Wednesday, February 20, 2008

And don't forget George Foster

Back by, well, almost no demand, it's Random Lists of Five . . .

Five alleged contenders that won't win the NBA title this season:
1. Dallas. Kidd has slipped, especially defensively. They'll regret giving up Devin Harris for him in the long run.
2. Phoenix. I hope the Shaq gamble works, and he looks like he's in decent shape, but I just don't believe he can make a difference as a rebounder and defender after so many years of indifference.
3. San Antonio. They remind me of the Patriots team that lost to Indy a year ago. Still smart and proud, but just not quick enough anymore.
4. Cleveland. Though I do not want the Celtics to have to face Team LeBron.
5. Detroit. The Flip Saunders factor.

Five name players I wouldn't touch In fantasy baseball this season with Bea Arthur's ----:
1. Albert Pujols. Tough to hit with one decent elbow. Anyone who takes him in the first round will have a season's worth of regret.
2. Andy Pettitte. If his elbow acts up again, it's fair to assume the elixir this time won't be HGH.
3. Derek Jeter. He'll be 34 in June. Our long national nightmare is almost over.
4. Scott Rolen. He's as physically cooked as Trot Nixon.
5. Miguel Tejada. Think the dolts in the Astros' front office have heard about the Mitchell Report yet?

Five recent players you forgot played for the Celtics:
1. Jamel Thomas. Sebastin Telfair's half-brother, played three games for the '99-'00 squad.
2. Bruno Sundov. A poor man's Stojko Vrankovic.
3. Bryant Stith. A smaller version of Ryan Gomes, I always liked him, though the end was near by the time he arrived in Boston.
4. Chris Carr.
5. Ruben Wolkowyski. Yeah, I have no recollection, either.

Five receivers who caught a pass for the Super Bowl XXXVI champs (and we don't mean the Rams, William Gary, whoever the hell you are):
1. Charles Johnson
2. Fast Freddie Coleman, scourge of the Jets.
3. Torrance Small
4. Bert Emanuel
5. Curtis Jackson. (Not to be confused with him.)

Five primary personnel needs for the Patriots this offseason:
1. One or two young inside linebackers. I suppose 34-year-old Zach Thomas qualifies by current standards
2. One or two cornerbacks, minimum, depending upon whether they resign Asante Samuel or Randall Gay. Count me in for a Ty Law sequel.
3. A quality backup QB, just in case the unthinkable happens. They've pushed their luck with Matt Cassel long enough.
4. Defensive speed, anywhere. Perhaps another young safety to go with Stonehands Meriweather.
5. Some kicking competition for Gostkowski. Belichick seems to have lost faith in him.

Five 1985 New York Mets:
1. Billy Beane
2. Calvin Schiraldi
3. Clint Hurdle
4. Joe Sambito
5. Larry Bowa

Last five songs to pop up on the iPod as I write this:
1. Elevation, U2. Nothing wrong there.
2. Sick of Myself, Matthew Sweet. Underrated '90s alt rocker.
3. Come Monday, Jimmy Buffett. Even those who loathe Parrotheads have to respect this song, Buffett's first hit.
4. Mama Said Knock You Out, L.L. Cool J. And to think I snickered at Simmons for his ridiculous Mt. Rapmore earlier this week. Of course, the Choate Sports Guy pontificating on hip-hop makes about as much sense as Tupac returning from the dead to tell us about his favorite elitist New England prep schools.
5. High Enough, Damn Yankees. Well, almost made it through without humiliating myself.

Five baseball players I wish I'd seen play:
1a. Jackie Robinson
1b. Roberto Clemente
3. Ted Williams
4. Satchel Paige
5. Lyman Bostock

And five for football:
1. Gale Sayers. The NFL Films footage of his best kick returns is mesmerizing.
2. Jim Brown. I'm not sure if his friendship with Belichick is a good thing or a bad thing in terms of the coach's image.
3. Dick Butkus. Rumor is the Pats are bringing him in for a look-see early next week.
4. Lance Alworth. Can you imagine any football player tolerating a nickname like Bambi today?
5. Darryl Stingley. His tragic injury happened in the preseason the year I became a fan.

Five hottest women on television according to a semi-neutered, couch-bound, 38-year-old father of two: (Subtitle: Yep, another weak excuse to run a picture of the Official Muse of TATB, Non-Wife Division):
1. Sweet Jenna. I miss The Office almost as much as I wish Peter King would stop mentioning The Office.
2. Connie Britton, Tammy on "Friday Night Lights," the best show on television no one's watching.
3. The babe in the Mercury commercials.
4. Tyra on "Friday Night Lights" (Though the consensus seems to be that the brunette is hotter.)
5. Cheryl Ladd. I'm talking "Charlie's Angels" reruns, not the insipid "Las Vegas," though she still looks great.

Five sports media-types I hope get hit with a meteor:
1. Merril Hoge. A moron's moron.
2. Peter King-Favre. Keeps saying we need to know the truth about SpyGate, but won't get off his creme horn-filled --- to search it out himself.
3. Gregg Easterbrook. Despises the Pats with an odd irrationality. Doesn't even try to hide it anymore.
4. The WEEI morning show. A 3-for-1 deal. And send a few extra asteroids Meterparel's way.
5. Merril Hoge again, just in case the first meteor gave him only a concussion.

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Thursday, December 20, 2007

I said the audience was heavenly/But the traveling was hell

Ten free minutes for me, 10 free non-denial denials from 'Roidin' Roger for you . . .


1. Since sometime around, oh, the final 1/10th of a second in the loss to Detroit, I've been trying to come up with a Celtics player from the last 20 years or so who is as dumb on the basketball court as Tony Allen. (Maybe dumb is too harsh a word. Erratic? Untrustworthy? Instinctively challenged? Maddening? Nope, dumb's the word.) The best/worst I can come up with is Ray Williams, the scattershot former Knick who had a 23-game cameo with the Celts in 1984-85. Williams was ridiculously out of control - his approach to offense could be described as "jump 'n' fling" - but in a much more entertaining way than Allen, who always seems to make a mistake that everyone in the building but him sees coming. The kid does try, and he has above-average physical talent when he's knee is right, but I don't know if he'll ever overcome his negative basketball IQ. Right now, he's the basketball version of Bethel Johnson.

2. I still say Johan Santana ends up in pinstripes, once one of these repetitive reports claiming the Red Sox remain the frontrunner for the ace lefthander actually convinces Hank "Boy George" Steinbrenner to overrule Brian Cashman and include Ian Kennedy along with Philip Hughes. The Yankees need him, they can afford him, and they will get him. And frankly, I'm just fine with that.

3. Man, the Tuna just can't stay away from the action, can he? I guess that's what you should expect from someone who lives in Saratoga. I think we all agree, however, that ESPN's loss is the league's gain - the NFL is just plain more entertaining when Bill Parcells is involved. The Dolphins certainly fit his mode of operation - he always seems to take over a team that appears to be at rock-bottom, but one that owns valuable assets (in this case, Ronnie Brown and the No. 1 pick). Then, he will clean house of the miscreants, bring in a few of His Guys and savvy vets (this is the perfect home for Chad Pennington), and voila, he looks like a genius when the team goes 8-8. Hey, we never said he wasn't shrewd, and of course it'll be fascinating to watch him go head-to-head with former underling Bill Belichick these next few seasons. I'm sure it's a kick to his massive ego that some now wonder whether Belichick was the real mastermind of the Giants' two Super Bowl victories.


4. I'm not sure Gary Payton has enough left in the tank to help the Celtics on the court - I don't trust anyone older than me to play point guard in the NBA, and for all of his wisdom he might be a little too, um, direct to mentor Rajon Rondo - but it's worth remembering that he's indirectly made an immense contribution to this team already. Payton, you'll recall, was one of the players Kevin Garnett consulted while doing his legwork on Boston before deciding he'd be willing to come here, and the artist formerly known as the Glove apparently had nothing but good things to say about his time here. Hell, maybe Danny Ainge should reward him with that open roster spot for that alone.

5. Mark these words: Sportsman of the Year/Peter King Mancrush Brett Favre will cough up a hairball in a playoff game (two dumb picks, minimum), and some team (New York? Tampa Bay?) that none of the experts think can beat the Packers will. Favre's renaissance this year has been a joy to watch, but it stuns me how often he'll throw the ball up for grabs rather than hanging in there and taking a hit. The likes of King are too busy fawning over him to notice that he's not quite the gritty, gutty gunslinger he's made out to be - he's a guy with some savvy, a strong arm, an overwhelming instinct to protect his own hide, and a better supporting cast than anyone realized. That won't be enough.

6. Is there a more underrated play-by-play announcer in any sport, locally or on the national scene, than the Celtics' Mike Gorman? His unassuming style makes it very easy to take him for granted, but he's a total pro, has great pipes and an unobtrusive catchphrase or two ("Pierce . . . count it!"), and gets extra credit for keeping Heinsohn from mauling an official all these years. The only Boston play-by-play guy I enjoy nearly as much is Gil Santos, and at this point he's slipped so much that should ol' No. 80, Troy Brown, catch a pass this Sunday, I fully expect he will be identified as older No. 80, Irving Fryar.

