Double Play: My Life in Sports

Running Man?

2011-11-07T22:06:00.000-05:00

I've always hated running. I've hated all kinds of exercise, really. If exercise was a byproduct of athletic activity, then I suppose I accepted it, albeit begrudgingly. Did I choose to play goalkeeper for my high school soccer team because it involves the least amount of running? Maybe. I was still forced to run two miles on the first day of practice every year and every year I finished last. I didn't care. I just wanted the agony to end. And so, here I sit, 35 years old and out of shape. Out of shape is really a somewhat nice way of saying overweight, which is also a nice way of saying fat. On a really good day, with the sunlight glistening off the pond and leprechauns sliding down rainbows, I'm 5 feet, 10 inches tall. The ideal, healthy weight for this height is 156 pounds, with a range of 139-173 pounds, according to something called the Hamwi formula, which I'm too fat to understand. My current weight is 228 pounds. This means that my Body Mass Index is 32.7. Anything over 30 is considered obese. Something must be done.
These aren't recent facts, either. In the past two years, I've gone from a size 36 waist to a size 38, but I had been a size 36 for probably 10 years before that. I often rationalize that I don't think I look terribly fat, and that I have tons of naturally sculpted muscle, which weighs WAY more than fat. And I'm big boned. Hugely and incalculably boned. So, why now? Why not maintain the status quo, sinking into middle age like so many before me? It's not vanity. I don't really care what anyone else thinks of my body; that's one of the perks of being married, right? I'd like to say that I am deeply concerned for my health and that I am shaping up so that I can be around a long time to see my daughter grow up and see her children grow up, but that's probably more foresighted than I'm capable of. More than anything else, I'm just annoyed. I'm annoyed that the corners I used to turn with such grace and guile now clip a piece of my hip. I'm annoyed that I'm out of breath when I climb a flight of stairs. But, most of all, I'm annoyed that the Banana Republic in my neighborhood doesn't have my size pants because, along with that 38 inch waist, I am also blessed with a 30 in the length department. I gave up on getting taller long ago. All I have control over is getting skinnier.
In my typically vague way, I have pledged in the past to do something about it. I tried dieting, which consisted of tuna salad sandwiches for lunch instead of roast beef and cheese, and keeping less beer in the house. I don't think that really counts as a diet. That didn't work, so I tried an equally vague form of exercise, inevitably dumping hundreds of dollars on gyms I never go to. I joined the Y because of its swimming pool and basketball court, thinking I would enjoy exercise more if it were disguised as sport. I was wrong. Swimming was exhausting and shooting jumpers ain't exercise, even if I did have to chase my airballs all over the gym. Last year, I was so inspired by the New York City marathon that I spent half a day calculating the training distances between my place and my friends' places, fantasizing of the 15 mile jaunt to Long Island City and back and the 25 mile roundtripper to Washington Heights. And then I did nothing. Maybe I ran around the block once, if that. But, this time is different. This time, I have a plan. It's called the Couch to 5K program, which was brought to my attention by my wife, who had heard about it from a friend. The theory is this: people who are suddenly inspired to run, but have no idea what they're doing, often get frustrated and/or hurt and quit easily. This program, which has an app that chimes in commands ("Start running") during your likely embarrassing running mix if you're into that kind of thing, is designed to gradually bring a couch potato up to speed, 3 days a week at around 30 minutes a pop, so that at the end of 8 weeks, you can run 5 kilometers (approximately 3 miles). I've never run 3 miles at one in my life. This would be huge.
My commitment to the Couch to 5K program is partly borne out of my epiphany that I love to eat more than I hate exercise and so, given the choice between diet and exercise, I choose exercise. What's that you say? I could choose both? Sorry, you're breaking up. I'll call you back. I am currently in Week 2. Week 1 regimen consisted of a 5 minute brisk warm up walk, followed by alternating shifts of 60 seconds of running and 90 seconds of walking, finally cooling down with another 5 minute walk. Day One was awesome. Definitely felt like I could do this. Couldn't wait for Day Two, but I stuck to the program, skipping a day in between. Day Two was a little harder. Why? Was I less enthusiastic about my plan? Was the whole running thing too big an obstacle to overcome, both physically and mentally? Day Three wasn't much fun, but I was also sick. Still sick, I did a slightly abbreviated Day One of Week Two today. 5 minute walk, followed by intervals of 90 seconds of running and 2 minutes of walking, and the 5 minute cool-down walk.
My random goal before learning 10 minutes ago that I am technically obese was to get under 200 pounds. Now, that is at least 25 pounds off target. I need to stick with the program. I need to lose weight. I'm sure there are cardiovascular health benefits, as well. I would like to learn to enjoy running, and the fact that it's only 30 minutes certainly helps. Nothing seems like a bigger waste of time than two hours at a gym or a two hour run. This way, I get up at 6:00 a.m., roll out the door around 6:15, and get home by 6:45 in order to pick my daughter out of her crib, who now either asks me "How was your run, Daddy?" or "How was your shower this morning?" I tell her the run was fine and the shower was too hot and eventually I stop sweating around 10:30 a.m. But, if I start enjoying running? If I not only run 5K, but also enter 5K charity "races"? If I become an athlete again? Or athletic, at least? If I lost 50 pounds? I'd be a lot less annoyed, which I guess is a nice way of saying happy.

BREEDERS CUP PICKS for the AVERAGE GOOF by Guest Blogger James McManus

2011-11-05T03:29:00.000-04:00

So let us recap this day. Another great Friday at the Breeders Cup. So good to see Bill Mott take another Distaff with the brilliant ROYAL DELTA. Of the 6 races today, we had 2 winners, 2 second place finishers and a 5th and a 6th. If you were smart you made enough money for dinner and drinks but it was not the killing it could have been. Yes, I'm looking at you NAHRAIN. How did you let a 27-1 shot run by you? And STOPSHOPPINGMARIA was almost home, but the wire is the wire and a loss is a loss. Any day spent winning enough money to cover drinks at the track and dinner in the evening is a good day. If today was blended scotch, tomorrow is single malt so let's get straight to Saturday and my...

BREEDERS CUP PICKS for the AVERAGE GOOF
SATURDAY'S CARD WINNERS

There is a saying in Louisville at Derby time that no matter what the weather has been like all spring, on Derby Day it is always 75 and sunny.
I have walked the tunnel at Gate 3 that separates wheat from drunk on Derby Day and can assure you that no matter what the temperature is, the infield is always .18 and runny. If you have not experienced the infield on Derby Day, imagine all of the grass you could ever want dotted with porta potties and mint juleps. The infield is a town unto itself. There is a general store for ice and other items that might keep you alive, general camaraderie which usually entails someone you have never met offering you a liquor that tastes vaguely like bourbon and a general sense that for one day of the year, anything goes. Uncle Pat loved the infield and Uncle Pat loved Derby Day. He looked at it as 80,000 average goofs losing money and feeling good about it. I will save the Indian Charlie story for another time as I am trying to see if I can actually tell it 1 million times orally before I lay it down in print. Suffice to say, Uncle Pat thought the average goof would be on Favorite Trick that Derby Day in 98 and the only thing that the Donora crew knew for sure was that Pat Day would give the Trick a bad ride and that one of Baffert's two studs would be there to pick up the pieces. Trainer Bob Baffert had won the Derby the previous year with Silver Charm and was loaded in 98 with both Indian Charlie and Real Quiet. It was a tough call between the two and our tent was split down the middle. Our tent was also littered with human wreckage that could not have distinguished a horse from a human due to the unending kindness of Kentucky strangers, but those of us standing, well leaning, laid our cookies on one of the two Baffert horses. Real Quiet won the Derby and Indian Charlie finished 3rd setting off a series of events that have become Donora's version of The Scottish Play. Uncle Pat had the winner, the triple, the super and maybe he slept with Elizabeth Taylor that night also...it was that good. I bring this up because Indian Charlie's boy, Uncle Mo, runs today in the Classic at Churchill Downs on a autumn afternoon sent to us in a postcard and he is just the type of horse Uncle Pat loved. His breeding is impeccable, his style is that of a front runner or stalker and he just won a race with a Beyer Speed Figure higher than the average IQ. And...he has the same first name as Uncle Pat. But there is one Mo angle that would give Uncle Pat some pause, he liked horses who had won at the distance they are running. This will not only be Uncle Mo's first try at 10 furlongs, he has never won past 8 1/2F and that was last year before all of the health problems of this year. And, he has never faced competition like he will today in the Classic. And Flat Out is 5 years old and seasoned. And Havre de Grace is the best horse in America this year. And So You Think gives Coolmore the burly beast of a chance to take down its first Classic. And Stay Thirsty has won at this distance and cannot like it that all of the fillies line up for his stable mate. And To Honor and Serve just won the PA Derby and Bill Mott would not run him here unless he had a shot. And, and, and... WWUPD?

BREEDERS CUP PICKS for the AVERAGE GOOF
SATURDAY'S CARD WINNERS

MARATHON (14f) 1:20PM POST TIME
This race last year gave us a fist fight after the race between jockeys Cavin Borel and Javier Castellano. Good to get the blood flowing. This is a quirky distance as 14 furlongs is not a commonly run distance in horse racing. As with 7 furlong races, I like horses who have won at this odd distance such as last year's winner ELDAAFER. I love AP INDY colts and I see no reason why ELDAAFER cannot repeat. And at 10-1 ML, the #10 ELDAAFER will be a lovely start to the day...almost like an ice cold Penn Pilsner/Penn Dark right on top of a hangover.

JUVENILE TURF (8f) 2:02PM POST TIME
Wide open race and unless you travel to Europe to watch the ponies, most Americans have not seen the majority of this field compete. I like the Irish bred #12 LUCKY CHAPPY off of 2 wins across the pond and a 3rd place effort at Keeneland that was better than it looked. I don't like the post but I'm hoping the pace is hot and LUCKY CHAPPY is there at the end. This colt is also ML 10-1. Open these oysters gently because I'm placing pearls in there.

