Any fan of Mike Judge’s now not-so-cult hit Office Space can rattle off lines from the film like they are reciting their social security number:

             *(Peter) Lawrence, what would you do if you had million dollars?

              (Lawrence) You mean besides two chicks at the same time?

             *(Bob Slydell) Peter, what would you say you do here?

            *(Michael Bolton) PC load letter? What the [heck] does that mean?

But perhaps today’s athletes are taking one famous line from the film in reference to work, I’m just not going to go anymore, just a bit too far. 

Both Jay Cutler and Brandon Marshall were cornerstones of Broncos GM Brian Xanders’ master plan to reassume control of the AFC West like they did for years in the late 80s and 90s, but somewhere between Mike Shanahan’s dismissal in January and Josh McDaniels’ hiring shortly thereafter, the top two offensive stars for the Broncos decided they were just going to stop going to work.

In Cutler’s case, the gateway out of Mile High was a perfect storm of a bruised ego, a fierce loyalty to Shanahan, and a little bit of good old fashioned sour grapes.  Upon hearing of Shanahan’s dismissal, Cutler wasted little time in reacting.

“I hope it all works out. But I know I’m disappointed, I’m not happy, and it’s a lot to think about. I just want to continue the things we were able to do this year on offense and get better all the time,” said Cutler.

Cutler has never been one to shy away from a mike shoved in his face, just ask new teammate Devin Hester, but I think his loyalty to Shanahan was genuine and because the move was widely considered so shocking, Cutler had a right to stick by the man who drafted him to succeed Jake Plummer. 

What came next was even more blindsiding. 

Cutler’s short career has featured a Favre-like penchant for forcing balls into rapidly closing windows, but his arm and ability to make plays out of nothing, also much like a young Favre, have garnered him respect around the league if not in his own locker room.  His 54 TDs against 37 picks isn’t exactly the model of consistency, but he has averaged over 200+ yards in the air per game, though most of that is a result of having to come from behind thanks to a perpetually laughable defensive unit. 

Despite what he’s done and many believe he will do, new coach Josh McDaniels was thoroughly unimpressed and looked to trade for fellow soon-to-be ex-Patriot, Matt Cassel.  What once was a slightly bruised Cutler quickly became the male equivalent of every girl who’s ever been cheated on and Cutler wanted out. Hell hath no fury like a quarterback scorned.

Fast forward three short months and the Broncos dealt the petulant Cutler to the Chicago Bears for career zero, Kyle Orton.  Much like our Office Space hero, Peter Gibbons, Cutler was ostensibly rewarded for deciding to do nothing.

Hey, have you seen my stapler?

Still, the Broncos had a bevy of talented running backs, a standout young burner in Eddie Royal, and one of the league’s few legit game changers in Marshall, right?  What has followed Cutler’s departure has made Philly fans realize we didn’t have it all that bad with our former star receiver doing situps in his driveway. 

Because Brandon Marshall is out of his mind.

Refusing to learn the playbook, personifying passive-aggression, deliberately dropping balls (actually it’s more like smacking them down), and even punting footballs away from unsuspecting ball boys have all been par for the Marshall course as he does everything he can to get traded. If you haven’t seen the video, check this out.

Now, let’s not forget that this is a guy who’s been suspended for several off the field dust ups, most notably an ironic seven police related matters involving alleged domestic abuse, before being suspended for the remainder of the this preseason.  Though his numbers last year were astounding (104 catches/1,265 Yds/6 TDs), it’s hard to imagine any team in desperate need of a WR (Baltimore, NYG, NYJ) taking a chance on this guy, but, then again, Mike Vick is back in the league.

Ok, but if you guys don't trade me, I'm going to burn this building down. (AP Photo/David Zalubowski)

If Office Space has taught us anything about the “real world” it’s that sometimes work sucks.  But resorting to passive aggression, infantile behavior, or destroying the company Xerox machine is not always going to be rewarded with a trade ticket out of town or forgotten because of a fortuitous arson.  Sadly, people like Cutler and Marshall can actually answer Peter’s million dollar question while the rest of us can only dream of earning the kind of money they’re so willing to take for granted.

Hey, Peter, what's happening? I'm gonna need you, Jay and Brandon to come in on Saturday? Thanks a bunch!

• If the Rockies pull another late season rabbit from their hat and overtake the Dodgers, who everyone assumed would snore to the top spot in the NL and home field advantage throughout the playoffs after being up an astounding 15 ½ games early in the season, that would put the Phils in the middle of three of MLB’s greatest collapses—their own in 1964, the 2007 Mets’, who were done in by the Phils, and the 2009 Dodgers who would become the Phils’ first round opponent.
  

  Don't worry Amazins'. You're about to have some company.

  One thing’s for sure though—Phils fans should be rooting for the Rockies.  A first round matchup with the Dodgers is clearly in the Phils’ favor, not just because of the Phils having the Dodgers proverbial number but because such a series would come during a monumental LA freefall.  Moreover, a Cards-Rox first round matchup favors the Cards, believe it or not, who boast two of the top five pitchers in the NL in Adam Wainwright and Chris Carpenter. Ultimately, I just don’t want to play the league’s hottest team in the first round again.