7. Geez, maybe this kid is the backup point guard the Celtics need. Check out Sebastian Telfair's line tonight in the Kevin McHale T-Wolves' 131-118 win over the Larry Bird Pacers: 48 minutes, 11-18 from the field, 5-5 from the line, 27 points, 11 assists, 1 turnover. To be honest, I'm not sure what to make of it - the gem could be a sign he's growing into his talent, or it could be just another tease - but I do find myself rooting for him for some reason. Sure, he's had his share of trouble and controversy, most of it self-inflicted, but he strikes me as a generally decent kid who puts the work in and wants to do the right thing, and that can't come easily for him considering one of his lifelong role models is his cousin, Stephon Marbury.

8. According to longtime reader Jill H., OK! Magazine - the gossip rag that all but locked up a Pulitzer with its groundbreaking coverage of Britney's sister's pregnancy - is reporting that Official Muse of TATB (Non-Wife Division) Jenna Fischer is dating . . . David Spade. You know, David Spade: the Chris Farley-leeching, Hermey-the-dentist-looking, mean-spirited, smarmy little actor who happens to be the reason Eddie Murphy refuses to appear on "Saturday Night Live." Yeah . . . him. I'm holding out hope that OK! is not the bastion of journalistic integrity I believe it to be and that this will be proved false, but for now it seems appropriate to quote Jim Halpert here: Congratulations, universe. You win.

9. I have to admit, I had second, third, and fourth thoughts about my criticism of those national baseball writers and analysts who raced to defend the players in the immediate aftermath of the Mitchell Report while simultaneously disregarding their own Three Blind Mice role in this entire epic mess. Part of the reason was that I realized that if I were in their position, as someone who had a Blackberry full of contacts and genuine insider access, I too might be reluctant to risk becoming a professional pariah for the sake of a story that would devastate a game that means so much to me. I suppose that means I'd be a lousy investigative reporter, but I have to admit, it's probably the truth. It also dawned on me that there were some extremely accomplished reporters - T.J. Quinn of the Daily News and now ESPN comes to mind - who were on the case constantly and yet couldn't entirely crack it, so maybe I was foolish to think any old big-time baseball writer with an ounce of ambition could. That said, it's worth noting that one of the writers I ripped understood my take. Here's what Peter Gammons said in an email a few days after the post:

Very fair criticism. I do feel that the way Mitchell threw names out there was sloppy . . . and I am one who cannot bring myself to presume guilt without some proof in the cases of the assumed. I love the sport and I enjoy the players, and I am wrestling with the fairness of a handful of players being found guilty when the entire industry was apparently infected. I'm glad I have five years to decide on my Hall of Fame ballot. [But} the defrauding of all baseball records is sad, not for me who really doesn't care that much about records, but for the millions who do. Again, thanks for being fair.


Hey, no matter how you feel about his point of view, you have to give Gammons some credit for admitting some culpability. Most people of his professional stature would begin an email to the likes of me with something along the lines of "Dear lowly maggot peon know-nothing basement-dwelling mom-snuggling blogger: Go %*$%*%*#@$*ourself and your little dog too." And that probably includes some people I work with.

10. As for today's Completely Random Football Card:


Hard to believe considering he'd still rank among my five or six all-time favorite Patriots (and a runaway No. 1 among athletes I've interviewed), but I kinda forgot Lawyer Milloy was still in the league until he publicly shredded, spindled and mutilated that slippery weasel Bobby Petrino after he abandoned the Falcons to go scurrying back to college. Milloy doesn't strike me as a guy who has a lot of regrets, and his bank account certainly justifies any career decisions he has made, but I always thought of him as an athlete who made winning his No. 1 priority, and I wonder if he's ever lamented the way his Patriots career came to an end.

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Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Day of reckoning

Ten free minutes for me, 10 free game-used U.L. Washington toothpicks for you . . .


1. All I ask of the Mitchell Report when the juicy details are revealed today is this: Please, not Papi. And if there's no mention of Manny, well, I'd be grateful for that, too. Clemens is all yours, however.

2. Bo Jackson is the most dynamic, electrifying athlete I've ever seen, and to all you kids who think us 30-something geezers are exaggerating his exploits, all I can say is you'll never understand what you missed. But as the great Joe Posnanski reminded me recently, Herschel Walker, in his freshman year at Georgia, was a phenomenon in his own right, as breathtaking and charismatic and unstoppable as Bo at his all-too-brief peak. These two stories - this ESPN feature on Bo, and Poz's on Herschel - are delightful flashbacks, the next best thing to watching them play again.

3. Whenever I'm worried about the Patriots' chances in a particular game, they have a uncanny habit of absolutely pulverizing their opponent that week, which I suppose bodes well for this Sunday's uncivil war with the Jets. Because, well . . . I'm a little nervous about this one, particularly if the Mother Nature decides to even the playing field a little bit by dumping a foot of snow in Foxboro Sunday morning. Now, I don't think the Pats will lose, mind you, not with revenge on their minds and malice in the hearts - at this point, I wouldn't be stunned if Belichick attempted to pistol-whip the reprehensible Eric Mangini during the postgame handshake. It's just that the Jets aren't that bad, and a point-spread of 20-something strikes me as a little bit ridiculous. (And now that I've said that, call your bookies and bet the over.)

4. Very interesting timing of that Miguel Tejada trade, wouldn't you say?

5. I do miss "The Office," though I'll admit the show was . . . just a little off this season, I guess. I got the sense that the writers hadn't quite figured out how to handle the new Jim/Pam dynamic; the characters' understated longing for each other, so subtle and heartfelt through the first three seasons, always provided the balance to the over-the-top antics of Michael and Dwight. Their emotions kept the show grounded in reality. This season, with Pam and Jim the seemingly happy, boring couple, the show teetered toward the ridiculous (example: Michael driving his car into a pond) a little too often. I am confident the writers will hit their stride once their strike ends, whenever that may be. The people behind this show are too smart to let it become just another sitcom.

(As for the obligatory Official Muse of TATB, Non-Wife Division photo . . . well, I know what's expected of me. Here you go:)



(Wait! You mean there's a whole slideshow? Parade magazine, you are awesome! I'll be in my room.)

6. Before he went 0 for 4 from the field in tonight's win over the Kings, none other than Rajon Rondo had the highest field goal percentage among all guards in the NBA (.547). That's a little bit misleading, of course, considering that he rarely shoots unless it's a wide-open look or a layup, and actually, I wish he'd shoot more. Rondo's a delight to watch just for his sheer athleticism and quickness, but I wish that he's stop kicking the ball out to the perimeter so often after he blows by his defender. It's almost like he can get to the hoop at will, but he's still too unselfish after that initial move. Who knows, if he stops passing up open layups, maybe he'll get that shooting percentage even higher.

7. I don't think Jim Rice will get into the Hall of Fame this year, and if I'm being completely honest, I'm not certain he deserves to. (Check out his home/road splits sometime.) But I sincerely hope Cooperstown does call for him on this, his 14th year on the ballot. I could argue that I think he should be enshrined because he's was the American League's most feared slugger for the better part of a decade, but really, I'm crossing my fingers for him because Rice was one of my childhood heroes, and I still can't help but root for him.

8. One more reason it's too bad Harry Caray's not still around: I suspect he would really come up with some very interesting pronunciations of new Cubs outfielder Kosuke Fukudome's name.

9. While snooping around profootballreference.com the other day, I stumbled upon this almost unbelievable statistic: In 1998, the San Diego Chargers' quarterbacks - a couple of scatter-armed gems named Ryan Leaf and Craig Whelihan - combined for 10 touchdown passes and 34 interceptions. I'm not saying it was the worst QB tandem in NFL history, but I'm pretty sure watching those two on his TV every Sunday is what killed Don Coryell. Junior Seau and Rodney Harrison both played on that team. Something tells me they appreciate Tom Brady even more than most.

10. As for today's Completely Random Football Card:


Wednesday marked the 25th anniversary of the infamous Snowplow Game. So yeah, I guess you can pinpoint the exact moment Don Shula's irrational hatred for the Patriots began.

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Friday, September 07, 2007

Catching up

It's about time somebody wrote something around here, so let's go . . .

I realize it's disappointing that he hasn't hit like he did in Cleveland, but I don't see how anyone can watch Coco Crisp on a daily basis and not develop a deep appreciation for how he plays the game. This was brought up in the comments a column or so ago, and it's so right on that it's worth reiterating here: Crisp is the very embodiment of the things a dirt dog is supposed to be, all hustle and desire and energy, and yet for some curious reason, he gets very little credit for that, especially from those who you suspect once owned a Darren Bragg replica jersey and think Jeff Frye was a hell of a second baseman. Maybe Coco needs to start wearing a dirtier hat or something. (Note: This was written before he drove that hotheaded moron Daniel Cabrera to the brink of homicide tonight. Another checkmark in Coco's favor.)