SPRINT (6f) 2:37PM POST TIME
Other than the Classic, the sprint is always my favorite race of the day. I like pure speed and at 6 furlongs, there is little strategy among these colts. The gate opens and the jockeys turn them loose to see who is fastest. Last year BIG DRAMA got the drop on his competitors at the gate and led them all the way around. Could it happen again? Sure it could. But I don't like BIG DRAMA'S campaign this year. Too much time off before what was really a workout at Calder in September. I will take a horse who has been running and competing all year long. Nick Zito did a marvelous training job with JACKSON BEND to turn him from a router into one of the best sprinters in the country this year. Yes, he lost to UNCLE MO in the Kelso, but most horses would have and he got shuffled back early. I saw JACKSON BEND run twice at Saratoga this year and though small in stature, this colt gives everything he has. I think his best is good enough today. Take #5 JACKSON BEND to win with AIKENITE closing late on him.

DIRT MILE (8f) 4:01PM POST TIME
What a field! SHACKLEFORD won a little race called the Preakness. THE FACTOR might be the most talented horse in Baffert's barn. (Hello 1 hole again at CD. Did Baffert badmouth blue grass in another life?) WILBURN has won 3 in a row. CALEB'S POSSE won the King's Bishop over UNCLE MO and TRAPPE SHOT has turned in possibly the best performance of the year in the True North on Belmont Saturday. And I don't throw IRREFUTABLE out. I like the fact that TRAPPE SHOT can use the 9 hole to see how things are setting up and decide how far off the pace he wants to be. This is probably SHACKLEFORD's best distance even though he won a triple crown race this year. I see SHACKLEFORD on the lead with THE FACTOR and as SHACKLEFORD puts THE FACTOR away, TRAPPE SHOT and CALEB'S POSSE are gunning for him. At the wire, by a desperate nose, I see the #9, TRAPPE SHOT getting up for the win.

TURF (12f) 4:45PM POST TIME
This race has been moved out of its traditional penultimate slot partly to give GOLDLIKOVA the spotlight she deserves and partly because the American horses, well, there just aren't any with a real shot in this race. Where are you WINCHESTER? I guess this proves that the Bluegrass Stakes at Keeneland in 10 was more a prep for this race in 11 than a prep for the Derby in 10 as STATELY VICTOR and BRILLIANT SPEED both ran in the 10 Bluegrass Stakes. I'm going to take a chance with the Irish bred #1 ST. NICHOLAS ABBEY for trainer Aidan O'Brien. He is 5 for 10 lifetime and I like post 1 in such a long race. I hope he skims the rail and can find a little space turning for home.

JUVENILE (8 1/2f) 5:25PM POST TIME
#10 UNION RAGS He looks like this year's UNCLE MO. Watch his win the Grade 1 Champagne at Belmont. That is what a great racehorse is supposed to look like. Only, they almost never look like that in their 2 year old year. #10 UNION RAGS. Bet him, take what they give you and be happy just to watch him run.

MILE (8f) 6:07PM POST TIME
What can I add to everything that has already been said about GOLDLIKOVA? I saw her accelerate right in front of me last year and she took my breath away. Maybe even more impressive is that GIO PONTI ran a great race last year to finish second. I don't know what else he could have done and he was still desperately beaten. So you're going to bet her, Jimmy? Nope. So you're going for GIO PONTI? As much as it pains me, I'm not going for either. #3 COURAGEOUS CAT almost got GOLDLIKOVA in 09 and is in great form this year. The CAT can sit chilly behind the blistering pace that SYDNEY'S CANDY will set and pounce quickly at the top of the stretch to hold off the two great horses, GIO PONTI and GOLDLIKOVA. On a personal note, may I say that those may be real tears at the end of this race as GIO PONTI has given me so many thrills in person and all I can give back to him is to say that I have known I was in the presence of greatness every time I strained my neck to get a look at him. If this is his last, Godspeed in the breeding shed, GIO PONTI, I cannot wait to see your colts and fillies run.

CLASSIC (10f) 7:30PM POST TIME
I am not abstaining on the big race, but I am warning you that I have nothing but my heart up my sleeve with this pick. I know all of the arguments against him and I even agree with some of them. HAVRE DE GRACE and FLAT OUT are monsters who have every right to repeat what they did in the Woodward and see if the extra furlong can get FLAT OUT there. SO YOU THINK is seasoned and a proven winner. GAME ON DUDE is tenacious with the lead. And UNCLE MO had a liver ailment and 7 & 8 furlong races do not prepare a horse for this distance and blah blah blah. Well, everyone and his reasons can all go to hell. Because I saw this horse run at Saratoga as a 2 year old and on that day he became my horse and he is still my horse. I like everything about him. He is a big, good looking horse who you just cannot take your eyes off of. And he likes the lead and he likes to flash his speed and he likes to break your heart by getting sick and not letting you know if he is ok. And he likes to come back to the winner's circle after the Kelso at Belmont and look like he could go another mile and breathe as if he would not blow out a match as you look at a horse whose muscles seem to have muscles. And I will be watching him accelerate tomorrow and I think he's going to win. My pick in the 2011 Classic at Churchill Downs is the #12, UNCLE MO because I believe that the blood of INDIAN CHARLIE always deserved to pass under the finish line at Churchill Downs as a winner and I believe that part of being Irish is knowing the world is going to break your heart if you put it out there, but what else is a heart for? And I believe that UNCLE MO is the best horse in this race. Take your average goof and he allows his heart to get in the way of his head. To that, Uncle Pat, I say SUNDAY SILENCE. GO MO GO!

-James McManus

Horse Race Betting Lineage and Breeders Cup Picks by Guest Blogger James McManus

2011-11-03T20:58:00.000-04:00

The DoublePlay Sports Blog is back! After a mysterious hiatus, we have a whole series in the works starting next week, but in the meantime, take in the delightful stylings of guest blogger James McManus, who led me Virgil-like into the depths of the 136th running of the Kentucky Derby, chronicled extensively starting here. Without further ado...

I spent a lot of time as a boy at the Friendly Tavern in Donora watching the horse races on TV. Two truisms were uttered each year as the Belmont Stakes (always run a week or two before Father's Day) played above us.
"Father's Day in this town is going to be a clusterf**k."
"If you're going to lose a route race, do it with a closer who comes late."
One was said because young colts like to make nice nice with fillies and leave the matter of staying power in doubt. The other had to do with handicapping horse races. I knew who my folks were, so I concentrated on the races. A route race is one where the horses travel around more than one turn into the stretch. My Uncle Patrick always thought that as with most things in life, the crowd had it wrong. "Take your average goof lays brick for a living" was how many of his theories on life began. Take your average goof and he'll pay some jackass to tar his roof when all you need is tar and a chicken ladder. Take your average goof who thinks his wife is faithful and I'll be over his place while he's spouting off. Take your average goof who votes an actor into the White House and wonders how he lies so good. But Uncle Patrick saved a special litany of take your average goof for those who thought they could pick the horses better than he could.

He would pick me up from school on his way down to Waterford and for the one hour ride, he filled me with Take your average goofs about how not to pick the horses.
Take your average goof...
he bets on jockeys, the horse don't ride the jockey, Jimmy.
he loves him a good closer. Closers are lazy horses who run past tired ones who tried hard.
he thinks time is important, but any crazy jockey can throw the time of a race out of whack.
he don't know that 87% of races are won by horses on or near the lead.
he thinks a horse on the lead don't win is a quitter. I say any horse didn't win, quit.

On those car rides as his dirty hands barely touched the steering wheel and he punctuated every Take your average goof by pointing at someone who was NOT straight ahead where the other cars were and I sensed that he was living the life of a jockey in his old Buick as we whisked toward the track to take money from the average goof by bobbing and weaving toward his finish line, which was the betting window.

Uncle Pat had three hard and fast rules when it came to betting the horses.
1. Make them beat you. Get you a dancer out of the gate and make them all come and beat you. Even if you lose being in the lead gets the old heart pumping and a pumping heart will put lead in your pencil. (That one would escape me for a long while, until I couldn't escape it and thought about it even more than what Uncle Pat was going to tell me about the average goof.)
2. Horses that win continue to win. Most a these goofs whisper to me that the 2 horse is due cause he ain't won in 6 races. I say, he's due to lose AGAIN.
3. Class will always tell. Most a these goofs got lousy character cause their mama had bad character and whoever they think their daddy was had bad character. Bet a well bred horse. Boy is Father's day going to be a cluster around here.

For years I have kept Uncle Pat's holy trinity in mind as I dope the form. I like well bred horses who tend to run on the lead and if they won last time out I wager that they will continue to win. Uncle Pat would be proud that his philosophy has served me well through the years. I have not been the average goof at the window and some would even say, "He knows what he's doing." That year at the Friendly Tavern, Uncle Pat bet Sunday Silence to win the Belmont and give him a Triple Crown to talk about for months. It had been 11 years since Seattle Slew and as Uncle Pat was fond of saying, Slew's don't come along every day but this Silence got it all...he can stalk, good turn of foot and he won't never let that Easy Goer go by him. As they came down the stretch of the Belmont, Easy Goer blew by Sunday Silence and ruined Uncle Pat's night. He held his two dollar win ticket on Sunday Silence in the air like communion for a long long time. When he finally brought it down, he gave it to me and told me to hold the ticket and only throw it away when another horse wins the triple crown. I still have the ticket and I have had it with me through Silver Charm and Real Quiet and Smarty Jones and and and...I will hold it until the another Slew comes along.