• Speaking of the Dodgers, I remember watching game two of the NLCS last year at a friend’s house and yelling, “Chad Billingsley? I’m supposed to be afraid of Chad Billingsley?” And right on cue, he blew up and the Phils cruised to an easy 8-5 win.  This year, as the Dodgers were rolling to a seemingly insurmountable lead in the NL West, I sort of repeated my sentiment, more in reference to the entire team than to Billinsgley, because LA feasted on an awful division, which would have been the worst in baseball if not for the Rox current resurgence, with a team that really wasn’t all that much different from the team that bowed out with little more than a whimper last fall.  The Phils may have their problems this year (read: the artist formerly known as Brad Lidge) but the Dodgers aren’t one of them.
• If John Smoltz does come back to the NL and dominate like he did in his first start with the Cards (5 IP/3 H/9 K), he should send a bottle of NannyNannyBooBoo to the Red Sox.
  

  Hey Boston...You are so dead if I face you in the World Series.

  Not only is Smoltz a warrior (despite being a human Ambien during his brief color commentary career) but he was not going to limp into a forced retirement like his good buddy, Tom Glavine.  Whether Smoltzy was tipping his pitches in Boston or not, and that suggestion was served with a side of sour grapes, he could be a major factor in the NL playoffs.

• To borrow from SNL’s Seth Myers and Amy Poehler during their Really? With Seth and Amy segment—Billy Wagner…Really?  You want to put the screws to the team who is going to save you from your current Metropolitan Malaise…Really?  You considered not playing for the Red Sox even though it gives you your best and last shot to win, something you said is one of two things keeping you going at this point…Really?
  

  If you guys don't give me what I want, I'm taking my ball and going home.

  You made public your desire to get to 400 career saves…and you want to do it for the Nationals because it’s close to your Virginia home…the Nationals…Really?  You said you couldn’t envision going back to Philly because the Phans “expect too much?”…Really?  Hey, Billy.  Just put a plug of Red Man in and retire…really.

Sieck and Brian had their fantasy football draft last weekend, and while the draft board strategy was a departure from years past, the tomfoolery and skullduggery remained hopelessly in tact.  

by Sieck and Brian

Ah, fantasy football. There’s perhaps no other pastime during which a group of grown men can get together in a room to play a silly game and act like bigger buffoons. Well, at least such was the case this past Sunday when my esteemed colleague Brian and I got together with our friends for our annual fantasy league draft.

This year our league was righteously and poetically dubbed “The Eric Bruntlett Memorial Fantasy Football League,” so eloquently labeled by our commissioner (and my cousin) Lew (who will probably wind up being the focus of this article, but we’ll see). Yes, we know, Eric Bruntlett isn’t a football player, therefore:

Triple play or not, that is one outstanding beard.

A little background on the Eric Bruntlett League: OK, I’ll try to make this brief. Last year, during the World Series, our dear friend Kevin claimed that Phillies utility player Bruntlett was a better player than starting left-fielder Pat Burrell. Now, most of us WERE NOT huge fans of Pat “The Bat” even though he was an integral part of the team. However, we all pleaded with Kevin to wake up and smell the facial hair, as that is the only real good thing about Bruntlett. Of course, fast forward to this year where Kevin’s beloved Bruntlett has only played sparingly and carried a .129 batting average into Sunday, August 23. So, Lew in all his wisdom came up with this name for our fantasy football league to simply give Kevin a little playful ribbing…

HOWEVER, is it a coincidence that on the day of our draft, Bruntlett got a start at second base (giving all-star Chase Utley a day off), went an astonishing 3-4, and ended the game with an UNASSISTED TRIPLE PLAY that hasn’t happened since 1927? I think not, therefore maybe Kevin has gotten the last laugh. Incidentally, Kevin also got the first pick in our draft and correctly (in my humble opinion) selected Adrian Peterson. Oh, and btw, Eric Bruntlett’s middle name?… Yep, “Kevin.”

Now, let’s get on to other matters. Any time a group of friends gets together and combines football talk with alcohol, some truly interesting things are going to be said, and by interesting I mean completely disgusting, awful and offensive. But hey, that’s what friends are all about, right? Now, this is a “professional” site so I’ll spare all of the gurus out there some of the gorier details, but a fine example would be a few choice things said about a former girlfriend of a certain running back from New Orleans. (OK, I’ll admit it, that one was me, but I wasn’t alone in the sentiment). Furthermore, a heated argument broke out concerning the choice to draft a defense in the 10^th round. Now, in the grand scheme of life, I really don’t think this is a big deal, and if there’s any kind of supreme being, no matter who or what anyone believes in, if that being was looking down on this particular conversation, said being would simply be shaking its head. For the record (to give everyone an idea of what Brian and I were dealing with), I tried not to get involved in the argument, waited until the 12^th round (out of 14) to select a D, and still ended up with the New York Giants…      

A few more quick observations: Amongst our crew, there’s a lot of pot calling the kettle black that goes on. Sure, some folks may not have come to the draft physically prepared (lists, etc)—remember “TG,” next year print out lists by position—I would argue that others weren’t mentally prepared, but they’ll remain nameless… for now. Also, to our good friend Mike: I know you like to drink scotch, but if you’re going to curse out gentlemen who take a long time to make their picks, you may not want to take a half-hour yourself… I, for one however, am glad that he did.

