Don’t hate Brett Favre.

Hate yourselves.

Don't hate the playa! Hate the game...You know what? Hate the playa...

It’s not the narcissist’s fault when people gawk.  It’s not the narcissist’s fault when an entire cable network devotes itself to him.  It’s not the narcissist’s fault when people proclaim him savior, anoint him saint, crown him royalty.  And it’s not the narcissist’s fault that we care. 

Look, there are three things Favre wanted out of his trinity of “unretirements”: 

1. More money
2. More notoriety
3. More money

I don’t understand why people get so upset about one man’s self-reflective journey toward any mirror, microphone, or news camera any more than I understand why Bravo seems to take up residence on my television on a daily basis.  The reason my wife can watch an episode of Bethany Getting Married  three times in six hours is the same reason sports fans tune in to ESPN to tune Favre out.  We simply cannot get out of our way.

As a result, I don’t begrudge Favre for wanting to remain the lead story on every SportsCenter.  Nor do I feel like I missed out on anything by boycotting “The Decision.” And I’ll feel no remorse for missing LiLo’s post-prison, one million dollar interview.  I just detach myself from all things sensational in the media, grab a Flying Fish Farmhouse Summer Ale, Youtube live performances from my favorite bands, and fire off hilarious text messages to my long-since annoyed friends. I suggest you do the same because Favre is playing, he doesn’t like training camp, and the Vikes are now the second best team in the NFC (Saints).

 ******************************************************************************

Boo-hoo, Roger Clemens.  What did you think was going to happen? After watching fellow cheaters Rafael Palmeiro (he of the now ironically infamous index finger), Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire, each of whom quietly receded into the collective darkness until such time that slime was socially acceptable again, the Rocket decided to emulate OJ in hopes that the verdict would be the same. Sadly, the needle did fit and Congress did not acquit. 

What was I just saying? I misremember...

 Again, as a firm believer and fan of karma, Clemens’ inability to take a page out of his fellow cheater’s, Andy Pettite, handbook will earn him the most coveted of karmic symbols—the asterisk.

 *******************************************************************************

While I’m stuck in a Detroit airport en route to San Francisco with my wife, ten-month old daughter, and mother-in-law, I’ll assure all of our less traveled readers that the Midwest accent is as annoying as it sounds on television.

 ******************************************************************************

From the category of things I don’t get, here’s one: out-of-season-sports-represented-at-in-season-sporting-events.  Case in point—I’m at the Phils game with my buddy Lew, the first of Cole Hamels’ inexplicable two straight 1-0 losses to the Mets, when I saw a plethora of mismatched jersey decisions.  Simon Gagne alternate jersey? Check. Man U home jersey? You bet’cha. Charles Barkley retro, though now current again, red Sixers jersey sans any form of undershirt? Indeed.  I don’t subscribe to the theory that men over the age of 35 shouldn’t wear other men’s jerseys in public (largely because I’m about to turn 34, and I’m a proud owner of the original Favre jersey), but I’m curious how anyone peers into his closet during the dog days of summer on his way to a baseball game and says, ‘Yep, let’s go with the midnight green Todd Pinkston jersey because, hey, the Birds are in camp. E-A-G-L…” You get the point.

No, I meant stud with the ladies! Common mistake.

Alright, as much as I hate to admit it, my man crush, Jayson Werth, is not a big-time player.  Despite my t-shirt bearing his likeness and the slogan, “Werth is money,” despite my unnatural desire to invade Olde City with him for an evening, and despite my lackluster ability to grow a beard in his honor, he just can’t carry a team.  Instead of spitting stats that we all know are accurate and ominous, we can just agree that sometimes guys are good only because of other guys (an Utley-Howard opener makes his job as headliner much easier); however, elite players are those who are great in spite of other players, circumstances, or support. The bearded heartthrob has been catapulted into the cleanup spot because, and only because, of injury and has done nothing to make us stop putting X’s on each day that passes until the Big Piece gets back.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************

I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in young athletes of every race, sport, and, above all, talent level.

Slow walking.

As a coach and official for 11 of our calendar’s 12 months, I am privy to all kinds of student athletes—born leaders, playing-because-dad-makes-me kids, guys who are unaware of how good, or bad, they really are, AAU lunatics, and disproportionate body shaped players in the wrong sport. No matter at what school, gym, or field I find myself, the slow walkers are taking over. You know the type. They wear open-toed Nike sandals with or without socks as they walk into the gym. They have a drawstring Under Armour backpack, which holds little more than their cell phones, strapped in place. They have two or three pairs of socks or shorts on for reasons that still escape me. They have half-opened eyelids as if looking and walking at the same time is taking every ounce of their athleticism. And they are invariably, unquestionably, unequivocally average players. I officiate a summer basketball league that features kids from 3-4 grade through the JV level. One JV player in particular embodies everything I just outlined about the slow walker. (1) He’s a junior on JV, which isn’t shameful at its surface depending on the school and program (2) It’s a summer league (3) He’s the fourth best player on his team though he’s the point guard and his father is the head coach (4) He’s a junior on JV.  As a result, I propose the following edict—athletes must walk at a rate that is in direct proportion to their actual skill level. So if you are an awful player, whether you know it or not, you should be sprinting to every position, every game, and every post game speech.  If you’re a blue-chip, division I, future pro, go ahead and drag your feet across the suburban high school gym while you convince yourself that people are watching you, which inspires you to walk even more slowly. Those of you athletes in the middle of these two extremes, I’ll race you to the other side of the field.

