Mets win, Willie Randolph loses

I went on Mets.com at 3:30 in the morning to check out next week's schedule only to find out that Willie Randolph has finally been put out of his misery. As expected, pitching coach Rick Peterson and and first base coach Tom Nieto have also been assassinated.

Bench coach Jerry Manuel will become interim manager / scapegoat. Life expectancy: however long the 7 train full of angry Mets fans takes.


Thumbs up for irony!

The report was apparently written at 3 am and ESPN hasn't even reported it yet. The dismissal comes only hours after a pretty impressive victory over the Angels in Anahiem (for non-Mets fans: impressive victory = not common).

So, after months of disappointing play during Shea's final year, Omar Minaya fires Randolph after a win...on the road...at 3 in the morning?

I guess the Mets wanted to keep emphasizing the whole "bad timing" thing. Typical.

- K.H. (Welcome to the jungle, Jerry)

Darren McFadden's mom hates me

According to the LA Times, the mother of prolific Arkansas running back / street thug Darren McFadden doesn't like New York City, which is apparently "too big" for her. Why does this matter? Well the Jets are one of the primary candidates to draft McFadden on Saturday, and earlier today, the Arkansas native told fans at the Draft Preview (myself included) that he would "love to play in New York."


Her baby is just too cultured and intelligent for New York.

The other likely future home for "Run DMc"? The Oakland Raiders, who select only two picks before the Jets. But too bad, Mama McFad doesn't like California either. The state is also "too big" for her baby.

She supposedly would rather have the running back play in the cultural hotspots surrounding "the Atlanta Falcons, Dallas Cowboys, whatever team they've got there in Tennessee." Unfortunately, the Oilers already have Lendale White, who is also "too big."

I live in New York now and am about to return home in California. So, though I'm a big believer of "D-Mac," I guess Mother McFadden and me wouldn't really see eye-to-eye in terms of our lists of "places I would like to live." However, I wouldn't mind taking a trip to whatever city they they've got there in Tennessee.

But until we meet Mrs. McFaddy, welcome to New York, where nobody knows where the hell Little Rock, Arkansas is.

- K.H. (Is also too big)

He's in the big leagues, you idiot

Mets pitcher Joe Smith was heckling back at some rowdy Cubs fans in Wrigley Field the other day. Fortunately, there's this new internet innovation called YouTube that has a lot of videos:



I think my favorite part is when the man with the camera tries his best to narrate the scene, explaining clearly that "Joe Smith is heckling the fans over here." I guess when you're name is Joe Smith and you're just some dude in one of the major league's best bullpens, you've gotta get recognized somehow.

And telling baseball fans "you're not shit" is probably not the best way to start.

- K.H. (Not in the big leagues, you idiot)

Delayed Blogging of the Cavaliers Knicks game!

Like a true sports nerd, I went alone to the Madison Square Garden last night to watch the Knicks take on Lebron and the Cavaliers. It was definitely one of the better adventures I've taken on during my time here in New York. Anyways, I wanted to do one of those fancy live blogs tracing my excursion throughout the night. However, I realized that this was indeed impossible, even with an iPhone (!!!). But fortunately for you, I have found this new phenomenon called "delayed blogging," in which an author blogs several moments after an event happens. Anyways, without further ado, the first "delayed blog" of the Dumb Jock:

March 5th, 2008
Pre-game
6:45ish - The A-Train doesn't suck all the time
I get on the A-Train just as I arrive at the West 4th station, only to find myself front row and center for two children breakdancing! Their ability to do back flips on a moving subway compels me to donate at least $5, so I give them 50 cents.


Free tickets to breakdancing children!

7:00ish - Renaldo Balkman is "The Defender"
Upon entering the Garden, it's difficult to not notice the massive poster with action shots of all the Knicks stars (which, in this case, is an extremely relative term). But the best part of the poster is barely visible at the bottom, labeling all the nicknames for each Knick. Most of the pseudonyms are fitting and somewhat exciting, Malik Rose is "The Veteran" and Nate Robinson is "The Energizer." However, Renaldo Balkman, the only disappointingly solid player in the NBA, is nicknamed "The Defender." Only somewhat fitting and not exciting at all. I think "That Guy We Drafted. Yeah, Him. No, Don't Shoot Us" would've done the job.

7:05ish - The MSG security sucks, in a good way
I honestly could sneak in Osama Bin Laden and even if they did catch me, watching the Knicks play basketball couldn't be much worse than any other thinkable punishment.