Finally, we must touch on our sweet commish, Lew. I’m quite proud to share blood with this man. Could it be because he pawns off half of his responsibilities to others? (He actually paid very little attention to everyone else’s picks after round 11). Well, that’s part of it, but the reason I’m most elated is because he easily had the best lines of the day.  A few of the cleaner examples:

• After I selected Pierre Thomas, he exclaimed, “You should only be named Pierre if you are French and make pastries.”
  

  Funny, this guy doesn't look French.

• Upon seeing the team his brother picked for one of our friends who couldn’t make the draft, “Ryan, why don’t you take this team, and give him yours?”… Priceless.
• On his observations of the chatter in the room: “The next person to say ‘good pick’ is banned.”
• Upon hearing the plight of a certain unfortunate individual: “Would it have been so bad if this person had killed himself?” (Paraphrased).

Lew, we salute you, oh fantasy gridiron king of the one-liners, and long live our league, Eric Bruntlett, and his fabulous beard!  

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

Though only five years into our 10-team A-Town fantasy football careers, our league has seen little change.  The same three or four teams are drafted horrendously and do not make the playoffs, the same three guys have won all four championships, including two out of three for Brian, and the same drafting schemes have been employed. 

Fantasy pundits will preach drafting a RB in the first two rounds to ensure you don’t get stuck with a backup or stiff and to, in theory, garner the most points because of the frequency of RB touches and TDs.  However, this year our league featured a departure from that model (3 of the top 10 were non-RBs) and an overwhelming desire to draft in the middle slots instead of the top three.

Without analyzing every move of the draft, suffice it to say that WRs were a much more posh early pick than were RBs.  Larry Fitzgerald went #8 overall (Sieck) and Calvin Johnson and Randy Moss were the two top picks in round two.  Andre Johnson and Reggie Wayne soon followed in round two while Steve Smith (the good one) and Roddy White were taken #1 and #2 in round three.  Clearly, drafters in our league, and presumably nationwide, are seeing  a seismic shift in point accumulation led by those talented wide outs.

The return of Tom Brady did not last long in our draft, going 9th overall but after Drew Brees was selected 6th overall.  Peyton Manning, Philip Rivers and Kurt Warner followed shortly thereafter as GMs have finally accepted the fact that RBs by committee are here to stay, so grabbing a top flight QB early is a necessity.

Hi, I'm Drew, and I love to throw the football. Pick me!

Again not surprisingly Tony Gonzalez was the first TE taken (round 5) though many draft boards had him as low as 4th on the TE list.  A proven point producer, Gonzalez owners should be salivating at how wide open the middle of the field is going to be for Matt Ryan darts to the first ballot Hall of Famer.  Personally, I don’t value the TE nearly as much as most GMs, having never drafted one earlier than the 11th round (which is where I got Vishante Shiancoe this year), but I understand that many GMs treat their TE pick in the same way they treat their WR pick.

Sieck referenced the Pittsburgh Defense going far too early (round 10), which sparked a lively exchange between that GM and me, but, again, I never choose a D until one of the final two rounds (where all K should be selected as well) and I have two “rings” to show for such patience.

I’ll spare the reiteration of the worst picks in the draft because Sieck took care of that, but I will add that Saints K Garrett Hartley, he of the four game early season suspension, was chosen in the last round, which is on par in terms of oddity with 49ers WR Josh Morgan being taken in the 8th round. Ironically, the same GM gobbled up both players.

So good luck fantasy gurus.  

Except for the other nine hammers I have to deal with in my league.

This space was originally intended for a piece on NFL coaches who are currently in the hot seat, but after watching the Phils’ Cliff Lee twirl yet another gem last night, I asked myself, “who cares about football right now?”

As the Roy Halladay sweepstakes dragged on through the dog days of July, I wrote (July 21) about how the Phils should give up whatever Blue Jays GM JP Ricciardi was asking for and call it a World Series.  Little did the sports world know that Ricciardi was actually working on a swan song of colossal, career-ending proportions while the neophyte Phils’ GM, Ruben Amaro, was working on the greatest coup in baseball in the last fifty years.  In short, thanks a bunch JP, ya’hoser.

"Yeah, so, my bad. Anyone have any Moosehead?"

When news broke that the Phils were turning their attention to the Tribe’s Cliff Lee, I was giddy. Unlike so many jaded (doesn’t a championship quell that for at least a year?) fans who were convinced this was simply a knee-jerk move based on saving money rather than on winning, I simply started my own mantra while I waited.

The guy was 22-3 and won the Cy Young last year. The guy was 22-3 and won the Cy Young last year. The guy was 22-3 and won the Cy Young last year.

 On one hand, I totally understand where the old guard of Phils’ faithful was coming from.  They had suffered through Lance Parrishes and Craig Jeffereieses for so long that anything besides the prohibitive best (Doc Halladay) would seem like a classic lay up with the 5 iron. Thankfully, my friends, this isn’t our fathers’ Phils, so what it took Tin Cup Roy McAvoy to do in twelve strokes, Ruben Amaro did in two.

He knocked it on.

Amaro tutored under a proven winner in Pat Gillick, a man who said he came here to win a championship and then, well, did it.

"So this is what it's like to be in the middle of things. I think I'll stick around. Someone call Shapiro, stat!"