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************

While I didn’t listen to Eagle Corp.’s “state of the team address,” and never will, I did hear the speech’s Cliffs Notes, and I’ll only address what we all know is obvious.  Owner Jeff Lurie, much like the entire brass, just doesn’t get it.  Regarding Mike Vick’s 1,342^nd chance in the league, Lurie admitted that Vick shouldn’t have been at the now infamous party but, meh, he didn’t pull the trigger; plus, Vick is now the proud owner of the completely useless distinction of being the organization’s greatest first year player “in terms of the community.”

Alright, Michael. But one more time and you're in big trouble, mister. I mean it!

Um, what choice did he have? And what does this say about countless other Birds who worked in the community because they felt it a necessary part of their career? Or because they genuinely care about people and animals?  Furthermore, why are we spending so much time discussing the backup quarterback, ostensibly, of a team who is no better than 8^th in the NFC? Why is this ownership and front office so woefully disconnected from its fan base?  Why am I driving up my word count on this issue?

Thank God for fantasy football and survivor pools.

I think I may have dated Roy Oswalt. 

After college I ran into an old acquaintance named Mel at a bar in Philly. During college, she was nothing more than my girlfriend’s artsy, not-quite-hot tagalong. She was one of those girls who guys call “cool” to mask the fact that they really weren’t attracted to her.  Nice enough, pleasant, and available. A viable stopgap in the dating world. Worth a shot.

During our first date, we went for coffee at a little house in a posh part of a neighboring town. The conversation flowed well. We both felt comfortable with each other. We planned another date. But behind her eyes, I really didn’t see much of anything. No sex appeal. No fire. No passion. Just a high school art teacher with a neatly decorated apartment and a penchant for giggling unnecessarily.

Our second date took place at an upscale Italian restaurant complete with several menus, wondering minstrels, and an aromatic atmosphere. One of us was being wined and dined but I’m still not sure who was doing the wooing and for what purpose. Before drinks arrived, Mel confided that, at 25, she had a “five year plan,” which included marriage and kids. To that point, I had never experienced a cold sweat, but suffice it to say, my five year plan was still in the five day stages.  I dropped her off later that night, but she didn’t invite me in because I think we both knew our “plans” were different. I never saw or spoke to her again.

Look, Oswalt seems like a nice enough guy. He has won 143 major league games. He has proven he can get guys out. But like Mel, my wayward art teacher, I just don’t get a sense that he will offer us what we’re looking for. His “five year plan” is really only a two-year plan in baseball terms, and I’m sure his home isn’t decorated in frilly pastels like Mel’s was, but when you stare across your proverbial table at him, what do you see? A nasty “mutha” who will pitch inside and dare you to hit him? Nah. A mean old veteran who spits tobacco and venom while he’s making you look silly? Nope. A competitor who refuses to get lit up by the likes of the Nats? Negative.

"Shucks, this gum is good. Mind if I throw inside?"

So, the Roy Oswalt era has begun in Philly and to quote Lieutenant Vincent Hanna in Heat, “I am over[freaking]whelmed.”  I have never been one of these Cliff Lee shrine-building, memorial service holding, jilted lover fuming fans who can’t let go of the fact that he’s not here, and I’m still not.  We all know Lee is a horse, but he’s not on our team anymore, so let’s put the Ruben Amaro Jr. voodoo doll down and slowly back away.

Here’s the thing though—no matter where Cliff Lee is, he intimidates. Whether it’s through his dead sprint on and off the mound, the shadow windmill stretch and phantom pitch, or the bulldog look in his eyes, dudes just don’t want to face him.  

The look in Oswalt’s eyes reflects someone who would like to order a chocolate milk from “Lou” the surly diner owner before he professes that Lorraine Baines is his density, er, destiny. 

When the deal happened, I professed my praise because, ultimately, Amaro got Doc Halladay and George McFly Oswalt for J Happ and Cliff Lee. Not bad. From Facebook to text messages to long phone conversations, I didn’t see a downside of the deal.  After last night though, my reservations about the dude remain in tact. I don’t even fear this guy from my couch.

