yeah?”
“Who’s this?”
“Tugg.”
“Doug? Who…Who’s this?”
“No. It’s Tugg.”
“Who’s Doug?”
“I think you got the wrong number, kid.”
“What?”
“Who are you trying to call?”
< Click. >

Then a minute later the phone rang again. I ignored it and then it rang another time, and I ignored that too. Because I was eating lunch and reading up on what the sports page over at the Inquirer had to say today, I had my attentions occupied. I didn’t feel like answering and I wouldn’t have answered again no matter what, not right now, even if it was my editor, a friend or god forbid, my mother. Later, after finishing my Thai, I checked my voice mail to find the sounds of the same anonymous kid.

“Hey you! I’m gonna kick your butt!” < Click. >

For a minute I felt my wise guy inside jump up, ready to spew a comeback comment. Either that or it was just the 14 year old I used to be, who occasionally rears his ugly, petulant head that awoke me from my grown-up workday grumble. I wanted to say “bring it on” to this kid since, you know, I could totally take him and probably kick his dad’s ass too.

It is the little comic moments like these that, at least in my days, make the stale air fresh again, and this was one of those privately side-splitting things that you want to tell somebody about back at work, like, “Guess what… I just got threatened by an 8 year old.” This little kid who should have been at school or daycamp just called to tell me, some stranger, that he was gonna kick my ass. And in a way he did kick my ass or at least knock me off my serious grown-up perch. Oh, if I only coulda thanked him.

But I was in for more as the day moved along. Tess and I have this ritual about once every other month, and once a month in the summertime, of blowing off our respective work to cut out early and grab some margaritas at, say 2 or 3pm in the afternoon. Much of her gig, besides the drama teaching, is at night and mine is whenever, so mid day on a Tuesday or Wednesday just makes sense for alcohol as long as there’s nothing pressing to do. And when you get to make your own schedule, as I do and she does, then you take it as one of the best perks of the job and use it wisely. I figured it was time for us to catch up; me on her latest life antics, and her getting into my business and the details she loved about the women I'm chasing.

But better yet, this day I got to drop in early on her, to check out her improvisational comedy classes at the mini mecca of comedy on the East Coast known as The Tableau Theatre. Tableau is housed in a majestic old bank building, one of the kinds you often see in Philly that I love, bearing the name of an old and now defunct financial institution up on the frieze above the doorways. I think Tess teaches the class because she loves it and it is some nice extra pay. It probably keeps her fresh in between the local shows she does and her cross-country stints that happen twice a year, when she hits the big clubs like Zanies in Chicago and Mitzy’s in LA. But behind the stoic marble doorways was a boiling comic cauldron, one that looked as though it was a nutty gameshow shot out of the bowels of hell onto a stage. As a spectator I’d get a closer glimpse of what makes a comic mind work, and maybe what Dante was onto.

“Okay. Sandy. Mitch. Mike. You're up. And…and you're at work along the shore on the dock, bitches. Go”.

That’s what I hear as I peer in and plop down in a seat in the back row, as I let myself in, acknowledged by a winky smile and a Marine Corps salute from Tess. But before letting the three players get on with it, Tess interrupts the moment with some coaching about commitment, going into the scene.

“Remember guys: whatever is happening, commit to your character, the character you're choosing. And remember, it only sucks if you don’t commit and decide it sucks.” They nod. “So don’t let it suck. Have fun with it.”

Tess doesn’t really know anything about sports, and she’d tell you herself that she doesn’t care about sports. Or as she put it to me once, “I don’t give a camel’s cock about sports, my friend”. I don’t know what makes her comic mouth so rough, or rough to some people that is, yet I'm just as humored by every word that comes out of her mouth as I think she is. In truth, she’s really a nice person and someone who can disarm you. But she likes to put you on the spot –you, me and everybody—and that’s part of the fun of it. But like the most committed and intense athletes I’ve known --both pro and everyday amateur-- she’s got a thing, a hang-up maybe, that demands performance. And she’s got an energy that brings it out of you. It makes me think Tess instructs these up-and-coming actors because it gives her a chance, just a little bit once in a while, to mess with people but make them witness, maybe force-feed themselves the comedy in life in the same way that little kid made me feel it on the phone that day. What Tess was instructing was something pretty simple. That is, when you get an idea to stick with it, push it and make it work. If you're on stage and your character is sweeping then floor then sweep with enthusiasm. In improv, it turns out, if you stick to what you’re doing you’ll find the scene and so will the others in the scene with you. Otherwise, if you drop your initiation in lieu of something else, then you're confused and confusing the audience, looking like an asshole.

The scene, as it turned out, was pretty entertaining. Somehow, from that simple instruction that “you're at work at a dock”, the mini-show that morphed out of it was a silent one in which one longshoreman yanked a rope and the other two bounced, back and forth, totally silent. And for about four minutes I was entertained by a silent tug-of-war that could have been crafted by classic Buster Keaton or the Keystone Cops, but with a script. After the skit, a few more words about commitment came out.

“If you don’t like something at first, what you discover in the scene, then take your face and rub it into that bitch, until you love that shit. Whatever happened up there you guys found what was going on and worked with it. Nice one.”

And I agreed to, nice job. But that was honestly the first time I had ever heard the topic of commitment described that way: as something you'd enjoy if only you’d rub your face in it more.

For a moment it sounded like words an angry Vince Lombardi would have rambled to his Packers on a lazy day of bad practice. Or something that your wrestling coach says when you're puking after the day’s block of sprinting, conditioning, jumping rope, and rolling around on a mat with other sweaty wrestlers, only to be told you need to step it up. Then again, this sentiment --if you don’t like something in life, rub your face in that shit-- is kind of a statement you’d find in a manic, over-caffeinated version of a Deepak Chopra day calendar. Still it makes sense.

The best stand up greats like Tess, and others like Eddy Izzard, Patton Oswalt, Bruce, Belzer, and Wright, and even less blue-humored types like Bill Cosby and the great Robert Klein can pull off a great comic masterpiece on their own, on stage for a good hour or so, creating their own space and filling it solely from their own mania and the creativity inside that drives them. But the comedy, the best comedy I think comes out of great group sketches I’ve seen --and that we’ve all seen-- in movies, Saturday Night Live, etc. Maybe that’s why I came today. Nothing against solo stand-up, but I think sketch comedy is such a feast, and when it really works that’s when it resembles a family style meal. It’s like everyone takes a slice of this, a scoop of that and everyone passes it around until we’re all served, making a mess together. Meanwhile, someone else breaks bread while someone else pours wine, another spills the wine, heightening the experience. The kids jump out of their chairs, peas hit the floor, and grandpa’s dentures slip out and get stuck in a corn cob. All of this makes it an enjoyable and laughable meal together. And comedy, like eating together, is real life.

In another sketch scene, four of them went up on stage standing tall, arms out, acting like trees. The fifth player, catching onto this scenery, picked apples one tree at a time, breaking into monologue, talking about his trees, naming them one by one. The first tree he called a “Japanese Maple” keeled over and committed a hari kari ritual suicide, and then when he plucked the fruit from a “Palestinian Delicious” as he called it, the tree, in politically incorrect fashion just blew up.

Suddenly we had a scene about trees killing themselves. Could have been just in my mind, but it dawned on me that same week the news reported the poisoned oak trees at Auburn, and someone blamed Alabama football fans. So it looked like I just got an unscripted version of the day’s news and social commentary, just for stopping in. Rather, these open eared, witty comics just switched their brains on the high notch and took each others subtle cues, rolling with it, producing something impromptu that at least I thought was funny.

There was no script, and with improv there never is a script, yet it all worked, just like much of what happens in the moment of the day, day in, day out. I get that improvisational comedy is about taking an idea, agreeing to it, heightening it, and even making a repetitive game out of it. The question that always comes up is about what creates comedy. What makes funny funny?

There isn’t an easy answer, or at least not an answer that is easily articulated. I know when something is obviously funny, we all do. Maybe some people have it and others just don’t, which would suggest that funny is a personality trait, but I don’t think that it is. But I’d just observe.

In another scene, a lanky, perky redhead was on stage with a grey and tubby, unshaven middle aged buy bearing his ubiquitous smartass smirk. I forget what the Tess’s suggestion was, but suddenly we were at a singles bar. I was not surprised that the talk converted its idle chatter into a commentary about sexuality.

“We have a lot in common you and me,” the guy said, like he was hitting on the girl at a snazzy nightclub. He goes on to stammer on about how much he loves Italian girls, and that his mother is a lesbian. The quippy redhead responded, “As an ethnic half-Italian I find it so sexy that you're ethnically half lesbian.”

I laughed as did the rest of the small crowd. Ethnically half lesbian? I don’t quite understand the mechanics of what made that comment funny. But it is funny, when you think about it, that someone, somewhere out there might actually describe himself as being ethnically half lesbian. Hell, I wish I was at least half lesbian
“Allright. Scene.” Tess called, ending it on a high note. “Nice work. See what happens when you let it flow and just enjoy the fucking ride?”

I think for one that Tess had a way of pumping us up with her off beat instructional style and her cussing encouragement. I had a gym teacher in high school who once told me to “get my shit together”, but had never had a professor to tell me to enjoy the ride or to “get off hard” in Journalism 101 the way Tess advocated her students to get off on stage. That freedom and encouragement to say “yes” to the idea that comes up first, is what I heard Tess call the “Yes And” concept. And it seems to be what makes it work every time. Whatever you’re given you say “yes” to, and then add something else. Yes and.

Though I’d never taken an acting class or a comedy workshop in my life, and I probably wouldn’t make time to, I thought for a minute that maybe “Yes And” was something I needed a little bit more of in my life, here in the grind.

Comic class cleared out, and Tess gave me the usual hug hello and a kiss on the cheek, stating “See, people who get high can get things accomplished.” I never doubted her will to get things accomplished. And high or not I wouldn’t think her weed is what makes Tess and everything around her funny.

Like the end note at the end of that email said, “You do not follow Gay Products Gadgets. What's Next?” I wasn’t sure what was next to follow, but I’d be ready.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex, trying to keep up with Andy Rooney.

Written words © 2010 Pics courtesy of Kaleidoscope Isle of Wight.

Who will replace Fergie?

2011-02-07T18:57:00.000-08:00

For those of you who were hoping I had something to say about the Super Bowl Halftime Show, I’m sorry. Or, if you were hoping to find pics of the gyrating curves of Stacy Ann Ferguson, aka “Fergie” of the Black Eyed Peas, again my apologies, but you’ve got the wrong Fergie.

Sir Alex Ferguson has lots of bling for an avowed socialist.

You may know very little about soccer abroad, or at home. It may even bother you that most of the world calls soccer “football”, not to be confused with the kind that just engulfed our entire Sunday. But chances are that if you know anything about sports, you know that Manchester United is arguably the biggest sports club on the planet.

Bigger than the Dallas Cowboys, bigger than the Green Bay Packers. Bigger than the LA Lakers, bigger than the Chicago Bulls in Michael Jordan’s heyday and bigger than any hockey team, even with Wayne Gretzky. Their supporters are everywhere across the world, their reach stretching farther than Steelers fans, Ohio State Football crazies, and probably Catholic missionaries too. Only the New York Yankees or perhaps their Spanish soccer rival Real Madrid, primarily in the Spanish-speaking world, venture to come even close.

You may hate Manchester United or soccer as a whole, and may have stopped reading by now. But if not, it’s important to notice that besides the millions of fans, fame, money, 11 championships in two decades, and world titles, there is one solid factor that has remained a constant in the 25 years of success for Man United. That is their coach and manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, who has been at the helm for 25 years.

José Mourinho (l) wants Fergie’s job, but his mouth gets him in trouble with media and club owners.

But Laurent Blanc aka “Larry White” (middle) seems to be a favored front runner, while Martin O’Neill (r) is a possibility.

A coach with a 25 year stint at any organization is a rarity in big money sports. Within English Football, Newcastle United, a cross-country rival has had 13 managers since the arrival of Ferguson at Man United.

In college basketball, Jim Boheim has stayed at the controls at Syracuse almost as long since the late 1980s, along with Duke’s Mike Krzyzewski and Maryland’s Gary Williams. But in pro sports Phil Jackson’s six championships and total dominance of the NBA in eight years bought him nothing more than a open door leading outward from the Chicago Bulls. Even Billy Martin’s spotty decade with the Yankees didn’t occur without Martin getting fired several times.

United has hosted some of the world’s biggest footballers, both acquired and home grown, often watching them excel to greater heights. Legends like Paul Ince, Eric Cantona, Cristiano Ronaldo, David Beckham have all come and gone, while others like Ryan Giggs and Wayne Rooney have stayed. Like it or not though, perhaps no player, no matter how famous, no matter how excellent, is bigger than the club and its manager.

Nonetheless, United’s training academy appears to continue morphing crafty 13 year olds toward becoming world class players; and the coffers are rife with money to acquire new talent from other clubs bent on cashing in on United’s check writing skills.

While the on-field talent has remained constant, many of United’s past legends such as Mark Hughes and Steve Bruce have had marginal success in managing clubs. Meanwhile, other legends like Roy Keane and Bryan Robson have had, at best, short and rocky careers running clubs into the ground.

'80s legend Robson, left, has been a managerial flop and Roy Keane, right, hasn’t fared much better.

Other legends who want the job and won’t get it: Paul Ince, Steve Bruce, Steve Coppell, Mark Hughes, and Eric Cantona.

My joke about this is that while sharing a history at Man United, former United stars share one common coaching skill: the ability to drive a busload of footballers downhill, fast.

Some predict that Ferguson, age 69, will step down fairly soon. His eventual retirement, whether voluntary or forced by Father Time, may possibly signal and end to Manchester United’s unfettered dominance. United haters, of course, hope it will herald the eventual demise of the club.

David Moyes, left, has done wonders at Everton with scant money and fair talent. Another possibility could be Gordon Strachan, right.

But with its reputation, past success, and large sums of money, it would be hard to think that Manchester United would make a careless choice in putting in place the next manager of the world’s biggest club. And if their first choice, whoever that may be, among managers is not available at the time of the next position opening, it’s likely that at least Steve McClaren, who got fired again this weekend, will be available.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.

Written words © 2011. Pictures courtesy of The Daily Telegraph, UK

"Karma Bus Rides Through Hell"

2011-01-17T11:41:00.000-08:00

The following is part of a series called Short Short Sports Stories which are real life stories, funny stuff, quips and things that happened around 1000 words.

About three years ago I was on a city bus on the way to one of my adult intramural soccer games. Typically I try to avoid the bus when I can, but on this early evening in Chicago I didn’t have the car and the sports complex hosting my game was west of the el train, so the Chicago Transit bus it was.

Besides the usual crowd of people minding their own business on the way home from work, there was a man in a wheel chair who was restless, unruly and downright obnoxious. He was doing a UFC fighting style play-by-play of the entire bus ride, while sort of telling the driver what to do. Meanwhile he seemed to be warning every one of the perils of the road.

As the CTA bus sped up from 20 miles per hour to a blistering 30 the guy in the wheelchair pipes in and really hits his high notes.

“You almost hit that curb and if you did that guy woulda flown through that windshield and OH that woulda been MESSED UP! Sheeeeit…” Sure, the guy in the wheelchair was exaggerating big time. At 30 miles per hour nobody flies anywhere. But at least this “bus seat driver” was enjoying himself.

A few people got on and a few people got off, and this is typical of the CTA bus and city life. Often people in the big city coexist side by side without paying too much mind to the person next to them. They go about their business and don’t bother with much besides their business. And even though I’ve lived in the city for a decade and a half, maybe the fact that I grew up in the peaceful and (at times) boring suburbs makes me take notice of city’s odd performers. But this guy really wasn’t too hard to notice.

I was playing goal keeper that night for an indoor game, so I used this bus time to tape up my hands. This was something that usually drew a few strange glances since I don’t exactly look like a boxer. But today nobody paid much mind to me since the live entertainment was at the front of the bus.

“You almost hit that dude crossing the street and damn, he woulda went down on the ground and got CRUSHED! That woulda been MESSED UP! DAMN!” Still, nobody seemed to be amused or even fazed except for me. Maybe they were just avoiding eye contact.

We were the stars and cast on a city bus sitcom from Hell.

This guy in the wheel chair didn’t seem to be certifiably crazy, but did, based on his scruffy appearance and dirty clothes, look to be chronically homeless or maybe just one of the city’s more eccentric outcasts. And he wasn’t really bothering anybody individually, just all of us mildly as a collective cast on a sitcom from Hell. But it wasn’t until kids got on the bus that his shtick heightened its colorful language.

The bus got rolling again at regular speed but eventually made an abrupt stop to comply with regular Chicago traffic. Some bike messenger zipped by us, as they’re known to do, cutting in front of the halted bus and then shot between the next lanes to the left.

“If that guy was there a second ago, he woulda got FUCKED UP! On his bike too! BAM!" he said.

“Shut up and watch your language!” the bus driver asserted, “Or get off the bus, OK?,” now getting fed up with the unnecessary antics from this one guy.

Subsequently, the strange play-by-play commentator in the wheelchair took a commercial break and refocused his attention to the boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old, who was sitting nearby with his very old grandmother.

“Do you have a dream, Son? If you do, you gotta follow that dream, Son. Know what I’m sayin’?” he said as the boy feigned disinterest from the awkwardness in the air. Though the play-by-play had stopped for now, this peculiar moment seemed like a staged, uncanny transmission of a sports event with a nightmare broadcaster.

I was wondering if the man actually thought this kid would have any interest in what he had to say. Maybe he should have put a different way, something like, “Follow your dreams son. Or you could end up crazy some day, shouting on a bus like me.”

Luckily for me my stop came up. And as I got off the rear of the bus, two Transit Detail police officers stepped on to escort the commentator off, indicating this hell ride had gone on long enough, well before I got on the bus.

When I got to the field house for my game of footy, I noticed I didn’t have my shin pads, which are required by the officials if you actually want to play. Not a big deal, though. I just exercised the age-old soccer trick of applying semi shin pads made out of a few inches of paper towels from the bathroom and extra tape. But after that, I felt like the loud passenger’s disaster karma followed me from the bus and onto the pitch.

"Welcome to the CTA, home of your play-by-play hell ride."

During warm ups, I fielded a few shots but then took a shot to the groin from Hank, my own team mate. With his customary clinical scoring prowess he hit me square in the balls with painful execution. I got up of the floor feeling dizzy though my head had nothing to do with the collision. And for a moment, I have to admit, I felt totally “messed up”, like my groin itself got hit by that bus.

After the game kicked off, we played reasonably well but fell behind to this team we had beaten handily before. Later in the game bus karma struck again, I took another ball straight to the face from the other team trying to score. I recovered just fine thinking that today was not my day to leave the house.

After 45 minutes on the pitch, we went down 4 to 3 against our opponent, in a long, drawn out, low scoring game. Indoor soccer, like every other sport –-and bus rides too— are unpredictable, and you just have to take and work with what comes your way; meanwhile doing your best to make it a great game.

But at the conclusion of the match, I was wary of more bus hell karma. As you could guess, I decided on the way home I was definitely getting a ride.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.

He recovered just fine from both warm ups and the bus ride.

Written words © 2011. Pics courtesy of ebaumsworld.com. CTA bus art depiction by the late schizophrenic rapper/artist Wesley Willis.

Respectfully Yours, New York / New Jersey.

2011-01-12T17:03:00.000-08:00

There’s an old joke that used to float around eastern Pennsylvania when I was a kid, and I know it by heart. Along with knowing who Jim O’Brien and Jerry Penacoli were, knowing this joke is another true test of your provenance if you grew up in the years between the two times that the Phillies won the Series.

A friendly note for a New Jersey Devil fan. You weren't expecting a mint on your pillow were you?

But it’s not necessarily a Philly joke, I don’t think, because when I first heard it I was at summer camp up in the Poconos, and if I remember right, I think I learned the joke from a couple of other camper kids from Staten Island. Anyhow, it goes like this:

Q: What’s the difference between trash and a New Jersey girl?
A: Trash get’s picked up.