But I am going to "break form" and do something Uncle Pat would never do and would not approve of...The Breeders Cup will be run Friday and Saturday at Churchill Downs in Louisville and although it's been years since I attended a BC with Uncle Patrick under the Twin Spires of the Downs, I remember his admonition like it was yesterday. As we walked the grounds doping the form and Uncle Pat sipped on flask whiskey, he met a friend from Donora. The friend was delighted to see Uncle Pat because as he told it, "Every horse I picked today, they should give the jockey a sandwich and a flashlight so he don't get lost coming home in the dark." He was sure that a winner was hiding in Uncle Pat's form and that a 9-1 shot from Pat would be just the bolt of lightning he needed to turn his day around. Uncle Pat shared his whiskey but not his picks. When the man walked away muttering to himself, I asked Uncle Pat why he was so stingy. "Jimmy, the average goof starts playing your horses, it's like kissing your sister." I didn't know what that meant then and I still don't. I like to think that rather than Uncle Pat being stingy, he thought telling someone else popped the magic balloon.

I am not so superstitious and in the sincere hope of helping the average goof, I am going to share my plays over the next couple of days. All of these picks work better when in Louisville, while downing a bourbon and munching on fried pickles, but if you cannot see the animals accelerate live...flip on your TV and see if I learned anything from Uncle Pat.

BREEDERS CUP PICKS for the AVERAGE GOOF
FRIDAY"S CARD WINNERS

JUVENILE SPRINT 4:10PM POST TIME
This is the 1st year for the Juvenile Sprint. Do we need a Juvenile Sprint? I don't know, but I've never met a BC race I didn't like as I saw it run. Bet the #6, SECRET CIRCLE and get your day started off with a chalk winner.

JUVENILE FILLIES TURF 4:50 POST TIME
All the money will be on the #2, ELUSIVE KATE, who has been running extremely well in Europe. But keep in mind, a 2 year old filly has never shipped over and won this race. I'm going after the #4, STOPSHOPPINGMARIA.

FILLY AND MARE SPRINT (7F) 5:30 POST TIME
This will be our BEST BET of the 2 days. TURBULENT DESCENT is 6 for 8 lifetime and her 2 losses were to IT"S TRICKY and ZAZU. I saw this horse run in The Test at Saratoga this summer and turned to my friend after she demolished the field with my jaw dropped. I doubt David Flores will have to even show her the whip. She wins by 5.

JUVENILE FILLIES (8 1/2F) 6:10 POST TIME
I'm going after a shot in this race because I am not sold on #5 or #9. The #4 MISS NETTA broke her maiden at Saratoga in late August and then ran a respectable 3rd behind MY MISS AURELIA and STOPSHOPPINGMARIA in the Frizette. The daughter of STREET SENSE should like the extra ground and I'm thinking she comes up big and for a nice price as her ML is 15-1.

FILLY AND MARE TURF (11F) 6:50 POST TIME
#5, NAHRAIN can only improve after a monster race in a Group 1 where she nosed out ANNOUNCE. I look for the same two horses to be powering toward the line late and NAHRAIN to edge ANNOUNCE again.

DISTAFF (LADIES CLASSIC, 9F) 7:30 POST TIME
Even with HAVRE DE GRACE running in the Classic and UNRIVALED BELLE retired and BLIND LUCK not running, this race still has a ton of star power. The Kentucky Oaks winner, PLUM PRETTY, the Alabama winner, ROYAL DELTA and the Coaching Club American Oaks winner, IT"S TRICKY have dueled against each other more than once. I don't believe that trainer Bill Mott thought ROYAL DELTA could win the Beldame vs HAVRE DE GRACE so I have to believe Mott thought he would run his filly against older horses in order to get her ready for this race. PLUM PRETTY ran beautifully at this race course in May and do they come any gutsier than IT'S TRICKY? With ASK THE MOON giving PLUM PRETTY some pressure on the front end, I believe it sets up for a stretch duel between IT"S TRICKY and ROYAL DELTA and I'm giving the nod to Mott and #6, ROYAL DELTA to bring home Jose Lezcano first in the Distaff. Cannot wait to see this race.

Enjoy Friday's races and look for my picks for Saturday's races (and Friday's post mortem) tomorrow morning.

Storylines for SATURDAY

Can UNCLE MO get the 10F in the Classic? Can GOLDLIKOVA get 4 in a row?
SHACKLEFORD vs TRAPPE SHOT in the Dirt Mile.
BIG DRAMA two Sprints in a row?

Don't be the average goof. See you Saturday morning for DAY 2 of the BREEDERS CUP

-James McManus

LeBron To Miami: So Refreshing, So Naive

2010-07-09T00:24:00.000-04:00

I was duped. I really believed LeBron was going to stay in Cleveland. Looking back, just two hours after he announced his decision on national TV, I guess it never made sense. The only reason to stay in Cleveland was out of loyalty to his home state and his fans. The Cavs had no resources in place to ensure that they could compete for a title in the near future. The last three years (no Finals appearances) have proved that LeBron can't do it on his own, and the Cavs hadn't exactly stockpiled young talent to give LeBron any sense of a nucleus he could grow with. But, I had also duped myself into believing that staying with the home team, the team that drafted him, the only NBA team he had ever known, the team he singlehandedly lifted out of the dredges of Lake Erie, was the only noble action he could take.

Don't get me wrong, the manner in which he broke Clevelanders' hearts was cruel and unusual. There was no call to embarrass them on live TV. Would you announce a divorce of a 7-year marriage in front of millions of viewers? Sure, he would eventually have to have the awkward press conference where he discussed his hand-wringing decision, but he didn't have to throw himself a day-long media circus before jabbing his jilted lover in the back. On the other hand, if you're a Cleveland fan, when the emotional (and literal) flames have been put out, you'll probably appreciate the following:

A) He legitimately went to a team that has the major pieces in place for a dynasty. I don't necessarily believe that the Heat are a shoo-in for 4 or 5 titles in the next 5 years, but it's not like he left Cleveland for the Nets or Clippers.

B) He didn't go to the Knicks. There's no doubt Cleveland fans' insecurity as a sports city and a city in general runs deep. And they get it: they're David, New York is Goliath. They're the faithful wife, New York is the vapid supermodel. Nobody wants to get dumped for the supermodel. It's just too painful. As much as the NBA's salary structure ensured that Cleveland could offer the most money, leaving for New York would have been about money. It would have been the chance to pursue all the endorsements and global icon status that the title of King of New York would have been privy to. It would have been about trying to become the "billionaire athlete," not a champion.

C) He didn't go to Chicago. Losing your star player, nay, your reason for being, to a division rival might be too much to bear. Playing each other at least 4 times a year, watching LeBron take home division title after division title at your expense year after year, that would be a kick in the gut. I thought LeBron's best chance at multiple titles and sole glory was to team up with Derick Rose, Carlos Boozer, Luol Deng and Joakim Noah in Chicago. That's a sick starting five, and there's no doubt who the alpha dog is there. In Miami, Dwayne Wade is the King and LeBron will be petulantly seeking the crown the whole time he's there. Still, Miami is in the same conference and Cleveland has no chance of making the playoffs without LeBron anyway, so it probably doesn't matter, but the sting would be especially painful if he went to the Bulls. However, a bitter Dan Gilbert, owner of the Cavs, has gone on record to guarantee an NBA championship before LeBron's Heat win one. Incredible. Clearly, this man has lost touch with reality, but I also hope he's right.

That's it. Those are the only three reasons I can come up with for Cleveland to feel good about itself in its moment of agony. If they want to add another irrational level of self-loathing, they can talk themselves into the bitterness of interpreting LeBron's feelings about Cleveland as a city so degrading that he left over $30 million on the table just to get away from the place. It's like a man leaving a woman right after she got a boob job- and taking the boobs with him.

However, what is refreshing is that in an era of egos and money-grabbing, three stars who could each have commanded the maximum salary on their own teams have decided to take less money (albeit in an income tax-free state) to chase their goal of winning championships together. I don't think it will be that easy, but I admire the idea. It almost never happens in baseball because the players union would never allow it, and there's no salary cap, anyway. It sometimes happens in football, but almost always in the form of a "hometown discount," not in a new free agent situation. Sure, LeBron will be making something like $16 million, instead of $20 million if he had signed with, say, Chicago. He'll still be able to live and feed his children. But, in a league and a culture where money has a tendency to define people, Wade, LeBron and Chris Bosh have each chosen to forgo "max status" to build a championship team together. Or, possibly to chase girls on South Beach together.

The irony, however, is that even with taking less money for themselves, their team is left in an awkward position of having 25% of the roster take up 95% of the salary cap space. The Heat are now going to have to find 9 guys to play for the minimum to help the new Big Three succeed. Two of them are going to have to starters. The bench is not going to be impressive. Add an injury here or there to just one of the triumverate and you could be looking at some version of the Phoenix Suns of the past decade. Very good, but not great. And I really don't believe that Wade and James can coexist as teammates for an extended period. One of them is going to want to be the man and when one of them isn't, it's going to be a full-on ugly diva show.

I feel bad for Cleveland. I really do. I don't know how they bounce back from this. I don't know who they convince to play there from the free agent market. They only got LeBron in the first place because they were so terrible and they won the draft lottery for the right to choose him with the #1 pick. They're probably going to be terrible again. This isn't college. You can't win an NBA title with 5 guys who just make a great team, with the 2004 Pistons being the rarest of exceptions. As a Celtics fan, I'm not as concerned about Miami as I would have been in LeBron had joined the Bulls. The Heat may win a title or two, but they won't have a chokehold on the Eastern Conference the entire time. Good luck, LeBron. You'll need it.

doubleplaycraig Is Now on Twitter!

2010-06-19T21:42:00.000-04:00

Want to hear my quick takes on various sports topics while waiting for my next in-depth blog post? Follow me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/doubleplaycraig
For each new follower, DPC will donate one eye to the USA-Slovenia referee.

World Cup Fever is Back

2010-06-11T22:56:00.000-04:00

"Four pounds?!" I did some quick calculation. I had landed in London just a few hours before, delirious from the bizarrely fortunate flight, the time change, and the excitement of my first trip to England. "That's like six bucks! Just to get into a restaurant at 2:30 in the afternoon? What the hell is going on?" But, Dan and I were hungry, had been traipsing around the financial district and the Tower of London for far too long to find a bite to eat. We handed over the money, grumbling miserably to ourselves. Then all hell broke loose.