I’d love to be wrong about Lil’ Roy but after watching his post-game presser, I got the sinking feeling that I was listening to a mismatched girlfriend or to an underwhelming George McFly. I’m not sure Oswalt is our density or destiny.

Finally, I’d like to welcome ESPN self-promoter, self-aggrandizer, baseball analyst, Joe Morgan to my “list.” We all have a list. Those select few (or hundred in my case) who we abhor, at whom we cringe, who we’d love to punch square in the face. One of the few downsides of the Phils’ national attention over the last few years is the influx of Sunday Night Baseball games they are afforded.  Because of the spotlight, we are forced to listen to Morgan drop in completely unnecessary references to his playing days, his insistence on belittling partners Jon Miller (now a Hall of Famer himself) and Orel Hershiser, and a smugness rivaled only by the number one person on my list, Michael Jordan.

"Kiss the ring, Jon Miller!"

I guarantee that if it hadn’t dawned on you before, you’ll be forced to recognize the narcissism of which I speak. Get the iPod ready.

• For any Philly sports fanatic, growing accustomed to the usual rotation of commercials during any game is just part of our fandom. As fans, we reserve the right to scratch our heads, throw objects at our television, or fire off hilarious text messages about these promos.  Enter the Chapman trio of idiots and the inane WB Mason mock reality show commercials.
  • Chapman—Let me get this straight. I’m supposed to be enticed to buy a car from (a) the leathery faced, smoke-stained teeth, permasmile older brother (b) the clearly strung out younger brother who chose to show off his classy forearm tattoo for the shoot or (c) the ghost of their father who suggests, on a break from his 900^th cigarette of the day, that if we don’t buy Chapman, we’re paying too much for our vehicle?
    

    What our father said 25 years ago, "You boys are winners!"

  • WB—I’m not really sure at whom this campaign is aimed? I get that reality television is huge right now, but are the same people who watch Jersey Shore or The Real World in the market for office supplies? Are they hoping that a campy premise and poor acting is going to move coffee and paper clips? I’m stumped.

• As a fan of mismatched, buddy-cop films like Point Break and Tango and Cash, I can appreciate the complexity of putting two seemingly antithetical partners together in hopes that they figure each other out by figuring themselves out in time to catch the bad guy (or in Johnny Utah’s case, letting the bad guy commit karmic suicide because said bad guy isn’t going to paddle to New Zealand!). However, I simply cannot take Comcast Sportsnet’s unlikely Phils’ post-game duo of Marshall Harris and Ricky (seriously, still using the “y?”) Botallico.  During a particularly uncomfortable tete a tete last week, Botallico was bemoaning the Phils’ offensive woes, which he is paid to do, when Harris chimed in with, “says the man with two lifetime hits in the big leagues.” Now, I understand what he’s trying to do, but that’s like the manager of your junior high basketball team yelling at the starting point guard to hit the boards more effectively. I can’t stand Botallico, but he shot Harris a nasty look before retorting with, “yeah, and how many hit do you have buddy?” Harris tried to laugh it off, but the damage to Botallico’s ego had been done.

• After the passing of Yanks’ fuehrer, George Steinbrenner this week, and Bobby Cox’s preseason proclamation that this season would be his last, is there any question the baseball gods will smile upon these two organizations and send them to the Fall Classic? If you don’t believe in the baseball gods, watch the frequency with which the baseball will find the guy who was just entered as a defensive replacement.  Obviously, this unholy union would go right up the collective nose of Phillies fans if they lose a chance at redemption against the evil empire at the hands of their very boring, very vanilla division rival from Hotlanta.

• Can someone explain how unfunnyman, Louis CK, keeps getting work? I have yet to laugh at anything he or his failed projects have elicited, yet I see he was given another shot by FX. It’s like seeing a coach or manager who has never won anything (Calipari?) keep getting opportunities to continue not winning. I guess the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t, but why not give an up-and-coming comedian a shot at stardom instead of trotting out a guy whose stock has never really risen?
  

  Look, everyone! I'm pulling my shirt up and saying something funny! Yay!

• I know the Phils’ recent sweep of first place Cincinnati before the All-Star break was exciting and uplifting, but I think it might be time to accept this just isn’t their year. Injuries, the what-to-do-with-Jayson-Werth conundrum, having 2/5 of an effective starting rotation, a schizophrenic offense, and a GM with a lot of “’splainin’” to do all point toward an early off-season. Let me throw this out there too. Is Roy Halladay the Takeo Spikes of MLB? Neither has made the playoffs, both have sought teams who they thought would help get them there, and both came to Philly with that singular goal in mind. Maybe some guys are just playoff kryptonite.