Now, sure, that joke is not fair. That is unless by “trash” you're talking about the Kevin Smith film, “Jersey Girl”. Most people I know in Philly and around the area really do like New Jersey for many things: its shores, its comfortable combination of suburbia and proximity to the cities; and even cuisine, which once in a while garners the accolades of “Best New York Style Pizza” and “Best Philly Cheesesteak” according to the magazines. And if you have a little bit of Amish in you or you enjoy the taste of innards you can find many breakfast spots in places like Cape May and Wildwood Crest that even serve scrapple with your cozy morning eggs. New Jersey is a nice place to live with cool people everywhere. Even Jersey girls.

But when it comes to sports and sports fan rivalries, that’s a-whole-nother set of trash. In fact, New Jersey, the land that sits by default between New York and Philadelphia is a wasteland of sports trash talk that never seems to get picked up.

Somehow, a week into the NFL Playoffs, the Eagles crashed out while the New York Giants (who play in New Jersey actually) never made it in, even with a 10 and 6 record. Meanwhile, the Seattle Seahawks, who could not even manage to win the majority of their games this season, look set to challenge for a trip to the NFC Conference Championship.

Yet on the other side of the league, the AFC’s Jets, former denizens of old Shea Stadium who now play at the New Jersey Meadowlands, slipped by the mighty Colts only to find they’ll meet up this weekend with the Patriots in New England. And if odds are correct, the Jets won’t be playing again in Jersey any time soon.

This kinda bums me out just like it bums out everyone back home too. After stealing Cliff Lee right under the nose of the Yankees and a last minute kick return touchdown and win over the Giants at the Meadowlands, Philly fans were hoping to get the chance to meet the Giants in the playoffs, with the possibility of adding insult to injury. And if you’ve ever seen the film Big Fan, starring Patton Oswalt, you get a sense of how bad Giants fans dislike the Eagles and Eagles fans even more. I always think that the rivalry between team’s fans makes the competition ever sweeter.

But instead of rattling cages against the Giants, Philly got to host the Green Bay Packers and their polite fans, as the Pack politely escorted the home team to an early off-season, beating Philadelphia 21-16. My sense about things and personal finger on the football pulse of people I know seems to suggest that after a back to back spanking by the Dallas Cowboys last season, in game 16 and in the first week of the playoffs, Eagles fans wanted to reconcile this season with the last one by rehashing the other division rivalry.

A New York / Philly mash up in the post season would have been the icing on the sweetest cake: a soufflé, half baked of an awful season for Dallas and the other half sugared with the failure of Donovan McNabb at Washington with the Redskins.

What I am getting at is that Philly fans wanted to do what they do best, cheer their team and talk trash about the neighbors. Sure we boo Santa, and sometimes we throw icicles. But that’s not what Philly fans do best. Not joking.

With nothing going on football-wise in Jersey or Philly now, it’s back to civil discourse and good behavior for a while. Until then, New Jersey fans, we’re respectfully yours.

But wait…I guess there’s always hockey season, isn’t there?

Andy Frye writes about sports and life a couple times a month here, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.

Where he comes from “a-whole-nother” is actually a word.

Written words © 2010. Love note picture courtesy of Tom Weisbecker.

Sports Philandering, or Free Love?

2011-01-03T18:46:00.000-08:00

If you're a football fan then bowl game season is rife with opportunities to try on different hats in rooting for different teams. You might see football fans cheer for a small school in a bowl game just because they are the under dogs. Or, because by beating their competition it might assure your team a better spot in the national rankings.

Yesterday was the first time all season that friends of mine who are Ohio State fans set aside their personal bias and to cheer for the Big Ten teams in their respective bowl games. Likewise, fans of Michigan and Northwestern visibly did the same, cheering for normal in-season rivals, not to mention that the ESPN Radio guys were talking all day about "Big Ten Love".

Unfortunately for this temporary Big Ten harmony, it was a bad day overall, as Wisconsin and Northwestern lost narrowly. Worse yet, Michigan and Michigan State each got trounced by SEC teams by more than 5 touchdowns a piece, to Bama and Mississippi State, respectively. I think the growth of the Big Ten beyond ten teams may have something to do with it, but I also think that courteous and neighborly Midwesternism makes the college football fans west of the Allegheny Mountains root for the conference as a whole.

My original home base of Philadelphia is a big sports town, and in my view when it comes to college sports, basketball seems to be king in generating the most interest and college sports angst. But basketball fans there have the luxury of the fact that their teams in the “Big 5” (Penn, Temple, Villanova, LaSalle and St. Joe’s) are spread throughout the Atlantic Ten, Ivy League, and Big East conferences.

Still, when the Big 5 teams play each other the there’s no love lost for sure, like with Big Ten football on a normal week. But without a formal Big 5 tournament, the Philly Big 5 champion is determined by who bagged the best results against local rivals. After that, one or two Philadelphia schools go onto March Madness as they have for 33 consecutive years without so much as a pat on the back or a good luck salute from the city’s other rival fans. So, as a lifelong Villanova fan (and someone raised Catholic) I can’t say I care too much what St Joe’s makes of the tournament. If the Hawks make it in, good for them and good for the city, I guess.

Likewise, come Tuesday night I doubt that there will be a ton of Penn State fans pulling real hard for Ohio State to beat Arkansas just so the Big Ten can look good. And they sure as hell won’t be cheering for Pitt in the Compass Bowl on January 8th, whether or not it makes Pennsylvania look good.

So it must be a Midwestern thing, this cordial approach to spectating. Big Ten football is one thing, but I’ve noticed this tendency --sports philandering you could call it-- in more extreme forms in and around Chicago and other places in the center of the country.

I know a few people in Chicago who hail from St Louis and, as Cards fans, follow the Cubs during baseball season and generally have stated that they hope for the Cubs to do well. This doesn’t make a bit of sense since the Cardinals and Cubs are in the same division, making it a zero sum game since only one can win the NL Central and get an assured pass to the playoffs. Then again, this friendly sentiment could be some sort of Cardinals mind trick.

Plus, last week, Bears fans that got out to watch the Eagles / Vikings game at a Bears-only-no-Vikings-fans bar were cheering vocally for the Vikings. I noticed that every time the Vikings, who ended up winning, did something marginally good, there were positive chirps from the beer-buzzed pre-Christmas Bears bar crowd. The sports philandering that occurred on this foggy night, however, was solely the pleasure-seeking type of philandering; since a loss for the Eagles meant a playoff bye and a week of rest for the Bears.

Even better, I have heard over the years from Bears fans how much they like Lambeau Field and enjoy the trip to Green Bay to play the Packers, as they probably did Sunday. Sure, Lambeau has a nice atmosphere. And if their habits stay the same, most of these Bears fans on the road home would have, I am certain, stopped to pick up some Wisconsin brats and cheese curds on the way. Yet, I’d be hard pressed to think that Eagles fans in Dallas would stay an extra hour to shop at the original Neiman Marcus.

“People in the Midwest are just nicer,” my wife explains. Could be. No wait... they’re definitely nicer come to think of it. But I don’t think that totally explains it all.

Carolina fans only. Besides, Clemson fans don't own shoes.

One thought came to mind at the conclusion of my holiday week away, at the graveyard where my late father-in-law is buried. Our visit is a usual thing when we’re in Ohio for a few days, and I remember Doug as a great guy who loved life, good food, golf, and college football. Doug had, while marginally supporting his childhood home team of South Carolina, adopted the Ohio State Buckeyes as another home team at home.

Sure, Doug was a Buckeyes fan, but he was rather shown up by all the other sports fans in this cemetery. I saw plenty of gravestones with Ohio State logos, plus several representing other sports teams like Michigan State, Miami U and the Cincinnati Reds, plus a few with Bengals stripes on them not to mention the local Centerville High School Elks crest.

Maybe what it is, is this: That fans in the Midwest love their sport and feel secure enough in their fandom not only to take it to the grave, but also to share a little of their affections while living. And if that’s the case, it’s not philandering but free love.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.

Like others do now, he plans to follow sports someday from the grave.

Written words and pics © 2011

2010's Ten Best Running Sports Jokes

2010-12-12T10:17:00.000-08:00

The best part about a joke, particularly the kind of joke that enjoyed by you at the expense of someone else, is that it is not meant to be a joke.

Some of 2010’s most enjoyable sports moments were completely unintentional; others borne out of the silliness that is the sports life.

If you thought watching the World Cup in a bar got you some peace, forget it.

1. Vuvuzelas.

Nobody in the world had any idea what “vuvuzela” meant until spectators and commentators alike started complaining about the constant buzz from these horns throughout the game.

Annoyed TV pundits suggested everything from quieter horns to horns that sound less buzzy and more like real horns (maybe “hornier” horns), to the idea that maybe more goals scored would shut these fans and their horns up. Fat chance. But at least you can now pronounce vuvuzela. Hopefully.

2. The Chicago Bears stink, but are good.

Now in pole position to clinch the NFC North, questions have lingered for over a year whether Jay Cutler is as good as they say or just a primadonna with an occasionally accurate arm.

Then, there were questions about whether the Bears’ offensive line could play in keeping with the NFL’s rumored under-the-table policy of protecting quarterbacks from getting clobbered. But after eeking out wins against their division rivals and beating the Eagles and an early-season Cowboys team at home, it seems that Lovie Smith may be asked to come back. Likewise, Cutler is playing his team to their potential, and the Bears will start to be taken seriously so long as they make it to the playoffs without getting embarrassed.

3. Brett Favre’s phone antics

There’s not much new news here, but since I wrote last winter about how great Brett Favre is an how everyone lives him, maybe I should have taken a cue from “There’s Something About Mary” a film from ten years ago that placed Favre in a bit part as the some time on-and-off boyfriend of a beautiful blonde who kept referring to a mysterious man named just “Brett”. Then again, that was back before we could text and take dirty pics on our cell phones.

We all know what he did, with texts and pictures (allegedly) to a woman who worked for the New York Jets while he was there as starting QB. The sports pundits keep beating the scandal of it to death, but what most of us, those who have followed pro sports and (by default) pro sports celebrities for years, found surprising is that Favre was actually stupid enough to take part in this sort of activity.

4. England’s goalkeeper, Robert Green

Actually a decent goalie in the English League, Green, the #1 at West Ham United, makes the blunder of a lifetime as he mishandles a weak, slow tip of the boot of USA’s Clint Dempsey, which evens the score to 1-1.

"Oh, Crap !" and the goal that really shouldn't have gone in.

Somehow, after floundering around against Algeria in a drab 0-0 tie, England advances to the next round before self-destructing against Germany, who beat them 4-1.

And just to top himself, Green did it again, yesterday, on December 11th against Man City in front of his home crowd.

5. The New York Yankees choke, again.

You have to give the Texas Rangers credit for being a good team, motivated by a great coach, who focused them and took the Rangers to the next level in reaching the World Series.

But with a $206 million payroll and an average Yankee salary at $3 million above the median, one might expect the Yankees to make the ALCS more of a series then they did.
But like most non-Yankee fans, I am actually glad they didn’t.

6. Danica Puts Her Foot in Her Mouth Instead of on the Accelerator

Danica Patrick probably gets more scrutiny, unfairly, than the average racing talent because she is after all the only woman out there. But she should have known better, in such a skeptical, male-dominated environment, than to criticize her car, criticize her techs &track crew, and let it get out to the public.

Her first NASCAR start, also in 2010, was marred by a 12 car accident, and she’s continued to have some growing pains with NASCAR, posting unimpressive finishes.

Not surprising, some NASCAR folk complained that Patrick’s low body weight, as a petite and fit woman, could give her an unfair advantage. But with her talent still there, let’s hope it was only a few ignorant boos and media noise that took her off track a bit in 2010.

7. Ben Roethlisberger is done being an idiot.

A year after winning his second Super Bowl, Big Ben got himself into some Kobe Bryant style media trouble. Last time he won a Super Bowl, he only jeopardized his entire career and livelihood by falling off a motorcycle without a license or a helmet.

Along with being suspended four games without pay, Big Ben was sentenced to undertake an NFL “professional behavior evaluation”. Better yet, Roethlisberger was recently lampooned on South Park’s episode entitled “Sexual Healing”.

8. Arena Football, not an April Fools joke. Nor the USFL either.

Arena Football re-launched itself on April Fools Day, but it was not a joke. However, their choice of the day to make their official announcement might call their thought process into question.

Rejoice! The Boston/Portland/New Orleans Breakers are back!

But, as a consolation, the USFL, known for it’s corrupt sounding team names like the Gunslingers, the Maulers, the Bandits, and the Outlaws, heralded its own return too. The USFL’s last announcement (which can be found at http://www.thenewusfl.com/ ) was that they are back, but not til 2012, if then.

9. The Dallas Cowboys going nowhere at 1 and 7.

The Cowboys were looking good at the top of the power rankings and average fans like me who don’t root for the Cowboys were bracing for Tony Romo and company to light the NFL on fire, and make it miserable for all of us.

The Cowboys still have a ton of talent on the team, but forgot one important ingredient to a Super Bowl run. That ingredient: WINNING GAMES. The Cowboys won one of their first eight games and saw long time Coach Wade Phillips tossed out into the parking lot with his belongings.

But with a new coach and Cowboys legend Don Meredith in Heaven, maybe the Cowboys can save some face and play somewhere near their abilities, if it behooves them.

I took this photo during halftime of the England / Germany game. And this sums it all up.

10. Mayweather ducks Pacman, Dances with the Stars.

Seasoned boxer and sometime champion, Floyd Mayweather, Jr., spent the entirety of 2010 and some months before this year ducking Manny “Pacman” Pacquaio.

His reasoning could be sound, given that many pro boxing experts consider the undefeated Pacman the best fighter pound for pound in the history of the sport. However, Mayweather blames Pacman’s camp for not being able to come to a deal.

And besides, as evidence of his participation in Dancing with the Stars, he’s a currently working on his showboating and salsa moves.

-----

Andy Frye writes about sports and life a couple times a month here, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.

Besides that, he’s a very busy dancer as well.

Written words © 2010. Breakers helmet pic courtesy of The New USFL, and pic of Green courtesy of cnn.com

Somebody Please Help the NFL Find Its Spine

2010-11-29T18:01:00.000-08:00

I’d hate to have been a parent with my kid at the Titans / Texans game yesterday in Houston watching in shock, surprise and maybe horror as Andre Johnson and Cortland Finnegan got into a fist fight after ripping off each other’s helmets after the play broke up.

Granted, I don’t go to many NFL games and probably wouldn’t take my kid, but I wouldn’t have wanted to see that. Must have been a tough work day as a millionaire on either one of these mediocre teams, but sometimes having gainful employment is difficult, and personality conflicts are part of the job.

In Soccer, not considered a “real” sport by American Football’s geniuses, team mates Lee Bowyer (left) and Kieron Dyer brawl. Dyer got a 3-gan suspension, while Bowyer (who started it) was fined $200,000 and banned 4 games.

These days we’re hearing a lot of complaints from players and pro football pundits that the NFL has allegedly gone soft. Their argument is that the NFL has cheapened the game by not letting players hit each other harder and with more force, knocking off helmets and roughing players more and more. Moreover, such voices argue that the NFL is “protecting” quarterbacks to keep up scoring and boost ratings.

Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I remember the grand old days when stripping the ball and grabbing the face mask were both illegal; and even way, way back, when players had to actually fully enter the end zone to score a touch down, before badgering the ref to just give them the points so they could dance in the end zone. Now face masking is accepted practice and players barely need to have a foot in to be awarded points; while defensive players (in lieu of tackling their opponents) hit the ball fist-first like Gabrielle Reece during a bikini-clad beach Volleyball tourney.

When did the quality, the integrity, and the National Football League’s control of the game go down the toilet? When overpaid players started calling all the shots, that’s when.

The NY Knicks lost four players to suspension in the 1997 NBA Playoffs. Not for brawling, but for coming off the bench. They lost that series after a 3-1 lead over the Miami Heat.

Sure, cage match fighting as a sport is a popular rage now. And there’s a lot of money in the enterprise of watching two guys kick the crap out of each other in fighting matches staged by UFC and TapouT. Hell, even women’s roller derby touts the brawl as a part of the draw for fans. I suppose the difference is that these sports, while supported by a loyal following, are not televised across the world to potentially billions of viewers, played live on Sundays in front of tens of thousands while being underwritten by billions of advertizing dollars.

Maybe I’m reaching here, but I guess I expect the NFL and its players to be professionals at a higher level.

On the contrary, for all the barking from Football’s insiders about “just letting them play”, it is clear that pro players like Finnegan and Johnson can not handle the rougher play of today’s NFL. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had to take it to fist fighting and acting like unruly drunks at a bar yesterday.

Eric Cantona kicks a verbally abusive fan. Later, Cantona, Manchester United's top scorer is suspended eight months, after initially being sentenced to prison.

Their “punishment”, a $25,000 fine for each of the players, is no sort of recourse to an NFL player, considering that the average NFL salary is supposedly $770,000 if you don’t count endorsements. $25,000 is merely a drop in the bucket, and a night out on the town. Or in the context of the spoiled, obnoxious man-children who occupy the pro sports rosters, $25,000 probably constitutes a night with a top notch call girl. What makes anyone think that fights like these won’t crop up again and again, if it means the player gets their name in the headlines and a slap on the wrist as a disincentive for acting like a hooligan?

For all of the money pro athletes make, it’s not too much to ask for them to act like professionals while on the field, especially while in the presence of the fans who pay their salaries through the NFL’s exorbitant ticket prices. That’s right, “professionals”, not petulant goofballs with pads and a helmet, but professionals.

With the League leveling no meaningful punishment here, I wonder at what point will the NFL actually step in and suspend players when they act like drunks at a bar. Will it be at the punching of referees? Guns and knives on the field?

Or maybe with a little help of their lawyers and media consultants --better yet some sound advice from fans-- the NFL will lift its skirt and find its manhood again soon.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex. He plays soccer without a cup, but will lend one to the NFL should they suddenly grow a pair.

Written words © 2010. Soccer pics courtesy of the London Telegraph. Knicks-Heat pic courtesy of the National Basketball Association (NBA).

Let's Give Michael Vick a Break

2010-11-17T13:56:00.000-08:00

On Monday Night Football this week, Michael Vick led the Philadelphia Eagles to a 59-28 victory over their NFC North rivals, the Washington Redskins, and besting the Eagles’ former quarterback Donovan McNabb. According to ESPN, Vick grabbed second place among quarterbacks all-time, in rushing yardage, but still Vick threw three touchdown passes too, as a mature, complete quarterback would.

For some, the performance probably didn’t make a difference. I hear from a lot of people back home in Philly, many of whom own dogs and are animal lovers, talk about what an animal they think Vick is for his misadventures a few years ago with his underground dog fighting outfit, Bad Newz Kennels.

As we all know, Vick rightly pled guilty back in ’07 and did almost two years in federal prison. During the trial days and the media blitz, both dismayed fans and angry dog lovers were able to shop for a plethora of Michael Vick dog chew toys like the one pictured above. Sure he deserved the criticism and the chew toy products were probably the best novelty gift since Osama bin Laden urinal cakes.

In comparison though to Vick, other pro athletes have not so easily admitted their guilt and done the time for the crime. One example, Rae Carruth, who was indicted for conspiracy to commit murder, fled the law and then hid in the trunk of a car until he was found and arrested. Also, Jayson Williams, on old NBA favorite of mine, ruined his post-NBA career as one of the more thoughtful sportscasters by accidentally shooting a friend and trying to disguise the incident as a self-inflicted gun accident. Who knows how different it would have been if Williams had not tried to cover it up.

Even guys not facing felony charges, particularly baseball players alleged to have used banned substances, have hid behind lawyers and maintained a veneer of innocence.

Both Andy Pettitte and Mark McGuire did what became the usual song and dance among many of the 89 players identified in the Mitchell Report. While being grilled before Congress about alleged drugs use, McGuire essentially pleaded the 5th Amendment, though he wasn’t (yet) on the stand before a court. And Pettitte put on a patronizing smile and made it like it wasn’t a big deal at all, just a misunderstanding.

Ah, Osama bin Laden TP… That was the good old days…

Vick, perhaps solely on the advice of his attorneys against the charges he faced, did admit his guilt and actually stated publicly that he had done an awful thing and that maybe he “needed to grow up.” Plenty of people, who despise Vick, probably don’t think that statement means anything.