After all the shots I've taken at Barry Bonds and Jason Giambi over the years, I'd shatter the Hypocrisy Meter if I told you I really don't care that Rodney Harrison took HGH, and that I'm convinced he'd be in the minority among NFL players if he didn't use something to enhance his chances of surviving so many brutal Sundays. So let's leave it at this: I'm stunned that Harrison, who has always struck me as one of the league's brighter players, was so naive as to use his own name and address when ordering the stuff. Because that's the only way they were going to catch him.

Am I wrong to wonder if the Patriots might get off to a slower start than people are expecting? I mean, Harrison and Richard Seymour are out, Asante Samuel is begging for a hamstring pull, Tom Brady hasn't had a lot of time to get on the same page with new receivers Randy Moss and Donte' Stallworth . . . and they have to deal with the Jets and the Chargers right out of the gate. I realize that only a fool would underestimate this team, but right now it might be wise to avoid overestimating them as well.

I'm not saying Tito Francona is flawless as a manager - sometimes he does leave his starters in too long, sometimes he's too loyal to his veterans - but those banshees who call 'EEI for the sole purpose of venting about "Francoma" have forgetten what a lousy manager looks like. Even on his worst night, I still consider him the best manager the Red Sox have had in my lifetime, especially when you consider how well he deals with the peripheral distractions such as the smothering media and a voracious fan base. Let Joe Kerrigan or Kevin Kennedy return to the dugout for a week and those mouthbreathing morons would be begging for Tito back.

All right, Geffner, we'll say it one more time: Put down the media guide and step away from the microphone, and no more eardrums have to get hurt. (Please, somebody tell me that the rumors Dave O'Brien will be full-time next season are true. Please. I'm begging here.)

Other stuff we wrote while were away from this place: Last week's Fox column (chock full o' Yankee-aimed cheap shots), this week's Fox column (featuring a rather unfortunately timed tribute to Rick Ankiel, who apparently more like Rodney Harrison than he is Roy Hobbs), and a piece for GameDay on the Sox' stellar rookie class.

I keep checking Joe Posnanski's blog on the hope that he might have sneaked back and cranked out some wonderful, whimsical piece on The Top 40 Lefthanded Specialists Since 1970 or something, but so far, the lights are still out at what fast became my favorite stop (make that PG-rated stop) on the internet. Hopefully he'll start it up again when he has another book to promote, because just about every time I read his stuff, I was reminded of why I like baseball and why I like writing, and I do miss those daily reminders.

I thought he should have stayed in the big leagues the first time he got called up, but the more I see of Jacoby Ellsbury (who looks like some odd hybrid of Mark Teixeira and Johnny Damon), the more I think he should be starting in right field come Game 1 of the ALDS. I don't think I'm being hyperbolic to say he's done more to help the Red Sox win in his 40-something at-bats this season than Drew has in 400-something. It's gotten to the point with Drew that I don't even get mad anymore when he inevitably does exactly what they don't need him to do in a particular at-bat; he's pathetic, and he's made me apathetic. I'm beyond having any expectations for him. I just want to know why, for the first time in his career, he's not hitting at all. It must be the shoulder, right?

Based on their "contributions" during their time with the Red Sox, I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the concept of Tony Clark and Darren Oliver being major leaguers in 2007, let alone productive ones.

As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


He damn well better be wearing his jersey under that jacket.

* * *NOW FOR THE IMPORTANT NEWS OF THE WEEK * * *

I imagine you know what I'm talking about, since 23 of you (yep, I counted) emailed me the past two days to tell me that Jenna Fischer, the Official Muse of TATB (Non-Wife Division) . . .

(meow . . . love the Elvira look)

. . . is separated from her husband. Now as flattering as it is to know that you all consider me to be the World's Preeminent Jenna Fischer Internet Stalker (or, as my friend Melissa put it, "Don't sell yourself short, you're the World's Preeminent Jenna Fischer Internet Stalker Blogger. You're not just some layabout stalker"), well, it's just that I'm thinking that her stunning declaration of free agency probably isn't going to benefit me a whole hell of a lot, given that I'm poor, anonymous, bitter, humorless, gimpy, based in Maine, in no danger of landing a modeling contract, and, last time I checked with my wife, still married. (This would be a good time to quote Lloyd Christmas: "So you're saying I've got a chance?")

Anyway, it's nice that you thought of me - yes, even you, Rob M., who wrote this: "When you posted the 'Through Any Window,' video that Jenna's in, I just assumed that's how you planned on getting into her house." Gotta admit, that's well-played.

In all seriousness, it was surprising to read that news, if only because Jenna and her husband, actor/writer/director James Gunn (a vulgar riot on his MySpace page), always seemed to make a point in saying how important their spouse was to their happiness and success. She often referred to him as her "real-life Jim," and they seemed as sincere and stable as a Hollywood couple could be, though in retrospect maybe it was just another acting role for both of them. I am curious what the real story is. My wife has a very interesting theory that might just have some credence (not to mention a great visual). I tend to think that it's either a case of career jealousy - he was successful and she was unknown when they got married, and now she's off getting her boobs squeezed on the big screen by Will Ferrell - or someone got busted messing around. Either way, James Gunn will no longer be referred to as the luckiest &^%&$# in the world. Maybe the stupidest, depending on what the truth is.

And so as we conclude this TATB Hollywood Minute, check out this hilarious promo for the upcoming season of "The Office." I'd say "30 percent more unpredictable" is working, wouldn't you?

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Saturday, August 18, 2007

Show a little faith/there's magic in the night

Because sometimes, a Springsteen lyric just feels right.

Anyway, lots to get to, so let's go . . .


I know I'm a few days late on this one . . . but man, Papi just destroyed that Jered Weaver-Spicoli meatball, didn't he? Given the frustrations and injuries he's endured this season, I don't blame him at all for admiring it; it must have been cathartic. While that home run has been cited as an encouraging sign that he's about to get his mojo back in time for the stretch run, it was actually one he hit earlier in the Angels series, on a low and inside fastball against John Lackey, that made me think he's either feeling better (the cortisone might have kicked in) or fixed a flaw in his swing or something, because that was a pitch that he'd feasted on the past couple of seasons but had trouble with this year. And there's nothing that would give me more optimism about the Sox's postseason chances than the knowledge that Papi has found his fearsome form.

It's becoming more and more apparent that the Red Sox should have walked away from that J.D. Drew contract the moment they began to have concerns about the condition of his shoulder. I mean, I know he says he's healthy, but c'mon - that has to be the problem, right? He has no power - his slugging percentage is .391, or 18 points lower than Alex Freakin' Cora's - and this is a guy, who, for all of the knocks against him, has always been a consistently outstanding offensive player. And now he's the second coming of Rick Miller, a grounder-to-second-hitting machine who never seems to drive the ball with any authority? It doesn't make any sense . . . at least until you consider the one thing that gave the Sox pause about signing him in the first place. It's gotta be the shoulder. It has to be. So this is how we solve this: Either he admits he's hurt, or the Sox have to take him hostage and stuff him in a MRI tube, pronto, because this has gone on long enough.

Or, to put it another way. He has as many RBIs since July 21 - ten - as Garret Anderson had tonight. That's just pathetic.

I've got no problem with Bud Selig declining to punish Jason Giambi for admitting he used steroids. The Yankees' DH/Walking Sweat Gland is the closest thing to an honest man in this entire fraudulent, see-no-needle era, the commissioner included.


The stat line wasn't spectacular, but ultimately Clay Buchholz accomplished two impressive feats in his big league debut: He won the ball game against a very good Angels team, and he left a fickle fan base wanting to see more. I thought Tito Francona came up with the perfect comparison for Buchholz during his postgame press conference that day: a young Tim Hudson. I'd take that, wouldn't you?

The more I see of Kevin Youkilis, the more I hope the Sox sell on him in the offseason. It's not so much that I'm distressed by his second straight second half fade, because I still appreciate the contributions he makes in terms of on-base percentage and working the pitcher and so on. He's still a useful offensive player even when he's not hitting. It's just that his chronic complaining whenever an umpire dares to call a close strike on him has become relentlessly annoying, and watching him do the Bitter Beer Face thing whenever he disagrees with a call has made me realize that he carries himself on the field like a player who's accomplished a whole hell of a lot more than he actually has.

I'm not saying Phil Rizzuto does not belong in the Hall of Fame, but it is curious and maybe a bit eerie that the player most similar to him statistically in baseball history was in the headlines himself the same day Scooter passed away. And let's just say I'm fairly confident that Jose Offerman won't be going to Cooperstown unless there's an "Incorrigible Jerks of the 2001 Red Sox" exhibit at some point.

Wily Mo Pena's classy departure from the Red Sox? Sadly, it was the most graceful thing he did here. He's off to a decent start with the Nationals, though, and you can't help but wish him well. A friend who's around the Sox on a regular basis says Wily Mo was easily the friendliest person in the clubhouse, his teammates adored him and seemed to genuinely believe he'd someday harness his raw talent . . . don't you think it would be fun to see what kind of power numbers he'd put up if he could only figure how to recognize pitches before they bend and break? It didn't happen for him here. But I hope it does somewhere.