**During one of my first ever Locker pieces, I talked about how, despite the enormous shoes he had to fill, Phils play-by-play announcer, Tom McCarthy, was dangerously close to being replaced by my iPod or the radio team of Scott Franzke and Larry Andersen. Now, a full year later, this completely vanilla robot has done nothing to change my mind. Now, I’ll admit to being partial to guys who actually played the game, but such logic doesn’t affect my appreciation for the other three major sports teams’ announcers—Merrill Reese (Eagles), Jim Jackson (Flyers), and Marc Zumoff (Sixers)—because they have some flair, some panache, some understanding of the tremendous job they have in bringing our city’s teams to our homes on a nightly basis.

While I watched yet another lackluster performance by the Phils during which they dropped three of four to those pesky Pirates, I couldn’t help but take mental notes of McCarthy’s performance.

"I have a microphone into which I speak about baseball!"

Exhibit A: He used the word towering four times during the telecast. Now, maybe we’re all a little spoiled by Doc Emrick’s ability to use approximately 4, 567 verbs during his call of any hockey game, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask for McCarthy to come up with just one more adjective for flyballs.

Exhibit B: I realize the phrase “Captain Obvious” gets bandied about regularly, and usually with at least mild audience chuckling, but McCarthy is doing everything he can to cement himself as the “Captain Obvious.” After the Phils coughed up a three-run lead in the bottom of the 7^th, he delivered this doozie: The complexion of this game really changed when it went from a one-run game to now a three-run deficit for the Phils. I don’t require my play-by-play guy to be a sabermetrics practitioner, but I also don’t need him to fill in elementary gaps like this one.

Exhibit C: His homerun calls absolutely stink. I’d rather pluck a drunken fraternity brother out of the stands and ask him to call, oh, let’s say, Jimmy Rollins’ walkoff last week instead of listening to McCarthy’s completely uninventive, He’s baaaaaaack, in reference to Rollins’ momentous return to the lineup.

**I had the misfortune of briefly flicking past the Competitive Eating Competition on ESPN, which got me thinking about our society. Let me get this straight—Americans can’t appreciate the FIFA World Cup, deemed a game for “foot fairies” by our most clever of wordsmiths, which has been nothing short of amazing for the better part of a month (if you missed the sick Paraguay-Spain quarterfinal because you were afraid you’d catch “footfairyitis” as a result, I’ll submit that it was the second best game of the tourney behind the US win in extra time against Algeria), but we can show up in droves to watch intestinal freaks of nature devour food quickly? And don’t think for a second that the arrival and “arrest” of former champ Kobayashi wasn’t staged for publicity.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay better than soccer. (By Theo Zierock, AFP/Getty Images)

As a result, I will not listen to those who suggest our country isn’t getting dumber. Or dumberer.

**Wait, Mike Vick didn’t see the light behind Tony Dungy’s shadow? It turns out he really isn’t a very good dude? The Eagles made a personnel mistake? The Wildcat Formation was effective for one year, four years ago? Now I’ve heard it all.

For my first post since my daughter was born in September, I thought I’d take things slowly, rail against the current goings-on in sports and pop culture that keep me up at night, and call it a day.

**Because I am a devoted fan of college basketball but equally as dedicated to my hatred of the NBA, I’m puzzled at what happens between the time sure-fire lottery picks sleep through the first semester of class (c’mon, you think DeMarcus Cousins is taking copious notes during College Comp 101?) during their freshman year and they walk up to the podium to accept the flat-brimmed hat of their new NBA team. My allegiance lies squarely with the ‘Cuse in the NCAA, but I couldn’t tell you what Jonny Flynn did this year in the NBA, and I’m certain the same will hold true for Wes Johnson. But, hey, at least they get to toil together as Timberwolves.

Now, as I watched the epic College World Series clincher by South Carolina last night, I had to wonder why baseball doesn’t suffer the same fate as its more athletic NBA counterpart. I mean these kids are going berserk after the third out of any inning, locking arms in the dugout during big at-bats, and donning rally caps while passing around superstitious Vanilla Wafers.

Put me in coach! I'm ready to give you 30% of what I got!

The answer really wasn’t that difficult—coaching. Without a self-aggrandizing John Calipari or Rick Pitino on the sidelines, these kids play for their coaches in college, so doing the same thing for the MLB managers isn’t a stretch. There is a respect for the game and for its elder statesmen in baseball that is conspicuously absent in the NBA. Again, does anyone think any of the players who just left Kentucky is going to miss Calipari or is amped for an opportunity to play for Stan Van Gundy? Doubt it.**

**When is Doc Halladay going to walk into the clubhouse after another start that only asked for three or four runs of support, which then resulted in a loss, and start cracking skulls? This guy does his job every fifth day and is rewarded with two runs, six hits, and twelve LOB. Blech.**

**Let me tell you what I think about this LBJ, Wade, Bosh “summit” in Miami last weekend—nothing. In fact, this bullet point is as much thought as I’ve devoted to anything NBA related in nine years. Go ahead, play together. Win together. Ride around on boats together. The NBA already has watered down 94% of itself (that’s right, I did the math), so creating a triumvirate of power in Miami means the other 5% can join in the irrelevant par-tay. Have at it, boys.**