7:15ish - The MSG is nice, empty, and explorable
My seat in section 201 is pretty decent, but arriving half an hour early means nothing is happening, so I decide to walk down and see how close I can get to the court without looking like a creep.

7:20ish - Walt Frazier is a robot
I am meeting Mr. Frazier, one of the greatest Knicks ever and now an on-court reporter (see kids, it's not that hard!), equipped with a Dumb and Dumber suit. He signs autographs with a frozen smile and, at one point, he stares at a little kid taking a picture of only his face. Some guy asks him who he's rooting for and he responds like he was trained, "the Knicks." I ask for a photo and he just looks at me with that frozen smile. I frozenly smile back.


Will - take - photo. Will - like - photo.

7:25ish - Spike Lee really isn't doing it for publicity
He is sitting alone in his usual seat eating nachoes in his Obama shirt. I stand at the barrier just behind his section and yell his name. He looks back with a somewhat surprised look on his face and kindly waves to me. I want to yell out something along the lines of "Who you pulling for?" as a joke, but I am too shocked that he is so casual, so I just give him the dorky wave back.

7:30ish - New York loves Lebron
The Knicks came out of the locker room and fans begin cheering. A few seconds later, the cheering erupts into a hollering and I look at the other end of the court. It's Lebron and he's dunking 3-pointers. The attention towards him is almost tangible, not one person even notices that Isiah Thomas is feeling up every cheerleader at mid-court.

7:32ish - Lebron loves New York
Now I don't go to many basketball games, let alone many Cavaliers games, but I can't imagine Lebron is always this quiet during warm-ups. I always imagined him as the laughing, goofing-around-during-pre-game type (Don't See: Tim Duncan) and I'm actually pretty sure he is. But he doesn't say a word to anybody for a while since coming out of the tunnel, not even the little kid asking for an autograph (seriously). At first, I think he's just thinking about how badly he misses Larry Hughes, until he spontaneously throws down one of the most amazing dunks I've seen in person, which was scarily familiar to Nate Robinson's 5-hour dunk from the dunk contest two years ago. And now I realize why he has been so silent: he's busy imagining that #23 in blue and orange.

7:40ish - Nate Robinson really is shortDuring the National Anthem, the 5'9" guard stands still in between two forwards. I think that if that guy is taller than me, then these men really are superhuman. Hours later, I go on wikipedia to find out that Robinson is indeed 5'9". I am 5'6".

7:50ish - Nobody likes Ike, everybody loves Nate, Malik Rose is still alive
During team introductions, the announcer barely mutters underneath his breath "coached by Isiah Thomas." I cringe at the collective "BOOOOOOOO!!!!!" which seems to fill the entire island of Manhattan. Somewhere, Larry Brown is sleeping comfortably. The starting line-up is announced and the fans give a modest applause for each player, except for Robinson, who gets an ovation almost as loud as Lebron's. Then, Malik Allen is introduced...nothing happens.

Gametime
7:55ish - Correction: New York will give Lebron oral sex
There are easily more Lebron jerseys than Knicks jerseys in the crowd (the fashion at the game was strictly three categories: Knicks jerseys, Cavaliers jerseys, business suits). Lebron begins the game with a few layups and impressive assists and the entire crowd goes nuts after each one. Eddy Curry has a nice slam and the crowd applauds out of obligation. This reminds me of when our high school basketball team played Harvard-Westlake, which was then equipped with North Carolina center Alex Stepheson. We rooted for our friends on the court, but not-so-secretly hoped that Stepheson would just break our backboard with every dunk so we could rush the court.

8:10ish - Damon Jones is a loser
Cliche mohawk and all, Jones reminds me of the requisite I-suck-but-I'll-pretend-that-I'm-just-joking-around guy at every pick-up game. During the pre-game, he missed a an easy lay-up and looked around at his teammates and burst out in laughter for no reason. Years earlier, he shows up to the dunk contest in the most foul suit ever made alongside NBA icon Tyronn "Fishy face" Lue.

8:15ish - Wally Szczerbiak is so white right now
While we're talking about pick-up game stereotypes, Szczerbiak is definitely the white-guy-who-tries-so-gotdamn-hard. He has a solid game but, with an injured Zydrunas Ilgauskas, chokes under the pressure of being the only white guy on Cleveland. He hears you, Brian Scalabrine.