Dan and I had recently graduated from college and had planned to take a month-long trip around Europe with our friend Justin, who would meet us a few days later. Our trip would take us to Scotland, France, Spain and Italy and back to France again. Dan had arrived in London the day before and had gotten his bearings a bit, but was still not altogether with it. I had just fastened my seat belt in my coach seat on Virgin Atlantic next to an annoying couple when a flight attendant asked me if I was indeed Craig Weiner and if I would please take my belongings and follow her to my new first class seat, where I proceeded to refuse an offer of the services of a on-board masseuse before realizing too late that I had theoretically paid $3,000 for that massage and that I would not have to pay for it. If either Dan or I had been the least bit tuned in to the world around us, we would have prepared for the obvious. When we walked in that restaurant with the four pound cover charge, we realized that it was, in fact, a pub packed to the max with fans awaiting the impending kickoff of the England-Tunisia game, the first match for both teams in the 1998 World Cup. On this day, we received an education.

Soccer was by no means foreign to me. I had attended the '94 World Cup in the U.S. I grew up playing youth soccer in Florida, following my big brother's footsteps onto the varsity soccer team in high school as a sophomore, playing for a few travel all-star teams in the off-season, and even spending one summer at a soccer camp in Michigan. I played goalkeeper. I thought I was fine at it. I taught myself how to overcome my average punting by developing a drop-kick, which I would crush 70 yards about as often as I would shank sideways out of bounds. I got a rush out of taking charge of the defense, and probably never felt more confident about anything as a teenager than I did when I was positioning my fullbacks and telling them to clear the f@&king ball out of the box. I enjoyed the game and I enjoyed being a part of a team. I hated long-distance running during practice and I hated the politics of playing time. I never played again after eleventh grade.

But, I was still a fan of the game. I knew the World Cup was in France that year, but I didn't really care about anything other than Team USA. Until that fateful late lunch in London. After getting a strange look from the bartender while trying to tip him for my beer, things went more smoothly. Kickoff was still at least an hour away, but the pre-match commentary audio was cranked up high on the large pull-down projection screen in the back of the bar, and there was plenty of chatter from the Englishmen surrounding us. Teddy Sheringham and Alan Shearer were the established strikers, but all eyes were on the young phenom Michael Owen. David Beckham was on his way to god-like status as a playmaker in the midfield. A young woman at a bar later that night told me that she had semen in her pocket, and then pulled out a photograph of David Seaman, revered goalkeeper of the national team. Songs of indeterminate lyrics were sung, and English goals were cheered with such fervor that I would not bet against the finding of semen in the pockets of many a pair of pants that afternoon. From that moment on, I was hooked on the English national team.

Saturday, the U.S. plays England in their first match of the World Cup in South Africa. There are no torn loyalties. I am a U.S. man all the way. Even though Landon Donovan strikes me as a player I would probably hate if he played for another country or a rival club team (if I had a favorite club team), even though I think our defense is suspect and even though I can't pinpoint any particular exciting playing style to our team, I'm an American and this one of the few instances in which we are an underdog anymore. If the English advance beyond the Americans, I will be rooting for them, but the match on Saturday could be a turning point for the way American soccer is perceived by the rest of the world. Even though the U.S. beat Spain on the way to a narrow championship game loss to Brazil in the Confederations Cup last summer, we won't be taken seriously until we consistently advance to the quarterfinals of the World Cup. Beating England would go a long way toward that goal, but it's not the endgame. Sure, it would be fantastic to have the respect of the English, but it's more important to advance far into the tournament and to do it again in 2014 in Brazil. Only then will the U.S. be considered a force to be reckoned with on the international soccer scene.

I watched the opening matches on Friday at home, thinking back to my experience in Orlando in '94 and Europe in '98, which included another accidental appearance at a beach viewing party on a jumbo screen of a France match in Marseilles, and the unfortunate timing of our arrival in Paris, 24 hours after France had won it all, arriving on the Champs Elysees ready for revelry, only to find it completely spent, save for a few strays, sleeping it off. I remembered the challenge of Japan/South Korea in 2002, deciding whether to wake up at 3:00 a.m. to watch a match, or to just stay up all night, and the cool beers of a warm summer afternoon, standing outside a sidewalk cafe to catch games during Germany '06.

The World Cup for me is about a melding of cultures coming together to watch the beautiful game, even if most Americans don't understand it. It's a time for us Americans to take a step back and appreciate how the rest of the world follows sports. It's a time when we Americans can admit that we are not the best at something, and observe how other nations and cultures excel. But, at least we are a part of the experience, learning how to get better, and that's an American spirit I can be proud of. And if we can do it without picking up the horrendous habit of flopping to draw a non-existent foul, so much the better.

You Can't Be Twenty At Churchill Downs, Son

2010-05-05T16:28:00.002-04:00

After a whirlwind 30 hours in Louisville, I am exhilarated and exhausted. Sunday night I came home and went to bed at 8:30 p.m., giggling about one of many silly things that had happened during my journey with Jim and Perry to the Derby. Pictures below this post.

Once I arrived at the gate at LaGuardia airport Friday morning, I met up with Jim, who passed along word that Perry's flight had been rerouted and that he would only be arriving 30 minutes before us, and thus would not have time to go to the store to pick up the supplies we needed for Churchill Downs. Fortunately, however, we landed in Indy 20 minutes ahead of schedule and were in Perry's rental car, ready to roll at 11:00 a.m. Oaks day at Churchill was already underway, but there was still time to catch Rachel Alexandra in her race, scheduled for 1:26 p.m. We zoomed down I-65 in search of a Walmart, but didn't find one until we reached Southern Indiana, near the Kentucky border, and less than 10 miles from the track. Unfortunately, we had run into traffic and even without the 20 minute stop to pick up cheap folding chairs, beer, ice and a cooler, we would have been too late to see Rachel. We missed her by half an hour. And it turned out that she lost by a head to Unrivaled Belle.

We parked in the University of Louisville football stadium parking lot, carried a beer or two with us for the 15 minute walk over the bridge and to the Churchill Downs gate. If there is an open-container policy in Louisville, I'm not aware of it, though there were plenty of police directing traffic. Friday is Oaks day at Churchill Downs on Derby weekend, and attendees were dressed in pink in support of Breast Cancer Awareness. Lots of women in pink and black dresses, with pink wide-brimmed hats were enjoying the absolutely gorgeous sunny, 85 degree day. It was almost too warm, with several people willing to trade breast cancer for skin cancer. One kind woman sitting next to us offered us her sunscreen. At one point, it was so hot, a man in jeans tried in vain to buy another man's shorts.

We added our recyclable containers to the collection forming on a barricade outside Gate 3, paid $40 cash (for which we received neither commemorative ticket nor hand stamp) and descended into the tunnel that separates the wheat from the chaff. While I am certain that there is a hierarchy among those in the grandstands and suites, for our purposes Churchill Downs was separated by those in the infield and those with seats. Denizens of the infield are the great unwashed: blue-collar folks with families, college students and others unable or unwilling to pay hundreds of dollars to sit in the grandstands and suites. The view isn't great, but the atmosphere is spectacular. The infield is massive with some paved paths criss-crossing through and around wide swaths of green grass and light brown dirt. In the center, there is a fairly large permanent restroom structure, which I never entered, surrounded by temporary food, drink and souvenir vendor stations, some no bigger than a couple of tables put together under a canopy, and others that looked like parked RVs, doling out generic fare such as funnel cakes, sausages, pizza and beer. The only items that appeared to be unique to the location were the mint juleps and the lillies, the official drink of Oaks day. It promised to be a long weekend, so I decided one ceremonial alcoholic drink would be sufficient before moving onto light beer (no microbrews here- only the big boys). Since it was Oaks day, I opted to save the mint julep for Derby day and ordered a lilly, which was a rather fruity, dark red concoction with an indistinct alcohol and a raspberry floating on top. Juleps were decidedly stronger, with a sugary sweetness paving the way for the smooth bourbon resting in the bottom of the glass, and a large stalk of fresh mint sticking out of the rim. Each drink came in its own commemorative glass. You can't bring your own glass to Churchill, but they are happy to supply you themselves. Lillies ran $9 while juleps cost $10. Beers were $7 for a 16 ounce can. Nothing like the comforts of New York-priced beverages to make me feel at home in Kentucky. A far cry from the legendary days of being able to bring in your own kegs.

Drinks in hand, we searched for our spot near turn 3, where we would be able to the horses jockeying for position just before the homestretch. We found an uninhabited plot of land within sight of the large screen that showed the betting odds and racing and settled into our new folding chairs. From this moment, around 2:00 p.m., until the last race of the day around 7:00 p.m., Jim, Perry and I would engage in a repetitive ritual of doping the racing form, debating the best horse and the best bet (not the same thing, as I so cruelly found out), sipping beverages, chatting with neighboring celebrants- many of whom were well-versed in Southern hospitality and charm, glancing at the betting boards to see the changing odds, making our way to the betting windows and then getting back to our makeshift camp in time to watch the race on the screen until the horses whizzed past on the third turn and then turning our attention back to the big screen to witness the exciting conclusion, and (in my case) cursing the bastard horse who had failed to make my early retirement dreams come true.

Scouring the racing form is a tricky business and as much objective information as you are given, there is plenty of room for interpretation, error, and the capriciousness of an animal that would probably rather be gnawing on hay than racing around in an oval on dirt. The biggest horse evaluation argument between Jim and Perry (both far more qualified and experienced aficionados than I) was the relevancy of time. Perry would point to a horse finishing a previous mile and an eighth race in one minute and 47 seconds and another horse finishing the same length in a different race in one minute and 49 seconds and conclude that the first horse was faster. Jim would counter that a horse (and jockey) only goes as fast as it needs to in order to win, so the jockey may have pulled up the horse toward the end of a five length victory in order to save some energy. The trouble, however, is that unless you've watched the race, there is no way of determining whether the horse slowed down on purpose or not. So, it's a gut feeling, or, at best, an educated guess based on the trainer's style, the jockey's reputation and common sense. In any case, I tended to ignore the times as well, instead focusing on how often the horse won or was in the money and how far off the lead he or she was, as well as what kind of competition the horse was in for previous races. Whatever I tried, however, didn't work. I pulled an 0-fer on Friday.