Not every athlete can be impeccable as both a performer and a professional like Derek Jeter or retired NBA great David Robinson. But Vick has long since done his time. And as an observer of sports and a fan for 38 years of my life, I still think Vick’s statement was one of the most honest and refreshing that I have ever heard about any misstep, particularly a felony.

I’m not saying you have to feel sorry for Michael Vick; or even that as an Eagles fan that you should buy and wear his jersey. Burn it, or use it as a dribble pad for your cat's litter box for all I care.

But it’s about time that people give Vick a break and let him play football.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life at here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.

Written words © 2010. Vick toy picture above courtesy of The Consumerist.com

'Cocks, Football and Grilling Pigs

2010-11-06T10:17:00.000-07:00

The University of South Carolina and its football team have always had a little bit of a naming dilemma in my mind.

Anyone living outside of The Palmetto State would in no way be inclined to call South Carolina “USC”, since when most people think of USC they think of the University of Southern California, the 11 time National Champions. Southern California’s football teams have spawned such NFL greats as Mike Garrett and Keyshawn Johnson, as well as Marcus Allen, Lynn Swan, Junior Seau, Ronnie Lott, all of whom have Super Bowl rings; and even a statistics monster in the now reviled OJ Simpson.

---------- Gamecocks Crossing: Watch your step---------------

So historically, it’s no wonder that Gamecocks Football is played at the other USC. But then again, The Cockpit is on fire as we speak, and it might help to look at College Football’s rankings right now.

It’s an anomaly compared to what you would normally see in November. Oregon tops all three polls, and the rest of the Top 25 is rounded out not with the usual stalwarts, but instead by Utah, Mississippi State, Stanford, and Big 12 whipping boy Baylor. Texas, Florida, Colorado, Michigan and Southern California (that other USC) are nowhere to be found.

South Carolina, now ranked at 18 in the AP Poll knocked off #1 Bama a few weeks ago, bolstering their argument; right after the Gamecocks beat a solid, nationally ranked Georgia in the weeks prior. Carolina fans would not say they are at all surprised.

In early summer, I took my first trip down to South Carolina right before the Gamecocks domination of UCLA in the College World Series. The Gamecocks would go on to beat UCLA by allowing only two runs in two games after setting the playoff season aflame, torching rival Clemson and knocking out #1 seed Arizona State in their first game, 11-4.

But since this was June, grilling season was in full swing, and in more ways than one. I got to kick off the weekend listening to Cousin Scott jab his brother, Newton, an esteemed Air Force officer, about how Scott’s Carolina beat up on Newton’s nearby alma mater, The Citadel. I got the full story from the locals on their version of why Carolina Football is changing the SEC, and a short history of the Rise and Fall of Clemson Football, a former Roman-style empire of sorts.

Trash talk was rife while smells of barbeque filled the air as Uncle PJ grilled a large, whole pig on the hot irons. For me, the combination of these two things were absolutely wonderful.

Gamecocks like grilling pigs and some Georgia dogs too.

I’ve said before that SEC sports fans, particularly football fans, have a tendency to talk trash. And they do it with such refined poise –maybe it is hospitality and Southern manners—that heighten the stakes of the upcoming came without being rude or obnoxious. Maybe more to the point, SEC Football fans have a fervor unmatched in any sport, at least on this side of the Atlantic.

No disrespect to Ohio State fans at the Horseshoe, but you don’t know crazy at a football game until you’ve sat next to 60,000 screaming yahoos dressed in bright orange at a Tennessee game. The fans are actually what make Tennessee football the “Big Orange”.

But maybe things are changing in the SEC. It has only been since 1992 that the Gamecocks have moved into the conference. Before that, Carolina Football seemed to be, at best a fringe oufit, buried in the nestles of the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) under the dominance of Clemson, Maryland, and the dirt kicked over them by that other Carolina, the North Carolina Tar Heels.

Live from Uncle Henry’s refrigerator, South Carolina Gamecocks mustard.

More notable, Gamecocks Football had lost all 8 of their sparse bowl game appearances from 1946 to 1988, against the likes of Indiana (a basketball school) and Miami University (that is, the other Miami, in Ohio). But after the 5-year mishmash of the Lou Holtz era at USC, Steve Spurrier seems to have really strengthened the program into a respectable and formidable one. As such, Carolina fans have a lot of reason to wear their Garnet and Black with pride.

If the momentum and Carolina football fans’ confidence can carry over to the boys on the field, then maybe a major bowl game is in the works.

Some might say the Gamecocks have had an easy schedule, but they just might grill a razorback, #17 Arkansas tonight.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.

Grill him a Razorback, and he'll eat it.

Written words © 2010.

11 Great Non-United Footballers

2010-11-04T07:43:00.000-07:00

It does get tiresome for some footy fans when they read the sports pages to find that one team and its players dominate the headlines.

That's not to say that Manchester United hasn't earned its keep as a great club that can attract (and also develop the best players. It's just that sometimes you want to hear about the others.

United turned its back on contract talks, and Tevez crossed town, where he turns and scores for City against United.

Hear are my top 10...

1. Alan Shearer - The cream of the crop among English Premier footballers in the last decade and a half. Man United desperately wanted him in 1996, and was willing to pay ₤ 15 million. Yet they lost out to his hometown club, Newcastle, where Shearer scored 148 goals in 303 games.

2. Patrick Vieira – One of two Arsenal tough guys, Vieira was best known for great passing and keeping Roy Keane from pushing fellow Gunners around. A towering figure, Vieira centered Arsenal's constant warring against rivals Man United for years, helping guide them to the title on occasion.

You miss a penalty kick. Keown laughs in your face.

3. Martin Keown – Perhaps Keown should be top of the list simply for laughing in Ruud van Nistelrooy’s face after he missed a penalty for United. Moreover, Keown was one of England’s and Arsenal’s toughest defenders, and gave hell to many a striker.

4. Steve McManaman – Not a hall of famer, for sure, Macca, like Peter Bearsley, was a great example of how a true team player adds power to the team, improving performance. Also as a humorous half time commentator for World Cup ’10, he seemed to be one of the few who was paying attention to what players were doing.

5. Steven Gerrard – Say what you will about Gerrard and the boys phoning it in for England at World Cups, but he is the midfield’s top talent in England. He adds a dimension for his team that creates chances that wouldn’t be there otherwise; and causes trouble for United and other opponents everywhere.

6. Ashley Cole – Though Arsenal fans hate him now, Cole gave the Gunners several good years and is still the league’s top left back. Maybe he’s a cruddy sportsman, but he’s got ample skill and a fire unmatched in English football.

Cole is excellent at ball control; depending on what balls your speaking about

7. Craig Bellamy – Another firey one, Bellamy through a punch at Inter’s Marco Materazzi, who is almost a foot taller, 4 years before Zidane head butted him. Though he’s played for half a dozen teams, save Liverpool, Bellamy has brought an extra kick at the end of the game to each of his club. Each time you're down and out against United, Bellamy may likely score one to get your head straight.

8. Magnus Hedman – OK, I know I’ll take flack for this one, but the Swedish goal keeper Hedman was a great keeper. Problem was that he never player for a great team and never had a top back-four in front. But his 5+ years with lowly Coventry gave him the chance to display a lot of hard work that showed us just what kind of keeper, and tough character he was.

9. Tony Adams – As England’s and Arsenal’s captain, and other center back along with Keown, Adams was both a gentleman and leader. It’s been said that he wasn’t the most physical or naturally gifted player, but made up for it with wise and studied play, and a true maturity that the game sometimes misses from its high profile players.

10. Dennis Bergkamp will admit, he’s cocky and sometimes arrogant maybe. He considered himself the best-in-the-world at his position behind the striker for Arsenal and Holland. Possibly Bergkamp was the only player in the EPL whose fearless attitude and confidence matched that of United as a club in the whole.

11. Carlos Tevez...This one is a bit of a wildcard since Tevez did play for United following a stint rescuing West Ham at the end of the season a few years ago. In 2009, when Man United balked at renewed contract talks, Tevez was picked up happily by cross town rivals Manchester City. Given his dislike of cold weather, and the fact that he is an Argentine (Argentines dont typical stay in England long) who knows where Carlos may end up. Fair to say though, where ever he ends up in coming years it will involve 1) starting for another top club and, thus 2) scoring many more goals against Manchester United.

Honorable Mention, -OR- swell guys who could have made the list had they not gone and joined United: Andy Cole, Michael Owen, Paul Scholes, Wayne Rooney, Teddy Sheringham, Rio Ferdinand, Edwin van der Sar. Nice Work, men.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and via My Sports/Complex on Facebook and @MySportsComplex on Twitter. He’s worth his weight in tech talk and trash talk.

Pics courtesy of Guardian.co.uk and Virgin Media

Battle of the Cheesesteaks, redux

2010-10-26T13:58:00.000-07:00

The Late Entry: Jury's on Lincoln Ave

I was off my game today when I headed to my regular writing / watering hole, only to find that The Bad Apple is not open until 4:30pm. And I call myself a regular. But I guess the silver lining is that I'm not the kind of writer who hits the bar before Noon.

Jury's on Lincoln in Lincoln Square: Messy & Fanciful

So I stumbled, hungry and thirsty, to Jury's in Lincoln Square to grab a Stella and some ESPN at the place where I usually grab crab cakes with my wife and kid. As it turns out, there's a "Philly Steak" on the menu, so I thought I'd take a crack.

More off my game, this time as a cheesesteak connoisseur, I had my nose stuck in some editing without even thinking about onions, peppers and all of the other stuff I don't typically want on my Philly when I order.

Not a Philly type haunt, the barkeep at Jury’s probably didn’t even think to ask how I take my steak. So when my late lunch hit the bar I was met with slight disappointment (so I thought) that I had ordered an artisan sandwich. But so what…

Jury’s take was different for sure. Their version of a Philly steak comes on quality bread, probably the best French bread that I have had outside of France.

Usually I don’t like onions on my cheesesteak not because I don’t like onions, but because it sweetens the taste and totally changes the effect. For me the onions just don’t work; and some things on your favorite foods just don’t work. Just like that you never order a cheesesteak hoagie to go for the simple fact that the “hoagie” part (the lettuce and tomato) will be a soggy, wilted salad by the time you get it home.

But at Jury’s even the onions worked, even though they were red onions, which are supposedly the sweetest when cooked. Likewise, the bell peppers worked too even though they spent their time falling out of the roll while hanging by a thread onto the stretch of Mozzarella cheese that kept it all together.

As a sports fan, I’d say that Jury’s gave me a head fake. If I were a teacher, I’d give it an A+. And an A+ is an A+, even for poor students like me and some of the rough-and-tumble Philly types (cops, fireman, and other tough guys) who wouldn’t be caught dead eating and artisan sandwich.

No Tastykakes, but still…nice work, chefs. Chicago cops, just park on the sidewalk as usual and get your butts into Jury’s.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life MySportsComplex.blogspot.com, and also tweets several times daily @MySportsComplex on Twitter, mostly about sports but sometimes food too.

So put that in your mouth, and chew it.

Battle of the Cheesesteaks: Chicago North

2010-10-24T20:30:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while a writer gets what is known as writers’ block. But the block never applies to the stomach. A writer is always hungry; believe me…even the alcoholic writers like Poe and Kerouac, they just preferred alcohol over food.

Not that I’m suffering from either. Being from Philadelphia, I get asked all the time about Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, and where to go back home and here in Chicago. And it doesn’t hurt to veer off the sports track every once in a while and talk about competition of a different sort. So, since barbeque season is pretty much over with the onset of winter near, I figured it was time to compare cheesesteak joints in my neck of the woods.

The Phlly Cheesesteak...Good Stuff

Typically the first question from anyone who has been to Philly is “what are those two cheesesteak places and which is better?” What this tourist question refers to is the two well known cheesesteak meccas, Pat’s King of Steaks and Geno’s, both on 9th & Passyunk Ave in South Philadelphia. I’ll answer the second part of that question some other time.

For now, it’s Chicago, a world class city that rivals London and New York, smells better than Houston, has more real meat and potatoes than LA. Plus, there’s a whole lot more to do than Midwestern driving-only cities like St Louis. So here’s the ledge…

The Authentic: Philly’s Best on Belmont

The jewel in the crown for Philly Steaks is of course Philly’s Best; a spot that used to fly in Amoroso rolls daily about a decade ago, before going with a local Chicago purveyor, Gonella. Gonella’s rolls are crusty, not half bad and close enough.

I once dragged a lifelong Chicagoan friend after midnight, breaking him in to Philly verbal judo while watching the owner vocally harangue some teens who were messing up tables with condiments after ordering only a drink. Skilled at the judo and attitude, the owner made the kids feel bad enough to pick up their mess and leave (after a short argument of course), and I told Brad, “Welcome to Philadelphia. Let’s order.”

Like the family owners who moved out here from West Philly two decades ago, everything you could want here is authentic as you can get. Cheesesteak orders must be specified with or without onions, and with your pick of Provolone, Whiz, White American, Mozzarella or Cheddar if you must; and your meat comes out flat and layered just like at Geno’s and suburban Philly chains like Lee’s. Likewise, if it’s a meatball sandwich you want or something vegetarian, they have that too. Locals like their “East Coast Style” pizza, which I think is nothing special, really.

Along with a selection of everything from Tastykakes to pepper & egg sandwiches for Lent, Philly’s Best has signs that tell you to be ready when you order and that if you are not a customer that the restroom is “The Lake, 5 blocks east”. There are pics of the owner poised with celebrities like Jackie Mason, Hillary Clinton and local news people, and to top it off, all of the employees must wear a mandatory Philadelphia Phillies caps and a red shirt. Like I said, authentic.

The Approach & Attitude: Clarke’s on Lincoln

Clarke’s is nowadays a standard diner with everything you could ever want on cheeky menu adorned with side commentary, and is open 24 hours with a few locations on the North Side. Everything they make is cheap and excellent.

Great ad, but you'll need to go to Cali for this one.

The first time I went to Clarke’s was in 1995, and I went with a friend from Ohio who was kind of a know-it-all / pain in the ass type of guy. He tried to pull some ‘tude on the staff at Clarke’s and got it shoved right back in his face.

My lunch mate (unfortunate me) decided to ask for the Fruit Plate, hold the grapes and then changed his order, strangely, to a Bowl of Grapes. In the midst of arguing his flimsy “customer is always right” shtick he was told by our impatient waiter, probably a DePaul student, that Clarke’s wasn’t a five-star restaurant. But that he could choose from the myriad choices on the menu or get out. He settled on a club sandwich.

Since East Coast style frictions were stirred up just during the order, flustered, I picked their cheesesteak, wondering if it matched the mood. Like Pat’s King of Steaks, it came out with the steak chopped up, signaling that the short order chef knew what he was doing. It came out plugged with my decadent favorite, White American cheese, which was hard to get in Chicago back then believe it or not.

Good standard-build cheesesteak, authentic quality, pretty much like home but with no frills and no variance. And a little attitude to go with it.

Ironically, Clarke’s website says “We have a large menu to choose from-and you're able to order whatever you want whenever you want.”

Heavy on the Pepper: Hoagie Hut in Lincoln Park

Ever since my later college days in Ohio, I’ve been haunted by the “Philly Cheese Steak Hoagie” I once ordered at Oxford’s now defunct Attractions Bar & Grill (good riddance) which best known for 25¢ beers and should have stuck to that.

“Hoagie” in the Midwest can be a fielder’s choice of any meat on any bread, and on that one occasion the “Philly Cheese Steak Hoagie” was a grease-ridden bun length hamburger with more bread filler then meat. It was even more terrible than I could have imagined, and I was insulted that Attractions was brazen enough to think they could even fool the townies with such a half-hearted, unstudied, garbage rendition of a cheesesteak. You’d probably get a better cheesesteak at the Ho Chi Minh City Airport.

So when I first scoped out “Hoagie Hut” I was skeptical that a Midwestern establishment could nail a hoagie or anything close. But have no fear here. Hoagie Hut is a top notch sandwich spot that does it all right.

A couple of other foodies picked up on something that I did too, that Hoagie Hut uses “a lot of black pepper” and probably white pepper too, according to many who dropped feedback. Not only did this assure me that my taste buds haven’t gone soft on me, but I have to say the Hut’s extra kick adds a little dimension to their cheesesteak which, like Clarke’s, is basic but spot on.

Pat's at 9th and Passyunk. "Who's the King, baby?"

No Cigar, Still Decent: The Daily, Lincoln Square

Lucky for me I wasn’t alone on this one. I’ve been to the Daily Bar a number of times and will continue to go back, but it wasn’t until I had a visitor from PA, an old high school friend, that the Daily had put a cheesesteak on their menu.

On the tail end of several beers and about two hours of conversation and catching up on the last 20 years, it was time for dinner and we both took the leap in ordering a the “Philly” which comes standard with Pepper Jack cheese. To me, deli Jack cheese is just White American with an extra joust of flavor, and a little extra red pepper in anything (for my tastes works). Notably, my pal Eric who is a strident purist on all things Philly thought their steaks were pretty good.

It could have been the 75 degree Spring weather or the beers that night, but The Daily seemed to hit a bright note on their own take of the cheesesteak, taking a risk that is taken too kindly among cheesesteak connoisseurs. And it didn’t hurt that the steak was basically chopped prime rib.

That said, The Daily (which is not named after Mayor Daley, by the way) has a great selection of beers and is an excellent place to watch sports, having no affiliation other than Chicago sports in general.

So if you're at The Daily and if you don’t like cheesesteaks or calculated risk, have a Bud Light and the Daily Meatloaf.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life MySportsComplex.blogspot.com, and also tweets several times daily @MySportsComplex on Twitter, mostly about sports but sometimes food too.

Rock over Philly, Rock on Chicago.

"Pep Talks, Chairs and Dodgeball"

2010-10-08T10:05:00.000-07:00

The following is part of a series called Short Short Sport Stories which are real life stories, funny stuff and things that happened around about 1000 words.

Dodgeball was a game that I picked up not on the playground but through my participation in the local Cub Scouts troop. Usually the scout experience is about the outdoor stuff, which is pivotal for the 3rd grade boy if he’s ever to get his butt off the couch and become a man. Good thing for me that I grew up in the days before video games were a kid’s first meal of the day.

Scouts is also about the experiencing life through constructive activities. Team building. Pitching tents. Responsibly starting, using and extinguishing camp fires. Arts and crafts and using a whittling knife. Plus, thanks to the scouts I learned how to tie knots and consequently complete the previously un-mastered art of tying my shoes.

You see, our Cub Scout “pack” had a reorganization that got about twelve of us 3rd graders from different schools in the same cohort. Part of the deal was a weekly Wednesday night meeting, a remodeled Scout Lodge, and a new leader, Mr Neumann. While my friend’s mom did a good job as Den Mother before, we needed to be whipped into shape.

When the first Wednesday came, we got our orientation from Mr Neumann about the structure and drill. It went like this:
1. The pledge of allegiance, and some formal stuff
2. An opening game
3. An outdoorsy activity, usually a about problem solving
4. Cleanup

Looking back it was like landing Bear Bryant as your coach plus use of the Superdome. I remember Mr Neumann as a tall, imposing guy, somewhat quiet and measured, and sort of a John Wayne type with an East Coast accent.

Now I wanted in for sure, even though I had contemplated quitting just like everything else I had ever joined.

Sports wise, dodgeball became our opening game from the second week on, settling on the sport because it just worked. And when you are indoors on a winter night, not too many other alternatives work unless you got a full gym, so it fit.

Sure, Scouts is about cooperation. And though dodgeball is a team sport that forces your team to mend and adapt quickly, you approach your opponent with vigor and cutthroat competition.

As one major newspaper put it, dodgeball is about "violence, exclusion and degradation". And maybe that was what I felt that made me, a fairly spastic 3rd grader already, snap one evening.

Despite where I might be now, I started out with no talent whatsoever in sport of any kind. I was a pretty gentile lad, idealistic maybe, and I thought that dodgeball was all teamwork and cooperation….not being pelted and knocked out as an early sacrificial lamb. I came to find out I was an easy score for the other team no matter who got the ball.

