Cubs Baseball, (or) The Sham at The Cell

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

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

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

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.