Some races were for maidens (horses that have never won a race) or horses that have never run a race. Sure, there are workout times and breeding and trainer information to go on, but if it were simple, the bettors would be rich, the track would go bankrupt and horse racing would cease to exist. Then there are those like me (and I suspect I am not alone), who sometimes opt to bet for value rather than the winning horse. Horse X is a 3-5 favorite? That's no fun. What about Horse ZZ, listed at 15-1? Now, cashing that ticket in would be fun! Until the favorite wins and you suddenly feel that picking up an $8 payout on a $5 bet isn't so bad.

The big race of the day was the Oaks, which Rachel Alexandra won last year before moving on to race with (and beat) the boys at the Preakness. Blind Luck was the 6-5 favorite. Of course, I did not bet on her, and she won in a photo finish over Evening Jewel (one of many horses I considered and backed off of throughout the day). A truly fantastic race with a come-from-behind victory for Blind Luck and a dramatic wait for the official results. From where we were in the infield, we could see very little actual racing, but what we could see was phenomenal. We're standing track-level and can hear the thundering of the horses coming up stretch and heading into the turn and in a blink they're gone and it's back to watching on the screen.

After the final race, we leisurely strolled back through the tunnel and out the gates to the parking lot, wiping sweat from our pink flesh and planning the night ahead. Jim had recalled an area of Louisville that he had been to before, called the Highlands, which is a street with Irish bars pressed up against residential houses. We settled into Flanagan's for a well-earned dinner, which was rather unfortunately served on paper plates. The beer, however, was cool and refreshing and we popped across the street to Molly Malone's for a nightcap, expertly slipping through the layers of bouncers collecting cover charges, before retiring to our shelter across the river in Clarksville, Indiana.

The America's Best Inn and Suites earns its name in the same way that Miller High Life is the self-referred Champagne of beers. Our room featured floor-to-ceiling windows with a giant crack down the middle of it, cobwebs above our beds, mattresses covered in plastic that roared like a crashing wave whenever you turned over, and a breakfast buffet featuring chocolate chip cookies and Ho-Hos. And still it was $120 a night. Hotels and motels closer to Churchill Downs were going for over $300 a night. Fortunately, we didn't spend much time in our room.

Saturday morning the rain came down. Hard. It had rained all night an wasn't letting up. Despite getting up by 7:00 a.m., we felt no urgency to get to the track by 8:00 a.m. to claim a spot. We drove to the Cracker Barrel near the track and were surprised to find no wait for a table for breakfast. We got a prime parking spot in the football stadium lot and traveled over the bridge again, bottles of courage in hand at 10:00 a.m. While we were tempted to pack beer into our folding chair cases to sneak in (we weren't patted down at all on Friday), we decided against it to avoid delays with security or possible expulsion. I felt strangely vindicated when my chair was strip-searched upon entry and there was nothing in it. Truth had set me free and it made me feel old.

The rain had turned the infield into a mud pit overnight. Far more people were there on Saturday than Friday. Far more college students. Most people were covered in ponchos rather than the festive dresses, suits and hats traditionally associated with the Derby. And the shenanigans were instant. It didn't take too long before people mounted the double row of port-o-potties, stumbling and bumbling from one end to the other while crowds gathered to hurl cans and bottles (some full) at them. Jim even saw a folding chair fly across. It might have been my folding chair, which was rudely taken from its spot while I was up placing a bet. Innocence felt lost. Later, as we were gathering our belongings to leave, I discovered that my collectible mint julep glass had also been snatched. Thankfully, Perry kindly offered me his, restoring some faith in humanity.

The running of the urinals is a curious ritual. The runner often injures him or herself, falling on top of the port-o-johns, being trampled by those running behind them, getting nailed by thrown objects, or being slammed to the ground by waiting police officers at the finish. And yet, people continued to do it all day long. Others preferred to roll out their slip n' slide tarps or wrestle in the mud as the rain poured down. I stood around and watched and took photos, bemused by it all, with zero interest in partaking.

Meanwhile, races continued to be run, even on the wet dirt. Races scheduled to be run on turf moved to the more stable dirt for the safety of the horses, but wreaked havoc on handicapping efforts. I came into Derby day with a new strategy of trying to bet on the horses I thought would win, no matter the odds, rather than trying to catch lightning in a bottle with a hare-brained exacta or trifecta scheme, which had failed me on Friday. Right away I nailed the first two races and was feeling good about putting some money into my pocket rather than the other way around, even if the bets were small. Unfortunately, the luck stalled from there, as I only won one more race the rest of the day. With over 90 minutes between the 10th race and the 11th race (the Derby), I still was unable to pick a winner, as Jim and I decided that Lookin' at Lucky was the best horse in the field and had the best chance of beating a disadvantageous post position on the rail. Furthermore, the favorite was being offered at 7-1 odds, which was just too good to pass up. The skies had cleared and the sun came out just as the horses were being paraded to their gates, just to taunt those of us who had endured 8 hours of rain while the rest of the world watched comfortably on their television sets. Unfortunately, Lookin' at Lucky never recovered from two early bumps and finished sixth, while Super Saver rocketed to the win.

Disappointed, we looked around us and the carnage we were standing in. Plenty of people had passed out before the Derby and never saw the race. Their friends woke them up as tents and canopies were broken down and carried out. There were still two more races to go, but most had had enough. We placed one more bet on the 12th race and, losers again, left through the crowded tunnel as teenagers poured in to help clean up the wreckage. They must have been from some volunteer organization because they were much too cheerful to be on cleanup duty on a Saturday night.

We returned to our parking spot, where we tailgated for awhile, waiting for the traffic to clear. Here, we had the most fun moment of the trip. It involved parallel conversations too complicated and inane to describe here, but which had us doubled over in laughter. Just the three of us, on the bumper of a car and a beer in hands. This is what the trip to Louisville was about. Yes, we reveled in the open air sunshine on Friday, not a care in the world, privately taunting those who were spending their Friday at work, while we were seated comfortably with a cold beverage at our lips, chatting with strangers and watching beautiful animals race by with the hope of winning big. And yes, we enjoyed thrusting ourselves in the middle of over 155,000 people on Saturday to watch the biggest horse race in the world. But, there was something about the infield that left me feeling hollow.

All the youthful exuberance, the running of the urinals, the mud wrestling, the beer funneling, none of that was mine. I watched as an outsider, perhaps looking at some extreme version of my younger self. I'm married now; I have a child who is turning one tomorrow. I have no desire to push the limits of sense and safety. Two months ago, I found myself at a beer garden in Queens with Perry and Jim, catching up and monitoring the Kansas-Northern Iowa basketball game in the background. We turned our backs for a few minutes and our pitcher of beer was gone. Trustworthy-looking neighbors pointed out the culprits. We confronted them and they denied it with a menacing sneer. I wanted badly to fight them, to stand up for myself and to assert myself as a man. Instead, I quickly calculated the sequence of events that would follow my first punch and decided that dragging my wife and baby out of bed to get me out of jail or the hospital wasn't worth it. And so I walked away toward the subway headed for home, a beer or two earlier than planned, alternating between feelings of incensed rage and utter confusion.

Later Saturday night, after the rain, after the Derby, after the laughter in the parking lot, and after another disappointing dinner in a different Irish bar in the Highlands, we sat at our table, exhausted, winding down with half-full cups of beers we would never finish. A two-person cover band set up their equipment and began to play. The sound was awful and what resulted was perhaps the worst rendition of a Neil Young song I had ever heard. Through the pained warbling, though, I heard this:

"It's so noisy at the fair
But all your friends are there
And the candy floss you had
And your mother and your dad.

Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Though you're thinking that
you're leaving there too soon,
You're leaving there too soon."

I am not a too-old twenty year-old, as Young was when he wrote this song, but I am a thirty-four year-old husband and father, and my fun is different now. The experience at the Derby was a blast and I am thrilled and thankful for the opportunity to have gone. While the races served as a setting and the plot, it was the characters of Jim, Perry and myself that I enjoyed the most.

Me and Jim in the Sun on Oaks Day

2010-05-05T16:04:00.003-04:00

Horse Hat on Friday

2010-05-05T16:04:00.000-04:00

Friday Costumes on Oaks Day (Perry Reaches For Drink)

2010-05-05T16:03:00.000-04:00

Closest View of the Horses at Turn 3 on Friday

2010-05-05T16:02:00.000-04:00

Me and Jim in the Rain on Derby Day

2010-05-05T16:01:00.000-04:00

Slip, Sliding Fun at the Derby

2010-05-05T16:00:00.002-04:00

Sashaying of the Urinals

2010-05-05T15:59:00.003-04:00

Mopping Up Blood With a Hat After Running of the Urinals

2010-05-05T15:59:00.000-04:00

Mud Wrestling, Derby Style

2010-05-05T15:57:00.000-04:00

Mud Man at the Derby

2010-05-05T15:56:00.000-04:00

Wake Up And Clean the Mud Out of Your Ears, For God's Sakes!