Week in week out of the first month of Cub Scouts, every game of dodgeball began with a whistle and grab for the ball at center, followed by me getting pelted and sent off. We played a couple of rounds every Wednesday night, but the result was always the same and my minutes on the court were more like seconds at most.

But Week 6 would mark a change though not in the way I thought. My intention that night was to start the dodgeball match with a rush toward center. I figured if I used my kid speed, I'd snatch the ball and defend myself before the first assault.

But by the time I got the ball in-hand, an opposing scout had wound up his throw, spotted me, and launched the ball right at me. Knocked on my butt, it took the ball clean out my hand and threw me back a few steps. The other 3rd graders laughed with a roar but I had had enough.

So I responded the way any other extremely frustrated 3rd grader would do. I had a verbal fit, threw out a few obscenities and grabbed the nearest chair, tossing it Bobby Knight style, right across the court.

And for a moment that stopped the laughs. “Hey!” yelled Mr Neumann, as I stormed out though the front door the of cabin, holding back the tears of frustration that I didn’t want anybody to see. Probably February, it was cold outside, and with the door slamming behind me Mr Neumann came out and I figured I would get sent home after getting my ass chewed out by the Scoutmaster.

Coach Bobby Knight, the pro, showing how you do it right.

But then a weird thing happened. Mr Neumann talked to me like an equal, giving me a chock full of empathy, acknowledging my frustrations and a bit of a pep talk.

No chewing out, no “you're going home, son”. Instead of being a military grade tyrant or a corny scout leader with silly anecdotes, Mr Neumann treated me like an equal.

He told me bit about keeping my cool. And that by keeping my cool I’d have more fun, plus that the other kids wouldn’t as easily poke and prod. “Sounds stupid”, he said, “but it works... Keep your cool.” It was the first time in my life that a man had talked to me like a coach. I was only 10 or 11 and had played sports before, but this was the first real coaching I ever got.

Strange thing about this pep talk stuff is that it ties in well with a favorite film, Dodgeball the movie. From Lance Armstrong's jibes about quitting to Rip Torn's anachronisms and dodgy advice, it seems that dodgeball brings out pep talk, perhaps by its ying/yang nature. And Mr Neumann's pep talk helped me and could have helped the Average Joes, the underdog team in that film.

I had heard recently that Mr Neumann had passed away after a bout with a long illness, and the news came right at the time I had thought about penning something about dodgeball. As usual, I had heard the news after the fact and maybe that made me a bit pensive.

Though I didn’t keep in touch or get to say goodbye, it was meaningful to remember that my first ever coach lived a good long life. And that my first coach showed up on the scene during one of my worst moments as a young athlete.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and also tweets several times daily via @MySportsComplex on Twitter.

After being buried in day-job work, writing about sports provides the mind and soul a nice vacation.

Writings © 2010. Pic of Coach Knight making love to his chair courtesy of USA Today

Symptoms of a "sports complex"

2010-09-08T11:46:00.000-07:00

Years ago I blew out my knee playing soccer while taking a free kick during a Sunday intramural game. Playing contact sports at age 31 is a venture and it is the approximate age when your body starts to revolt and roll downhill.

To summarize, it was just me and the ball in the back field; goalie behind me and everyone else up ahead, looking to make a play out of it. I stepped into the ball to take my kick right footed and must have stepped too hard on my worn out left knee only to make it snap as I hit the grass.

This reminded me one winter evening, known among friends as “The Drunken Ice Capades” when I slipped on ice, hitting the pavement in front of my apartment after a few margaritas with friends. In gracious fashion, after I fell, they each obliged and did the same.

But on this June day, I didn’t hear my patellar tendon detach as I went down but my goalkeeper did. He also informed me that, more importantly, I got off a pretty good kick. Later when someone asked, “What did you do to the other guy?” I had to answer that there was no other guy, just a ball.

Actually it wasn’t that big a deal. Over time it heeled just fine.

The very next week on the same field and same time, 10am maybe, we were up against a lesser equipped team in a playoff. Our best player, Jeremy, was carrying the ball downfield as always, speeding down the right side and getting ready to score as he always did. And as usual there wasn’t much the other team could do about it.

Yet this time, some hack that got stuck playing defense, probably because he wasn’t in good enough shape to run far, fouled Jeremy, sticking his leg out in front our guy with the ball. Jeremy went down, tumbling over with a yell and a couple of f-bombs.

From my sideline spot about 20 feet away it didn’t look like he went down that hard. But the colorful words were plenty justified as we found out later that Jeremy had broken his ankle in three places and would require surgery that day. While being lifted into the ambulance, Jeremy apologized for his language.

That was about seven years ago and to my knowledge Jeremy had the metal rods taken out of his leg not too long ago. Since the injury, he’s played plenty of games since, including soccer, softball and a few other sports, with extra caution, and a doctor’s note for the airport metal detector as the only major inconvenience.

But the injury, the pain, the foul language and the surgeries weren’t the main problem. Nor was the metal rod destined for his leg, nor the doctor’s note that would accompany it. The big problem that faced Jeremy that day was that the Yankees were playing the Cubs at 1:05pm.

I had Cubs season tickets that summer; night and weekends, 60-some games, third base side and great view. And it was the first season in five or six decades that the Yankees would come to Wrigley. And I don’t think they’ve been here since.

By then in a hard cast, leg straightened, I couldn’t sit in my Wrigley seats anymore, and I had many friends lobbying me for those tickets. Moreover, Jeremy was a lifelong Yankees fan and a rabid, partisan one at that. Don’t get him started about how much he hates fair weather Red Sox fans. He had to see his team and so he got the Cubs-Yanks tickets for that Sunday. To top it off, Roger Clemens was on a hot streak and was pitching that night, set to get his 300th win**.

But it took more that an ankle broken in three places and an orthopedic surgeon to tell Jeremy that he wasn’t going. The hours between 10am and 1:05pm flew by as any reasonable person would expect, but that didn’t matter. It took Jeremy’s brother a few attempts to talk some sense into him, before the crushing blow, “Forget it. You’re not going today.”

As it turned out, the tickets went last minute to a Canadian friend of ours who made a blind date out of it. Surprisingly, the Cubs beat the Bronx Bombers 5 to 2 that evening, and Clemens did not get his 300th win.

Understandably, Jeremy was annoyed about his ankle and the prospect of hobbling around Chicago. But he was really miffed about missing Clemens pitch.

I’ve written many times before about sports fandom, and the apparent irrational nature that goes with being a sports fan. Many, like me, associate rabid fandom with being glued to the tube during a tight game, or rearranging plans to watch. Sometimes we get a little wild at the ballpark and yell, talk trash, or throw a beer at the opposing team’s outfielder. And don’t get me started about what Philadelphia Eagles fans have thrown onto the field over the years.

But it seemed unusual to see a guy with a broken ankle say “hurry up” to the doctor and his staff so he could take his seat at a regular season baseball game. Then again, maybe it’s not so unusual.

There’s something about competition and suspense that pulls people in and holds them tightly as fans and TV viewers relentlessly without mercy. This might explain why so many tune in repetitively to watch “The Bachelor” and “America’s Got Talent”. Certainly it’s not unpredictable plots or interesting dialogue that makes it all a hit.

But there’s a strong difference between the competition that you witness on game shows, and the kind you feel during a down field drive. Or suspense you feel during a pitch to a batter at full count on home plate, with two outs and bases loaded. Sport is the one thing that embodies competition and suspense in its most rich, dense and enjoyable form.
This goes for sport of any kind, whether you’re talking golf, hunting game, or team sports like volleyball, cycling or even a four on four game of bocce.

First, as participants, we’re willing to risk injury just to play and then we’re willing to brush it all off, broken bones or not, to participate as spectators in our favorite team’s afternoon endeavor.

The love of sports, its suspense and our psychological need to follow it, causes the fan to do other obsessive or irrational things. Maybe not as irrational as my team mate Jeremy, but still...

So, what are the symptoms of this social condition I call “the sports complex”? First off, it consists of things we’re all aware of. Constant checking of scores, wearing of replica jerseys, and studied knowledge (if not savant-like knowledge) of sports trivia…these things all apply.

But it might creep a step further when a member of your household designates one room as the “sports lounge” or dresses up the dog in a football jersey. Generally, one’s behavior is affected in ways both big and small. Perhaps some anecdotes would paint a picture of a complex at work.

One parent that I know personally, painted a golf course scene around his infant son’s room. In that scene, a Chicago Bears fan, clad in dark blue and an orange pointed C, was enjoying his day on the links. His caddy was tired and slumping, dressed in yellow and green with a frown on his face. And a big Green Bay Packers “G” on his cap.

Another friend from college, an Ohio State fan, ends every email from August to January with the farewell “Beat Michigan, ”

Similar college football sentiments came up once after my kid attended a fellow 3 year-old’s birthday party. My kid gave his friend, for his birthday, a wooden puzzle map of the United States. His parents, who are friends of mine and Alabama football fans sent a warm thank you note pointing out Bailey’s great friendship and also that any map from a University of Mississippi fan’s academic collection would usually have states missing from it.

Ha ha, yeah, OK. I wasn’t sure if the joke was cracked on Ole Miss’s academics or Mississippians’ age old Civil War fixation. But like any greeting card, it’s the underlying thought that counts.

Years ago, the marketing people in Las Vegas stole an old adage from the culture of English Football. That old adage, “What happens on the pitch, stays on the pitch” was transformed to the tagline, “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas.” Sure, they stole a good line for profit and TV advertising, but at least the marketing people got the spirit right.

Since I’m not a shrink or a social scientist it’s fair to say I’m not the proper authority to fully define or diagnose the sports complex. But I do know one thing about sports nuts.

And that is that, no matter the symptoms, whether it is the collecting of caps, ball and jerseys; the hours spent watching sports live and on TV or whatever; every fan with the sports complex shares one thing in common.

That common attribute is living every moment with at least a little bit of sports on the brain. Most importantly, that fan can never, ever just “leave it on the pitch”.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and also tweets several times daily @MySportsComplex on Twitter.

**He had to fact check this stat from memory and 7 years ago but totally nailed it. Such is the condition known as “the sports complex”.

Writings © 2010. Clock picture courtesy of Photobucket.com

David Durham, RIP

2010-08-31T20:00:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine, David Durham, died as a result of a bout with cancer today at age 59. David was a life long fan of Ohio State football, and all things Ohio State as it goes.

Dave was brought up in Galipolis, Ohio, and like any resident of there would tell you he's from the same hometown of the breakfast and comfort food giant Bob Evans. After spending much of his life in Ohio and close to the Horseshoe, Dave later made his life in his second hometown of Chicago, where his business practice and acclimation for public service drove him to get involved in civic duties. Most recently, Dave took up the role as President of The Rotary Club of Chicago, the world's oldest service club.

Morever, and most important to me is that Dave was the kind of guy you could lower your guard around; a normal guy for a good conversation.

As a sports fan, and a particularly enthusiastic one, he was comfortable both in extolling his love for OSU and the Big Ten and poking a little fun in the arena of sports conversation. Often, if you ventured into conversation about college football, he might lend a little levity to the discussion of football with some trash talk toward the around upcoming football battles.

I remember one time asking him about the Michigan fight song "The Victors" and moreover why it seemed that every Ohio State fan I met knew the song by heart. Dave then met my question with the parody version of the song including its more colorful language. So that answered my question in full.

His enthusiasm for life and sport brings back that old Bill Shankly saying that has popped up in my mind a thousand times:

“Some people think that football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.”

Certainly that's an exageration, and one laced with humor, poking fun at the football fan's fervor. But the words do hammer out a simple fact: That besides life and family, love for the experience of life can take many forms.

Furthermore, cheering for your team, as Dave did amply, is a noble thing. Also, enjoying a good football game, built up by the experience of witnessing it with family and friends throughout a lifetime can make for a passion that does, so it seems, become a matter of life and death.

Rest in peace, Dave.

Sports in film: 4 Big Fumbles

2010-08-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

As a sports enthusiast and amateur athlete, I’ve spent a lot of hours watching film about sports. I’m always looking for good films that nail it…the love of sport, passion, and what ABC's Wide World of Sports best captured as the “Thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat”.

Earlier this year I gave my bit on the ten best sports films of the last 20 years. Here are the “Big 4” in my opinion that fumbled it the worst.

1. Ali (2001) - Boxing

Michael Mann’s 3-hour epic about one of the greatest and most charismatic athletes of the 20th Century was an ambitious project and a noble venture, but falls hard. Too bad this film, Ali, was boring and almost as hard to endure as Oprah’s Beloved. Sadly, this film, with bold aim and a careless hand largely missed the mark.

Will Smith displays his best and most studied acting as Muhammad Ali himself, along side other great actors who play titan roles. Jon Voight as sportscaster legend Howard Cosell, and Mario Van Peebles as Malcolm X shine, along side other greats like Jeffrey Wright, Jamie Foxx, and comedian Paul Rodriguez as boxing voice Ferdie Pacheco. Still the dramatic potency of the cast is weighed down by the storyline’s inertia.

Ali: Acting a knockout, but the storyline has rubber hands.

Perhaps what doomed the film was that the timeline stuck militantly to Ali’s life between the years of 1965 to 1975. Unfortunately, much of what was shown of this decade focused less on boxing and more on personal affairs, as it spent much time on Ali being banned from the sport and scorned by the establishment for refusing to fight in the Vietnam War. And while (in real life) Ali’s court case went on for years during his ban from the sport, the film didn’t go the route of The People Versus Larry Flint, focusing on intellectual ventures surrounding the legal fight.

Besides the great acting, the only high spike in Ali is the scene surrounding the Rumble in the Jungle fight that took place between Ali and George Foreman, in Zaire in 1975. Here, Mann does deserve some credit for transitioning his underlying assertion –that Ali was a universal and influential American icon—to the build up and anticipation about this legend challenging and beating the new champ Foreman.

Biased I may be, but like most sports fans, I wanted to see this charismatic, inspirational man and prolific athlete fight titans in the ring, not fighting sociopolitical causes or punching wind against partisan apparitions. Maybe shame on me for wanting Ali to be more like Rocky and less like Against All Odds.

2. Friday Night Lights (2004) - Football

When asked about this film by another sports fan, I couldn’t help but and say that, to me Friday Night Lights is little more than Melrose Place of a football field. Even worse it reminds me of some of those horrid, catty British shows like Footballers’ Wives. Or maybe the better put, the last time this film came out, it was called Varsity Blues.

Go figure, Billy Bob Thornton is a Texas high school football at Permian High; a school with a huge stadium and a bigger tradition for football. Permian’s coach who, like every high school football coach in every film about football, has as his task coaching the underdogs to the state championship. The herd of football boys practice, play, win, and win more, then get interviewed by local media and generally get put on a pedestal as the sole means of inspiration for a small Texas town.

In chatting about this film, a friend of mine put it this way: “I never knew how big high school football is in Texas”. That may be true, but football is big everywhere in the United States, so who cares? Why does Texas get special recognition for loving football, I wonder.

Carrying the film’s predictability further, the successful season for coach and the boys leads them to play the top team in the state. Egos enflame and partying leads to some unruly behavior amidst the backdrop of social disparity and minor racial tensions.

More predictable --given today's trash TV and the need to do what you can to keep people watching-- is the amount of open sexuality and hook ups availed to these high school football players. After all, according to this film, high school football players claim instant celebrity status and have the physique of 26 year old men. Of course, only in a special place like Texas.

Sure there’s a place in popular American film for a movie like Friday Night Lights, and an appetite among moviegoers. And the trashy, kitchy veneer is a standard part of the sales kit. Much of this appetite comes from America’s love of film and sport both, and especially when movies and football are combined. However, the makers of the film seem to think that slick southern accents and “go get ‘em” speeches stapled to pretty boys strutting around like NFL pros is something that is supposed to lift us up for life.

Unfortunately, while the thrill of the football play is there in the film --for die hard football fans-- the whole of Friday Night Lights is a canned, predictable stock movie we’ve seen a hundred times before. Maybe the TV show is better.

3. Vision Quest (1985) -Wrestling

This film, which features Madonna about the time she hit it big, stands as the only major studio work about high school or collegiate style wrestling. The film tells the story of Louden Swain, a high school senior who has been wrestling for barely two years. Because of his “balance” and natural gifts, he’s already a state champion and the best in his weight class. But that’s not enough. The tall and lanky wrestler, played by Matthew Modine, decides that the path to glory is to starve and sweat himself down two weight classes so that he can challenge the unbeatable 3-time state champion, Brian Shute. Shute trains by walking up and down stadium bleachers holding an 18 inch wooden telephone pole.

For Swain, making weight is a long and arduous process, consisting of constant running and frequent nosebleeds. Swain’s sanity and competence are questioned by everyone else in his drab suburb of Spokane, WA. Meanwhile his only inspirations come from a beautiful, feisty 20-something wild flower named Carla, played by Linda Fiorentino, who randomly rolls into town and bunks with Swain and his dad for a while.

1985's mish mash wrestling film, Vision Quest. Awful.

All in all there are a lot of problems with this film. First off, the script writer (or the producer / director) seems to have little understanding of Wrestling as a sport. Matches end for no reason and scoring is inconsistent. In one scene, the home team forfeits the match simply because the away team has taken the lead, meaning the last couple wrestlers forgo their matches. Anyone who knows Wrestling remotely knows that this doesn’t happen. Imagine your hometown baseball team is down 10-0 in the 3rd Inning. Even the Cubs would finish that game.

Also, like with Chess, champions in Wrestling are never made in a matter of two seasons. Having wrestled myself in high school in Pennsylvania, which is –granted—a very tough wrestling state, I can tell you that most of the champions I competed against started at age 4 or 5, not 16. But inaccuracy and uninformed fantasy aside, there’s more.

When not starving himself and risking his health to reach his goal, our “hero” is babbling on about virtues and character. Yet in one scene he tries to force himself sexually on his houseguest/love, Carla, before she punches him in the face (prompting nosebleeds, again), only to have it brushed under the rug when she shows up to cheer him on at his wrestling meet.

As a wrestling lad, I was forced to watch this movie more than I could bear. But at least I learned what kind of things make a terrible movie terrible.

In the end, boy wins girl, boy beats the unbeatable champion, and returns to high school and a normal diet. But Vision Quest will leave you and anyone who’s not an anorexic, nerdy, sexually deviant excuse for an athlete wondering what the hell you’ve just watched for two hours.

But social issues and my hang-ups aside, Vision Quest is just a bad, bad film.

4. He Got Game (1998) – Basketball

He Got Game, a Spike Lee film featuring NBA star Ray Allen foretold the coming future of a high school phenomenon and basketball virtuoso, so skilled that he was as better than almost all professional players as an 18 year old. Sort of an accidental story version of the rise of LeBron James, 10 years early, but one with greedy people hanging on everywhere.

Director Lee has done a great job of depicting the experience of urban African-American youths while throwing on the table the valid issues. He’s done this in films such as Malcolm X and Crooklyn to better effect. Typically every Spike Lee joint forces the viewer to have a conversation about racism, opportunity in America, and economic disparity along with both the savory and unsavory sides of success, fame and fortune.

Jake Shuttlesworth, played by Denzel Washington, is a prison inmate who has been incarcerated for killing his wife during an argument. His son, Jesus Shuttlesworth, played by Allen is the god-like basketball prodigy who is being recruited by every big college in the country.

Jake can get an early release from prison and a pardon from the governor if he can only convince his son to play for Big State, the governor's alma mater. Meanwhile, Jesus faces temptation by big money, beautiful women, super agents and money men who want to take him away from the Brooklyn projects but make him sign on the dotted line.

NBA players Shaquille O'Neal, Reggie Miller and Michael Jordan, make appearances in the film as well as top coaches and spunky broadcaster Dick Vitale. As always, Denzel is impressive and Allen, who is not a professional actor, shows that he could be. If you're a basketball nut, there’s a lot to get excited about here.

Yet too often in this film, the protagonist, Jesus is portrayed as the victim of every single advantage he gets and every good thing he has going for him. Sure, his mother is dead and his dad is in jail…he’s had it rough. And everybody’s trying to sell Jesus out, to get their piece of money, power, and influence for pointing Jesus to this college or that pro team.