8:20ish - Both teams need a point guard
Lebron is taking every inbound pass and has 5 assists in the first quarter. Robinson is manning the floor general duty until Dumb Jock alum Stephon Marbury remembers to play basketball again. I begin to daydream about the idea of Chris Paul playing with Lebron and then I fantasize about a team in which Lebron doesn't need to play every single position. I wake up once my friendly neighbor from Queens spills beer on my shoes. "Don't wurray about it," he tells me. I never apologized.

8:40ish - Lebron isn't human
He just finished the half with a spectacular 3-pointer from just inside half-court. The crowd/the alcohol is louder than ever.

8:45ish - Halftime is boring
Little kids playing basketball. Crowded bathroom lines. I buy overpriced french fries and head down to see if I could get on the court again. I am mere feet away from Jeremy Piven, but the guard sees me and tells me to return to my seat. I pretend that I'm Lloyd. It doesn't work.

8:50ish - New Yorkers are always New Yorkers
The two drunken Guido men behind me are yelling obscenities that would make Pistons fans scared. My two neighbors from Queens spend a good fifteen minutes reciting Ari Gold quotes after realizing Piven is in the building. The thuggish-looking men on my left are awkwardly kicked out of their seats when the actual owners of those seats return wearing I Love New York shirts while explaining on the phone that they are "at a basketball game in New York!" Two typical Staten Island girls get cat calls from the Knicks bench. I am saying all of this aloud. Shit.

9:00ish - Randolph Morris exists
Morris is known as the Kentucky alum who tried to get drafted twice, but failed miserably. The Knicks picked up him up straight out of college out of desperation for...well, for athletic individuals, which allowed Morris to become one of the only players to wear a college jersey and an NBA jersey in the same week. Zing!

9:30ish - Where in the world is Zach Randolph?
N/A

9:45ish - Lebron is even more inhuman
He is now heaving up 3-pointers around the Knicks like his old Powerade commercial. No Knick seems to want to defend him, so he lets Damon Jones put on a Knicks jersey just so he could dunk on him like this again.

9:50ish - We still love every single Giant
Some of the NFL Champion Giants are in attendance. No, not Eli Manning or Michael Strahan, it's Chase Blackburn! Barry Cofield! and defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuolo! You might as well just bring out the entire Hall of Fame. Yet, the crowd is louder than all of Lebron's dunks combined. Meanwhile, Tom Brady inbounds the ball to Robinson.

10:00ish - Fight? Fight!
After Lebron seals his 50-point game, the crowd continues to erupt even going into the timeout. A few sections begin to cheer "MVP!" Suddenly, everyone's eyes divert to the Cavaliers bench, where a large group of players and security guards are hoarded together with an obviously drunk fan wearing a Lebron jersey. I immediately think we're headed for the Malice at the Palace Pt. II and I'm about to run onto the court so I can go home saying I got in a fight with a Cavalier (which sounds cool in two ways). I strategize and reason that my best bet is against Szczerbiak. I pull out my shank, but then the drunken fan is quickly escorted out. I still manage to shank my neighbor from Queens.


Where's Ron Artest?!

Post-Game
10:10ish - I don't regret this decision
The game is over. Lebron thanks the crowd like Diablo Cody at the Oscars as the Knicks walk to the lockers in shame. This is easily one of the best games of Lebron's career. I leave the Garden satisfied, until it takes 20 minutes to catch the A-train back home. I look at my wallet. It's empty. Ha, welcome to New York sucker.

- K.H.

Tragic Hero XLII

Before I begin this post, I am required to suggest that you read this amazing piece of journalism (by our favorite Bill) by law. If you do read it, hopefully you won't care that the following blog sounds a little familiar:

The irony is incredible.

The undefeated Patriots, heading into Superbowl XLII as the de facto champions, fall to the 10-6 Giants, led by the quiet kid next door. As the coaches and players of both teams insist in post-game interviews, "it's a story that can't be scripted."

But, in truth, Superbowl XLII was scripted. Actually, we all read this story long before Eli Manning's Miracle Play To Be Named Later. The historic game from Arizona was in our school books, our copies of Julius Caesar, The Great Gatsby, and Macbeth. As the final ticks wound down and Brady heaved his last prayer to a double-covered Moss, us football fans mystically experienced vivid flashbacks like the newest character in Lost.

Spygate, Randy's catch against Miami, The Boot, The Record Setter in week 17, Gisele, Belichick wearing a Santa hat, a pregnant Bridget Moynahan, Brady laughing at Plaxico's prediction, a Spanish reporeter in wedding dress, Asante Samuel holding out, the '72 Dolphins not uncorking the champagne, Bart Scott hurling the yellow flag, No. 12 headbutting his O-linemen, Junior Seau and his paperboy hat, and above all, Tom's All-American smile.