2010-05-05T15:53:00.000-04:00

Racing Rachel

2010-04-29T15:34:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow, the odyssey to my bluegrass heaven begins, but the biggest race of the weekend may not even be between the rails. As I've mentioned previously, the majestic filly Rachel Alexandra will be running on Friday. However, her race's post time is scheduled for 1:26 p.m. Jim and I land at 11:02 a.m.- in Indianapolis. Fortunately, Perry will already be waiting outside in his most dapper driver's cap, waiting to whisk the three of us down the interstate. It's 131 miles from the Indy airport to Churchill Downs in Louisville. With any luck, we'll get to the gate on time, run through the airport like O.J. Simpson, and be on the road no later than 11:30 a.m. That leaves us less than two hours to get there, park, navigate the crowd, and rush as close to trackside as possible to see this beauty run. In the best of circumstances, we'd even be able to lay a bet down, but that might be asking too much. Early morning line on us getting there on time is 50-1. If we make it, I vow to crown Perry with a garland of pink lillies. But, if we are late, weep no more for us. Stay tuned for stories and pictures to come after the weekend.

I'm Going To Kentucky, I'm Going to the Fair...

2010-04-28T16:48:00.000-04:00

The long-anticipated adventure to Kentucky is almost here and I am giddy with excitement. It has been two and a half months since Andrea surprised me with this gift on Valentine’s Day, which has bought her a lifetime of “You have the coolest wife ever” platitudes by my friends. I have previewed several races involving Derby contenders and conspired with my fellow explorers Jim and Perry to plot out the course of our weekend. The racing and the atmosphere, if not the weather, promise to be fantastic. Here’s the plan:

Friday, April 30th- Jim and I board an 8:30 a.m. flight from New York to Indianapolis, where we will meet up with Perry, who will have already landed, rented a car and fetched supplies by the time we arrive at 11:00 a.m. We will then drive the 130 miles from Indy to Louisville, hopefully in less than two hours. Not the most convenient way to get to Churchill Downs, but it was the cheapest, and I’d rather donate my money to predatory establishments of gambling than the airline industry.
We will hightail it down I-65 as fast (and legally) as we can in order to catch as much of Oaks day at the track as possible. Oaks day is for the ladies (and the fillies) and will have some fine races, including the La Troienne Stakes, with Rachel Alexandra scheduled to run. As of last year, the Oaks has added to its long history of traditions by dedicating its day to Breast Cancer Awareness, calling for all attendees to wear pink. I plan to wear my daughter’s bib if I fail in my attempt to fit into a onesie.
After the races are over, we plan to soak in the Derby weekend nightlife in Louisville’s finest establishments, but not too late into the night because…

Saturday, May 1st-
At the track by 8:00 a.m. The first race doesn’t go off until 10:30 a.m., but it’s a land rush for those who want to watch the action from the infield. Unlike at Belmont Park, Churchill Downs permits, nay encourages, attendees to watch/party/bet in the infield. Rather than sitting in reserved seats and wearing silly hats, we will be among the people, the real horse lovers and racing aficionados, and of course, the Runners of the Urinals. I have witnessed the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, but this tradition has a decidedly American flair to it. In any case, 80,000 people fill the infield on Derby day, so it behooves us to stake our claim to a plot of land near the third turn, where we can see the horses make their move. Throughout the day, we plan to study the forms, argue nonsensically about who will win each race and how to bet, change our minds at the betting windows, watch the races and refresh ourselves. Rinse and repeat 13 times (there are actually two more races after the Derby, allowing for ample opportunity to leave empty handed).

It’s going to be another crowded field for the Derby, as 20 horses are currently scheduled to run. There will be some scratches (Wood Memorial winner Eskendereya has already been ruled out), reducing the traffic on the dirt a little bit, but there will be lots of studying to do for this race. The post position draw was held today, which was done randomly rather than the usual double tier selection process. Here are a few of the contenders to look out for:

Lookin’ at Lucky- After getting squeezed out on the rail during the Santa Anita Derby, favorite Lookin’ at Lucky is going to have to dig his way out from crowd on the rail again because he drew the 1 spot. This is going to make it very difficult to get clear unless he shoots out of the gate well in front and hopes to go wire to wire. Otherwise, he’ll have to navigate traffic and I didn’t like the way Garrett Gomez ran him in California. There are too many other quality horses for me to feel confident about this one, even if he is the early favorite at 3-1.

Sidney’s Candy- The recipient of Gomez’s gaffe, Sidney’s Candy won the Santa Anita Derby in impressive fashion, even slowing down near the end to save himself for Louisville. However, he drew the far outside post at number 20 and is going to have to work harder to get around the turn without putting on too much extra mileage from that spot. Sidney’s Candy is listed at 5-1, which looks fair to me.

Stately Victor- The longshot winner at Keeneland for the Blue Grass Stakes in Lexington, Stately Victor romped to the winner’s circle. He’s been hit-or-miss through his career, but he now has two wins to his credit and I like him again this Saturday, especially at the 6 spot, just outside of Line of David and Super Saver. And at 30-1 odds, I am going to have a hard time resisting that payoff.

Line of David- The winner of the Arkansas Derby won wire-to-wire, and looked strong in doing so. The biggest knock on Line of David is that he ain’t seasoned on dirt, with only that one race under his belt. But at 30-1, I like his value, especially at the 5 gate.

Super Saver- Finishing second at Oaklawn in Arkansas, he spent most of the race looking up the ass of Line of David before losing by a nose. He’ll be running inside of Line of David at number 4, but I’m just not sure he’s a closer, even though his odds are better at 15-1.

Awesome Act- Finishing third to Eskendereya in the Wood Memorial isn’t something to be ashamed of, but it was a small field of six horses, and the European took his time getting toward the front of the pack. I have doubts about how he’ll handle a crowded field at Churchill, though the 16 spot won’t hurt him as much as the 20 spot will hurt Lookin’ at Lucky. I could easily see Awesome Act biding his time in the back of the pack and pacing into the money, but I’m not sure he’s a winner in this field. Could be a trifecta box pick at 10-1.

Devil May Care- The lone filly in the race, she has a nice position at 11, but she’s owned by Todd Pletcher, the Susan Lucci of horse trainers. None of his 24 previous entries have won the Derby. She is getting a lot of buzz at 10-1, but a filly hasn’t won the Derby since ’88, so she has a lot of history against her.

Keep an eye out for all of these horses, as well as Paddy O’Prado and Dublin, if you decide to tune in to NBC on Saturday from 5:00-7:00, with post time scheduled for 6:24 p.m. ESPN is covering the earlier races from 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. And if you’re a ladies man (or woman), catch the Oaks on Bravo on Friday at 5:00 p.m.

As for me, I’ll be catching it all live, up close and personal. A dream come true.

Top Ten Sporting Events I've Attended: Part II

2010-04-27T07:23:00.002-04:00

Part II of my Top Ten follows. Part I can be found here.

5. Belmont Stakes- June 7th, 1997
A fantastic introduction to the sport of kings for me, with Touch Gold denying Silver Charm’s pursuit of a Triple Crown. Read about my experience in depth here. We’ll see where this year’s Derby ranks with the ’97 Belmont.

4. Syracuse vs. UConn, Big East Quarterfinals- March 12th, 2009
Possibly one of the greatest college basketball games of all time, I was lucky enough to be there with my brother Adam and my cousin Josh, then 14 years-old and by no rights should have been up until 1:22 a.m. watching hoops in Madison Square Garden. But when two top-25 rivals are battling through 6 overtimes in the Big East tournament, bedtimes go out the window. The game was tight throughout, with UConn leading 37-34 at halftime, then Syracuse controlling the end of regulation until UConn tied it with 4 seconds left. With the score 71-71, Syracuse’s Eric Devendorf nailed a long three-pointer at the buzzer that sent the crowd into a frenzy and then left us with baited breath as the officials took forever to see whether he had released the ball before the clock hit 0.0. He had not, and we were set for overtime. And overtime again. And overtime four more times. Each overtime until the last, UConn took the lead and experimented with new ways to blow it, including missed free throws and layups. Two of the overtimes featured just three buckets each. People who looked like they had previously been wiping the floor emerged onto the court wearing authentic jerseys and handling the ball when player after player fouled out. In spite of this, the game was unbelievable in its tenacity between the teams and remarkable clutching performances all around. A.J. Price was a man afire for UConn, but ultimately Jonny Flynn outdueled him with his relentless attack of the basket, constantly drawing fouls that sent him to the line where he was money every time. In an odd twist to this game that found itself tied at six buzzers, Syracuse ended up winning by 10 points, as UConn had nothing left for the sixth overtime. Being in the crowd was electrifying, as the fans cheered each extra period, like Michael Jordan counting titles, rooting for more and more and each time getting their wish. And yes, there were fans around us who left after regulation. I pity the fools.

3. Tigers at Red Sox-July 2nd, 1995
Now we’re getting into personal territory. The top three on this list were all attended with my late grandmother Ethel, who I called Nanny. Nanny raised two great kids, one of whom is my mom, and had the tragic misfortune of having to live the last 30 years of her life alone, after my grandfather was shot in a robbery of his store in suburban Boston, two years before I was born. Over the years, when she wasn’t visiting her grandchildren, Nanny kept company many nights with Ned Martin, Ken Coleman, Joe Castiglione and Jerry Trupiano: the voices of the Red Sox radio network. Some nights, she would watch on TV as the Red Sox pushed and pulled on her heartstrings, say “To hell with ‘em,” get into bed and inevitably switch on the radio to listen to the bitter end. She loved those ballplayers and all at once couldn’t stand them, and that’s the way it was as a Red Sox fan, and that’s the way it will always be for those who lived through the lean years. Unfortunately, Nanny never lived to see the 2004 Idiots win it all, passing away to cancer in March, 2003.
1995 was one of those particularly anguishing years, where the Boston boys were good (Mo Vaughn, John Valentin, Mike Greenwell, Jose Canseco, Tim Wakefield, Rick Aguilera) but not good enough (Zane Smith, Vaughn Eshelman, the then-corpse of Roger Clemens). The season started late because of the strike that had snuffed out the 1994 season, including the playoffs, and lingered into spring, like a bad fart that left a pungent trail between the point of impact and casually sauntered-to new location of the offender. So, with some baseball purists left behind, holding their nose at the audacity of a strike by millionaires who play a game most of us would play for $50,000 plus benefits, Major League Baseball carried on, and I with it. I was 19 years old, spending the summer in Palmer, Mass. as a camp counselor, with an opportunity to spend an off weekend with Nanny, who had scored us two tickets to a Red Sox-Tigers game in July. Mo Vaughn was my favorite player at the time and he was easy to like. Big, lumbering lefty slugger who crouched over the plate before uncorking monstrous home runs beyond the Pesky Pole in right. As an added bonus, Clemens was the starter and I still had great love for him even though he appeared to be in the now-famous “twilight of his career.” He and Wade Boggs were the heroes of my youth, so I couldn’t let him go so easily. Nanny and I settled into our seats in the grandstands on the first base side, safely under cover of the second deck and in view of any number of green pillars prefacing the action on the field. The game turned out to wild, with 13 total runs scored in the third inning (five given up by Rajah), two triples by the second greatest Black Irish of all time, Troy O’Leary, and best of all, not one, but two towering home runs by my man Mo Vaughn. Still, the Sox decided to make things interesting by blowing a 5 run lead in the top of the ninth inning, only to win 12-11 in walk-off fashion with a Lee Tinsley single to right in the bottom of the inning. Great day at the ballpark with Nanny all the way around.