But by the time the film reaches it’s conclusion, you realize that the theme is less about basketball in America and less about talent and hard work and prevailing. He Got Game is largely an essay about how athletes, especially the ones who become celebrities and make millions upon millions of dollars, spend their entire life getting victimized and screwed by everybody in the sports business, while being objectified by the fans too.

Not that some pro athletes don’t get screwed, or big money hasn’t tainted sport. These are valid issues. But looking back since in the 12 years since this film came out, many a sports fan would be hard pressed to feel sorry for pro athletes as some sort of repressed, misunderstood group in need of fair play or a more just system of commerce.

He Got Game is not a dud like Vision Quest, but not a slam dunk either.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter. He doesn't have a film degree but, like your dog, knows more about film than Richard Roeper.

Writings © 2010. pics courtesy of The Internet Movie Database www.IMDB.com

“Ensnared by Little League”

2010-07-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

The following is part of a series called Short Short Sports Stories which are real life stories, funny stuff, quips and things that happened around 1000 words.

Little League Baseball is one of those formative experiences. Sort of like basic military training for life, designed especially for little boys.

As participants in Little League, we get to experience it all. Not only how to run, hit, throw and but also get to be part of a social experiment. And as part of the social experiment, as Little League kids, we got fed little bits of what we would experience as adults later in life. The good comes with the bad.

Good things we learn about: teamwork, different styles of communication, perseverance and the rewards it brings, as well as second chances, the value of effort and hard work, the thrill of victory, and the joy of a good ice cream cone after a game.

The less savory parts of the game and life: cheating, bad sportsmanship, egos, personal agendas, and nepotism.

Maybe the words I’ve used make it sounds worse than it is. Sure, it’s not like pitchers in the 3rd grade were coating fastballs with Vaseline. Nor were there 10 year old hitters in my Little League were using pine tar on their bats, charging the mound, or bribing umpires. At least that I know of…

As a young kid, I moved around a little bit before my family got settled in suburbia, Pennsylvania. I was a small kid who wasn’t a superstar athlete, but not so bad, so Little League Baseball was a key part of settling in with the neighbors and getting acclimated to the township.

At the school play ground there were two cliques: 1) the kid with the ball and all the friends he chooses to let play with him, and 2) the others.

Outside of the schoolyard, the local Little League haphazardly served as a key institution. Public parks, open enrollment, combined with shared equipment and a supportive crowd of moms and dads seemed to paint a picture of harmony-in-sports. So as a kid, it was my assumption (maybe a grand one) that Little League ball was an institution that was supposed to level the playing field a bit, for those of us who never got much time with the ball at the schoolyard.

Unlike the schoolyard, Little League gave you the opportunity dress up in uniform. Our team got Navy polyester ball caps, the old plastic-mesh kind, with matching shirts that bore the name of a local electrician, bank or plumber who was our sponsor. The pre-season started out with a few mandatory practices to get you warmed up and ready for the first week of the season; one which consisted mostly of games threatened by rain, or subsequent to rain.

I got to play Right Field (or Right Puddle, it could be called maybe), which is the place where coaches stick kids who are average…average at baseball, with average connections. Plus I had a decent throwing arm for a 3rd grader, just in case another 3rd grader might hit to Right, which was unlikely come to think of it.

Meanwhile Keith, a year younger then me, got to pitch and play where ever he wanted because he was great at every position and a phenomenal hitter for a 2nd grader on a 3rd grade kids’ team. Among others, there was Derrick, whose dad was some hot shot with the league and a local political type.

The one thing that got my baseball stretch pants in a bunch as a youth was seeing other players no better than me start every game, and bump me off the lineup. Some players got to play the whole game so long as their dads were coaches or sponsors. Some of this is part of Life; some of this is nepotistic BS of course.

But the dad-kid-lineup hook up seemed to be in force no matter how clumsy the connected kids were on the field or how many times they struck out. Hell, even if you couldn’t pitch, you might get to pitch if you were a son of an important member of Little League baseball’s secret troika somewhere.

Derrick got to play 3rd Base when he felt like playing Mike Schmidt, 1st Base when he wanted to pretend to be Pete Rose, and got to pinch hit (sometimes for me) when he wanted to be Fred Lynn. But unlike Fred Lynn, his hitting sucked.

We played about 10 games, with mediocre success and “made” the playoffs against the other three teams in our four team league. With better play or a better, more honest lineup we could have won more games that season to take the top spot for glory.

Caution....Please mind the twine.

Probably the best sequence of play that season came in the last game in May when the new grass seed for summer was just planted. The tough part about playing on a new field is that you can’t step on the “new grass” when they plant it. After all it’s cordoned off with twine.

A little buddy of mine on the other team that night took a couple of hard swings against our star pitcher, fouling the ball once and again, over and over. It started to frustrate our star, Keith, who could usually strike a guy out.

On the twelfth or fourteenth pitch maybe, my friend swung and got a piece of the ball. It looked like a line drive to Left popping it up high along the 3rd base line. Whether it would end foul or fair, the hit had some legs to it.

Derrick, who was playing Left Field that evening went running after the ball, head looking up toward the sky. Trending foul, he ran toward the baseline, glove out for the catch. Before he could get a hand in front of the descending baseball, he took a step toward the new grass and ran neck first, right into the twine, getting clothes lined.

Several “Ohs” and “Ouchs” from the shocked crowd, reacting to this wipeout –a Little League version of a NASCAR road accident—but Derrick got back up. He was fine and brushed off his embarrassment showing he was OK and ready to play again.

Worst of all (for him) he made what would have been a fantastic diving catch for a crucial out look like a penultimate screw up by an overconfident, careless goon. Only because he couldn’t mind the twine.

But then again, if I recall, his connection or influence with our coach got him the right to play where ever he wanted. One that night, pretending to be Gary Maddox, Derrick chose Left Field.

And maybe for once that night, Little League Karma just bit Derrick and Little League Nepotism in the ass.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and tweets his daily sports mania thru @MySportsComplex on Twitter. He is still recovering from the World Cup as are you.

World Cup Round Up: Holland Head-on as Mighty Brazil Falls; Iberia Clashes

2010-07-02T10:32:00.000-07:00

Nobody said that Brazil was unbeatable, but everyone quietly thought so. Except for the Dutch...maybe.

Today the Netherlands, also known as soccer’s most self destructive infighting specialists, came back from Brazil’s first strike to finish off the world’s number one squad 2-1.

For Brazil, Robinho (pronounced Ro-BEAN-yo, for my American pals) scored at the 10 minute mark after knocking down the receiving the end of a long pass from winger Kaká, Up the center, Holland’s defense was absent as Brazil scored in effortless fashion. A few minutes later, Kaká almost made it 2-0 with a brilliant curved ball that the Dutch keeper blocked one-handed with a lunge.

But after the half, the Netherlanders showed resolve on defense with a one-two punch on offense.

The Dutch first scored after a strike from Wesley Sneijder skidded off the head of Brazil’s defender Luis Fabiano, and then into the goal. Making it 2-1 for Holland occurred in similar style as a corner kick bounced from the head of Dirk Kuyt to the bald head of Sneijder into the back of the net.

The last few weeks has shown a Dutch side that has done well on defense, but has featured a display of uneasy strikers up front, sometimes bickering instead of scoring.

Unike America’s most favorite surprised-filled neurosis, March Madness basketball, the World Cup often has fewer surprises for the fans. Rarely, it seems, does the minnow eat the shark on the world stage.

Sure, Brazil came to the pitch today with their usual speed, excellent passing and fantastic skill. However, every once in a while, a measured and disciplined performance, like that of the Dutch today, can best the theatrics of the world’s most consistent juggernaut. But the Dutch aren't the only ones.

Wednesday saw two of the best national teams both from the same nook of Europe go at it in Capetown. At the end Spain bumped Portugal 2-1 in a long and slow battle.

Portugal hasn’t often figured into the top realm since the days of Eusébio, The Black Panther, in the late ‘60s and 70s. But in the last few years, Portugal has had its share of superstars like Cristiano Ronaldo build up the squad into a recognized force. It was with Ronaldo’s blaze that a firey Portugal scored seven against North Korea last Monday.

Yet, it’s been said by some that the people of Spain are formal and methodical in their approach to all things, and if so, this week their football showed it. The result of the match was a one goal win for Spain, after 63 minutes of knocking consistently on the goalkeeper’s door.

Spain’s goal came from the foot of David Villa from a pass from the masterful work of midfielder Xavi, who ESPN Magazine recently called the “Steve Nash of soccer”.

Holland will face either Ghana or two time cup winners Uruguay next week, with the fixture to be decided today. While, on the other side of the bracket, Spain will meet Paraguay Saturday after an epic battle between Argentina and Germany.

Stay tuned for more surprises...maybe.

Cubs Baseball, (or) The Sham at The Cell

2010-06-28T15:02:00.000-07:00

Arriving at US Cellular Field, also known as The Cell, home of the Chicago White Sox, can be an ordeal for any Cubs fan.

First of all, 35th Street is a bit of a hike from the North Side whether you take the El or drive it and park. But besides the commute, during your stay in the South Side you will be met with pity and derision if not general abuse, albeit polite and civil general abuse. And that’s before the first pitch.

A Sox fan sums it up accurately and courteously for the guest team

Last Friday the Cubs didn’t help matters by doing what they often do best, which is to make a mockery of business in the same way that the Keystone Cops enforced the law.

A regular notch in the Cubs pitching rotation saw Tom Gorzelanny pitch much of the game against the Sox. Gorzelanny initially got slotted into the Cubs’ starting rotation earlier in 2010 only after Carlos Zambrano, a former All-Star, got sent into the bullpen after mediocre performances followed by temper tantrums.

Oddly enough, the second inning on this day saw Gorzelanny take the mound after Zambrano gave up four runs in a mediocre performance, followed by an altercation in the dugout and a temper tantrum.

The Cubs eventually lost 6-0, winning only the last of the three game series of the Crosstown Classic.

Before the end of the game, I talked with other baseball fans of both persuasions to find out that the consensus was that Zambrano was a bum, a whiny baby, and the root of many of the Cubs’ problems. But that’s not the simple answer.

True, Zambrano’s pitching this season stinks, but so does that of the entire pitching staff save Carlos Silva, and maybe Ryan Dempster. Power hitters like Aramis Ramirez, aren’t hitting the ball, and Cubs hitting hasn’t been adequate much less stellar. Nor can the Cubs hold a lead when they have one. Moreover, Coach Lou Piniella is out of contract after this season, and the Cubs have new owners who are just starting to get settled and find their way. All in all, it seems that the team has accepted that things are going nowhere and that’s how they're playing at the moment.

I remember when the Cubs’ issues back in the days of the 1990s, were predictable but tried and true.

Alfonseca, the 6 fingered man, with better pitching in better attire.

Back then, and up until the mid 2000s, the Cubs main talent seemed to be putting men on base. The problem was that they could never seem to get them to home plate.

Beyond that, it was the pitching quality and the untimely tendency of Cubs pitchers to slump from a good streak in one inning straight to a terrible inning to follow. I remember pitcher Kevin Tapani, a highly regarded Cub, in his usual patterns. The Tapani Algorithm, as I privately call it, would consist throwing an amazing no-hitter for four or five innings followed by a meltdown that would put a couple of runs on the board for the other team. The algorithm then ends mathematically when Tapani gets pulled off the mound.

Then there was Antonio Alfonseca, an excellent pitcher early in his career who won a World Series with the Marlins in 1997. He was also, in 2000, named National League Rolaids Relief Man of the Year. Problem was that during his Cubs years, as is typical with Cubs’ pitching, his innings on the mound were dodgy at best and horrendous at worst.

One public holiday weekend in 2003 (on Memorial Day, I think) a home game at Wrigley saw the Cubs up 2 to 1 in the 8th. Alfonseca took the mound in that inning as a relief pitcher. By the bottom of the 8th, it was 12 to 2 for the opposing team as Alfonseca moped off the mound, probably feeling awful about his self-destructive performance, giving up 11 runs. It was days like these that I wished the Wrigley beer man was the one pitching the Rolaids for us fans.

Perhaps now the Cubs’ bad performances aren’t so catastrophic in their onset, and as such, are met with less surprise by the fans and media. Failure comes more gradually with each inning, as an expected coda to a symphony of indifference and expected incompetence.

It’s unclear what the rest of the season will hold for the Cubs for sure. With interleague play ending soon, the Cubs’ Sham at the Cell finished, and the visitations of punishment by the White Sox over and done with, the MLB All-Star Game divides the season with a potential for a fresh start in its second half.

Maybe nothing will happen and Chicago’s North Side will see their club cross the finish line limping, perhaps without a coach. Maybe the Cubs will work their way back to some wins and respectability. Who knows.

But in the words of Harry Caray, “Holy Cow” doesn’t even begin to describe the situation.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter. His opinions may suck, but not as much as the Cubs do right now.

Writings © 2010. Alfonseca pic courtesy of wikipedia.org

World Cup Round Up – England: Club Good, Country Bad

2010-06-27T14:01:00.000-07:00

There’s one common element that I saw England carry throughout their games in the World Cup. That element, common to the squad and England fans alike, is discomfort. We saw discomfort in every minute of four full matches until England fell at the hands of Germany 4-1.

All of us who follow English football know the sharp talents of striker Wayne Rooney, as well as midfielders Steven Gerard and Frank Lampard when they choose to apply themselves. England have been well rounded at every position; a fact that can’t be stated about smaller national teams like that of Paraguay, Slovakia or even the United States.

Yet the whole time we watched England play, it was easy to notice that the midfield could not get Rooney the ball much less get anything going in front the opposition’s goalbox. And as winger Aaron Lennon scorched speedily down the flanks, against the US and Algeria, it became clear how small he was, having difficulty maintaining possession even against the slow defenses.

But the main problem for England wasn’t lack of ability or size. If nothing else it just looked like a bunch of guys who didn’t know how to play together. This brought to mind my own pain, as an amateur player, playing on a team of strong, athletic, experienced soccer players who would get railed week in and week out by opposing teams, sometimes 5-0 simply because we shared no familiarity til the season’s end.

It was said last week that France was so terrible, again not because of talent, but because it was eleven men playing separately and by themselves on the same field. I could be dead wrong, but it looked like England was feeling the same pain. Unlike the French though, England wanted desperately to play together, and to do so competently. The Three Lions just could not get a momentum, like the new boy lost at the schoolyard on the first day of the school year.

In years past, there was a difference and greater sense of comfort with the England team of the early 2000s. While sometimes predictable, the team and its aging players always seemed to have coherence at there worst and a collective fire at their best.

Take for instance the great 5-1 win against Germany in Munich. As usual the Germans scored first, but it was the Liverpool troika who scored all of England’s goals. Michael Owen bagged a hat trick amongst two goals from Gerard, before a final dagger at the end of the match my Emile Heskey, Liverpool’s “non-scoring” striker. These three players had started for their club for years before, playing 38 games a season together for Liverpool not counting tournaments.

Add to that the midfield was rounded out by Paul Scholes and David Beckham, and Manchester United duo who had not only played long with England but came up from the United academy together, getting acquainted as teens. And add to that a back four that for a decade plus seemed to come straight from Arsenal’s Highbury Stadium.

Instead, it seemed that this time around, the England squad was an experiment in diversity. England in 2010 was made up of players from a half a dozen clubs and became a team, never coached by an Italian that suddenly played its game on the wings. The midfield set itself up with two wingers and two other midfielders of an offensive slant, mostly in Lampard and Gerard. With James Milner and Gareth Barry as relatively new additions to the midfield, this lack-of-formation formation didn’t seem too smart when the consensus is that your back defense is not rock solid and your strikers aren’t exactly a partnership.

As such, England’s style of play seemed at best a work-in-progress that hadn’t yet progressed on to World Cup Scoring 101.

Sure, you could say that professionals of the highest talent should be able to play well together without much dress rehearsal. Or that time and time again, England was not up to the challenge because their players are too pampered and too rich, with nothing than fame and recognition to play for. Both are probably true.

Yet the intangible talents of a team –the ones that help a team dominate and go the distance –are not dropped in the team’s lap with the arrival of one player or a star studded coach. Furthermore, top club talent does not necessarily make top international talent. Fabio Capello, assuming he stays at the helm, will need to trim the fat, stamp out the celebrity flair and figure out what players really have the drive to win for their country. The rest will come with the building process.

Any good builder will tell you, a house can’t be build without quality materials, no matter how expensive or glamorous the tiles on the wall might be. It’s time for England to rebuild the house, and consider a World Cup trophy a long, arduous and worthy project.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter. Writings © 2010.

His opinions may be wrong, but at least he didn’t lose 4 – 1 to Germany today.

Taxi Cab Confessions & World Cup Predictions

2010-06-11T06:16:00.000-07:00

Like any sports fan I get a bit sick and tired of pundits. Whether it’s the old bellwether rags like Bob Costas and his incessant canned comments; or the uninformed musings of “experts” like former soccer man Alexi Lalas, I don’t think the famous pundits necessarily know more than you or I about anything.

As a city dweller, part of my life and my transit scheme is taxi cabs. The drivers come from all over the world and varied backgrounds, so I love to talk with them. And if I can get them to talk sports, then the ride is well worth more than my cab fare.

Since I talk to the cabbies, the topic of World Cup soccer came up, admittedly by my prodding. So, what better way to talk World Cup soccer than to gather the predictions of your favorite local cabbies?

Here’s a sample of what I found, recalling the best I can. Like your favorite players, the players names and cab team affiliation are equally important to the roster. But don’t ask me for shirt numbers.

 Geoffrey, from Ghana. Yellow Cab.
When I asked Geoffrey where he was from, I got the usual answer from a West African. “Africa” he said. “Yeah but where?” I said. “West Africa…Ghana”. This guy should have been driving a semi, because he was too tall even for the front seat.

Being from Ghana, Geoffrey knew as well as I did that Ghana has a good team. Facing Germany, Australia and Serbia, he picked Ghana to advance from their bracket with a little effort.

Geoffrey pointed out that Ghana’s BlackStars have some world class players like Michael Essien and Stephen Appiah, but that much their strength comes from team unity, discipline and a fervent work ethic on the pitch. Other African teams, he says, have exciting goal scorers but aren’t well rounded, and for this reason rarely make a major impact.

Unfortunately, within a week from my ride with Geoffrey, Ghana’s captain and midfield dominator, Essien, had been ruled too injured to participate. If Ghana does head to the 2nd round, the knockout stage, they’ll likely play England, the country where Essien plays for Chelsea FC. Again, they’ll likely make it on grit and work ethic. Geoffrey picked Brazil to win it all, based on their talent, speed, and intangible qualities. Probably a safe bet.

Since I couldn’t remember, I asked him who Ghana would play first. He tapped his Bluetooth, asking a friend who he apparently had on the phone the whole ride, who answered.
Ghana vs. Serbia, June 13 @ 9:30 EST. You heard it here first.

 Milos, from Serbia. Flash Cab.
Milos from Serbia, whose first name and the fact that he’s driving a Chicago cab seem counter to him being Serbian, is like many Eastern European fans that follows Germany’s Bundesliga. We got in a conversation about Argentina and their 22 year old dynamo Leo Messi. Messi is considered the world’s best player and if you’ve seen him play you’d tend not to disagree. Like many fans of the German game, Milos claims that only big, strong teams, like the Germans can go the distance. Milos, also a tall cabbie, states that teams of “little men” can score goals but never venture to win it all, like Germany and Holland can.

(Side note: Holland has won the World Cup as many times as Mongolia...zero times)

At 5 foot 7, I’m certain Messi didn’t think about his height when he scored 5 goals in 20 minutes against London’s Arsenal FC this spring. And while Germany is a decent pick, probably odds at 8 to 1, Milos’ rationale may not work. And if he’s writing off Argentina, he’d best stay in his cab.

 Reza, from Iran. Checker Cab.
I met Reza a while ago, and he’s one of my most memorable and least favorite cabbies. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Are you from Iran?’ I asked him, and he replied “How did you know?”

Well, your name is Reza. That’s like being an Englishman named Simon or Nigel. Like a lot of Chicago cabbies he’s got a doctorate, his in Engineering.