Actually, it was always more of a smirk, that perfect 5 o'clock shadow surrounding those pearly whites.

Two minutes after Randy seemingly sealed the game by supermanning dat ho (followed by Seau and Tedy Bruschi hugging like the Bash Brothers from Mighty Ducks), Eli and David Tyree* did the impossible and Plaxico followed his easy touchdown by humbly kneeling in prayer. Tom walked into the tunnel with blue and red confetti falling on his stained (!!!) jersey, knowing it was the other team's colors.

But then that final, lasting image emerges as we gazed at the plasma screen: the euphoric Eli hoisting up that trophy, his babyface still squeezed in between his pads. Tom Coughlin and his prune fingers stand in awe at his side. We asked ourselves hesitantly, "did that just happen?"



Down goes the hero.

Yes, we were confused, but for some reason, not that surprised. We all expected a close game, assuming New England had the higher score, of course. Football fans and haters alike knew the Patriots like the school jock you talked to once in Math class, yet secretly revered. Though, we never counted the Giants out not because they had a talented pass rush or solid running game, but because we knew it couldn't be that easy for the tragic hero. His downfall was bound to happen sometime; it just turns out that it was a lot worse than we expected.

Throughout the entire season, the hero's hamartia grew until it was impossible to ignore, but still we were too afraid to admit that tragic end. Hubris was leaking when Tom was socializing with Donald Trump and Co. on the sidelines (still masked in his Stetson cologne), when Randy clarified that he was a good boy all year, when Belichick began to...smile? Through a one minute TMZ video of absolutely nothing, just about every American flipped after noticing that Tom enjoyed limping around in a boot in the Village.

And despite the Patriots' infatuation with winning (confidence?), we rarely faulted them. They ran up scores and passed 200% of the time, but we reasoned "they're just that good" and "they're trying to prove something."

That "something" referring to their only embarrassment of the season, which provided a convenient motive in the first week. Spygate, in essence, was the ultimate sin in sports: cheating. Still, we allowed the Patriots continue to chase perfection, suspiciously edging a few games in the process, just because "they were that damn good." And in sports, "that damn good" automatically translates into more commercials, more magazine covers, and more 4 AM Manhattan nightclubs. Soon enough, their celebrity breached outside the field in the same way Obama was campaigning in front of Kanye's beats. (See: previous post).

And if you didn't love the Patriots, you loved to hate them. But no matter what, we all felt something.

They trampled over the Jaguars and Chargers as we expected, sort of, and just moved on to the Superbowl. I began writing my "Tom Brady, retire now while you're great" post in my head and Bill Simmons planned out his intro paragraph to his reflection on the perfect season. Tom practiced his "I'm going to Disneyworld!" speech and Bostonians started to chant "19-0!"

Then 48 hours before kickoff, some dude named Matt Walsh accused the Patriots of filming the Rams before Superbowl XXXVI (a.k.a. cheating) and all signs pointed to yes (sorry Tony). Suddenly, that lovely upset victory back in 2002, which basically ignited the dynasty, transformed into the nasty prequel to Spygate, on steroids. With the accusation looming and Roger Goodell destroying tapes, the Patriots soon realized they were no longer the inspiring band of brothers that once embodied class and humility. As a devoted Bostonian, Simmons wrote,

"This time around, we were the Rams. We were rooting for the unlikable double-digit favorites with an unstoppable offense. We were the arrogant fans who dismissed the chances of the other team. We had the Super Bowl postgame party looming that had been a hot ticket all week. Then the game started, and everything went right to hell."

Ah, the poetic justice started to kick in. It was the classic reversal of fortune, when Macbeth realized that even the kingship did not guarantee trust. This was getting scary.

Paula Abdul frightened, Jordin Sparks sang, and Joe Buck screwed up again. The game started. The Giants held on to the ball...for a very long time, keeping a bored Tom sleeping on the bench. But Laurence Maroney pranced into the end zone and the onslaught was about to be begin.

Except it never came.

And this is about when the confusion began to sink in. Yes, the Patriots were winning but they didn't have it, y'know, that "it." The "it" that defined the entire season when Brady and Moss played catch and Belichick grinned underneath the hoodie. Fans were confused when the score lulled at a dismal 7-3 for...the...entire...damn...game. I mean, this was the team that average 542.39 points a game, right? The team that played the deep ball on 1st and 10 like you do on 4th and 30 in Madden? And they were running the ball? What is this?! A West Coast offense?!