Well, now it all makes sense. In case you missed it, Drew Bledsoe confirmed what Patriots fans (and Bills fans . . . and Cowboys fans . . .) often suspected: football never was particularly important to him. Which is how a quarterback with an arm that's a gift from the great Lombardi in the sky ends up fumbling away his three NFL quarterbacking jobs to a skinny sixth-round pick with half of his raw talent, an undrafted free agent from East Podunk Illinois Agricultural And Nursing College For Women, and Opera Man lookalike J.P. Losman. Bledsoe thought his talent was enough. And it was, to get by. But while he's passing his days fishing on Lake Patpatpatsack up there in the Montana hills, that skinny sixth-rounder who wanted it more is putting the finishing touches on a Hall of Fame career. Ask me, there's justice in that.

By the way, I did not know until a moment ago that Bledsoe's middle name is McQueen. There's a good Jeff Garcia joke in there somewhere, but I'm not going to look for it.

So does this mean Marcus Vick is now considered the good son? And . . . that's all I've got to say about that. I realize this is a massive story with far-reaching implications, but to be honest, I'm more outraged that Leonard Little (kills a woman drunk driving, serves time, gets busted for drunk driving again) is still in the league than I am at the thought of Vick resurrecting his career with the Raiders a few years from now. You'll have to get your Vick fix elsewhere. I hear Ordway's into it, since, you know, there's nothing compelling going on with the Sox or Pats.


The Official Muse of TATB (Non-Wife Division) starring in a video for Wisely's "Through Any Window," one of those introspective sissy rock songs I'm an incurable sucker for? Well, of course I knew about this. Still, I do thank the half-dozen of you who sent along the clip above, as well as those of you who sent along the (probably not NSFW) trailer to Jenna Fischer's new movie "Walk Hard." It's a spoof of the musical biopic genre and looks fairly funny even though you get the sense Chest Rockwell got the lead only after Will Ferrell said no thanks. I do find it amusing that you guys think to send me this stuff though; I'm starting to think you picture me as Jenna's personal Woogie from "There's Something About Mary," obsessed to the point of a hideous facial rash. Well, I'll have you know I'm not obsessed at all, and the rash? It's just a little bit of a dry patch. Stress, you know. Sheesh. (Scratch, scratch . . .)

* * *

As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card


You know you've led a fulfilling existence when begin a hero of the Impossible Dream Red Sox does not even come close to approaching your life's greatest accomplishment. We here at TATB tip our Sox cap to you, Mike Andrews. The franchise's genuine relationship with Dana Farber and the Jimmy Fund makes me proud to be a fan.

* * *

Finally, while I'm not going to pull a Posnanski and shut down the blog (Say it ain't so, Joe!), it became apparent the past few days that my work here is done. Why? Because I got an email from Chad Finn. No, not from myself, though I was a bit confused when I saw own my name show up in my inbox. It was from . . . (suspenseful pause) . . . the Blueberry Guy!

Yes! Him! For real!

Now, I'm sure some of you have no idea what I'm talking about (you're probably used to that). Let me explain: Back when I started this blog about 2 1/2 years ago, I griped in my introductory missive that I wasn't even the most notable Chad Finn on Google. Turned out there was some fruit-breeding wizard in Oregon who was making the name way more famous than I was as a sportswriting/newspaper grunt here in New England. Here's what I blubbered then:

Thanks for finding me. I figure if you navigated the vast expanse of the World Wide Web and somehow ended up right here, right now, you're either a former reader of my Concord Monitor column, someone recommended my site, you gave birth to me (hi mom - I'll call!), or you saw my half-page color ad in "Cat Fancy."

Heck, you must have sought me out, because the bleepin' Internet sure isn't going to help you find me without some digging. Search for "Chad Finn" and first thing that pops up is some hippie-looking cat who apparently has found far greater success breeding freakin' berries than I have as a sports journalist for two of New England's finest newspapers. Much to my ego's detriment, Chad Finn, Blueberry Guy comes in second on the search list, too. And third. Fourth, also. Dude's berries must be a sight to see. Whatever that means.


So, yeah, in case you wondering, there's your confirmation that I was actually this bitter when I started this thing. But a couple of cool things have happened since then. The site has been more fun and successful than I dared imagine in December, '04, and as the readership has grown, Google has given me the appropriate respect.

And now there's this, from my berry-lovin' namesake:

Note from another scientist in my lab who seemed to find as much humor in your column as you did in searching for me (Yeah I know he sent me this 3-year old article just last week):

Chad,

Did you happen to see this article (paragraph 4 and last paragraph) - http://touchingallthebases.blogspot.com/2004/11/scoop.html? It’s hilarious! Did you ever think that you’d end up in a blog with Paris Hilton”?! Did you ever think you’d be referred to as a “hippy looking cat”?! You’re famous!”


Not many of us out there… you and I, I think... so definitely aware of your writing and pleased as hell to share the name with someone who has so much passion. While I grew up in Indiana and DC area, my Dad was from Central Village CT. my Mom from Pawtucket and all my relatives from Boston area (Medfield, Newton, Foxboro, Wellesley), with a second cousin who had a Bosox blog, and an uncle whose business had a skybox at the old garden made me a big Sox and Celtics fan. So have a bit of common thread.

Living in Corvallis Oregon means my baseball passion has turned to the college ranks and boy has it been a helluva lot of fun watching the OSU team win the last two NCAA championships.

Keep up the good work and irreverence. I’ll keep smiling and working with my “freakin berries” … you’re probably eating them when you down a berry product at your local bakery… Take care.

Chad


So, in sum: Chad Finn has got serious Boston ties, he follows the baseball program that gave us Jacoby Ellsbury, he instinctively knows this Chad Finn likes to go to the bakery, he's okay with me whuppin' him on Google much in the way the Boo Berry cereal monster would whup Strawberry Shortcake (gotta speak the berry pusher's language there), and he's a good sport about this whole ridiculous thing (which I can't believe you just spent three minutes reading, by the way).

In other words, we Chad Finns - the both of us - are pretty damn good dudes. Represent!

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Friday, May 18, 2007

Two great seasons


So tell me, which empire is more anxious right now: that decrepit, ancient dynasty crumbling in the Bronx, or Jordan's Furniture and its marketing wizards who, at least according to the accounts here, might be wondering if they made a multimillion-dollar miscalculation by pandering to Sox fans?

The Yankees' problems are well-documented, particularly if you are one of those Boston fans who engages in a little bit of schaedenfreude and checks out the New York tabloids each morning. (Some variation on "JOE MUST GO!!" seems to be a rather popular headline theme these days.) And we admit we chuckle at the thought of Jordan's shrewd "We're betting on the Red Sox!" promotion backfiring to the point that a second world championship in four years would force them to fork over enough free loveseats and sectionals to furnish every spare room in New England. Talk about a win-win situation.

Now, it's not like we're not setting aside a portion of our paycheck to save for World Series tickets just yet . . . but man, what's happening at Fenway Park right now is pretty amazing, isn't it? The Sox, 28-12 and 10 (ten!) games ahead of the Yankees at this writing, are just plain feelin' it, as evidenced by Thursday's doubleheader sweep of the AL champion Tigers. In the first game, the hero was the fifth starter, Julian Tavarez. In the second win, the hero was the fifth outfielder, Eric Hinske. When the roster's afterthoughts are sharing turns in the spotlight, you know times are good.

So can they keep it up? Can they run away with this thing and take all suspense out of the summer? Let's put it this way: If you can promise that they will stay reasonably healthy, I'll guarantee that they'll win their first AL East title since the managerial days of that mustache-farming, Canseco-coddling egomaniac, Kevin Kennedy. The offense is leading the AL in runs despite limited contributions from Manny and J.D. Drew, and even if the likes of Mike Lowell and the criminally underappreciated Kevin Youkilis cool off, they should put plenty of crooked numbers on the scoreboard. Plus, their elite starting pitching will prevent long losing streaks, and while their lengthy lead gives them the luxury to let ace Josh Beckett's "avulsion" heal, this time around there is no shortage of depth in the organization. Kason Gabbard (a Francona favorite) and TATB binky Devern Hansack should at least be replacement level fill-ins, and they might prove better than that. There will be no gruesome Kevin Jarvis cameos this year.

If you have any complaints about this team, then I guess Rick Pitino was right - we really are the fellowship of the miserable. While it might be tough to shake the old habit of grumbling about Wily Mo Pena's whiffs or Coco Crisp's ongoing struggles or whatever it is you rail against, we need only to cast an eye to toward the Bronx to see what legitimate woes look like. And you know what? While it's against my upbringing in the Nation to write off a franchise with the resources of the Yankees - you know they'll pick up another Bobby Abreu, someone else's salary dump, at the deadline if they are anywhere near the playoff hunt - they look like a dead team walking to me, and I don't think they have the necessary resolve, camaraderie, and pitching depth to pull themselves out of this hole. If they lose two of three to the Mets this weekend and two of three to the Sox in the next series - and please, baseball gods, let this happen; let the Sox leave cleat marks on their throats - someone will jostle Georgie Porgie awake long enough for him to finally fire Joe Torre. And while Yankees fans are desperately clinging to the irrelevant past, citing 1978 as an example of Yankee ingenuity, deep down they must know that Bob Lemon isn't walking through that door (and if he did, he'd be old, grey, and, um, dead.)