Let’s not forget that it’s not like Gillick packed up his Hawaiian shirts and rode off into the sunset.  He’s still very much involved in the proceedings, but his capacity comes with more of a whisper than a roar.  When it became clear that the Jays were willing to sit tight with Halladay unless they got every possible high end prospect in the Phils’ system, Gillick and Amaro parted ways with the hottie with no personality and focused on her younger, plainer, cooler sister.

Die hard fans don’t need the stats to back up what they already know—Lee is a stud—but just for the fun of it:

4-0/ 37 IP/ 18H/ 6BB/ 34K/ 3ER/ 0.82 ERA/ 2CGs

The guy’s even hitting .385 since coming over for Pete’s sake. You paying attention, Eric Bruntlett?

What sets Lee apart from so many chest-thumping, shark-tooth necklace wearing egomaniacs is his workmanlike humility.  Much like Chase Utley, the guy is not even his own biggest fan and cringes at talking about his dominance.  Fans who haven’t seen him pitch will be surprised to know that he basically sprints off the mound after every third out.  Now, Phils’ fans haven’t seen him get touched up yet, in any inning, so we don’t know what will happen at the end of a laborious inning, but I’m willing to bet that he still beats the catcher to the dugout.

"I'll tell ya' what...I'll tell you guys what pitch I'm throwing first just to be fair. Here comes the change!"

During his countless interviews when he first arrived, Lee consistently reiterated that is was his job to “put up zeroes” and “give the team a chance to win.” Clearly, he couldn’t have been more prophetic in his assessment.

Finally, I would be remiss to not thank the brilliant Cleveland Indians GM, Rachel Phelps Mark Shapiro for including the Phils on his fire sale. After dumping CC Sabathia last year and Cliff Lee and Victor Martinez this year, you have to wonder if Travis Hafner and Grady Sizemore are going to invoke their inner Jake Taylor, get one of those peel-away cardboard cutouts of Shapiro and vow to “win the whole…thing.”

Good luck with all that, Tribe.

And thank the good Lord for Cliff Lee.

I’m not going to be one of those writers who says he doesn’t want to tell you he told you so because I told everyone so.  The minute this piece ran in ESPN The Magazine and was immediately followed by this  heartwarming ESPN report on “never losing hope” I quietly waited for the rest of the bamboozled world to see what I already knew.

Josh Hamilton is not a hero.

Because my opinion on Hamilton is not based solely on soapbox material but rather on the reality of having to live with someone who “suffers” from addiction, I feel qualified indicting ESPN on several counts of fraud, false praise, and reclamation of character.

Because Josh Hamilton is not a hero.

"I'll do one! I'll do one!"

For reasons that are frustratingly beyond me, the mainstream media keeps searching for guys like Hamilton. Guys who have ruined lives, have spit in the face of God given ability, have reached a level of narcissism previously relegated only to Narcissus himself.

When such a subject is found, producers scramble to put together montages of the person’s life complete with barely audible piano overtures, interviews with ashamed parents and forsaken spouses, and a cornucopia of mug shots, all of which are meant to show us not how far the addict has fallen but rather how far he’s come.

The anti-hero is then paraded in front of millions of “fans” who have gathered to support the failure as he sits, faux humbly, on Oprah’s dais (right, James Frey?), in Regis and Kelly’s directors chairs’, or on some MTV stage as he introduces the top video of the day.

Maybe the athlete has somehow maintained his skills to the point at which he’s invited to compete in an all-star game, a charity event, or some trite skills competition (like the Homerun Derby) at which dozens of kids, wholly unaware of the kind of person for whom they’re cheering, surround and hug the player in admiration.

And maybe those same kids, who are no doubt more tech savvy than their parents, wake up the next day and Google their favorite fallen angel only to find him hammered, shirtless, and on the cusp on adultery.

Is this bar really empty besides these four idiots or is it just me?

“But Josh Hamilton is my hero,” he’d mutter to his own father.

“No, son, Josh Hamilton is not a hero,” dad would say.

See, my problem is not necessarily with Hamilton because, like I said, I knew this was coming. Instead, I’m so tired of people like Hamilton, athletes or laymen, who know they thrive on screwing up, who know they can always convince just one more person of their sobriety, who refuse to do whatever it takes to avoid ending up like, well, themselves again and again and again.

Immediately after his “relapse,” Hamilton claims to have contacted his wife, Rangers’ management, and his teammates in an effort to apologize as soon as possible for such an awful indiscretion.  While I can buy that as being possible, my first question to Hamilton would have been, “Were you rehearsing that speech while you were allowing yourself to be photographed during a relapse?”

What those blessed, precious few, who do not have to deal with addiction in and around their families, don’t understand is guys like Hamilton just don’t care.  If addicts who aren’t part of a multimillion dollar payroll, who don’t get to be on TV, and who aren’t asked to pen their own “inspirational” memoir aren’t willing to ask themselves if what they’re about to put into their bodies is wrong, what’s a guy like Hamilton going to think? While those pictures were being snapped (my favorite is the one in which he’s pointing his index finger in the air; what exactly is #1 at that point?), Hamilton knew he’d wake up to a maelstrom of negative press but he’d still get to take BP, still get to run out to right field, and still get to deposit a check with a whole bunch of zeroes at the end of it.