**As a follow up to my months-old contribution to the Almost Punchable Celebrity

With a face like this...

column, I was just treated with a radio spot for 7UP voiced by none other than that lovable baritone, Brad Garrett. The commercial played on the dichotomy between Garrett’s surly exterior and his hidden love for the soft drink, so he’d grunt in his trademark voice and then take it up an octave to express his pleasure. If you’re bored by this bullet, you can join the six Garrett fans who feel the same way about his work.**

            With some playoff history in their very recent rear view mirror, these two teams will try to summon the ghosts of playoffs past.  For the Rox, their ascension to post season relevance is nearly as remarkable as their historic September of 2007 when they went berserk and stormed into the playoffs on the way to a first round sweep of the Phils.  The defending world f@*king champs, who admittedly lost some of their swagger in the final week of the season, aren’t looking as far back as Colorado, instead focusing on last year’s relatively easy run to the crown.

Without last year's swagger, this scene may not be 'repeated.'

            So, who do we like?

            Why the Phils will win

            It’s hard to overlook what this team did last year, going undefeated at home and losing only three games in the postseason.  Such experience can’t be overvalued, and though the team has some noticeably different parts (Cliff Lee, Raul Ibanez, J Happ), few teams get to boast the bling they earned in baseball’s second season. 

            With a lineup that’s almost video game good on most days, the Phightins’ can pound pitchers from both sides of the plate with a flurry of doubles and dongs.  Couple that with one of the league’s premier defenses, particularly up the middle, and the championship recipe isn’t all that much different than last year’s blend.

            For the Rockies, a young pitching staff that is a bit banged up could cause itself problems, and while the lineup does feature a first ballot Hall of Famer in 1B Todd Helton and a young stud SS in Troy Tulowitzki, the Phils’ is simply better 1-8.

'Tulo' could have a major say in the NLDS outcome.

            Lastly, despite what critics say about Phils’ skipper Charlie Manuel’s southern drawl and limited vocabulary, he has a knack for getting his guys to play.  While Rox manager Jim Tracy is a lock for NL Manager of the Year for his team’s unprecedented success after his hiring, he lacks what Manuel has.  A ring.

            Why the Rockies will win

            I have to admit that I’m terrified of this series.  The Phils’ 2008 championship was marked by a gutty, gritty approach to a September comeback that seems all too familiar to Mets fans.  They had to play their way in.  They had to get hot at the right time. Their pitching staff, from top to bottom, gelled at the most opportune time.  They had a certain quality I think this year’s version lacks. 

            Perhaps it was leading the division for so long.

            Perhaps it’s the World Series hangover.

            Perhaps it’s complacency.

            Whatever it is, I just don’t like them in this year’s NLDS like I did in last year’s.

            The pitching staff is just beleaguered by injuries and inconsistency right now, and I’ll spare myself a diatribe on the bullpen.  Moreover, when the game one starter isn’t clear cut two days before game one, that’s a problem.

The ghost of playoffs past could haunt Lidge and the Phils.

            The lineup, as I mentioned, is very good, but it also relies far too heavily on the long ball.  Last year’s championship was marked by a lack of production with RISP, a trend that certainly cannot be repeated.  Last year’s bench was much more formidable and could give opposing manager’s pause.  I’m not sure Tracy will be concerned about Eric Bruntlett, Miguel Cairo or Paul Bako in this NLDS.

            Rockies’ closer Huston Street has undergone his own Renaissance since his trade from Oakland in the Matt Holliday deal.  Though he is oft injured, Street’s 35 saves against 2 blown saves makes the Phils’ back end look even worse by comparison.

            If the Rockies can get early leads in games 1 and 2, like many teams have done against the Phils down the stretch, they could make this a very short series for the defending champs.

            Almost Prediction

            For some reason, I just don’t like this matchup for the Phils.  Phans of the champs would have much rather faced a Dodger team whose number the Phils have and who have played equally as poorly down the stretch.  Let’s face it; no NL team has repeated as champs since the 1975-76 Reds, so history is not on our side.

            Rockies take the series in four.

            Though there are a myriad of reasons for any sophomore slump, in the case of the NFL, such a distinction may only be a state of mind.  Sure, guys like Steve Slaton and Matt Forte have gotten off to horrendous starts in part because their teams’ schedules certainly lent themselves to a lack of production (Slaton drew the Jets and Titans; Forte had to face the Pack and the Steelers).  But just ask Chris Johnson, Joe Flacco, and Matt Ryan about their early sophomore campaigns.  These guys are refusing to appear on a growing list of players who struggle during their second season, and the league couldn’t be happier to watch its new generation of stars usher out the old guard.