It's not like Don Zimmer is conveniently clutching his throat in the opposing dugout, either, which brings us to another crucial element of the Sox team: it's outstanding manager. Terry Francona long ago established himself as the finest Sox manager of my lifetime - outwitting Mike Scioscia, Torre, and tony La Russa consecutively in the postseason, as he did to a surprisingly little amount fanfare in '04, tends to go a long way toward enhancing a manager's reputation. But this season, everything he has touched as turned to gold, from his deft handling of the Dustin Pedroia/Alex Cora situation at second base to his willingness to give Hideki Okajima a prominent role when most of us assumed he was just here to caddy for Dice-K, to dealing with all the ancillary stuff that comes with managing in Boston. One of these days, Tito will get his due as one of the best in the game.

From the manager, to the lineup, to the pitching staff, it's all good, and provided the disabled list doesn't beckon too often, I just don't see anything but sunny days ahead. What is it that the Pink Hats - oh, and all right, a few of us secret sentimentalists, too - like to sing in the seventh inning? Good times never seemed so good. Yeah, that sounds about right. Mr. Diamond's sequined sentiments couldn't be more appropriate - and here's guessing they'll last all summer long. Who knows, maybe even right up until the joyous moment you realize the couch you're planted on to watch the Sox win the World Series just became a freebie.

* * *


All right, now for the important stuff: Thursday's season finale of "The Office." Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but I probably anticipated this week's episode with more eagerness than I will any Sox game this season before October. And I have to say, it was at least as satisfying as, oh, an early-season sweep of the Yankees - you know, back when they were good.

Now, if you're among the clueless masses who prefer mind-numbing dreck like "Grey's Anatomy,"" well, just surf on over to Cats That Look Like Hitler or wherever you usually roll after stopping in here, because today we simply must discuss this heartwarming, ribald, subtle, downright hilarious television masterpiece. I don't care if you don't care, because I do, and you should.

So many snippets from last night's show are replaying on the DVR in my mind: Jan's upgraded "chariots" . . . Michael selling his condo on eBay . . . Creed's blog . . . Schrutebucks and Stanley Nickles . . . "I'm not gay" . . . that slippery weasel Ryan's classic kicker ("You and I are done") which was foreshadowed by his refusal to get Michael coffee ("I don't do that anymore") . . . and of course, Jim's interview, when he discovers Pam's sweet callback to the Office Olympics episode and has his moment of clarity about following his heart back to Scranton.

It seems ridiculous now, given the ultimately well-executed story arcs that began back long before we'd ever become familiar with the pig-latin version of Rainbow Connection, Scrantonicity, or Prison Mike, but there was much talk early in this season that it wasn't living up to the standard set by Season 2. But in the end - make that at the end - it might have surpassed it. Casino Night, last season's flawless Steve Carell-penned finale, remains the most perfect single episode of any television show I have ever seen. Yet the last two installments this season were nearly its equal, meshing writing that makes a hack like me wonder why I ever bothered learning how to type with the perfectly cast actors (right down to the most minor supporting player) who give life to their words.

Which brings us to Ms. Fancy-New-You-Know-Who. You dopes give me a hard time (that's what she . . . ) about my fanboy odes to Jenna Fischer, and when I say cheeseball things like she's the most appealing woman I've ever seen among all the ones I'm not married to, well, I probably deserve it. But I challenge you to watch as her face transforms from shock to radiant, affirming joy in that wonderful closing scene above without crushing on both the character and the actress. That culminating moment alone should earn her an Emmy nomination. (And of course, as several emails noted - some laced with more snark than others - it's our duty to wish the Official Muse of TATB, Non-Wife Division a speedy recovery after she broke her back in four places after falling down a marble staircase in New York earlier this week. She's fortunate she wasn't hurt worse, and it sounds like she should be okay by the time the show begins filming again. Just a guess, but the sight of Jim pushing her around in a wheelchair in next season's premiere would have been a twist even the Office's ace staff of writers would have trouble working into the script.)

Anyway, at the typically pitch-perfect understated end, it all came full-circle, didn't it? Last year, Pam gave Jim a reason to leave Scranton. This year, she gave him a reason to come back. And so we come to a necessary question now that "it's a date" and they are apparently together at last. Where do they go from here? Requieted love has sent more popular shows into a death spiral (David and Maddy, anyone?), but I have complete faith that that will not happen here. The writers are too adept to fall into the Rachel/Ross melodrama, and besides, there is as much potential with Pam and Jim together as there is with them apart. And it's not like there aren't other open-ended plot points worth looking forward to - or did you forget that Ryan is now poor, shellshocked Michael's boss and whacked-out Jan is his roommate? To pilfer a line from a previous Thursday night NBC show of note: It's gold, Jerry. Gold. Season 4 can't arrive soon enough.

* * *

Couple of quick links in case you've wondering where a wise all week. Here's the weekly FOX column, beginning with an ode to Rockies slugger Matt Holliday, and here's a short piece we wrote for Red Sox GameDay about the Sox's worst position-by-position defensive players of all-time. As always, thanks for reading, and I really should be around here more often now that the relationship with Boston.com is official. Honest.

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Friday, May 11, 2007

Check out Glenn Hubbard's enormous snake!


You know, that headline didn't quite come out right now that I read it again. Ah, well. Anyway, check out our latest Nine Innings column on FOX Sports here to read about this card as well as other baseball items of mild interest. (Do I know how to sell the thing or what?)

We should be back here with a post about your Boston (Kicking --- And Taking Names) Red Sox at some point tonight. Man, if the rest of this season is as fun and rewarding as the first six weeks, it's going to be a heck of a summer at Fenway. Can they really be as good as they've looked?

Oh, and one more thing for my fellow "Office"-philes: How about that Fancy New Beesley last night? Her hot coals-inspired speech ("Maybe I should be your boss, Michael") calling out her selfish co-workers and spilling her honest feelings to Jim ("It's weird between us, and that sucks") was absolutely pitch-perfect - and please, just give Jenna Fischer her Emmy nod now. This season's theme has been about Pam's desperation to overcome her paralyzing self-doubt, and Fischer has absolutely nailed her character's nuances and underlying sadness at every turn, culminating with last night's revelatory moment. Now I just hope the season finale is as compelling as it has been set up to be . . . also, and that sad-sack Toby eventually gets to see Pam in her two-piece, Jim stops giving her the frigid shoulder, and that someone finds Andy before a big tuna gets him.

-- TATB Management

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Saturday, April 28, 2007

Questionable content

Digging through the email box (and the cobwebs in my mind) to answer questions both real and imagined . . .

From reader Steve K.: The Sox just *****-slapped the Yankees again. They're on pace to win something like 110 games. I'm a believer. This team looks stacked, and Manny's not even hitting yet. So when do I get my playoff tickets?

You know, I like to pretend I'm the voice of reason around here, never too high after a big win, never too low after an agonizing loss, yada yada . . . but damn, it's pretty much impossible for even an accomplished cynic not to be sky-high about the 2007 Red Sox's long-term chances right now, isn't it? Just consider the positives in this 15-7 start: Josh Beckett is having an April matched only by Pedro and the Babe in Red Sox annals, and not only does he look like a pitcher who's found his groove, but he's talking like one, admitting he made the mistake of throwing "hard, harder, and hardest" during his first season in Boston . . . The expensive new guys, from Julio Lugo (he's been nothing less than dynamic) to J.D. Drew (their most complete player) to Daisuke Matsuzaka (who flashes an ace's knack for limiting the damage in the innings where his command goes on the fritz), have justified every zero on their paychecks so far . . . Papi is still Papi, god bless him, and the offense will find another gear when Manny finds his form any moment now . . . Jason Varitek and Mike Lowell look rejuvenated, suggesting that reports of their demise (ahem) were greatly exaggerated . . . The middle relief, in particular Hideki Okajima, has been far better than expected, and Joel Pineiro looks improved with each appearance . . . Jonathan Papelbon is doing a spot-on Goose Gossage imitation. All he needs is the fu manchu . . . and Terry Francona continues to be the most underrated manager in the game, especially considering all of the b.s. about bloody socks and the like that he has to put up with here. So, uh, yeah, we're pretty enthusiastic about the summer ahead. Does 120 wins sound unreasonable?

From Greasymustacheandastainedtanktop, Mom's extra bedroom, The Bronx: Yo, please tell me the standings are printed upside down. This ain't really happening, is it? My whole self-image depends on the Yankees' success! If they suck, why, that means I do too! YO!