As a fan of Denis Leary’s brilliant Rescue Me, I got to thinking of this idea of relapsing. I understand what it means and, in some cases, I can understand why it happens. In Leary’s fictional case, his character has to deal with the death of 343 fellow firefighters in the 9/11 tragedy, the death of his son, his own brother’s relationship with his wife, and that same brother’s death all in the first three seasons. So, if I were going to compare Tommy Gavin’s relapse, fictional though it may be, to Josh Hamilton’s it would be like comparing keg stands to body shots. Well, apples to oranges anyway.

What I think ESPN needs to do is to run an Outside the Lines featuring all those athletes they previously canonized who have since relapsed. I mean the entire year’s programming could be hammered out over coffee at a local Starbucks in Bristol.  Hamilton, Mike Vick, Lenny Dykstra, Lyle Alzado, Manny, A-Rod, Bonds, McGwire, Sosa (we need a name for this crew–Mt. Roidmore?), hell, throw Hulk Hogan in there.

Not to belabor the point I made in my Jason Bay (July 8th) piece, but what are the good guys supposed to do?  They wake up, go to work, do right by their families, and try to carve out even a small niche for themselves only to be overshadowed by the darkness of people like Hamilton.

Because Josh Hamilton is not a hero.

"I'm sure if I just apologize, my wife and kids will understand. I mean, I have demons I need to exorcise, right?"

And I told ya’ so.

        by Brian   

        Dear Almostathletes readers,

        I need your help. 

        Someone out there needs to explain the infatuation with attending NFL training camp to me. I promise I’ll keep an open mind when you explain why hordes of people take a day off of work, regardless of whether said work includes a blue or white collar, don their favorite player’s jersey (fyi—I saw a dude with a Mike Mamula jersey in Cape May last weekend), brave whatever incessantly hot and humid climate in which their favorite team practices, and watch…practice. We all know how AI feels about practice, but at least he was the one running the sprints, participating in the drills, and running the offense. 

        What possible gratification do fans get from attending NFL practices?

        I know what many readers are thinking right now, “What about MLB Spring Training or Midnight Madness? They both involve practice.” My arguments for both are pretty elementary.

        MLB Spring Training takes place in tropical locales, involves Tiki bars or Lake Havasu, and sundresses.

I guarantee these girls aren't headed to an NFL camp.

         NCAA Midnight Madness is less practice than pomp and circumstance. The players dunk, the fans go berserk, and then it’s on to Kappa Sigma for a late night kegger. Couple that with the fact that Midnight Madness involves college coeds and the argument makes itself.

          Without a reasonable facsimile in the NBA or NHL, we’re back to square one with the NFL. 

          Part of my consternation over the allure of the training camp is based on the NFL’s infinite intricacy when compared to its other professional sports brethren.  It’s not like Tim and Tommy Jones

Son, what do you and your mohawk think about the Eagles' third down package?

can sit in the stands at Lehigh and diagram plays, discuss the cover-2, and design new fangled blitz packages. The majority of fans who attend training camps just love football, and that much I can understand, but even an undying passion for the game couldn’t draw me from an air conditioned cocoon with the promise of “being part” of a practice or of bragging to my friends through a Facebook status update that I went to camp.

           The latter brings me to another major problem I have with camp goers. At some point today, I’ll be in my car and my index finger will flick on 610 WIP or 950 ESPN, like some sports obsessed Pavlovian dog, only to hear dozens of fans discuss who they were impressed with at camp, who let them down, and who signed their hats.  Perhaps this is the root of the issue. Attendees, for whatever reason, feel a sense of entitlement because they braved the heat and watched practice, so they grant themselves “insider” status. Ultimately, unless their name ends with Didinger, I couldn’t possibly care any less about how Nick from Fishtown would assess the offensive line’s play or how Coach Mike from Horsham thinks the Eagles’ secondary stacks up against the rest of the NFC.

           Before readers respond, let me assure everyone that I love the NFL and look forward to its start every year. That being said, I implore someone to explain the training camp phenomenon to me before I dust off the ol’ Chris T. Jones jersey, grab my clipboard, and head out to Lehigh.

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

            Speaking of the Eagles.

            Head Fuhrer Dictator Coach Andy Reid gave the media another dose of his trademark Belichickian charm after word leaked out that starting middle linebacker, Stewart Bradley, was lost for the season with a torn ACL.        

            Apparently, Reid, upon taking the job in 1999, channeled his inner Jabez Stone, pricked his finger, dropped an ounce of blood, and made a “pact” with the media that he would be the one to disclose all injuries. Reid’s philosophy has always been that he be the papa bear of his Cub Scout troop, so he disallowed any media members to talk to players or to team personnel about anything that had been preordained as falling under Reid’s enormous umbrella of power.

We're not talking about injuries, two minute drills, Donovan, the defense, or special teams. Time's yours.

            I’ve been crowing for this guy’s firing for years, but each time I’m met with such contention because of Reid’s sterling ability to get to big games. Hey man, I could drive myself to the Playboy Mansion but it doesn’t mean I belong there or would know what to do when I got there. If Birds’ fans aren’t finally getting tired of the triumvirate of power (Lurie, Banner, Reid) by now, I’ll have to resign myself to the fact that it’ll never happen.