            Frankly, I thought the “Smash ‘n Dash” moniker and game plan was overrated, but the league has moved toward the two back system, so Titans RB Chris Johnson was forced to be the latter to Lendale White’s former.

Hey, Lendale. Keep drinking tequilia because I'm a one man show now. (Gregory Shamus-Getty Images)

After a 1200+ yard/10 TD rookie season, the East Carolina speedster figured to take a step back as teams figured out a way to contain him.  After a lackluster week one against the stifling Steelers’ defense (15/57), still featuring S Troy Polamalu, Johnson went bananas last week against the Texans (284 total yards/3 TDs).  The self-proclaimed “every coach’s dream,” who essentially broke up with White via Twitter, isn’t going to play second fiddle to the former USC fatso any longer, and Jeff Fischer (and Johnson fantasy owners) should be salivating.

            When it became apparent that both Ravens’ QB Joe Flacco and Falcons’ QB Matt Ryan were going to start for their respective teams last season, I wrote on my former site that each city was about to undergo a Renaissance of colossal proportions and neither signal caller disappointed.  Ryan made every Hotlantian forget what Eagles’ fans are now forced to remember—Mike Vick—while Flacco catapulted himself to stardom, albeit through a very conservative weekly game plan and stout defense, by taking his team to the AFC championship game.  Two weeks removed from the start of their second season, each young stud has picked up right where he left off.

            Ryan has undoubtedly benefited from the savvy off-season acquisition of future Hall of Fame TE, Tony Gonzalez.

Hello, Atlanta. I'm your savior. The pleasure is all yours.

 Though far from being simply a game manager, Ryan has done just that in the Falcons first two wins (Miami, Carolina).  The Exton, PA native has averaged 225 YPG while throwing 5 TDs against only 1 pick.  Gonzalez has done his part (72 YPG/2 TD), and the Falcons are 2-0 without standout WR Roddy White being much of a factor (47 YPG/1 TD).  With his first true test of the season, in Foxboro, Ryan can cement himself as the new face of the NFC with a win against a puzzlingly inconsistent Patriot club.

            Fans of our site shouldn’t be surprised that Flacco is getting some love.  Truth be told, it’s much easier to cover our fair town’s favorite son when he’s playing like the standout he’s always been.  There’s no question that Ravens’ coach John Harbaugh did just about everything right last year, not the least of which was naming Flacco his starter and allowing him to learn on the fly.

Yeah, I'm kind of tired of handing it off. I'm going to go ahead and air it out.

While Flacco struggled out of the gate, he put himself in extremely rare company by advancing his team to the AFC championship, and while no rookie quarterback has ever reached the Super Bowl, Flacco and his Ravens gave the Steelers all they could handle before a late Flacco pick punched a ticket to the Bowl for Pittsburgh.      Now, armed with the kind of experience some quarterbacks will never have (right, Matt Leinart? Nice work), Flacco, with the help of offensive coordinator Cam Cameron, has shed the game-manager label. 

Averaging just under 250 YPG, Flacco has thrown 5 TDs against 2 INTs in his first two weeks while the Ravens have averaged just under 35 PPG.  Last week’s shootout with the Chargers, in San Diego, ended with an all too familiar Ray Lewis tackle for a loss, but it was Flacco’s efficiency and 2 TDs that helped seal the deal for the Ravens.  Now, instead of asking Flacco not to lose the game (a la Trent Dilfer), Harbaugh and Raven Nation can relax with the knowledge that Flacco can win a game for them as well.

            So, sophomore slump? Well, it’s a long season, and there’s no guarantee that these three super sophs won’t end up running gassers in practice for poor play, but there’s no question that for the Titans, Falcons, and Ravens the slump is far more theoretical than practical.

            However, as the Birds look toward week three and the Kansas City Chiefs, Reid can bask in his new role as the 21^st century’s first three headed monster of head coach/general manager and…

Come one! Come all! Ladies and Gentlemen, your 2009-2010 Philadelphia Eagles!

            Vaudeville director.

            With an eclectic, and admittedly criminal, collection of quarterbacks from which to choose each week, Reid and his pocket-protector brandishing sidekick, Joe Banner, can sit back and pull the strings on the most dysfunctional quarterbacking quartet in NFL  history.

            Ya’ gotta be proud.

            Popularized in the late 19^th and early 20^th century, Vaudeville acts roamed parts of the US and Canada while boasting a virtual smorgasbord of entertainment.  On any given night, revelers could expect to see a magic act, trained animals, wandering minstrels, overthrown receivers…oh, wait.  Vaudevillians didn’t make much money but became a part of the cultural landscape nonetheless and many of our modern day variety shows owe their platform to their nomadic predecessors.

            Never, however, has such a platform lent itself to the most important position in all of sports. That is until Big Red put his stamp on it. 