It's all true, Greasystache, and can you imagine where they'd be without A-Rod's otherworldly start? Oh, right . . . last place. Heh. But I think we all know better than to write the Yankees off in April. Once the weather heats up and Hideki Matsui gets healthy, their lineup will be relentless enough that they'll win a lot of 12-9 games, and Chien-Ming Wang and Mike Mussina should steady that wretched rotation with 30 or so wins between them. And you have to figure they'll add a few bullpen arms and whatever else they need at the trade deadline. However, and I hesitate to say this, but something feels different this time around, doesn't it? Maybe it's that Joe Torre already seems to be managing out of desperation at the expense of his bullpen's health, or maybe it's the fact that Mariano Rivera (zero saves) is 38 years old and suddenly looks very hittable, or maybe it's the fact that bringing up a clearly not-ready-for-prime-time Philip Hughes reeks of desperation . . . but these just don't look like the Yankees we've grown to loathe so much. Yeah, it's only the season's beginning. But from what we've seen so far, it's not out of the question that in the Bronx, it's the beginning of the end.

From reader Dave R.: I know it's pretty much impossible to guess what the Patriots will do in the draft. But you don't you figure they have to take a linebacker at either #24 or #28? It's their only legit weakness.

Knowing Belichick and Pioli, they'll probably take another tight end and a punter, thereby causing Mel Kiper's head to explode. (We're guessing his hair would remain intact, however). Actually, I think they will take a linebacker at 24 - I'm just not sure which one it will be, though if I were throwing together a mock draft, I'd probably go with Jon Beason from Miami, who's said to be fast, versatile, and devoted to football, all traits that would make him a nice fit in Foxboro. I do think it's entirely possible that they'll take two linebackers in the first round, since Michigan's David Harris has reportedly been climbing up their draft board in recent days and there might be other appealing alternatives such as Penn State's Paul Posluszny. All things being equal, though, I hope they add some depth in the defensive backfield with the 28th pick, though I have no idea whom they might favor from the Griffin/Houston/Meriweather group. Oh, and about taking another tight end: I was joking earlier, but if Miami's gifted Greg Olsen is on the board, I bet the Pats will at least give him some consideration, especially if Dave Thomas's injury is more serious than we know. Given the depth of their roster, they may be in Best Player Available mode from the beginning. So I guess what I'm saying is that we have no freakin' clue what will happen, though it's worth noting that Belichick, in a delicious bit of candor, revealed on WEEI this afternoon that there are players projected to go in the first round whom the Patriots have rated as late-round picks or free agents. Seriously, how cool is that? I'd pay good money to get a peek at their draft board. You know it looks like no one's mock draft.

From reader John W.: Chad: A couple posts ago, you said you weren't ready to pass judgment on Glenn Geffner. Ready yet? I am. I hate to sound like an old fart, but he suuuuucks. It's not that he's new or young... and although he's an internal hire, he doesn't come across as too obvious a homer. But he has no sense of pacing. He's constantly talking too fast, frequently tripping over his own tongue. He tries way too hard to fit nuggets of predigested data in between pitches. At its best, baseball on radio has a relaxed, welcoming atmosphere. Sure, you can get excited when there's a key play; but otherwise, you gotta take time to breathe. He almost... emphasize almost... makes me long for the Trupiano era.

Slowly nodding in agreement . . . Actually, I'm still trying to give Geffner the benefit of the doubt, if only because I was so anti-Trupiano that it probably wouldn't be good form to rip his replacement so soon. So I'll leave it at this for now: I think Dave O'Brien is outstanding, and I wish his ESPN commitments didn't keep him from doing all of the Sox games. As for Geffner . . . well, the less said the better, I suppose, and that goes for him and his excessive dependence on the media guide as well as me. Assuming settles down, talks slower and less often, and lets Castiglione lead the way, he should at least be tolerable. Hey, at least he's not Troop.

From SlappyVonPurplelips, Scott Boras's lair: Is Tom Brady the Derek Jeter of football? Because if he is, that means I'll have to hate his guts too, even though he's never made me change positions or hung me out to dry with the fans or borrowed my rouge without returning it or anything.

Well, no, because Tom Terrific's teams have won championship(s) since he became captain, so that's a major difference right there. But I get where this question is coming from: Pretty-boy Brady just signed a $12 million deal to endorse Stetson cologne. Pretty-boy Jeter has his own brand of cologne called, I believe, One-Step Range To The Left. (Whoops, Google informs me it's called Driven. Close enough, I say.) Anyway, here's the difference. Stetson goes for a rugged, masculine image, something out of the wild west. Driven is produced by Avon, which caters to girly-girls, blue-haired grannies, and Yankee infielders. Edge, Stetson, though if they make Brady wear a stupid cowboy hat or cuddle a friggin' goat like GQ did, we'll have no choice but to call it a draw.

From reader Kevin J.: Dreaming that there is some luck of the Irish with the ping-pong balls May 22 and we're vindicated for losing out on Duncan 10 years ago, who do you take? Oden, or Durant?

Oden, without a moment's hesitation. His presence would improve the Celtics' defense so much immediately that even Gerald Green might look like a competent defender with Oden watching his back. Listen, I love Durant and he'd be hell of a consolation prize in the No. 2 slot, but the claims that he's a once-in-a-generation player are more than a little hyperbolic. He'll be a great scorer in the NBA, a perennial All-Star who combines some of the best attributes of Tracy McGrady, Carmelo Anthony, and Dirk Nowitzki. But Oden is a game-changer on defense, an undeniable presence whom you can see eventually anchoring a championship team. He is the franchise player this franchise is desperate for.

From Petey M., Flushing, N.Y.: Where you been, man?

Hibernating. To be honest, I've been overwhelmed with some real-world stuff lately, including having a tree wipe out the power lines in our neighbor's yard, leaving us without power without 3 1/2 days. Let's just say I'm a lot more sympathetic to Nicholson's character in "The Shining" after that experience. The Fox column (latest edition here, if you didn't see it) also has interfered with my blogging productivity more than I thought it would. But now that we have lights and electricity and such, I vow to be a more consistent correspondent over the next few weeks, particularly since the Boston.com affiliation/link should be starting up soon.

From reader Jeff P.: Keep running all the dolled-up pictures of Jenna Fisher [sic] you want, Finn. You'll never convince me she's anything more than plain, especially by Hollywood standards. She does do a good job on the show though ... so what do you think will happen in the final episodes? Will she hook up with Halpert or what?

First of all, People magazine disagrees with you, Steve, and yes, I'm glad to see they received all of my letters of nomination. Second, Stevie Wonder called, and he wants his retinas back. (I know, that's a comeback only Costanza could love. So sue me.) Anyway, here are a few predictions for the season's final three episodes:

Jan reveals she's pregnant with a Michael Scott spawn: Terrifying twist, huh? A couple of the cast members have mentioned that Jan will have a major life change soon, and I can't help but remember that she kept saying she felt queasy in the episode at the boss's house. I am a little surprised they'd play the baby card so soon, though.

Karen will be offered a corporate job in New York, and Jim will have decide whether to stay or go: The gorgeous Rashida Jones, who's done the near impossible by making Karen immensely likable as the woman standing between Pam and Jim, landed a lead role in a pilot on Fox, and reportedly will only be on The Office on occasion next year, if it all. Sending her to New York seems to be a convenient way for the writers to ease out her character while causing a compelling cliffhanger at the season's end.

Pam will tell Jim exactly how she feels: For all of Michael's antics and Dwight's beet-and-Angela-loving weirdness and Jim's prankster geniality, good-hearted Pam is the show's fulcrum, and the underlying theme this season has been her quest to overcome her fear of rejection and summon the strength to take some chances and get what she wants out of life. The show's savvy writers have a talent for taking us in a perfectly believable direction that we didn't see coming, but it's difficult not to assume that everything that has occured this season (the reconciliation and final breakup with Roy, her overhearing Oscar's snarky comments at the art show about her not being honest with herself) is setting up a situation in which she takes the ultimate chance and puts her heart on the line for Jim. In fact, given Jenna Fischer's habit of subtly tipping off her blog readers to upcoming crucial Jim/Pam moments, we can probably pinpoint the episode when it will happen, considering she recently wrote this: "The episode not to be missed is Beach Day [May 10]. Seriously. Don't miss it."

From my own simple mind: Anything else you wanted to add, dummy?

Just this: While I wasn't a Hardy Boys savant and never imagined that Mo Lucas and Billy Ray Bates were my friends (though I did feel a certain kinship with Kevin Kunnert), my experience with David Halberstam's "The Breaks of the Game" was remarkably similar to Hollywood Sports Guy's remembrance today. "Breaks," Halberstam's compelling, meticulous account of the post-Walton Portland Trail Blazers and the addled NBA of the late '70s, was one of the first grown-up books I ever read, and I love it as much today as I did when I was 13 years old. (The Swen Nater/Sidney Wicks airport scene is worth the cover price alone.) When I heard the terribly sad news that Halberstam, a far more accomplished writer and journalist than anyone who attempted to pay tribute to him, was killed in a car accident early this week at age 73, I immediately thought of "Breaks," my affection for that book, and my admiration of the man who wrote it. I'll make the effort to read it again soon, my own silly little flashback/homage. If you haven't read it yourself, please do, particularly if you've enjoyed Halberstam's other renowned sports books like "The Summer of '49" or "October, 1964." There's no book I'd recommend more.