            If a decade of just misses, shoulda-coulda-wouldas, and extended warranties on bad investments happened in any other sport in our town, the collective axe would have fallen long ago (just ask the fellas who have worked for Ed Snider right across the street). Every time I see Reid take his seat behind a microphone that might as well be off, I convulse, wretch, and change the channel. The disturbing irony about Reid’s latest temper tantrum is he’s clearly not familiar with the old “can’t have your cake and eat it too” adage. On one had, this guy wants a gag order in place while he, on a weekly basis, says absolutely nothing in press conferences, but on the other hand, he uses his pulpit to blast those media members who are just doing their job (save for Dave Spadaro who is nestled snugly between Lurie and Reid) by reporting an injury.

            It’s getting to the point at which it’s difficult to root for these guys. Between Reid’s petulance and McNabb’s annual injury/choke, it might be time for a divorce.

C'mon! I know you're ticklish, Don. Now let's go out there and lose the NFC championsihp! Whattya say?

            Really, Andy, it’s not me; it’s you.

A panicked Erin Andrews was forced to call 911 Wednesday when she spotted two men camping outside her home in Georgia. Andrews’ profanity-laced tirade was released to the media shortly thereafter, prompting further outrage over the humiliated sportscaster’s invasion of privacy.

by Brian

I should start by saying that I’m not a jerzee guy, per se. Now, when I was a kid, forget about it. At that time, I was obsessed with the 49ers and Broncos, along with the Eagles, of course. My closet was adorned with John Taylor’s #82, Jerry Rice’s #80, Reggie White’s #92, and John Elway’s #7. And that was just the football section of my closet.  There comes a point, though, at which boys become men and consciously decide to don the jerzee of another man less frequently. I still own, and am proud of, my Brian Dawkins #20 jerzee and pull it off the rack for big games throughout the season (something which I’ll still do despite the fact that the Birds brass didn’t see B Dawk as part of their machine any longer).

When Brett Favre, my favorite player of all time, announced his first retirement, I engaged in a chess game with myself over whether to buy a

If only this were the last jerzee we'd both wear, Brett. (John Biever/SI)

Favre jerzee. Part of me could justify the decision by promising myself it would be my last professional athlete jerzee purchase of my life. The other part of me was convinced that wearing the jerzee of a retired player made me seem late to my own party.  In the end, I received the Favre jerzee for Christmas 2007.  I wore it proudly and even joked that it was both relevant and retro in one fell swoop, making me, and it, infinitely cooler than any Jay Cutler or Matt Ryan jerzee could ever be.

Then Favre decided to channel his inner Michael Jordan and hold the N FL world ransom for another two years. To say throngs of Favre fans were immediately conflicted would be a gross understatement. A nation of #4 wearing lunatic fans had to get used to the idea of Favre on Broadway.

For more than half the year, including that “in-your-face-Green-Bay”

That's a cold six pack, isn't it Green Bay? (Bill Kostroun/AP)

six TD performance against those NFC Champion Cards, Favre was serving up platters of crow for Green Bay GM Ted Thompson to munch on.  Sadly, much like most of Favre’s two year saga into the depths of vengeance, the bottom fell out on Favre and the Jets. After an 8-3 start and division leading status, Favre imploded and the team stumbled to a 1-4 mark to finish the season 9-7, missing the playoffs and simultaneously buying head coach Eric Mangini a first class ticket to Cleveland. In a word, YIKES.

Favre apologists, one of which I am not, will tell you that the sacks, the consecutive games started streak, and the injuries were all mixed in a career-ending cauldron from which Favre must have drank.  The reason for the collapse is really inconsequential to me because the Jets’ season and Favre’s career were over.

Because going quietly into that good night is not Favre’s style (again, see: Jordan), reports started to surface that Favre was considering surgery to repair his ailing shoulder. Then reports started surfacing that the Minnesota Vikings were really the only fit for the first-ballot Hall of Famer. Next, video footage surfaced of Favre throwing darts to overmatched high school kids in Mississippi. All the league needed was for Favre to, well, surface as the next starting quarterback of the Vikes.

By now, we all know that months of posturing, rehabbing, and finagling all went for naught.  Favre is staying retired (for now) and better be working an apology to his fans and the league into his Hall of Fame acceptance speech. In the end, this was the right move for Favre because while I understand the need for vengeance, playing for the Vikes now, a full two years removed from his quasi-retirement, would be like a spiteful college freshman coming back to his junior prom to show the one girl who paid him no attention that he “was fine on his own.”

There’s a fine line, which to this point hadn’t even been drawn in professional sports, between redemption and petulance. Sadly, every time I put on the ol’ Favre throwback jerzee, I’ll be reminded of my favorite player’s refusal to retire with dignity, like another old favorite, Elway, instead of his devil may care approach to the game, instead of his fireman’s

He ain't heavy...He's my receiver. (AP Photo/Jim Mone)

carry of a touchdown pass recipient, and instead of the only man in the league’s history to win three straight MVPs (the last of which was shared with Barry Sanders in 1997).

Thanks for the memories, Brett.

by Brian

I think it’s pretty clear MLB has to gather up all its purists and make them watch a compilation of absurd calls made by the league’s umpires. At the top of the heap would be the egregious error made in the ninth inning of the Twins-A’s game last night, being dubbed, “the game no one knew how to win.”