If they kicked around personal baggage instead of a ball, this cabbie would’ve beat Brazil by himself.

Anyhow, we talked about Iranian football, which has a good program and nutty die hard fans that belie the Islamic Revolution. Iran also has been in the last two World Cups, one time thrashing the US, but didn’t make it this time around. And this cabbie is a complainer, so there’s a conspiracy behind it.

He complains about hegemony of the West and the Saudis' oil money, implying that this is why Iran didn’t make it to the Cup. Then he goes on about how much he doesn’t really like the US and how, thanks to American Law, his ex-wife took him to the cleaners. Lots of complaining equals a small tip.

I painfully stepped out of the cab slowly having I squeezed him for his prediction: France. If the World Cup kicked around personal baggage instead of a leather ball, this cabbie would have beat Brazil by himself.

 Muhseen, from Pakistan. independent cabbie.
Muhseen seemed to know quite a bit about soccer, and yet reminded me of all the American pinheads who you’ll hear reminding you that “soccer will never make it in the US.” Not that he was dissing the game. He just didn’t seem think it was a big deal.

Muhseen, a sort of Pakistani B-boy, equipped with hip-hop on the radio, star-and-crescent bling everywhere, and other Pakistan symbols all over his cab seemed to want to talk cricket, which I know little about.

He told me more than I needed to know about the paddle game, probably excited about the Cricket World Cup which comes up next. He also mentioned field hockey, another one of Pakistan’s sporting repertoires. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that in the US, field hockey is a women’s sport.

Muhseen’s prediction: Brazil.

 Francois, from Haiti. American United Cab and
unnamed sports fan, no cab affiliation.

When I was about to jump in a different cab on a stunning sunny day in May, the driver was leaning against his cab soaking up the breeze while talking with another dowdy, dusty and older American man with a White Sox cap. Each seemed to know his sport stuff. They were talking about Spain, and I figured it must be World Cup talk.

Francois the cabbie was versed on Spanish soccer pretty well too, talking about Messi but also FC Barcelona’s other home grown Spanish lords, Xavi (pron “Chah- bee”) and Iniesta. This Spanish duo is constructed of the two of the best players in the world on the same club team. They work their passing, style of play and rhythm much like that of the Jordan and Pippen of 1990s Chicago Bulls, if you know what I mean.

Many think that Spain will let these two players, who dominate together in tandem at Barça, run the show. If they do, then Spain is your team and a sensible prediction to win the World Cup. Francois and his passerby pal took Spain to win the World Cup, basing their judgments on raw talent alone. With these two men, and their logic, I agree....I pick Spain to win their first World Cup trophy.

I have to admit that my conversations with Chicago’s cabbies were, as always, fun and fulfilling. It was pretty obvious that I didn’t get a balanced sample of prospects’ opinions, or any scientific data. The again, there are only so many days I can take a cab, and it doesn’t make their predictions wrong.

Four years ago the “experts” as always had their take. too.

Italian soccer was in turmoil and under criminal investigation, so Italy wouldn’t make it. France was too old and would choke again. USA Today picked England, the Czech Republic was a top team, while Germany had the benefit of the Twelfth Man, since they would be playing in front of their home crowd. Yet Brazil was thought to be unbeatable.

One month of soccer told the unpredictable true story. The Czechs choked, and the US won zero matches. England phoned it in lost on penalties. Brazil and Germany got left in the semifinals.

And then, Zidane, the greatest player since Maradona and Pelé, head butted the Dennis Rodman of Italian football in front of 400 million TV viewers. Twenty minutes later, in the end, Italy held it together long enough to win the World Cup.

So one thing comes to mind. You could pick up every magazine and read their predictions. Or you could sit at home and look it up for free on the internet. But your best bet is to jump in a taxi, head to Fadó, The Globe or another local pub, and talk to your cabbie on the way. If you like the conversation, tip him or her like you would your bartender.

After all, you’d enjoy the ride, and get the best value for your buck.

Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter. He’s worth his weight in conversation and cab fare.

Written words © 2010.

Pics kindly borrowed from bluecab.com and subsidesports.com

Attitude: Breakfast of Champions

2010-05-22T22:37:00.000-07:00

I used to patronize a little greasy spoon of a diner back when I was single. Despite the breakfast-served-all-day stereotype of it all, it was clean and was the kind of place known for its Vegas themed dishes like Three Aces and Deuces Wild, hobos and chicken fried steak, or country fried steak as they call it now.

Like most guys, especially single ones, I always loved breakfast food, but that wasn’t the only reason I went there. The other was Arlene, my favorite waitress. (Editor’s note: Don’t sweat it, my wife knows this story.)

Arlene was blonde and taller than me (but then, who isn’t?). She had a confident movie star look, without being gorgeous. Sort of a Tatum O’Neal look alike, but a pre-drug bust Tatum O’Neal, she was pretty and a bit snarky with occasional diffidence that might lead other patrons to think her “nothing special”. And maybe so, but there was something that made up for any hint of averageness. To me, what made her stand out was that she was chock full of attitude, and that’s probably what I liked best. Sure she’s a waitress at a diner, but she not gonna take crap from anybody, especially not you.

The first time in my life that I knew an Arlene was around age 7 or 8 when I had a babysitter named Arlene. Arlene the babysitter had a pudgy, snooty and spoiled daughter named Arlene (or Arlene Junior as I called her), and Big Arlene was for sure a big Arlene as you’d picture her. She was stocky with cheaply dyed red hair and always wearing long shorts or Capri pants or whatever was available back then to the unfashionable house women of 1979.

When we were bad sometimes she used to talk about the troll in her basement eating us. Other times, during nap time Arlene would play a recording of her fat plumber husband gurgling and growling while claiming to be the troll. The whole family was a bunch of trolls, actually.

So, yeah, I’ve got negative associations with the name Arlene, which on its own is not a pretty girl’s name. It is about equal to Ruth and slightly more alluring than Margaret or Lois. Like many a working class waitress, her name for me was “hun” or “sweetie” and she was always chewing gum while talking.

But besting the stereotype about her kind, and besting my fears about names, Arlene had little stylish ticks that just worked and did make her special. She was always pleasant to me while keeping other bozos at the diner in line if they got fresh. But really, it was the attitude that sold me. Maybe I was intrigued.

Like waitresses, people of other professions get thrown into a common box. Accountants, insurance sales people, realtors, construction workers, beauticians all get typecast in our society. Athletes are no different.

Over the last half century the stereotype, or archetype maybe, of the professional athlete has gradually moved from the true blue talisman of Ronald Reagan’s “Gipper” to dumb jock, and then onto the loud mouth baller in a Ferrari dropping hundred dollar bills like loose change. The pro athlete, in America's mind, has has gone from humble the Jimmy Stewart type to rabble-rouser.

Yet beyond stereotypes the most intriguing professionals are defined not only by their touchdowns, home runs, points scored or other statistics. They tend to be remembered by how they carry themselves. Furthermore, their style and character often redefines the sport.

Years ago, a good friend of mine referred to Lance Armstrong as “cocky”. I can’t say I’ve ever seen this in Armstrong, but if he is cocky (even a little bit), who cares. I think beating terminal cancer and winning the Tour de France seven times in a row probably affords you the right to strut your stuff and tout your cause. If Armstrong didn’t profoundly affect cycling then I don’t know who did.

In Basketball, Allen Iverson blazed trails for nearly a decade for the Philadelphia 76ers, once leading to the NBA Finals. Referred to as “irresistibly cocky” by one sports lover I know, Iverson, at 6 feet tall, is also the shortest ever player to win the NBA’s MVP award. While his star has faded and his off the court life may pose questions, in his prime Iverson always let his skills and attitude do the talking on hardwoods. Some said he was a thug and wasn’t a team player. I believe Iverson was a team player, though not a perfect one. That said, on the nights he was not in the team spirit or wasn’t getting along with coach Larry Brown, it didn’t hurt that he score 35 points and make all of his free throws to make up for it.

Philly fans, known for their own fervor, had a love/hate relationship both Iverson and another key Sixer, one Charles Barkley. Barkley was an all-star from the start, but often criticized Philadelphia for criticizing him. His physical style of play often led him to stir it up single handedly with other teams like the Detroit Pistons and the especially with their huge tough guy center, Bill Laimbeer.

I remember as a high school kid one Sunday picking up my dad’s Philadelphia Inquirer to find the front page blessed with an image that says it all about Barkley’s early days. The front page showed Barkley from behind, with his name and #34 jersey front and center. The rest showed his fist forward impacting into Laimbeer’s collapsing face. And my parents were worried about what I watched on TV.

Sixers clinch the division and Bill Laimbeer's face too.

Some classic footage can be seen here at http://www.hayag.com/w/f9874868694f490f9280488c154d3383

Barkley once said in a Nike commercial “I am not a role model”. Maybe so, but players like The Round Mound of Rebound make fans of the game pick their sides and stand with them resolutely, while tuning in for more and more games.

Even better yet is one such athlete that comes to mind who never even threw a punch: retired NBA star Charles Oakley. Joining the Chicago Bulls in 1985, Oakley was a 6 foot 9 center-forward who talked a lot and had a lot of attitude. After being traded to the Knicks, Oakley became a centerpiece of that squad and was best known not only for his rebounding but for keeping opposing player in line without ever pushing or throwing a punch. At times he seemed an expert at influencing the game through his trash talk which never came out as trash talk, calling opponents on their trash by labelling them wimps or “pseudo tough guys”.

Sure, Oakley was surrounded by hall of famer Patrick Ewing and other ‘tude purveyors like John Starks and Anthony Mason. Yet his confidence and commanding presence, his undertoned sarcasm and the fact that you couldn’t get into his head while he got to in yours, indeed made him one of the toughest players in the NBA’s 1990s era, while making him one of the most fun to watch.

Some the lessons I learned for from my favorite childhood sports heroes may be much the same as what I pick up from a favorite waitress. And it doesn’t matter if you’re an athlete or you hate sports. Take credit for your best attributes. Maintain control, strut your stuff, and if you’ve got a drive, go with it.

Andy Frye, forced into a vacation thanks to lousy information technology, is back…writing about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter.

Writings © 2010.

Hoarding Numbers

2010-04-20T21:22:00.000-07:00

When I turned 38 a few weeks ago, I did the usual sports nut thing and took to trying to identify --in my head—any legendary (or even notable) athletes who wore number 38 on their jersey. There’s not many, but there are a few.

First off, there’s #38 Curt Schilling who pitched for my hometown club the Phillies. More importantly, he pitched for the Red Sox in 2004, helping them win the World Series less than a month before his 38th birthday.

Less famous and more legendary is #38 Leroy “Chucky” Mullins, who played college football for Ole Miss as a star defensive back before getting paralyzed during a game in 1989 against Vanderbilt. During Mullins’ short life, and since his death in 1991, he’s inspired a lot of people.

The there’s the “Z-Man”, the temperamental, once-inspiring Cubs pitcher #38 Carlos Zambrano, who gave up a 3-0 lead on opening day and might have well just thrown for 38 opposing team runs.

Beyond those three, I can’t think of anyone else, so I hope that this roster – a retired pitcher, and paralyzed and deceased football player and a Cubs pitcher being stereotypically Cublike--- doesn’t bode poorly for my next year of life at age 38.

But if I ever get sick this year, I’ll remind myself that it was with a 103 temperature at “The Flu Game” that Michael Jordan almost single-handedly beat the Utah Jazz. In that Game 5 of the 1997 NBA Finals, Jordan finished with an inspired 38 points.

It is a strange thing that some sports enthusiasts have a savant-like quality of being able to cough up sports-related numbers; whether it is jersey numbers, the score of a game 20 years ago, or a minor batting statistic of a forgotten about player. We always do this with the assumption that it matters to the rest of the non-sports-obsessed world, like anybody cares. Always terrible with numbers, I am one who is able to remember a player’s shirt number like his face or his stats in a way that suggests that I should have been good at Math. Only problem is, I stink at Math and at remembering other things too.

Yet jersey numbers do help. If I was given an address to a Saturday cookout somewhere, at, say 3144 West Irving Park Road, I would –knowing that I can’t handle numbers on their own—translate this to shirt numbers of notable players. I might remember it as Reggie Miller / John Riggins.

That’s #31 for Reggie Miller, who played with the Indiana Pacers; and #44 for John Riggins who punished other NFL teams with his yardage and won a Super Bowl with the Washington Redskins. Sometimes, this practice pains me, because, dammit, I hate the Redskins.

But it’s not just me…there is some significance to it all…this numbers and players business. Almost anytime you see an autograph of a player from any sport it is usually accompanied by a squad number. Beyond that, even bigger deals are made about numbers by players and clubs.

On June 11, the 2010 World Cup will feature an Argentina squad with a number 10 for the first time in 20-some years. Number 10 will be once again worn by Leo Messi, who is currently regarded as the world’s best soccer player. Yet #10 was last worn in the 1980s by the great Maradona, who now coaches Argentina.

For a long time, Argentina wanted, badly, to retire their number 10 in honor of their best-ever player, but FIFA, soccer’s governing body, wouldn’t let them. Then again, retiring numbers is world football isn’t very common.

Soccer’s only shirt number retired in the last two decades, to my knowledge, is that of Marc-Vivien Foé who wore number 23. Foé was an international from Cameroon who played his club career as #23 at Manchester City. Like Chucky Mullins, he had to die to get that honor of having his number retired, having passed from a sudden heart attack on the field –yes, during the game-- at the 2003 Confederations Cup. Not even Hank Gathers got his shirt number retired.

Anyhow, a month later David Beckham subsequently took #23, the unofficial story goes, to honor Foé while switching teams from Manchester United to Real Madrid. Besides, Becks’ old strip at United, #7, was already taken at Real. So in taking #23, Becks not only honored Foé, but took #23 for another reason too. Word has it that Becks took #23 to draw inspiration from another sports hero, one Michael Jordan.

In America, Jordan’s number carries a lot of clout and fanfare. LeBron James, the best basketball player in the world, now and potentially of all time, also wears #23 for the same reason. It’s after Jordan, but maybe also because LeBron is the only player up for the challenge of matching Jordan’s legacy.

Yet, if LeBron ever came to the Chicago Bulls (don’t get your hopes up, people) he would be forced to pick another number since #23 is retired by the club. The Bulls had originally retired Jordan’s shirt number in 1993, but it was resurrected in 1995 when, unannounced and to much fanfare, Jordan ditched the #45 jersey to start a game again as Number 23. Because the Bulls’ #23 was officially retired in the eyes of the NBA, both Jordan and the Bulls were fined to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars.

Like His Airness, LeBron, and others, Shaquille O’Neill has worn the same number throughout his career at several teams, number 32. Yet it was as #34 that Shaq won several championships with the Lakers, only because number 32 had been retired in honor of the great Magic Johnson.

One need not be famous to be savant-like and possessive about squad numbers. We’ve all had number 23s on our sports teams as adults and when we were kids. In my generation, most claim it to be like Mike. Although, I have one friend who said his 23 was for someone else; and he would not tell me who, forcing me to figure it out.

Answer: Ryne Sandberg. Not a hard guess, since I’m a Cubs fans and since my pal also has a dog named Prior (after Cubs pitcher Mark Prior). Since then, I have imagined there’s probably some die-hard Oakland A’s fan who has a dog named “Fingers” after Rollie Fingers, the great Hall of Famer pitcher. And why not? Rollie’s number, 34, was retired by two teams, the Milwaukee Brewers and the As, as was his handlebar moustache.

But this ain’t just a guy thing. For all of the sports I’ve played on a coed basis, plenty of women have staked their claim on #23 and #34 too.

One athlete friend of mine has had a lock on number 26 her entire life, and I have a hunch she dresses up her dog as #26, too. As a high school freshman she negotiated the lock on #26 for two sports –field hockey and lacrosse—and probably every intramural flag football game since. Her lifelong obsession, Philadelphia Flyers hockey and their great goal scorer Brian Propp, who wore #26, appears to be what burned this number permanently into her soul.

All in all, we hog our favorite numbers, just like we hog the ball for one reason only. It’s to grab a piece of the skills and good fortune that our favorite players bring to the sport, our team, and maybe, too, for the sake of a little self-inspiration.

And if there’s no Math involved, then hoarding numbers and inspiration is a wonderful thing.

Andy Frye writes a couple times a week about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter.

Writings © 2010.

"Bowling for Comedy in Paris"

2010-04-06T09:02:00.001-07:00

‘The following is part of a series called Short Short Sports Stories which are real life stories, funny stuff, quips and things that happened around 1000 words.

“The official French National Past time is wearing a beret while smoking” is a little something I’ve joked before regarding the French. Sports fans think about stuff like national past times, such as Baseball in the US. And we wonder about what else people across the globe –those who don’t have baseball-- do for fun.

Maybe a better question is this: What should we do with ourselves when not in the domain of our own national past time?

The French are as complex we Americans and Brits. But if you’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting France, you know they have a soft spot for American culture whether or not they would admit to it.

The first time I went, in 1990, it was ‘50s this and James Dean that. Elvis was everywhere even amidst tabloid rumors that Elvis was alive and well. So apparently he was alive and well in France all along and probably still is. If only the French had thought to invent the ‘50s diner first, they’d be gazillionaires.

The last time I visited in May '01, the American 1950s was still a fixation in the City of Lights.

Just so you don’t think me a wine-swilling, jet-setting snob –a stereotype affixed to Cubs fans by our brethren on the South Side-- let me point to that this was a guys’ trip. We weren’t in Europe to view the Tintorettos or exchange Rotary club banners. We were there for the fun trip in Europe, that’s all.

I arrived there on the cheapest air tickets, and I couldn’t have cared less where in Europe we had went. Lucky for us, still single, KLM’s flight attendants all looked like models and the six hour flight concluded with a good breakfast and some Mr. Bean videos.

The Sixers were in the playoffs and as usual my mind was on sports, roaming around the city with two friends, Brian, an architect and semi-professional smart ass; and Dugg, a writer who ended up staying in Europe.

The first day was the usual Paris stuff: museums, French palaces of grandeur and Revolution history. We visited Jim Morrison’s grave at Père-Lachaise, and ate lots of fried food with too much dressing. And with the Euro currency in the toilet, we dined like kings but more importantly used our dollars to drink, like drinking alcohol was an Olympic event.

Tourists second, but sport fans first, we stopped in a pub in St. Germain in mid-day to watch soccer, soaking it up with the British expats viewing the FA Cup final. But it didn’t end there.

One drizzling Sunday night we had nothing to do while roaming around the Left Bank, spotting a bowling alley, Le Bowling Mouffetard, named after the street it sat on. So, to avoid getting soaked, we went in to the Mouffetard. There, we bowled to Elvis hits as they do in France.

To this day Brian and I still refer to each other as "moof tard", which indicates either the cultural sophistication we failed to absorb, or just our lack of maturity.

Bowling is one sport that consists of 95 percent predictability, 5 percent who-knows-what. Once the ball drops onto the wood planks you know whether it’s a complete gutter ball or something good. But the final count doesn’t present itself until the ball strikes the pins. Upon impact it could be one pin down, the glory of a strike, or one pin short just to rub it in your face.

In the US, Pro Bowling gets a bad wrap. I can’t for the life of me name the best bowler of all time –the sport’s Michael Jordan or Babe Ruth—and while the game does get its share of TV time and endorsement money, it does seem like Bowling is treated unfairly as if it were a trailer park past time.

Fair enough, most of the game’s “stars” on television are tubby middle aged guys, with greasy hair who forgot to shave. The shirts that pro bowlers wear are a little dorky and the shoes are purely functional and fashionless. Definitely, bowling is an American regular guy’s sport.

That said, Bowling is fun. America regards it fun enough for kids’ birthday parties and Wednesday night leagues throughout one’s adulthood. Maybe like shooting pool, Bowling has its regimented place: it is something for enjoying over a beer, but you don’t read about it in the next day’s paper.

Furthermore, it could be that Bowling is meant to be more fun and less work. After all, have you ever known anyone who has gotten in shape for Bowling? Ever run, stretch, or lift any weights just for Wednesday night?

The worst bowler of the three of us, and possibly the world, I didn’t care much about keeping score, just the having fun part, hitting an occasional spare and many gutterballs. I thought it was weird to be bowling to the oldies, wondering what other weird things could happen.