As for today's Completely Random Football Card:


Sparks was a pretty decent corner for the Giants and the Cowboys in the '90s, but mark these words: his 17-year-old daughter is going to be more famous and have a more lucrative and successful career than her pop ever did. While beatboxing Blake Lewis remains my boy on American Idol, I have to admit my wife was right all along: Jordin Sparks is the class of this year's underwhelming crop of contenders, and she deserves to win the thing, something Mrs. TATB was saying when Entertainment Weekly was putting Jordin's odds of winning at something like 100-1. The girl can sing the hell out of just about any song, and unlike some of AI's better vocalists through the years, she has the right look. Her old man - who, frighteningly, is only six months older than me - surely must be prouder of her than of anything he ever accomplished on the football field.

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Thursday, April 12, 2007

Happy trails, No. 11

Catching up on some things while waiting for the impending monsoon/blizzard/hurricane/locusts/etc. . . .


A half-dozen years ago, before Mo Lewis's helmet was violently introduced to his rib cage and New England Patriots' destiny was forever altered, would you have ever thought that Drew Bledsoe's retirement would barely register a blip on the Boston sports radar screen? I suppose a certain fade to irrelevance is natural when your successor achieves all the things that you were supposed to somehow couldn't. Still, it left us a bit disappointed that Bledsoe's departure from the NFL after 14 seasons wasn't more of a story around here.

I mean, sure, we all know about Bledsoe's flaws - he had the mobility of the Route 1 dinosaur, he was reluctant to alter his let-it-fly game to fit the Belichick/Weis offense, he was a rocket-armed prodigy (he started as true freshman at Washington State) who didn't always seem to care that much about enhancing his secondary quarterbacking skills, and it was largely his own fault that he never quite became what his talent (and that legendary Minnesota game) suggested he could be. The truth is, once Tom Brady took a few games' worth of snaps, it was apparent to everyone but Bledsoe's blind loyalists that the new guy was just the jolt of energy the franchise needed.

But without No. 11, we probably never get introduced to No. 12, for had Bledsoe not arrived in New England in 1993, along with a certain gruff coach with a fondness for doing his own grocery shopping, who knows what might have become of this franchise. Maybe it would have ended up in St. Louis (though if I recall correctly, Bob Kraft was already close to purchasing the team when Parcells was hired). More likely, the Patriots would have continued to be the sport's preeminent laughingstock under the "leadership" of Rick Mirer.

In his early years, Bledsoe gave the Patriots immediate on-field credibility, a signature player who, when he was on, was the most breathtaking pure passer east of Green Bay. Through the seasons, we came to appreciate other attributes: he was as tough as old shoe leather, he played hurt (quick, name another quarterback who won a game in the last seconds with a pin sticking out of his finger), and that in the face of personal disappointment, he still remained a good teammate. If you weren't happy for him after the 2001 AFC Championship game, then you weren't a Patriots fan.

Did we wish, especially during those maddening Pete Carroll years, that he'd have dedicated himself more to improving rather than retreating to his Montana getaway mere moments after the season's final buzzer? Well, sure, and had he done so, maybe he'd be a Hall of Famer rather than a pretty good quarterback with gaudy stats who somehow lost three different starting jobs in the final six seasons of his career. But we've got a feeling that Bledsoe is okay with his football legacy, just as long as he has his family, his health, and his place in mountains. He walks away from the game knowing what we all should remember: there's no shame in being the second-best quarterback in Patriots history.

* * *

I think we've found the early frontrunner for Red Sox quote of the year, plucked straight from Mnookin's blog.

“I’d never do anything like that. There are f----ing kids in the stands."

– Brendan Donnelly, when asked if he’d made an obscene gesture at Seattle's Jose Guillen.


Mark these words: If this guy can still get it done, he's going to be huge here. Donnelly takes *%&# from no one, yet by most accounts he's as down to earth as they come. Sounds like a New England kind of guy to me.

* * *

Other Red Sox remnants: I don't care what Buster Olney says, Dice-K reminds me of a young Mike Mussina more than any other contemporary pitcher. After two starts, I'm putting him down for 17 wins and a 3.20 ERA, and yes, I'm deliberately being conservative . . . Seriously, how sick was Felix Hernandez the other night? That might have been the most dominating pitching performance I've seen since Pedro's heyday. The Sox hitters had no chance. It'll be fascinating to see what he can accomplish if he stays healthy and away from the Cool Ranch Doritos . . . I realize Josh Beckett started out pretty well last season, winning his first four starts if I recall correctly, but right now he looks vastly superior to anything we saw from him a year ago. The true test will come when he has to use his curve and changeup to get outs in a crucial situation, but it sure looks like he's evolving into a pitcher from the mule-stubborn thrower he was a season ago . . . Tito Francona needs to make a point to work Eric Hinske and Wily Mo Pena into the lineup more often, not only to keep the two former regulars from rusting on the bench, but to keep the likes of Mike Lowell, J.D. Drew, Coco Crisp, and even Manny from wearing down over the long haul. I actually wouldn't mind seeing Hinske take more than a few of Lowell's starts at third . . . There's a fun thread going over at Sons of Sam Horn, with posters recalling the most electric they ever saw Fenway. Mine would be Game 3 of the 2003 ALCS, when ol' Trot Dirty Hat hit the walkoff homer off Rich Harden. I was working, and Fenway was shaking so much as he circled the bases that it was hard to line up the keys on the laptop . . . Shhh, don't tell the 'EEI imbeciles, but Francona's shrewd eighth-inning use of Jonathan Papelbon Friday night was straight out of the Bill James/Closer By Committee playbook. You use your best reliever to get crucial outs, whether that's in the ninth inning, the eighth, or the sixth. For at least one night, it worked to perfection.

* * *

The heat seems to be increasing on Danny Ainge these days, and if he gives M.L. Rivers a contract extension without an out clause, I'll agree that he deserves to be scalded. But I've said it before, and I'll say it right up until we know the results of the draft lottery: Ainge deserves credit for taking a dull but decent team that had two quality players and absolutely no young talent or chance of winning anything substantial, and having the Spauldings to blow it up and start over. Three years later, he has an atrocious team with at least a half-dozen talented kids . . . and a potential winning lottery ticket. Given that the goal should be to get that 17th banner my any means necessary, I have no problem with that strategy, even with the inherent risk that they could end up with the likes of Joakim Noah once the ping-pong balls have settled. Hey, if he enters 2007-08 with a starting five of Oden, Jefferson, Szczerbiak, Pierce, and Rondo, with, depending on potential trades, Perkins, West, Gomes, Allen, and Green on the bench, how can you not feel pretty good about about the rebuilding job Ainge has done?

* * *



Damn, there sure are some fringe benefits to being an actor, huh? If I were Will Ferrell, I might never wash my hands again. And as if we needed yet another reason why Jenna Fischer is the Official Muse of TATB (Non-Wife Division), there's her take on filming what we now consider the greatest scene in the history of celluloid:

“The first take is like [Will] said, ‘Okay Jenna, you're married and I'm married and no funny business. Anything that makes you uncomfortable I want you to tell me. I just want you to feel comfortable.’ I said, ‘Okay, let’s just go for it and make it funny.’ He's like, ‘Yeah.’ So we just went for it and as soon as they yelled cut, his hands came off like he was touching a hot iron. He was so respectful. But then around hour 8 [of filming] it's so normal that they yelled cut and we are discussing the scene with the director and I said, ‘Yeah, dude, your hands are still on my boobs.’ And that was cool, but when we went to lunch and he was still squeezing my boobs and then that night at my car... I haven't been in a lot of films, but he said that was normal - but I'm still not sure. I'm not positive that that was right. He said that was okay and he suggested to promote the film he should play with my boobs. I think that's cool, right? That's how it's done. That's what he said. Yeah.”


Cute, funny, and down with some good old-fashioned boob humor? I don't care what you haters say - she is perfect.

* * *

I've received 20 or so emails asking me if there's any truth to the little nugget buried here - not to mention a puzzled query from one of my bosses. While it's always flattering when someone says nice things about your work, there's a part of me that's annoyed by the conjecture, and I suppose I should address it. So let me break down my professional status this way (I'll try not to sound like a Simmonsish egomaniacal dinkus here):

Lets's see . . . I just hooked up an affiliation with FoxSports and, soon, Boston.com . . . I get to blog here about the Sox and anything else I'm obsessed with (you did read the above item, right?) without having to deal with idiot pro athletes and impossible deadlines that would surely jade the perspective I've managed to maintain as a fan . . . I live in lovely coastal Maine and don't really feel like commuting to freakin' Lawrence . . . I've dreamed of working at the Globe since I was a kid and have so much fun with and respect for the people I work with that sometimes I can't believe I'm so fortunate . . . I work four nights a week now for what I'd guess is more compensation than I'd make there in seven days . . . And because of the short week, I get to spend more time with my wife and two young kids.

But other than that, yup, I'd consider it.