            The Players

            1. Donovan McNabb—Playing the role of the “star” of the show is our fair city’s adequate-and-that’s-all-he-can-be starting quarterback.

That's right, y'all. I'm the star of this soap opera.

Able to smile on cue, tap dance out of the way of would-be tacklers, alienate himself and teammates, and vomit for dramatic effect, D Mac has earned his position as this Vaudeville’s headliner.  With flashes of brilliance peppered with a touch of inconsistency and topped off with an air of entitlement, McNabb scoffs at any suggestion that any of his castmates is hot for his spot.  After all, chicks only dig the star of the show, right?

            2. Kevin Kolb—Every act has to have its straight man (and according to TO that can’t be Jeff Garcia), so Kolb has blossomed nicely into his role as the protégé of McNabb’s mentorship.  Fans will come to the show equipped with as many boos as cheers and as many tomatoes as roses in hopeful anticipation of seeing what the understudy has up his sleeve each week.  Will he take the old “break a leg” adage too literally and find himself on the outside looking in or is it his hand that’s ready to pull the string that sends a bucketful of hammers onto his mentor’s head?  Hilarity is sure to ensue whenever these two professionals are on the stage at the same time.

            3. Mike Vick—Of course, no act would be complete without the mustache-twisting villain who comes equipped with his own evil soundtrack.

Don't hate the player. Hate the horrendous human being I am despite what Tony Dungy says. And hate the game.

However, like any good villain (think the Joker without intellect, ingenuity, wit, charm, you get the point) worth his weight in arrest warrants, Vick will garner the support of that bizarre faction of people who actually wants to see the villain tie the damsel in distress to the train tracks and slink away unnoticed.  The only problem for Vick is he’s already been noticed by local and state authorities, so the chances of seeing him get away as the Eagles’ starting quarterback are pretty slim.  Regardless, Vick’s yin to McNabb’s yang is certainly worth the price of admission (ticket prices for this Vaudevillian masterpiece start at only five sawbucks).

            4. Jeff Garcia—Aw, the loveable loser.  In several past performances, this also-ran player probably won over the crowd with his tough-as-nails approach to the game and his effusive excitement for every touchdown pass.

Why am I smiling? Because somehow I'm still allowed on set.

Sadly, performers like this are often trying to suck the marrow out of a bone long since run dry, and despite the fact that the audience will still pay to see him, everyone in attendance knows he’s only on stage to remind us of his alternatives.

            Luckily for Birds’ Nation, this traveling band of miscreants, ne’er-do-wells, and Prince Charming-in-trainings can be appreciated for free from the cheap seats inside our living rooms.  Now, we can all just kick back, wait for the players to hit their marks, and revel in the comedic stylings of this century’s foremost Vaudevillian genius, Andrew Walter Reid.

            For years of arguments fallen on deaf ears.

            For what I was convinced was compelling evidence for my case.

            For what I knew to be an immutable fact about Michael Jordan.

            MJ is an awful person.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall...

            My deep-seated loathing for the NBA’s greatest player is so multifaceted, so layered, so complex that I could never do it (or my readers) justice by laying it out in full on our modest little blog, but suffice it to say that no matter where Jordan’s ego takes him next, or more appropriately, where it takes him from, I’ll always have his Hall of Fame induction speech to remind me that I was, for once, completely right.

***********************************************************************************            

             As a ravenous fan of the NBA in its relative heyday, 1980-1994 (RIP NBA), I, like all youngsters, had to make difficult choices about my team allegiances, my favorite players, and my love-to-hate ballers.  For whatever reason, I never gravitated toward Jordan despite the fact that such a show of fandom would have been so easy given that any hot-blooded American kid, who loved hoops, loved Jordan.  But even at age 12, I knew that something about the guy just wasn’t for me, so I found myself aligning with the Detroit Pistons and their heralded leader, Isiah Thomas.  To this day, I don’t know what drew me to Zeke other than that he was not MJ.

            Hell, maybe it was just the tongue.

            Fast forward to 1994 when assembly of the world’s finest International Basketball team, aptly dubbed “The Dream Team,” was just wrapping up with one insanely obvious oversight. 

            Hall of Fame point guard, Isiah Thomas.

Thanks to MJ, Zeke was "frozen out" of the original Dream Team.

            Isiah Thomas, who was widely considered the best point guard in the league at that time and for most of his career.

             Isiah Thomas, who led his team to back to back championships in 1988-1989 and 1989-1990.

             Isiah Thomas, who scored 25 points in a quarter in the 1988 Finals while playing on a severely sprained ankle.

             Isiah Thomas, who had a very public feud with MJ for most of his career.

            But this isn’t about Zeke, whose post-playing career has taken on a very sad life of its own, because as Jordan himself will tell you, and he did during his speech, it’s always about Jordan.