With two outs in the top of the ninth, after the A’s had battled back from a 12-2 deficit to take a 14-13 lead, A’s closer Michael Wuertz uncorked an untimely wild pitch that not only caromed off catcher Kurt Suzuki but did so in such a way that the ball dribbled some fifteen feet behind Suzuki. Twins RF Michael Cuddyer, after reading the wild pitch from second base, came barreling toward home and clearly scored underneath the tardy tag of Wuertz. Flashbacks of Matt Holliday’s ill-fated

Meh, you're a good kid. Close enough. SAFE!

and oft-questioned 2007 safe-at-home call in the play-in game against the San Diego Padres make this call look even worse because Cuddyer was knee deep on the plate before Wuertz applied the tag.

So, the great divide that is MLB will have its pundits on either side clamoring for change. For instant replay. For some integrity. For purity. The truth is the league already needs instant replay to reverse its decision to only review disputed home run calls.

Think about analogously.

What if the NFL only reviewed disputed calls in, say, the back of the end zone?

What if the NHL only reviewed goals that may have hit the crossbar?

What if the NBA only reviewed injuries of  fans punched by Ron Artest but not by Stephen Jackson?

Upon further review, let's give Artest another shot.

Fans of our site know how much I love the game of baseball.  It is, in my mind, the most difficult to play, the most difficult to watch (for the uninitiated), and the most difficult to manage. It only stands to reason that it is the most difficult to officiate as well.  ESPN’s Buster Olney reported that the move to a more comprehensive replay system, akin to that which is employed by the NFL, is going to be a slow process. That could be read, instead, as a slow bleed. How many games will be decided, between now and then, on stubbornness and an allegiance to the game’s purists instead of on a dedication to the game’s integrity?

At some point, famed baseball historian, Ken Burns, will have an arsenal of material with which to write his next documentary, The Perfect Game: Inside Baseball Before Replay.

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I really tried to stay out of the Roy Halladay (the most oft-mispronounced name in the game) conversation for as long as I could. For two weeks, I turned off the radio when another lazy journalist mispronounced his way through his insight on the possible trade. For two weeks, I hid in dark corners whenever I heard a couple of junior scouting directors discuss Kyle Drabek’s upside while they downed adult beverages in their local bar.  And for two weeks, I remained stoically complacent on the issue because, unlike throngs of sports talk radio enthusiasts who swear to the contrary, my opinion doesn’t matter any more to Roy Halladay than it does to Doc Hollilday (played brilliantly by the now conspicuously absent Val Kilmer in Tombstone).

No, see, my name is Holliday. The guy you want is Halladay. Common mistake.

But enough is enough.

Thankfully, my commute to and from work is a scant five minutes, each way, so I am not besieged by completely undereducated and overmatched talk show callers-in for too long. However, during my two-week Halladay hunger strike, I’ve heard far too many Phils’ fans call in to voice their trepidation over a possible trade with the Jays.

Dozens have attended Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs (the Phils’ AAA affiliate) games to “scout” Phils’ can’t-miss prospect, Michael Taylor. Dozens more have “done the math” and decided that a move to acquire and, ostensibly, re-sign Halladay would not make fiscal sense when the brass is forced to pay Cole Hamels and Ryan Howard in the next three years.  Still dozens more have pieced together trade scenarios that “make better sense” for the Phils’ long-term success.

Are you kidding me?

Raise your hand if you ever:

(a)    swore with a couple of buddies that you only wanted to see one championship before you died and, if you got that, you’d never complain again

(b)   prayed, selfishly, to whatever God in which you believe to please please please let you have just one parade

Yup, that'll cost most of this crew their first born. Stupid devil.

(c)    made cryptic deals with whatever incarnation of the devil in which you believe to please please please let you have just one parade

(d)   counted the 2008 World Series win and subsequent parade as one of the top two days of your life

Okay, so we’re back in agreement.

The point is, crudely, who cares?

Who cares if the Phils have to sell the farm, literally, if it means crowning themselves champs again?

Who cares if Michael Taylor goes on to a Ryne Sandberg-like Hall of Fame career if Halladay helps deliver the goods now?

Who cares if Kyle Drabek and J.A. Happ win a World Series for the Jays, or anyone else for that matter, if it means we’re all on Broad Street in October hugging strangers and leading chants ?

Ultimately, whatever happens with Halladay, Happ, and the hopeless CRS syndrome suffers who forget how long we waited the first time, the immortal words of Charles Barkley will forever ring true:  The Philly fans is knuckleheads.

Hey look, man. I know these three things: rebounding, gambling, and the Phils would be knuckleheads not to trade for Halladay.

by Brian

The Major League Baseball break is the most unique of the four major sports’ annual showcase of its stars.  Fans get a chance to watch their favorite 66 players perform in a game of monumental importance for two eventual teams after they get to soak in Chris Berman’s completely tired call of the Home Run Derby.  Admittedly, I thought Berman’s countless

Berman has made a career of going back back back back back to the well.

incantations of the word “back” was chuckle-worthy when I was a devoted fan of the derby many years ago.  Now, like a decade of Eddie Murphy films in which he plays all the parts while bilking Americans out of their time and money, I think most of the baseball watching public listens to Berman’s calls with a pronounced, “again?” in their throats.