Right after it had stopped raining and we left to walk a block away up to some plaza where –according to my writer friend-- another masculine regular guy, Ernest Hemingway, had lived and written some masterpieces. In a very un-Hemingway sort of way, a comedy of errors ensued.

Brian, sort of a tough guy, got approached by some old man holding a ferret, who had man boobs, that was trying to bum a smoke off him. Manboobs was annoyingly French; speaking his mother tongue swiftly as if any of us knew what he was saying. He remained persistent, wagging his finger at Brian to reprimand him for being cheap over a cigarette, and Brian, who doesn’t speak French or Ferret got into it with him. Brian played his usual wiseguy game, requesting (in English) that the man who didn’t speak English ask him correctly and politely for a smoke, in English.

Meanwhile, we saw some burly 20-something American guy in a Carhartt barn jacket and a baseball cap wake up next to some other passed out drunks who weren’t American. He must have gotten lost and left behind by the rest of the fraternity, because he seemed confused, and super wasted. Stumbling, stuporing, and leaning forward, the inebriated American with the barn jacket then dropped his pants and did his business right there in the public grass, before stepping in it and walking off toward us.

About two minutes later Manboobs and Barn Jacket walked toward each other, but both in their own little world, didn’t notice each other. Staggering slowly, the two collided in the square, lost their balance and almost went into a table full of tourists eating dinner. What an interesting metaphor for a clash of two cultures.

Both drifted into the darkness, which was probably a good thing. And just like in European Vacation, the Chevy Chase film, some bell started ringing.

We took that as a sign of enough past times and culture learning for the evening. After all, we too were tourists, and with ringing bells we decided it was it was time to get the hell outta there.

Andy Frye writes a couple times a week about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and via My Sports / Complex on Facebook and Twitter. He’s horrible at bowling on every continent.

Written words © 2010.

Check out Le Bowling Mouffetard at www.bowlingmouffetard.fr | 73 Rue Mouffetard 75005 Paris, France

A Thought for the Day

2010-03-23T07:22:00.000-07:00

March 23, 2010 at Noon, at the Union League Club, Chicago.

As a member of the Rotary Club of Chicago, I was asked to present the “Thought of the Day” for Tuesday’s luncheon. Some, when asked to do their turn choose to say grace. Others share a famous quote, and some go the more spiritual route by reading some sort of interfaith prayer.

But of course, I had to bring sports into it. Go figure…

About 35 years ago, a man named Bill Shankly uttered these important words:

“Some people think that football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it’s much more serious that that.”

After all, Shankly was in many ways, a combination of both the Vince Lombardi and Phil Jackson of English Football. He won three league championships and a couple of FA Cup titles in his time coaching the team known as the Liverpool Football Club.

But I don’t think Shankly’s point was that football (or any sport) is the most important thing in life. Or that the games we play are more important than our work, faith or family.

He was getting at something entirely different. He was talking about means by which we entertain, inspire and excite ourselves through every minute of every day of this thing we call "Life".

When not on the sidelines, Shankly spent many of his evenings during England’s recession-plagued 1970s in front of a type writer. A couple times a week, he personally responded to fans who had written in; many of whom were just been looking for some inspiration from their Saturday football team. Others knew him as the man who would buy tickets for some fans who loved the sport but who truly could not afford them.

A good win for Liverpool was glorious. A loss made him feel like he had let the fans down, whether of not this was actually the case. Years later, he remarked that the idea of retiring was like facing the electric chair.

All in all, Shankly’s success in sport and --more importantly—in connecting with people made for a rollercoaster at times, but would underscore something very important.

That is, whatever you do, or what ever your favorite past time is…
Love people, love life, and have a passion for it all.

So, as Spring arrives to Chicago, the sun breaks and baseball season looms, let’s agree to let these beautiful things that entertain, inspire and excite us NOT be seen as mere distraction from time at an office.

Rather, take them as the necessary elements in what helps us enjoy and continually build our passion for life.

And, Go Cubs.

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

Sometimes, rarely, when speaking, sports isn't even mentioned.

Henry the 8th Returns to London

2010-03-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

So now Carlo Ancelloti’s head is on the chopping block. And Chelsea’s Russian owner, Roman Abramovich has notified his underlings to sharpen the guillotine, in case it need be used against the Chelsea coach.

Beheadings already? Yes, but we shouldn’t be surprised.

Well, we’ve seen this all too recently before. Two years ago, then-coach Avram Grant’s head came off after Chelsea failed to win the European Cup. It was a hard fought 1-1 score line against –no slouch—a tough Manchester United team, in which Chelsea lost on penalty kicks.

That’s what you get for running the second best club in Europe and the world. But some argued Grant took what wasn’t his. The squad was hand-picked and crafted by Grant's predecessor. And with the stain of defeat and dourness of Chelsea fans, only Anne Boleyn’s beheading might have been more anticipated.

Following that, in the fall of 2008, Jose Filipe Scolari, the Portugeezer who coached Brazil to a World Cup title, took on the Chelsea opportunity as the new manager. Scolari was axed mid-season because Chelsea was only among the top four. Sure, the team was not playing their best at the time. Yet, a top squad and a revered coach didn’t equal instant dominance, and the former oil-oligarch monarch, Abramovich, got mad and Scolari’s high-priced head, like Catherine Howard's, rolled as well.

Following Scolari, Dutchman Guus Hiddink took the reigns with reasonable success, half way through. Hiddink turned the team around to finish a strong second place, booking another season in Europe’s Champions League.

Yet on the front end, Hiddink said that he would only finish out the’08-09 season, and then quit. Why? Because instead of coaching world class players like Lampard, Drogba, Terry, Anelka and Ballack, he had other plans. Rather, he would return toward the Urals to coach the national team of Russia.

Hiddink’s last game at Chelsea saw the club win the FA Cup at Wembley Stadium. Not bad, for a thrilling short term fling.

Before all of these dismembered heads and annulments from Chelsea’s own Henry VIII, however, there was “The Special One”.

Like Catherine of Aragon, Henry VIII’s first wife, Jose Mourinho was greeted with huge crowds and great enthusiasm at his coronation at Chelsea in ’04. Yet, Mourinho was given an honorable discharge after the unsatisfactory feat of going undefeated for a full year, and then some. Under Mourinho, Chelsea won the league twice and built a track record of dominance, leaving rivals like Man United, helpless, embarrassed and naked in the wind.

The club played their best football in decades, maybe ever, while Jose played mind games with the press and other coaches. For all of these feats, Chelsea fans loved him, and Mourinho got away with anything he wanted.

Yet the manager’s flamboyance and side gags eventually began angering the owner, so much so that a second place his third year, got Mourinho an arranged divorce a few weeks into the 2006 season. In splitting with Mourinho, Chelsea had to reach deep into its pockets to provide a suitable, albeit painful settlement, leaving fans shocked and dismayed.

While Abramovich and his big money may have started a new religion in the UK for Chelsea with top players and management, like Henry VIII, Chelsea’s owner has failed to make strides of dominance in Europe by way of such fickle political maneuverings.

Nowadays, the executioner wears no black hood

Other big clubs have tried the same coach-of–the-month sampler, savoring only bad tastes at the end. Newcastle United, who was once the world’s 15th richest club in 2003, according to Deloitte & Touche, has been left in shambles.

The grave Newcastle dug itself began with the indecision and instability of running a club with two different owners and eight different managers in seven seasons starting in 2003 back when they were a respectable team. In 2009, Newcastle played their worst football ever, lost tens of millions in income, and are now scrimmaging scarcely televised games against Barnsley and Blackpool.

Leeds United did a similar bang up job, by selling their best players to pay mounting debts used to acquire them in the first place. Accordingly, Leeds fans point to Chairman Peter Risdale’s incompetence and haphazard dismantling of one of England’s most storied clubs. Once a mighty force in Europe, Leeds are now situated two divisions down, aside other weakened and financially crippled castaways.

One difference compared to Medieval Times is that, nowadays, the executioner wears no black hood. Instead of bells tolling or horns a blast, the death knell for a football manager comes out publicly, via the modern channels of the press release and sports wire. Hopefully the damned are notified of their pending execution at least before the papers.

Some might say, maybe Machiavelli or others, that the end (owning a mega rich, top flight English Football club) justifies the means (firing, firing, angering fans, and more firing).

I’m not a historian or social scientist, but my hunch is that, for both English football’s elite and Machiavelli, stability was a value far underrated.

No matter what the near future may hold, let’s hope that, like Katherine Parr, the last wife of Henry VIII, the club will always go on to outlive and outlast the club monarch.

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 2 - Chicago Style

2010-02-25T10:36:00.001-08:00

Last summer, one of the big Chicago papers ran this on their front page previous to the ill-fated Olympic bid:

“Only 47% of Chicagoans Back Olympic Bid”

Like many people here in the city, I was supportive of the Olympics getting here in 2016. As a Chicago Cubs fan, I thought about an alternate headline, and decided it might be better put this way:

“Only 47% of Chicagoans Back Olympic Bid”
“Four times more than back White Sox”

I must have been reading The Sun-Times that day, because The Chicago Tribune, whose parent company owns the Cubs, could have and might have run it that way. And if you were a northsider the second version would be your take on the matter. Because the only baseball that matters to you, in this town, is the baseball on your side of town.

This feature of Chicago culture is unique in the United States. In comparison, there are Yankees fans all over New York City, with plenty in Queens and Brooklyn which are both on the side of town of where the Mets play. Just the same, you don’t need to be from Manhattan to be a NY Rangers fan, but if you are die hard Islanders fan, you must have grown up when the Islanders were actually good (Note: see 1982). That said, I’ve never met an Islanders fan who admits to spending nights tossing and turning with hatred of the Rangers, even when they had Wayne Gretzky.

Then again, Chicago has its own take on a lot of things.

Food is a big one. For one, hot dogs are usually a variant of the kosher variety -which is the best in the world-- but come standard with everything except ketchup. Everything meaning: green dyed relish, mustard, fresh chopped onions, tomatoes, a jalapeño pepper, and a flimsy pickle slice. But if you want ketchup, well, you’ve gotta put that on yourself.

Likewise, thin crust pizza pies are circular but come cut, not in the shape of slices of pizza, but criss-crossed like a plate of brownies. As such, all pieces are cut in a square shape. Some call this “bar style” whether or not you’re in a bar.

“Chicago Style” pizza is deep-dished, decadent, and excellent really, but you’ll need a knife and fork if you don’t want to look like a total slob after consumption. The best Chicago Style in town (on the North Side, at least) is had at Chicago’s, which is owned and operated not by Italians but by a Mexican family.

I never said I was a huge fan on the fast food here, and lucky for me there is a guy from Philly who set up an authentic cheese steak chain called Philly’s Best. Like home, the place comes complete with every thing from Tastykakes to take-your-ass-outta-here attitude. Yet, I still get flack from my Philly pals, not only for the Cubs but believe it or not for the pizza too.

Beyond that, it’s not hard for someone like me to assimilate in Chicago, where you always feel welcome. And the sports culture helps suck you in if you let it.

It took me a couple of years of living only six blocks from Wrigley to get myself to a game. I used to moan about how awful the parking was during Cubs season, which seemed a waste since fans weren’t even seeing them win. But then I got to a game and I stopped wasting my energy moaning.

I now use terms that all northsiders know, but that when used around non-Chicagoans I find I need to explain myself. Sure, anyone who knows anything about the Cubs knows about the Curse of the Billygoat. As the legend goes, local restaurant owner couldn’t bring his smelly goat into the game and when turned away said, “Them Cubs, they aren't gonna win no more”. That was 1945, the shortly after last time the Cubs were in the World Series.

But others outside Chicago might not know the June Swoon or that “Cubs”, to some, really stands for “Completely Useless By September”.

I figured this out during a conversation with a friend back home around Thanksgiving. We were talking baseball, and I mentioned that the last time I owned a full season-ticket package was when “we were 5 outs from the World Series”. His response was something like “What? When was that?”

When? It was October 14, 2003, the same night as the The Steve Bartman Incedent. The Cubs were up 3-0 in the top of the 8th, with one out in Game 6 of the NLCS. That’s when. But who really wants to rehash this old stuff?

So it’s fair to say I’m totally immersed. Sure, you can beat me up about the Cubs. You can tell me how awful they are, that they stink, how they will never ever win the World Series. But until you’ve been to a day game at Wrigley, you have no idea what you’re missing.

Sox fans, by contrast, can point to a recent World Series Championship, back in 2005, when they swept the Houston Astros. But Sox fans still do complain about the Cubs.

One strange thing is that you never hear Sox fans complain about is media bias. And they could, given that two major media outlets, the Tribune and WGN Radio/TV are, through their corporation, aligned with the Cubs. Sox fans tend to take a more mocking tone, and like to tell you that they take delight at the opportunity to watch “minor league baseball” here in Chicago.

Most of the complaints about each other are topical though. Some Sox fans often say they like the Wrigley atmosphere and are “Wrigley fans” but not “Cub fans”. Others acknowledge the fun atmosphere but complain that Cubs fans are there only to get drunk or eat brie and not watch baseball. Note: brie is not served at Wrigley.

Likewise, Cubs fans complain that in Bridgeport there is the stadium and that’s it. There’s no fun to be had outside The Cell unless you consider it fun to wait for the Red Line train going north. Beyond that, I’ll say that the beer selection is good, the food selection is excellent for a ball park (you can get funnel cake!) yet the seats are uncomfortable and the heavy metal music that blares between batters is pretty damn annoying.

Usually the Cubs and Sox are never good at the same time. They don’t compete for anything other than temporary bragging rights, so there’s no punching and fighting, no hooliganism between fans after games. Besides, everyone knows that if you want to fist fight, that’s what the South Side Irish Parade is for.

So maybe it’s all academic. But whether it is Jay Leno ripping the Cubs, or Sox fans, or fans of other teams altogether, what you hear most of all is the sentiment “Give it up, the Cubs will never be good.” Plus there’s that superstition thing that sports fans have.

However, some think that curses have permanent effect. Goats? Curses and superstitions? Is that all you trash talkers got?

It wasn’t too long ago that The Curse of the Bambino was shattered in 2004 by the Boston Red Sox, who came back from a three game deficit to beat the Yankees and sweep the Cardinals to take the first of two World Series in three years.

This all happened not long after the laughing stock of pro football, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, won the Super Bowl. They did so in style, by stomping all over the Raiders, a bellwether NFL club who had been to their share of Super Bowls. And if you forgot about that one, just remember that another laughing stock, the Saints, formerly “The Ain’ts”, won it this year.

So keep up the trash talk about the Cubs. And don’t forget to remind me how fruitless my passion for supporting them is. Tides are turning. You just wait.

Andy Frye eats, breathes, and writes about sports and life in Chicago, and at MySportsComplex.blogspot.com. Past results do not indicate future performance…Read your prospectus.

The 10 Best Sports Films of the Last 20 Years

2010-02-17T09:47:00.000-08:00

As a sports enthusiast and writer I have taken it upon myself to hammer out the ten best films about sports from the last two decades. Feel free to chime in, agree, disagree, or note the films I have forgotten about. But I think I got it mostly right…So enjoy.

10. Dogtown and Z-Boys (2001)
A dozen bored surfers, mostly kids in Venice, California, not only reinvent the skateboard but remake a once-forgotten-about suburban fad from the 1950s into an action sports revolution.

Narrarated by Sean Penn, Dogtown depicts life in the more rundown “Locals Only” beach communities circa 1974, which consisted of mostly of surfing in the early morning tides and loitering. The Zephyr Team (or Z-boys as they are called) spend one summer combating the boredom by building their own boards with the help of a local who owns a surf shop. After they enter re-emerging skateboarding competitions in SoCal, they transfigure it all into their own scene; one that rouses a generation of skateboarders consisting of greats like Tony Hawk, Shaun White and the creators of the of X-Games.

Dogtown puts chronological perspective into skateboarding, and the up-from-the-bootstraps history you never knew it had.

9. Fever Pitch (The 1997 BBC version)
A London football-obsessed school teacher has spent the last 20-some years, and every day going forward, viewing life through the one lens: his favorite team, The Arsenal Football Club. Having sublimated the grief of his parents’ divorce through English Football, he views every week of his life as another football match in pursuit of fortunes always hiding.

Colin Firth, who usually plays the archetypical sullen Brit, is resounding as author Nick Hornby’s autobiographical noncommittal single man who’s really just a lad grown up. Hornby’s character then grows smitten a prim and proper English teacher who dislikes him at first but warms up to him and his enthusiasm for sport and life in general.

Fever Pitch is a nice portrayal of the struggles of an irrational sports lover reluctantly coming to terms with the fact that, to the rest of the world, there are more important things than Saturday’s game.

8. Jerry Maguire (1996)
Jerry Maguire, played by Tom Cruise, is a hot shot sports agent who gets fired from his job and questions everything he lives, says and believes.

While the film peers into exciting world of sports celebrity and the high life, it delves more into Maguire’s own superficiality and vanity unraveling in the wake of his own personal choices.

This Cameron Crowe film not only was Oscar nominated, but also springboarded the careers of Renee Zellweger, Bonnie Hunt, and Cuba Gooding, Jr., who himself won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor.

Moreover, this film familiarized us for the first time with terms like “Qwon”, “Show Me the Money”, and with precocious toddlers in glasses. Jerry Maguire is curriculum 101 and a must-see film for any sports enthusiast.

7. Invincible (2006)
I’ll have to admit bias on this one. Not so much because I grew up a Philadelphia Eagles fan, but because even more than that I am a huge fan or the underdog and outsider. Even better, Invincible is based on a true story of a man walking on to his hometown NFL team.

In the drab and recession-laden mid-1970s, the lowly Philadelphia Eagles are so bad that their new head coach, Dick Vermeil, announces team tryouts open to the public on live TV. While every Eagles fan and football-obsessed yahoo in town lines up, one standout athlete, a 30 year old bartender named Vince Papale is good enough to make the team and go pro.

In a style reminiscent of Rocky, the film’s character struggles not only with his past failures amidst a new challenge of making the cut day-by-day, but he also grapples with his new role as a star and outcast in his own microcosm of working class Philadelphia life.

Greg Kinnear and Mark Wahlberg are both convincing in their roles, and even if you’re a Giants or Cowboys fan, you will be inspired to root for Papale as the underdog that delivers on game day.

6. When We Were Kings (1996)
The “True Story of the Rumble in the Jungle” is another documentary which profiles Muhammad Ali’s ascent and domination of the world as sports hero and international icon.

Amidst the slow rise in the 1970s of African-American culture as mainstream, and African-Americans as welcome participants in a racially uncertain middle-America, Kings recounts Ali’s unconquerable spirit and beaming optimism for his craft and love for the people who cheer him as well as those who don’t.

Meanwhile, the new and presumably undefeatable George Foreman makes a play for Ali’s crown. It culminates with Don King’s Rumble in the Jungle, billed as the penultimate international heavyweight championship bout in the heart of Africa.

Overall, Ali’s rise as a heavyweight champion and sports personality has had a cultural impact on our country more than we realize. This film, more than any other, details the fascinating story from the beginning.

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Above, Lance Armstong gives Peter LeFleur flack for not seeing "Cinderella Man" (or should have) and busts his nut for being a quitter in Dodgeball.
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5. Hoop Dreams (1994)
Hoop Dreams starts off in the late 1980s when two local Chicago boys are scouted for their basketball talents. One gets a scholarship to a prestigious private high school in the suburbs while the other roughs it through the public school system and an unstable home life. William and Arthur, both inner-city kids, dream of becoming NBA superstars like their idol, Chicago’s own Isaiah Thomas.

Following the kids over four years of life in high school and pursuit of college, the makers of Hoop Dreams weave together an eye-opening story about inspiration and triumph amidst the difficulties of city life and scant opportunity.

The film, which Roger Ebert regards as one of the best films he ever saw, is a refreshing look at sport on the street, removed from the glitz, glamour and marketing mash up of the professional big leagues.

4. Don King: Only in America (1997)
The great Ving Rhames plays a local Cleveland bookie and some time ex-con maneuvering his way to the top of the nascent and dynamic world of pro boxing.