********************************************************************************

             In the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t even watch the inductions.  Later, I felt a bit guilty about letting Jordan get in the way of enjoying the moment for two of the game’s most dignified ambassadors, David Robinson and John Stockton, both of whom served the league with grace, and for Stockton, with an insistence on making other players around him better, an ironic dichotomy to Jordan’s career.  But as I started to hear about the speech and field emails from friends who know how I feel about Jordan, I couldn’t resist the morbid curiosity any longer.

            The following is a brief breakdown of the most narcissistic speech in Hall of Fame history:

           1. Of course I can’t be certain, but when Jordan mentioned that he “shocked the shit” out of David Thompson by asking him to stand up for Jordan during the ceremony, we may have heard the HOF’s first swear word during an induction speech.

            2. By inviting Leroy Smith, the player kept instead of MJ during his sophomore season in high school, Jordan reminded his old coach that “you made a mistake, dude,” while simultaneously diminishing anything Smith has ever done because, let’s face it, he’s not Jordan.

            3. After bitterly rehashing his high school career, it only made sense to move chronologically to his next victim, Dean Smith. Only the second most lauded coach in college hoops history (Wooden), Jordan undressed Smith for not naming him as the fifth starter during a Sports Illustrated interview in 1981.

            4. Next was his tirade against the Bulls front office, in particular former GM Jerry Krause with whom Jordan had a very contentious relationship despite the fact that Krause built what many consider the greatest team of all time, the 1996 (72-10) team, around MJ even after he abruptly retired in 1993.

            5. At one point, Jordan reminded the audience that he “played with the flu” in Utah and sucked it up on various other occasions to play while hurt.  I won’t bring up Isiah Thomas’s foot injury in the playoffs again, but clearly Jordan feels he’s the only player in the game to have played under adverse conditions.

            6. After just about twenty minutes of bitterness, Jordan finally addressed his children and, only by association, his ex-wife.

            7. Next, Jordan took a potshot at rising ticket prices for the HOF inductions.  He does so by complaining that the $1000 price per ticket was exorbitant because he had so many people to bring in for the event.

            8. He would clearly be remiss not to mention the now infamous “freeze out” in the 1984 All-Star Game.  Allegedly spearheaded by Thomas, several Eastern Conference All-Stars vowed, silently, to not pass Jordan the ball in a passive aggressive show of disapproval of the attention Jordan commanded.  Jordan went on to say that such a tactic really didn’t bother him.

             9. Up next on Jordan’s radar was Hall of Fame coach, Pat Riley.  Author of several scintillating Lakers teams in the ‘80s, Knicks teams in the ‘90s, and, most recently, Heat teams in the ‘00s, Riley and Jordan’s history goes back to Riley’s time with the Knicks during which he publicly proclaimed that he would do whatever he had to to stop Jordan, and MJ felt in necessary to remind Riley that he failed.

             10. After a totally unnecessary and petty shot at former Knicks coach Jeff Van Gundy, Jordan reminded people that he would do whatever necessary to win, including “playing a team game,” which begs the question, “what else would he do in a team sport?”

Hey, if I'm in your way, just go ahead and move me, MJ.

             11. At the end of his now almost 30-minute speech, Jordan saved room for an anecdotal jab at former Jazz player Bryon Russell.  Russell, who was famously cleared out of Jordan’s way during a game winning shot in the 1997 Finals against Utah, commented during Jordan’s retirement that if Jordan ever were to put on a pair of shorts again, Russell would stop him.  Again, Jordan felt his HOF speech was the most appropriate time to remind Russell that he was, in fact, wrong.

             12. Jordan bookended his speech by quipping that he confided in friends that he was going to accept his enshrinement by simply walking to the podium, saying ‘thank you’ and sitting down.  Whether intended as a joke or not, such arrogance seemed all too fitting for “his Airness.”

 **************************************************************************

             Of course, what was left out of any speech, any interview, and any video montage of Jordan’s career was the sordidness that his astounding talent helped overshadow.  No mention of his admitted gambling addiction, something which ESPN’s Bill Simmons attributes to Jordan’s first retirement by asserting that league commissioner, David Stern, urged Jordan to walk away from the game before he dragged it down with his gambling problem.  No mention of his, by all accounts, absentee parenting (as evidenced by his children being an afterthought in his speech).  No mention of his womanizing and subsequent bribe of $250,000 to keep such an affair quiet.

             Now, I understand that the HOF induction ceremony is no place to air dirty laundry about Jordan.  So why was it so difficult for Jordan to make the same distinction? Ultimately, underneath the veneer he’s worked so hard to establish (and then whore out to any endorsement deal that came down the pike), Jordan is a completely insecure, egomaniacal (yes, they go hand-in-hand) child who just happens to be the greatest basketball player of all time.  After this speech, what he’ll be remembered for most will remain forever blurry.