* * *

As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


As far as we're concerned, there can never be enough homage paid to the most courageous man in baseball history.

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Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Grilling season


Ten free minutes for me, 10 free Manny-owned appliances for you . . .

1. Well, since the Twins weren't giving up Joe Nathan and the Yankees are yet to make Mariano Rivera available, I guess this is the next-best thing, right? Returning Jonathan Papelbon to the role in which he dominated like no other Sox closer since . . . well, who, the Monster? . . . makes plenty of sense even if you do detect a whiff of panic, for it solves a big problem while creating a much smaller one in the starting rotation. (One I think Tito is convinced Kason Gabbard will eventually fill.) I have to admit, though, I'm a bit disappointed that Papelbon won't be starting. I was giddy over the thought of having a trio of 26-year-old potential aces surrounding Curt Schilling and Tim Wakefield in the rotation, and it seems to me the Sox's greatest advantage over the Yankees coming into the season was starting pitching. I had Papelbon penciled in for 16-18 wins and 200 Ks. I guess 40 saves and a lot less late-inning stress will be an acceptable consolation prize. (And yes, we are pretending that we have no concerns about his shoulder's ability to handle the burden. Let's just move on, okay?)

2. I've caught myself rubbernecking at Schilling's 38-car pileup of a blog (yeah, I know . . . pot, kettle, black) the last few days, and mark my words, he's going to write something that causes a *^&$storm in the clubhouse, and sooner rather than later. Just today, he took an unbecoming shot at Bob Tewksbury, who's about as controversial as vanilla ice cream, revealed that "John" would be closing, and answered a question about a long-ago incident with Scott Williamson that A) made no sense, and B) sure read like a guilty man's revision of history. Yeah, I suppose we should have known he'd be as self-important behind the keyboard as he is in front of a microphone.

3. Let's see, since pissing away the AFC title game, the Patriots have: retained their ballhawking young cornerback whom everyone thought would bolt for the biggest bucks as a free agent; signed the best linebacker available, one who happens to perfectly fit their defensive system; acquired three intriguing wide receivers, each of whom brings a different skill-set to the huddle; signed a blocking tight end and a versatile backup running back; and vastly improved their team without trading either of their first-round picks. So I have to ask: Is it possible to actually surpass a best-case scenario?

4. As far as I can tell, there have been four worthwhile NBA season-inside books through the years. 1) "The Breaks of the Game," David Halberstam (about the the transitional late '70s Blazers, with plenty of Halberstam's patented big-picture wisdom). 2) ":07 Seconds or Less," Jack McCallum (about last year's Suns, a fun read but comes up slightly short in the insight/juicy details department). 3) "Unfinished Business," McCallum (about the 1990-91 Celtics, it's worth it for the comedic stylings of Kevin McHale alone). 4) "The Short Season: A Diary of the 1977-78 Boston Celtics," John Powers (a winning look at a surprisingly terrible team, but one that did not lack for characters). If you've got a fifth to add to this list, well hell, let me know, because I'd love to read it.

5. For the record, I have no problem with the Official Muse Of TATB's increasing aversion to clothing . . . well, other than the fact that the pictures tend to melt me until I'm nothing more than a puddle and a pair of tube socks. But I'm guessing you knew that. In a related note, when the hell is "The Office" coming back with a new episode? It's been so long, if Roy did indeed live up to his vow to kill Jim, ol' Halpert's probably been reincarnated by now. I'm suddenly finding myself spending my Beesly-free Thursdays watching "American Idol" for the first time, and frankly, I'm not all that comfortable with that. But it is addictive, you develop your favorites, and I'm pulling for the beatbox kid, Blake. He nailed that Keane song a few weeks back. And Sanjaya . . . yikes. Step away from the curling iron, son. I think he's the hermaphrodite child Michael Jackson never had. I honestly don't understand why the voters haven't sent this tone-deaf Peter Pan back to Neverland already.


6. Yep, I'm convinced. Daisuke Matsuzaka is going to be worth every digit on his paycheck. As if his ability to throw four above-average pitches at varying speeds to the exact spot Jason Varitek places his mitt isn't enough to convince us he'll be an ace from Day 1, then Varitek's complete inability to mask his admiration (is awe too strong a word?) for Dice-K is evidence enough of his elite talent. I cannot wait.

7. I hope I'm wrong, but I'm assuming that Donny Marshall will not be with Fox Sports New England for long. The former UConn star and NBA vagabond is nothing less than outstanding as Tommy Heinsohn's stand-in and, more often, as a studio analyst on the Celtics broadcasts. Marshall is refreshingly candid in critiquing his former peers, such as when he noted recently that Desmond Mason, a capable enough scorer, actually has a reputation for clogging up his team's offense because he insists on posting up all the time despite being just 6-foot-5. It was exactly the kind of insight I want to hear from a former player. You'd have to think one of the networks at some point is going to catch on to Marshall's talent and swipe him away.

8. Seriously, f you didn't laugh at the whole "Hi, this is Manny Ramirez. Check out this kickin' grill!" episode, then you are taking your time here way too seriously, my friend. (And that goes double for that bloated bag o' gas John Dennis, who actually spent moments of his life trying to find out if Manny was violating any eBay rules, for no other reason than to stir up more faux-controversial nonsense) This whole situation was classic Manny, and I mean that in the good sense. Why not enjoy it? (And I'm still laughing at his response the other day to a question about the closing situation: "Not my department." Again: Classic Manny. I sure am going to miss the goof when he returns to his native planet.)

9. Allen Ray, Brian Scalabrine, and Rajon Rondo combined to play 64 minutes against the Bobcats without scoring a single point. Consider those numbers again: Sixty-four minutes. Zero points. Nah, Doc's not tanking a thing.

10. As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


Because sometimes it really is random.

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Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Our new favorite player

Ten free minutes for me, 10 free mysterious gyroballs for you . . .


1. I've been reading Gammons since I was eight years old, and this little anecdote from a recent ESPN.com column might be my favorite line he's ever written. It's from an item on Atlanta's Jeff Francoeur and how the lifelong Sox fan is looking forward to playing in Boston this season:

Talk about a perfect personality for Fenway Park . . . Team USA players like to tell the story of Francoeur confronting Alex Rodriguez during the WBC for trashing a clubhouse kid who brought him the wrong sandwich.


Seriously, how funny is that? You can practically visualize A-Rod lambasting the kid: "Dammit, kid, if I told you once . . . MR. A-ROD DOES NOT EAT TUNA FISH! NOW GO GET MR. A-ROD SOME *%&$*#*#*#&$&& HUMMUS ON FOCACCIA! NOW, SON!"

2. I'm sure Tom Brady finds the thought as intriguing as we do, but I have to believe there's a better chance of Donald Hayes being hired as the offensive coordinator than there is of Randy Moss playing for the Patriots next season. Not only did he set a league record for dogging it last season, but more than a few scouts think his once-supreme talent is in rapid decline due to neglect.

3. Old friend Antoine Walker is shooting a sizzling 39 percent from the free throw line this season for the Heat. Might be time to ask Shaq for some pointers.

4. After 10 spins on ESPN.com's very cool NBA lottery generator, I had the Celtics ending up with Greg Oden twice, Kevin Durant twice . . . and Joakim Freakin' Noah six times. I've said this before, and I'll say it again. If the Celtics end up with bust-to-be Noah, there's a good chance the next time you see me I'll be dangling from the Garden rafters with a noose fashioned out of one of the retired numbers. (Probably LOSCY).

5. So I guess Peter King's assertion that Belichick's role in the sad Ted Johnson saga would prevent veteran players from coming to the Patriots was just one more of his weekly Dumbass Things I Think I Think, right? Adalius Thomas certainly seems to have no qualms about his new coach's personality.

6. Hmmm, I wonder who Peyton is taking to the prom. (Oh, of course: Chesney).

7. I feel really good about this Sox team - like, say, 98+ wins and a memorable playoff run good. But if I had to rank my list of concerns, it would looks something like this: 1) Closer, obviously. Joel Pineiro seems set to play the role of Chad Fox. 2) Mike Lowell's bat. He was fortunate in the first half and feeble in the second. 3) Jason Varitek's health/durability. Because the less Mirabelli, the better. 4) Julio Lugo's glove. Yeah, it's early, but from what I've seen so far, he's going to be a lot closer to Edgar Renteria than Alex Gonzalez defensively.

8. There are no new "The Office" episodes for another month or so, meaning we'll have to get our pathetic fanboy Beesley fix from insightful articles like this one. Rumor has it that a couple TATB readers were in attendance at this thing, though I'm still waiting for them to report back. You don't think they were charged in violation of my restraining order, do you?

9. In his 2007 Handbook, Bill James projects Manny Ramirez to finish his career with 691 home runs. That's 221 more than he has right now, at age 34. Seems a little iffy to me that Manny will average over 30 homers per season from now into his 40s, but I wonder if this means James is pushing the Sox to pick up his option years.

10. As for today's Completely Random Baseball Card:


Say it ain't so, Craig Hansen. Give us a reason to believe you're not the second coming of Wes Gardner.

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