Rhames, best known for his role as Pulp Fiction’s gang thug Marcellus Wallace, plays a different type of tough guy and hustler in the form of an animated and verbally combative Don King; a persona he nails. Only in America also cameos Bernie Mac, Jeremy Piven and the late soul singer Lou Rawls.

For as much as other films like Any Given Sunday and Jerry Maguire have endeavored to depict the perceived evil, cutthroat and slimy nature of sports promoters, Only in America does so not by belaboring its players as bad people. Rather Don King’s character is flamboyant, very human, and so exciting that, as he puts it “If you didn't have Don King, you'd have to invent him.”

3. Cinderella Man (2005)
In the last few decades there has been a drought of good films about the Great Depression, or at least ones that weren’t about bootleggers and Italian mobsters. Cinderella Man recounts the true story of an on-his-way-out boxer and longshoreman whose family is down to their last penny.

James Braddock’s unlikely last hope is his boxing career. While slumming it to the dock every single day to find scarce work, he hides his injuries to take a crack at the younger up-and-coming professional fighters at first just for the pay. But his stamina and heart, and ability to withstand a beating (both in life and boxing) gifts him with a few knockouts and an underdog’s chance to challenge the great killer champion Max Baer for the title.

If you ever have spent a day of your life feeling useless or defeated, watch this film and it will put your attitude and your head straight.

2. Seabiscuit (2003)
In another riches to rags 1930s-era film, a half-blind jockey too tall and a horse too small, wild, and lazy team up to recreate themselves as the new juggernaut in horse racing.

Based on another true story, the film starts with a narrative by the documentary voice of great historian David McCullough. In the way that Sputnik caused Americans to fear communism and the rise of the Soviet Union in the 1950s, Seabiscuit, a mere race horse, inspired an America sorely beaten down by The Great Depression. No one exactly knows how this horse achieved what it did, but the story is all about heart.

Tobey Maguire does well as an unsure and improbable jockey while Jeff Bridges plays the race team’s promoter and personal coach in an enthusiastic style reminiscent of champion football man Vince Lombardi. Likewise, another must-see, whether or not you care about sports or horse racing at all.

1. Invictus (2009)
Whether or not wins an Oscar or any other accolade, the film is, in my view, the best sports film since Rocky, which I believe was the greatest sports film ever made. Invictus is as good as Chariots of Fire, better than Raging Bull, and blows Hoosiers out of the water.

You need know nothing about rugby, and you need know nothing about South Africa. Clint Eastwood directs, as Matt Damon, perhaps for the first time in career, acts so well that you forget you’re watching Matt Damon.

Damon portraits François Pienaar, the captain of the South African Rugby team; a team that is talented but in a wholesale state of disarray. The team’s players are listless and unmotivated, while their level of play is evocative of the Bad News Bears. Meanwhile, the nation’s black rugby fans cheer not for South Africa but for England.

At the same time, newly elected Nelson Mandela wrestles with the task of running the government and uniting the country while reconciling black aspirations with white fears.

With South Africa hosting the soon-approaching World Cup, the rugby team’s management is fired while the new black government coalition tries to change the team’s mascot and team name, The Springboks, in attempt to erase all memory of Apartheid.

Mandela quietly calls on captain Pienaar to reset the tone of the team and prepare the Springboks for the unlikely feat of winning the World Cup at home and uniting the nation.

Invictus gets its name from a poem by William Ernest Henley that Mandela holds dear as something that made him stand up when, imprisoned for 26 years, “all he wanted to do was lie down”. Like the poem, which speaks of the ability to take responsibility for one’s destiny, the film tells the story of South Africa’s steps forward in the work-in-progress of setting free the nation, both psychologically and socio-politically from its checkered past.

Invictus has so many important facets at work in a brilliant, exciting, but well-tailored storyline, that you’ll digest it for days. Do yourself a favor, and go see it.

Honorable mentions:
Big Fan, Green Street Hooligans, Rudy, Rocky Balboa, Bend It Like Beckham, Mean Machine, Field Of Dreams, A League Of Their Own, Murderball, Searching For Bobby Fischer, Radio, Remember The Titans, The Fifa World Cup Movie, Goal: The Dream Begins, The Rookie, Unforgivable Blackness: The Rise And Fall Of Jack Johnson, Million Dollar Baby, and (of course) Dodgeball.

Andy Frye lives, breathes and writes about sports and life on MySportsComplex.blogspot.com and on the Facebook page of the same name.

Pictures borrowed from imdb.com

No pain, no game

2010-02-14T21:25:00.000-08:00

When you play sports or games of any kind, acquiring aches and pains--if not outright injuries-- is part of the deal. Your turn comes eventually.

I used to work with a jolly old 71 year old life insurance salesman. He was the stereotypical life insurance salesman—the friendly, mildly hilarious, super-persistent, slightly maddening kind.

He was probably well suited for his work, not only because he’d been doing it for 40 years, but that persistence seemed to be a genetic trait for this guy. “The Dartman”, as he called himself, had had his second hip replaced right when I met him, and still spent every weekend playing tennis.

Dart is in mid-70s now, and as far as I know he still plays. The last time I saw him, on the train about a year ago, he was on his way to his basketball league game on a Thursday night. My guess is that he must be a point guard. Where else would your coach put a 5 foot 5, 70-something with the energy of a 17 year old?

I had met my friend Dart back in 2003. He was pretty open about the pending hip trip to the hospital, even though I barely knew him. Among other things, he joked that he might come of out it a few inches taller. Being the nosey person I am, I asked if he had heard about what had happened to Dick Schaap and what he thought.

Dick Schaap was my all-time favorite sportscaster, and I know a lot of sports fans who thought he was the Ace of Spades among top quality sports journalists. A year and a half earlier, Schaap had gone in for a hip replacement and didn’t make it out, having passed away due to complications that arose in surgery, a couple days before Christmas.

Schaap had spent a couple of decades in sports television journalism after his days at Cornell’s powerhouse Lacrosse program; an experience that seemed to shape his perspective on life and love for sports. He not only knew what he was talking about, but also had a down-to-earth demeanor in the days long before sportscasting was made up of bantering big guys in big suits with big rings, and Stuart Scott boo-yahs. His gentle candor was one that was more common in the 1970s and 1980s, but a rarity now.

The type of class Schaap demonstrated and lived out has somehow gotten lost among today’s aggressive tactics. Nowadays, the Jay Mariottis see their craft as a little more than a means to openly bad mouth what and who they don’t like about everything. Other knobs, like Bob Costas and Jim Gray, tend to psychoanalyze, badger, and denigrate athletes the way that Maury Povich does of his own nutty guests.

Like this old life insurance salesman, Schaap had a great talent for disarming people, and I remember Schaap asking quirky questions that would often bring big time sports stars back down to earth, almost forcing them to talk about their love of the game.

My friend Dart, had no fear heading into hip surgery and seemed to take it like a champ. Much to my liking he remarked about Schaap’s great work and how he seemed like a great guy to have a beer with.

Once you get past 30 you naturally begin to fall apart, and that’s no way to conduct a past-prime sports career.

In the give and take of that conversation I also muttered that I spent the summer with my leg in a cast because of a sports injury. Without hesitation, Dart took with me the same liberty he probably has taken with his own doctors, and against their orders. He dictated to me, “Don’t ever quit. Don’t ever let them tell you that you can’t go on playing.”

Without even knowing me that well, he read into my own irrational sports passions. Like many of us, I always had the urgency to keep playing the game even when good sense and prudent practice of sports medicine might tell me to stop.

Plus, once you get past 30 you naturally begin to fall apart, and that’s no way to conduct a past-prime sports career.

Racking up the numbers, I have two bad knees, and had a blown out patellar tendon on the left side. I’ve had the same shoulder dislocated three times, twice in open play. I’ve had sprained wrists, sprained fingers, and have taken a ball of every kind in the face at least once including a baseball in the chin and a racquet ball square in my eye. Don’t even get me started about my wrestling days.

Like most men, I have taken hits in the groin too, and I have fallen on my head a few times. The last part might explain my own gripping compulsion toward this whole sports racket.

But it wasn’t soccer or baseball, or even my stint as a defensive end on the pee wee football team that handed me my first injury. The insanity goes back way further than that. My first sports injury and only time I ever broke a bone in my whole life was playing a game of a different nature. It was Duck-Duck-Goose.

At age 5, I had spent one day nagging my mother to take me to preschool, at The Hobby Horse even though it wasn’t my day to go. It was all because I had a crush on this other five year old named Laura, who attended the school every day, and I had to see her.

Mom eventually buckled, but to my chagrin Laura left just as I was arriving. Bad Karma, now what? Nothing much else to do saw my way into this kiddy game I had played a couple times before.

The Duck-Duck-Goose basics were simple even for a 5 year old. A bunch of kids sit around in a circle, while a designated lead-off kid taps every kid on the head one-by-one, and says “duck”. Then he picks out a “goose”. Goose has to chase the lead-off guy before he makes it around the circle to then sit in Goose’s space. This whole game, when you think about it, runs counter to the “no running” rule that children are forced to observe in every other facet of life.

Anyhow, on this day, the problem was that the lead-off batter was the biggest kid in the class, the token fat kid. He hit “goose” on the kid to my left, forcing normal play to send the kids running around the circle. Unfortunately for me, this all concluded with the big fat kid crashing down on my hand, breaking my pinky finger to bits.

It was an interesting way to call a rain delay, since, screaming my head off, I abruptly put an end to this game. I never would have thought back then or now of Duck-Duck-Goose as a contact sport.

A long time ago I once heard someone joke that if synchronized swimming could be an Olympic sport, then both food fights and pie throwing should be too. After all, who’s ever been injured during synchronized swimming?

Then there’s that streamer-on-a-stick gymnastic activity and a lot of other hokey activities that make up Olympic competitions. Just the same, Duck-Duck-Goose could fit right in there too.

Sure, it’s not like injuries make up what constitutes the difference between a true sport or a bogus one. Or that one sport trumps any other in terms of importance. I’m sure there is someone out there who gets as pumped up about synchronized swimming (or pie throwing) as I do about my favorite sports.

I can’t put words in the mouth of the late Dick Schaap, but I think he’d chime in on one thing that dwells in my mind. That is that sports or any recreational competition --whether it involves throwing a ball, shooting an arrow, or even if it is a Tex-Mex chili cook-off—is worth your effort and every minute of your time if it stirs your soul.

Often enough, the best part is not winning the game or the victory lap afterward, but perspective we gain by our persistence in playing the game. Moreover, we get to enjoy major dividends doing something because we love it, and for no other reason.

The games we play, whatever your flavor, are always well worth life’s aches and pains. But then again, you knew that.

Why We Like Brett Favre

2010-01-22T18:00:00.000-08:00

When I first came to Chicago, a co-worker of mine referred to the state to the north as “The Peoples’ Republic of Wisconsin”.

This guy was from downstate (way downstate), and I haven’t heard that moniker since. Besides wondering what kind of tractor my co-worker drove as a kid, it made me wonder what the average Joe thinks about neighboring sports fans.

Why not ask?

So, a few days ago I asked a life-long born and bred Chicago Bears fan what he thought about Packers fans, our cheese headed friends up the lake. It could have been taken as a loaded question. After all, the Bears season is long over after a dull, dismal run.

After a soft pause, this mouthy Chicago Irishman said, “Actually I kind of like them”.

They’re friendly. They know their sport. Lambeau Field is a comforting, top quality sports venue. Lambeau has a great beer selection, which you would only expect if you have ever been to Wisconsin. When the Packers win, they aren’t obnoxious about it.

These were a few of the reasons that a Bears fan or any fan could like Packers fans and the Frozen Tundra. And it seems that Americans in general like the Packers too.

We’ve heard time and time again, to annoying degree, about how the Dallas Cowboys are supposedly “America’s Team”. This was thought up by a Dallas Cowboys marketer, I am convinced. If anything, it is more likely that America’s team, if you had to pick one from pro Football, would be the Green Bay Packers.

For one, they are the only small town team in a league with big city teams. Green Bay’s population is around 100,000, which is less than a third that of Cincinnati and one twelfth the size of San Diego.

The fact that Green Bay has had a major pro sports team for 80 years is a major anomaly. Sure, in the UK and Italy provincial cities have grown major sports teams, mostly in Soccer. But, this doesn’t usually happen in America. To top it off, Green Bay won the first two Super Bowls and holds 12 World championships, the NFL’s highest number.

The small town becoming the champ rings a bit like the film “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington”. The film, starring an aw-shucks Jimmy Stewart, reminds us that what we like best is the underdog –the little guy—who takes on adversity and a challenge, only to triumph enormously with a little effort and a good attitude. If a sports team could audition for that role, the Packers have already nailed it

And only a week ago, I walked into a business office, like many across America, with a framed picture of Vince Lombardi and a notable quote. I don’t see SkyMall or QVC selling any inspirational frames of Tom Landry or Bill Parcels.

But for all the motivational accolades that Lombardi may have inspired in many a business seminar, I think we’re seeing something equally inspiring in the Packers’ other marvel, Brett Favre. At age 40, the year old Packer legend, now with the Vikings, is knocking on the Super Bowl’s door again.

The last time the Vikings made it to the big one was in 1977, the last of four Super Bowls the club lost in a decade. Plus it hasn’t been since the 1970’s since we saw a forty-something --George Blanda, who was mostly a kicker then at age 48-- compete in the NFL semi-final round.

Favre has prepared to retire once or twice. No one is exactly sure of the details. Some of us joke year after year that this year he will retire, hopefully. But the fact that Favre has transformed the Vikings into a potent force this year says something.

This is a club with only one post-season in the last several years, despite having a good quarterback before his arrival. Yet after years of barely getting through the season, Favre’s Vikings had twelve wins before the post-season.

But stats and achievement aside, there is a lot to like about Favre in the context of today’s pro sports. His durability in the game over the years is especially inspiring, while being only one of five NFL quarterbacks to start 100 consecutive games. Favre has long been a committed top level team player and has never taken his stature as an opportunity to brag. Maybe that’s how is should be.

Consider what other pro Football players have been up to over the years:

-Michael Vick (Dog fighting felonies)
-Randy Moss (Bumping an old lady with his car, being generally obnoxious)
-Rae Carruth (Conspiracy to Murder)
-Billy Cannon(Counterfeiting $50 Million)

True, no player should be given special praise for not being a criminal.

But it is refreshing once again to see an apt player and true professional make it so long, and so successfully in NFL Football, a game not kind to or built for old men.

Certainly there are better quarterbacks than Favre and better teams than the Vikings. But none of the others playing this weekend have the experience and the staying power to draw on, one step from the Super Bowl. And its fair to say that along the way Favre may very well have the whole chilly Midwest behind him.

Frye writes weekly about sports and life. Updates can be found here at MySports/Complex, from Twitter and on the Facebook page of the same name. With a Leinenkugel in one hand and cheese in the other, he’s taking a crack at his first book.

A** Ball: Lessons for the Mind and Behind

2010-01-11T16:50:00.000-08:00

CYA is one of my favorite acronyms. It means “cover your ass” and is a sentiment widely disseminated throughout the business world not only from boss to drone, but from one peer to another.

The mood behind CYA, most of the time, isn’t literal. Specifically, you don’t need to cover your behind like a quail during hunting season. But every day, many of us realize that life --whether in business, family affairs, conversations, or in dealing with humans in any capacity-- consists largely of taking responsibility for what’s yours and covering your back so that you don’t get blamed for messes that are not yours. Yes: CYA is life, basically.

Probably the only thing Sarah Palin ever said that I agree with (and I’m paraphrasing) is that many of the lessons we learn in life we can learn through participating in sports. This is particularly true, I believe, during our journey from childhood to adulthood.

This whole thing about CYA came back to my mind during a walk though the playground of my old elementary school in PA called Blair Mill.

Blair Mill was a great primary school. Teachers were good. The atmosphere was gentile and nurturing. We even had a puppy dog, The Blair Mill Beagle, as our mascot. But what I remembered first, passing by the broad arch-shaped wall of the school which faced the playground, was the treacherous daily game of CYA we school kids played, known as Assball.

More frequently we called it A-ball, for the simple fact that we didn’t want to tip off recess ladies to what we were doing. We didn’t want to risk the game being banned for the bad words inherent in its name. The truth is that they had no idea what we were doing, and probably didn’t care, even about the most violent parts.

As Upper Classmen of the school, the 4th and 5th graders got claim of the big wall for whatever suited them. Previously, kids might kick a rubber kickball off the wall without much of a competitive game in mind.

What started out as a simple activity of several boys throwing a ball against a wall and trying to win the next catch, transformed itself into a more cutthroat meta-sport that consumed the later years of my childhood. As such:

The rules of A-ball:
1) Whoever has the ball (usually a tennis ball) throws it against the wall.
2) Anyone one can attempt to catch it on the rebound.
a. If you catch the ball or gather it off the ground, you get the next throw.
b. If you touch the ball but fail to catch it, you must run to the wall and touch the wall before another player can gather the ball, throw it, and hit you.
3) If you get hit with the ball before touching the wall, that’s one strike
4) If you get three strikes, here’s what happens:
a. You must go to the wall.
b. Crouch down, head touching the wall, with your rear facing the area of play.
c. Every other player lines up, and, one at a time, gets a turn to beam you in the ass with the ball.
d. Sit tight. There are about 20 to 25 other boys playing this game.

A-ball must have blossomed out of either suburban boredom or our pre-adolescent need for competition and one-upps-manship on the way to middle school. I’m sure some social scientist out there might say the game had its own Darwinian significance.

Being both a risk taker and a poor athlete at the time didn’t suit me well. I would run and try to catch the ball but my hands weren’t very good for that.

I probably spent more time crouched at the wall with three strikes than any other boy on the playground. A few times I took the ball in the face thanks to the gifted guys who could use their baseball skills to land it accurately between my feet, under my torso and into my hidden face.

Playground games like these are probably one of the reasons some boys and many girls grow up to dislike sports or be indifferent altogether. Like those who are teased, school represents something a time and a place they wished to break away from. I certainly get this.

The Blair Mill Beagle, unofficial mascot of A-ball.

Nonetheless, I had fun playing A-ball, despite the minor pains and embarrassment. But I am not 100% sure why. Perhaps this game represented some thrill and danger in the lives of sheltered and protected youths like us. Maybe on those lucky days without three strikes, I enjoyed the achievement of eluding capture.

What I probably learned, to the best of my recollection and bruises, was the ability to adapt to any situation, even adverse one, like getting pelted 25 times in the rear with a tennis ball. More than anything, I learned the value of CYA; in this life experience the fundamental value of covering your ass in everything you do, for fear of unsavory consequences.

Also, I learned about the consequences of taking a risk; in this case the simple risk was playing a game for social acceptance or even enjoyment. All in all, good training for the greater problems with greater ramifications that one must face as an adult.

I like to think that our game of A-ball was unique. But I am certain kids elsewhere with a wall and a tennis ball might have played a similar game, learning similar lessons.

And, whether you like sports or not, care or don’t care about who’s in the next Super Bowl, it is hard to deny that our playful activities as children have as much to do with shaping us as people as our work activities do now a grown ups. Hopefully along the way our experiences shed on our character not only a little humor and humility, but some important things to take away for another day.

What the world has seen in the last year and a half seems to suggest that not enough of our leaders have had adequate tests of their character, or even their CYA skills, out on life's playground.

With the world economy in the balance, CEOs of financial giants like AIG, Bear Stearns and Lehman Brothers threw up their hands amidst their failing companies as they walked off with fortunes.

We could criticize our governments too for their screw ups and not having the foresight to anticipate financial chaos borne from recklessness. It seemed, for a while that incompetence was spreading like H1N1.

Maybe looking back, we could have helped our leaders earlier with their journey through life. Or better yet, there are still lessons to be learned with the help of a little playground fun of pelting à la A-ball.

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

A New Day at City?

2009-12-23T13:59:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-13T20:19:00.001-08:00

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.

2009-12-08T17:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-23T17:11:00.000-08:00

“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

2009-11-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-05T20:26:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-11-05T20:24:00.000-08:00

(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

2009-10-14T20:02:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T21:29:00.000-07:00

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