Nope. This, my friends, was the tragic hero falling...hard. Or as Tom Petty so fittingly sung at half-time, this was the hero "free falling."

It was sort of sad, actually. Seeing Tom wrangled by the massive Justin Tuck, Randy constantly being overthrown, and Bruschi not looking so macho was all so disgusting in that unfamiliar way. Our guts turned the same way it did when we learned that Jay Gatsby never got Daisy and when Othello wrongfully murdered Desdemona. My ecstasy after Eli and Tyree executed Miracle Play To Be Named Later almost felt sadistic, as I shouted profanities when New England virtually perished on the national stage. Immediately after the game ended, I ran into a neighbor's room in celebration, only to find a friend from Boston legitimately crying. We were witnessing the Patriots fall from a peak as high as any team in modern American sports to a valley lower than Pacman Jones, Roger Clemens, and the Knicks combined. This was a victory speech turned into an assassination.

I ran onto the streets chanting "ELI! ELI! ELI!" I joined other drunken Giants fans and we all chanted "Let's go Giants!" (much to the dismay of the NYPD). This routine of chants continued through most of the night until I began hearing a newer chant ringing through Bleecker St at around midnight:

"18-1! 18-1! 18-1!"

In a way, this new slogan symbolized the future legacy of this momentous Superbowl. The Giants came into the Superbowl with nothing really to lose and everything to win. The Patriots, on the other hand, had built a much different scenario. I'm sure Bleecker and MacDougal still would've been rocking had New England won, but that wasn't the case. So, as the night ended and I heard this new chant, I stared at the television above the bar and saw that image of a dejected Tom sitting down on the field after another sack. He was down. The Patriots were down. But I joined in on the chant, "18-1!" knowing that, sadly, this Superbowl was not and never will be a Giants victory.

One defining image is still ingrained in my head: As Tyree came down with the "supernatural" catch while being awfully manhandled, the 230-pound Rodney Harrison looked down at the Giants receiver in complete disbelief. There was no requisite flail-arms-and-yell-like-Spartan moment, but instead a dazed Harrison, looking down, completely clueless. Anagnorisis - the discovery or recognition of the tragic flaw. And they said this couldn't be scripted.

Alas, the final and most poignant quality of the tragic hero, as defined by Aristotle: "The audience must feel dramatic irony for the character."

So, Superbowl XLII will be undoubtedly one for the ages, not because New York won, but because the New England fell at perfection's feet. With the historic loss, the Patriots ensured that that tragedy does indeed make history. Ironic enough?

-K.H.

*Good and irrelevant story: A friend of mine was actually in the same public fantasy league as Tyree's mother, who actually passed away during the season. Apparently, she wouldn't stop bragging about her son and insisted on drafting him in the early rounds. Guess she would be proud now, huh?

Thank You Elisha

Lawrence Tynes is clutch if you give him enough chances.

Living in the franchise-less LA my entire life, I've long had troubles finding "my team." I fell in love with football long after the Rams and Raiders left, so I had no ties with either club unlike many of my friends. In elementary school, I insisted on saying the Lions were my favorite team because I loved playing with Barry Sanders on my Sega Genesis. In early middle school, it was the Vikings because of Randy Moss on Sega Dreamcast. After I grew out of the video games I sucked at and started actually watching the game, I stumbled across the NFL's latest sensation who was to be my hero for a few years: Ricky Williams. I swear I would live and die for the Dolphins, then...y'know, that happened. So, my cousin moved to Seattle and I arbitrarily chose Marcus Trufant as my favorite player. I became a devoted fan of the Seahawks and backed them until they lost to the Steelers in Superbowl XL, when I decided they had become too mainstream for me.
See, I have this weird affinity for losing, blue collar teams that are perpetually supposed to be "next year's team" but always find a way to disappoint (See: Celtics of recent history). So, for the past few years, the title of "my favorite team" has continuously flirted with different franchises like Paris Hilton trying to find "the one." The Browns, Bills, Lions, and yes, even the Patriots (because they've been so terrible lately) have all been the team.

I came to New York last year thinking I would become a Jets fan. But I guess "Well Dressed" Amani Toomer had different plans.


"Bitch, I better be your favorite player too."

Tune in next year when I choose my next "my team."

(Note: As for the title of this post, turns out Eli isn't his birth name.)