2. Devil Rays at Red Sox, August 14th, 2000
After finishing graduate school in St. Louis, I moved to Boston for a year, in part to be closer to Nanny. She was 85 at the time, and while spry as ever, not a frequent visitor to Fenway Park. I was living right in Kenmore Square and convinced her to come with me to a Red Sox-Devil Rays game in August. This team had Pedro Martinez in his prime, but little else besides Nomar Garciaparra, the combustible Carl Everett, and Derek Lowe as its closer. It was the kind of team that needed to sign Manny Ramirez after the season. In those days (old man alert!), before the dawn of the pink hat era, you could walk up to the ballpark during the season and still buy tickets at the window with American cash. Nanny drove in from Melrose, where she had lived since selling her old house in nearby Malden several years earlier, and we went together into the ballpark. Our seats were in the right field bleachers, just beyond the bullpens and it was an unseasonably cool night in the Fens. Pedro was pitching that night, so the place was rocking as usual. The Red Sox tied the score at the 3 in the sixth inning and it remained that way in the seventh and the eighth, and into the bottom of the ninth. Nanny was clearly tiring and I knew she wouldn’t last into extras. I asked if she could give me one more inning and she nodded. After the leadoff man got on and stole second, the next two men went down quickly, and it didn’t look like we’d be able to watch the end of the game from the seats. Then the Tampa Bay manager decided to intentionally walk Carl Everett. Up came Nomar, but before Nomar-mania could begin, the manager called for another intentional walk. The bases were now loaded for Rico Brogna, a local boy and former Phillies regular who had been claimed off waivers by the Red Sox the week prior. Working the count to 2-and-2, the fans sensed the possibility of a bases-loaded walk to win the game. We all stood up, even Nanny, and waited for the pitch. On cue, Rico Brogna smacked the ball deep to right and over the fence for a grand slam walk off homer with two outs in the bottom of the ninth. It was only August in the pre-Manny/Papi Era, but Fenway shook like an earthquake. Nanny and I screamed and hugged, jumping up and down together like the 6 year-olds next to us, and joined the crowd in chanting “Rico! Rico!” over and over again until he dug himself out from his pile of teammates and took a curtain call. Probably the single greatest moment I ever experienced live in a ballpark, and I got to share it with Nanny.

1 Florida vs. FSU, Sugar Bowl- Jan. 2, 1997
The Gators’ first national championship almost never happened. After losing 24-21 to FSU in Tallahassee in a battle of unbeatens, Florida snuck into the designated National Championship game by virtue of a dominating win over Alabama in the SEC Championship game and Nebraska’s shocking upset loss to an unranked Texas squad in the inaugural Big 12 Championship game. Jake Plummer’s upstart Arizona St. team was the only other undefeated team, but were locked into a New Year’s Day Rose Bowl matchup with 1-loss Ohio State, in the pre-BCS format, which they promptly lost, opening the door for a controversy-free Sugar Bowl. With my parents having moved from Gainesville to New Orleans in 1994, the opportunity was ripe for a family trip to the Superdome. Nanny would always come visit us in late December for me and my twin sister's birthday, so she got to come along for the ride, even if she didn’t care much for college football that didn’t involve Doug Flutie. What ensued was nothing short of a complete and total manhandling of our hated rivals, crushing them by a score of 52-20 that left no doubt as to which team was the National Champ. For the first time ever, after decades of losing and half a decade of Steve Spurrier’s tantalizing genius, Danny Wuerffel, Ike Hilliard, Fred Taylor and Lawrence Wright brought a title to Gainesville. Even local boy Terry Jackson, who I played Boys Club basketball against in middle school, got into the act, rushing for over 100 yards and two TDs. The night ended with a newly-21 year-old Yours Truly, wrapped around several Bourbon St. lampposts, imploring passersby to give me a “Go Gators!” like a homeless man begging for a quarter. After 21 years of Gators, Red Sox and Patriots disappointment, and a fading memory of the Celtics’ 3 titles in the ‘80s, I needed a “Go Gators!” Over the next decade, I would get them in spades. I am one lucky sports fan.

Top Ten Sporting Events I've Attended: Part I

2010-04-26T10:22:00.000-04:00

We’re less than a week away from the most exciting two minutes in sports (with apologies to Greg Maddux and Dave Baker), so I thought I would take this time before my upcoming trip to the Kentucky Derby to rank my Top Ten Sporting Events I’ve Attended Live. Since one of them took place in New Orleans, I’m adding one more for lagniappe. And since I pay myself by the word, we’re doing this one in two parts:

11. Virginia Tech at Pittsburgh football- November 8th, 2003
One of my first orders of business after being accepted into Carnegie Mellon’s Dramatic Writing program, after finding an apartment and scraping the fries off my salad, was to order season tickets for Pitt football. They had a fantastic home schedule, including Miami, Notre Dame and Virginia Tech. I figured I could easily make back the cost of the season package just by selling the Miami and Notre Dame tickets and still get to catch a few other games myself, which ultimately led to an awkward handoff with a Hurricane fan from West Virginia in the entryway of a chain restaurant near the Pittsburgh airport. In any case, I knew it couldn’t compare to Gator games in the Swamp, but I wanted to see how other college programs treated their football. The Panthers play at Heinz Field, where the Steelers call home, so that was kind of cool, but kind of not. I really missed the on-campus pre-game atmosphere that likely would have shut down traffic on Forbes Avenue if the stadium were there. Instead, it’s on the North Side, all the way across town and over a river. But, no matter, Virginia Tech and Heisman hopeful Kevin Jones was in town and so was my brother, so Adam and I headed down to the stadium for a night game treat. Larry Fitzgerald made an incredible touchdown grab, Kevin Jones broke off 4 TD runs (including an 80-yarder) on the way to 241 yards rushing and Rod Rutherford had the game of his life, leading Pitt on a 70 yard drive in the fourth quarter before Lousaka Polite punched in for the winning score with 47 seconds left. Final score- Pitt 31, Va. Tech, 28. Virginia Tech fans made themselves noticed with their bright orange and dark red gear, and local fans rose to the occasion as well, but if a Gator home game is a 9, this was a 5. Still, a great game to watch.

10. Holland vs. Belgium, World Cup- June 25th, 1994
Having grown up playing soccer from the age of 5 and following my brother’s footsteps as a varsity goalkeeper at Eastside High in Gainesville, I was pumped that the World Cup was coming to Orlando. Adam and I got tickets and drove two hours south to the Citrus Bowl to catch Belgium take on the Netherlands, with a star-studded team of Dennis Bergkamp, the De Boer twins, Marc Overmars and Edwin van der Sar (who wasn’t even the starter), all aged 21-25, just entering their prime. Always high drama when these two neighboring nations strap on the shinguards, and always high comedy pronouncing their names. It was David vs. Goliath, Flemish Masters vs. Dutch Masters. The atmosphere in the crowd was electric as red, yellow and black striped Belgian flags clashed against the orange jerseys of the Dutchmen, who were surprisingly tall. The Belgians managed to prevail in a huge upset, 1-0, and both teams advanced to the knockout round, with Belgium bowing to the Germans in the round of 16 and the Dutch falling to eventual champs Brazil in the quarterfinals. I’m really looking forward to this year’s Cup in South Africa, and I expect to spend some lovely summer afternoons with a frosty beverage in front of the television or at a local soccer bar, drinking in the atmosphere.

9. Lacrosse Final Four- May 27th, 2006
I have to admit, I am a Johnny-come-lately to the increasingly popular sport/culture of lax. Up until about ten years ago, my relationship with lacrosse was based solely on those awkwardly erotic Coed Naked t-shirts of the ‘80s. Lacrosse did not exist in Florida, or at least not in Gainesville. But a good friend of my brother’s, Chip, is from Maryland and played for Towson and got Adam and I interested. I figured it couldn’t be more complicated to follow than Irish hurling, which I got swept up in during a solo two-month journey across Europe in 2001, which Adam and Chip incidentally joined me on for a week or so. It was a long way to Tipperary for the Galway lads, but I remain loyal: Up Galway! In any case, Chip didn’t have to do a lot of arm-twisting to get us to make the pilgrimage to Philadelphia to check out the new Lincoln Financial Field for the college lacrosse Final Four. Truth be told, I don’t remember much about the games. UMass beat Maryland and UVA beat Syracuse and neither game was particularly close. The games were fun to watch and relatively simple enough for a novice to understand on a basic, enjoyable level. What impressed me the most were the fans. The parking lot in Philly, which is shared with the baseball stadium, was jam-packed. Kids and fathers were flipping balls to each other with lacrosse sticks all over the place, and the tailgating was phenomenal. It really is the sport of the Mid-Atlantic region and I’m glad to see that it’s spreading everywhere, even in Gainesville, where the Lady Gators are ranked in the Top 25 during their inaugural season, playing in a brand-new lacrosse facility (for which they can probably thank Urban Meyer and Billy Donovan- it’s good to be near the kings).