But MLB is decidedly different than its NFL, NBA, and NHL counterparts in that the break provides managers with a three day hiatus to evaluate their squads, to set pitching rotations for the second half of the year, and to beg their GMs to become buyers or sellers. No other sport’s break comes with it such a psychology, and this, along with about 4,000 other reasons, is what makes baseball the greatest sport on the planet.

No all-star break would be complete without the requisite “Mid-Season Awards” doled out by every media outlet this side of the First Amendment.  Let’s face it, Albert Pujols could go 0-August and still win the NL MVP; Tim Lincecum could cut the mullet and come back down to Earth, but if the Giants win the Wild Card, he’s going to win his second straight NL Cy Young; Joe Torre has to be the frontrunner for NL Manager of the Year after losing his best player to pregnancy leave and still leading his team to baseball’s best record.

With 32 bombs and 87 RBI, Pujols is most certainly a machine.

Because the athletes aren’t exactly roaming around St. Louis with press credentials, we thought we’d provide this year’s “Mid-Season Almost Team Awards.”

Almost There Award (Washington Nationals)—With a stout 61 losses and a -108 run differential, the Nats are almost about to join a special fraternity (think Tri Lamb)

Ladies and Gentleman! Your 2009 Washington Nationals!

of 100-loss teams. In related news, the Nats fired Manny Acta (think euthanasia), so I’m sure they’re on the road to Wellville now.

Almost Relevant Award (given annually to the Minnesota Twins)—Don’t the Twins remind you of the loveable character in the teenage drama who you pray gets the girl only to be reminded that the hot girl doesn’t actually end up with the sensitive, bookish lad in the end?  Every year I find myself morbidly curious about the Twins because they have some all-star players (Mauer, Morneau), a fiery manager (Ron Gardenhire), and a trash bag wall in their outfield. And every year they just miss the playoffs or are bounced early. At least this year, thanks to a certain Mississippi based QB, Minnesota fans have a bit of a distraction from their eventual baseball failure.

Almost Feel Sorry For Them Award (New York Mets)—Here’s the thing. If this karmic, injury-plagued season had happened to any other team, save for the Yanks, fans around the league would probably huddle around water coolers or kegs and genuinely feel sorry for the Mets.

But it happened to the Mets.

You'd probably recognize me with my uniform on.

The Mets—whose loud-mouthed shortstop has done exactly nothing to cement any kind of legacy for himself, unless you count excessive my-homerun-just-put-us-up-by-six-in-the-ninth celebrations.

The Mets—whose centerfielder played a little game of “pete-repeat” with the Phils’ Jimmy Rollins in the off-season only to be reminded, from the DL, that his Mets are, in fact, not the team to beat.

The Mets—whose manager threw Ryan Church under the bus for underperforming in his short stint as a Met (Church declined to comment, with class, as he boarded a plane to Hotlanta) after trading him to the Braves for the poster-boy for underachieving (and whining) Jeff Francoeur.

The Mets—whose self-serving, chest-thumping closer engaged in a war of words (through a translator, I assume) and one pre-game, outfield scuffle with a journeyman Yanks’ reliever who had the audacity to have an opinion about K-Rod.

The point is the Mets stink and somewhere the baseball gods are smiling.

Almost an Insurrection Award (Cleveland Indians)—Seriously, after the Tribe toyed with a loyal fan base with promises of turning the corner and contending, the brass in Cleveland might want to talk to LeBron about dumping the footage of this team’s season. Otherwise, fans in Cleveland might make Dawn of the Dead look like a Pixar film.

Plenty of tickets still available, Tribe fans!

Almost Due For a Fire Sale (Florida Marlins)—Ah, the Florida sun. A competitive baseball team. Young, stud pitching. Yup, it’s almost fire sale time for the National League’s version of the Oakland A’s. Simply based on the alarming number of empty neon orange seats at LandShark Stadium, there’s no way the fish can continue to pay what has become one of the league’s most formidable starting rotations. So listen up, Josh Johnson, Ricky Nolasco, Andrew Miller, and Chris Volstad. Look to your left. Look to your right. None of you will be here for much longer.

Almost Forgot About Us Didn’t You Award (Texas Rangers/Milwaukee Brewers)—Anyone who tells you they picked these teams to be 1 ½ and 2 ½ games out of their respective divisions at the break should stop talking to you and head right to Vegas. The Rangers were a more viable pick at the beginning of the season simply because they rake and any team who hits like the Rangers, especially in the AL, is going to be a part of a division leader conversation. But the Brew Crew? After last year’s sprint to a first round exit (complete with selling off the farmhands for CC and firing an otherwise competent manager at the end of the regular season), even the most sage of baseball minds had to have figured the Brewers would return to the bottom of the NL Central where they belong. Both teams are good for the league and could add to a revolving playoff door, which sees more newcomers each year to offset some of the more regular party invitees.

Almost World Series Pick (Boston Red Sox)—Finally, I can’t resist.  The Boston Red Sox are clearly the best team in baseball, so though it goes against my Phillie Phandom, I have to pick the Sox to knock off the Phils in six games in this year’s Fall Classic.