8. Compaq Classic- May 5, 2002
My first golf tournament and it exceeded all expectations. I’m a casual golfer. I’m not especially good, nor do I especially work on my game. I consider the green to be the hole. Once I get it up there, I could care less how many putts it takes for the ball to go underground. No one three-putts from 6 feet like I do, and I’m fine with it. Putting is for sissies, anyway. I like to watch golf on TV. I’m a fan of Tiger Woods as long as he doesn’t try to sleep with my wife. But, the idea of attending a golf tournament had never appealed to me until I got the opportunity to go to the Compaq Classic (now re-branded as the Zurich Classic) in New Orleans, while visiting my parents for Jazz Fest. Back then, the tournament was literally played in our backyard, as our house sits across a narrow water hazard from the sixth hole. What I hadn’t realized about going to a golf tournament, especially one that isn’t a major, is how close you can get to the players. All that’s between me and Phil Mickelson or Geoff Ogilvy or Stewart Cink is a thin white rope. You can hear them talking to their caddies, or to friends who are following them, or to have fans brave enough to chat them up between shots. And you can sit around the green and watch balls plop right in front of you, or you can stand at the tee box and watch them mash a drive 300 yards down the fairway. It’s really unlike any other sporting event I’ve ever been to, being so close to the action and getting to see so many different players. You can choose to follow one favorite player the whole time or you can sit at one hole and watch each player come through, or you can jump around, following someone who’s gone on a birdie run and then switching over to a legend at the end of his career for a hole or two. It’s almost like a music festival. Very, very cool. Oh, and K.J. Choi won, just his second PGA victory of what’s looking like a very good career.

7. Dice-K’s Fenway debut- April 11th, 2007
Sure, some (okay, all) of the luster surrounding Daisuke Matsuzaka’s arrival in Boston has worn off, but at the time, the hype around him and his magical gyroballs was entrancing and I gambled about a month in advance on when he would make his debut at Fenway Park against the Mariners, and got tickets for April 11th, praying for no rain, thinking this was as good a time as any to treat my then-girlfriend/now-wife to her first visit to the holy shrine of my Red Sox being. Andrea and I rented a car and drove up from New York, stopping in at my favorite, slightly out-of-the way lunch spot in Connecticut, and cruised into the city with plenty of time to take in the pre-game festivities. The excitement surrounding the ballpark breathed life into the cold, damp air that night and flashbulbs popped like fireworks, especially when fellow Japanese countryman Ichiro Suzuki stepped in to lead off the first inning. Dice-K certainly lived up to the hype that night, but the story belonged to young Seattle phenom Felix Hernandez. King Felix mowed the Sox down like a machine, taking a no-hitter into the 8th inning before J.D. Drew broke it up with a clean single, the only hit of the game in a 3-0 loss for the good guys. I was almost rooting for the no-hitter at that point (we had no chance against Felix, anyway); I’ve always wanted to see a no-hitter in person. Even though the Sox lost, it was a great trip and I was glad to be able show Andrea the majesty of Fenway Park. She cared- I think.

6. Dallas Stars at St. Louis Blues, Game 4, Conference Semi-finals- May 12th, 1999: Again, hockey is just not one of those sports that kids from Florida grow up connected to. And yet, Miami and Tampa have NHL teams. Go figure. I went to college in St. Louis, which I had previously considered to be borderline South/Midwest and did not expect it to be such a rabid hockey town. I also discovered that it occasionally snows in St. Louis in late April, so what do I know? As an undergraduate, I largely ignored the greater St. Louis area outside of our little campus cocoon in Clayton/University City, save for the occasional trip to the Galleria and Cardinals games. I didn’t start to explore different parts of the city until I stayed on for a graduate degree. That’s also when I got the opportunity to attend my first hockey game. A playoff game, no less. The Kiel Center was rocking as the Blues faced the mighty South Stars, led by former Blues hero Brett Hull, in the second round. The Blues were down in the series 2-1, but had just won Game 3 in overtime and was feeling a little momentum. I went with my professor Ann and another friend Dana, where our nosebleed seats were surprisingly not bad. The game and atmosphere was off the charts. Then it went into overtime and the roof nearly blew off. When the Blues scored in overtime, winning the game 3-2 and tying the series, the stadium shook like a volcano eruption. One of the coolest moments I’ve ever experienced- and for a team and game I barely cared about going in.

For Part II of the Top Ten, tune in tomorrow.

Tebow to Denver: Mile High Mistake

2010-04-23T10:21:00.000-04:00

So, the mystery is solved and the NFL draftniks can take a breath: Tim Tebow is a first-round selection of the Denver Broncos. While I'm not surprised he went 25th overall, I am shocked that he was picked by Denver. The Broncos' biggest weakness last season was stopping the run, an issue they "solved" by acquiring 34 year-old Jamal Williams. While they clearly needed to try to replace Brandon Marshall's huge productivity at wide receiver (and I commend their selection of Demaryius Thomas), they had traded their way into an opportunity to take either Dan Williams or Jason Odrick, defensive tackles that would have shored up their porous run defense, with the 25th pick. Instead, they Tebowed themselves in the foot.

Denver coach Josh McDaniels has traded for two quarterbacks in his short tenure there: first, Kyle Orton in the Jay Cutler trade last year and then Brady Quinn this year. I don't happen to believe that either quarterback is going to help Denver win a Super Bowl, but McDaniels must believe that, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered acquiring them. Yes, Tebow gives the quarterback position in Denver a different dynamic, but it's not necessarily one they need. Running back Knowshon Moreno was a successful ground gainer in his rookie year, including in short yardage situations. He converted on 64.7% of third-and-short plays, and was third in the league in touchdown percentage near the goal-line, busting into the end zone 5 out of the 7 opportunities he had from inside the 3 yard line. Tebow's ability to succeed on short-yardage run plays gives the Broncos another option, but it's not worth a first round pick, especially with the payroll department taking on another first round salary with Thomas.

The Tebow Dilemma: How He Should be Used in the NFL

2010-04-08T17:30:00.000-04:00

Tim Tebow is a bust. Or he’s an ace. Or he’s a pair of eights, destined to make an NFL GM or coach’s stomach churn as they double their bet: infinite possibilities looming, some bad, some decent, but none of them a blackjack. No one seems to know which, but all of them have bellied up to the high-rollers table, watching as the cards get passed around. And they should. Tim Tebow is a top-53 player on any roster. Some teams, however, are trying to decide if he is a franchise quarterback, the kind that gets paid a lot of money, the kind that gets drafted in the first round. The answer to that dilemma lies in how each prospective team envisions Tebow’s ceiling. And while the NFL draft gets underway on April 22nd, NFL front office personnel would be wise to wait to call the name of The Great Tim Tebow until the next day, when the second and third rounds take place. And he should be drafted not as The Franchise and not as The Project, but as a hybrid alternative: third down quarterback.

Conventional wisdom and draftniks say Tebow is not a first-rounder, and we all know why: his throwing motion is suspect and he’s not used to playing in a pro-style offense. Still, it’s certainly possible that a team with an anemic and hopeless offense like Cleveland, Buffalo or St. Louis might try to rebuild their offensive scheme to fit Tebow’s strengths and put him at the helm, but it’s likely that at least one of the Big Two of Sam Bradford and Jimmy Clausen would be available to one of those teams. Even if a team were to prefer Tebow over the more traditionally-styled Colt McCoy as the third best QB, there are too many other surer bets out there in the first round, where the risk and the reward tend to be as tight as Tony Romo’s collar in a playoff game.

And yet there is scuttlebutt that a team toward the end of the first round might be able to afford to roll the dice on the two-time BCS champ. Successful, well-run organizations like the Patriots and Steelers bristle at having to take the time to teach young players how to be a winner. Tebow comes pre-programmed in that department, but really, what team can pass on plugging a hole to take on an extra quarterback? And if you’re drafting toward the end of the first round, that means that you’re a contender, and no coach or GM of a contending team in their right mind would waste a first round pick on a position that is obviously not an issue (with the exception of Arizona, who is likely loath to go all in on another first round QB while Matt Leinart is still on the roster). Then there’s the Savior Theory, hitherto only applied to the Jaguars, who may, in a desperate attempt to fill seats, pluck the local boy hero to appeal to their Bible Belt fan base. More on the Jags later.

Predicting where Tebow will land is nothing more than a semi-educated guess, because it depends on the whim/expertise of the shot-callers in the NFL, some of whom are shrewd evaluators of talent and some of whom are hardheaded ex-jocks who go with their beer gut. There will be those who believe Tebow can one day (possibly soon) be a successful, starting quarterback in the NFL. There are others who value his leadership qualities and work ethic and believe that he can be someone they can trust if their first stringer goes down for a short period of time. And there are those who want to mold Tebow into their ideal player, no matter how little experience he may have at whatever position they think he can play. Yes, he’s built like a fullback, but does anyone really think that he can be an effective blocker? Child, please.

Let’s assume for a moment that Tebow is human, and whatever mechanical changes he’s made as a quarterback in the last six weeks would disappear in the 0.7 seconds it takes for Dwight Freeney to descend upon him in the pocket like an avalanche. And despite his 2,947 career rushing yards as a Gator, his 4.72 time in the 40 isn’t going to save him from an end like Freeney or any middle linebacker chasing him to the outside. However, the one thing I would want Tebow to do is take the snap on third or fourth and short.

From the moment Tebow stepped on the field as a true freshman man-child until his jarring, concussion-inducing hit against Kentucky as a senior, Tebow successfully rushed on third and short (here defined as one or two yards) 76.1% of the time- and didn’t turn the ball over once. The Miami Dolphins were second in the league last year in third and short conversion rate at 56.9%. From 2008 until the hit in 2009 (17 games), with the target of a Heisman Trophy on his back, he maintained an even-keel, to the tune of 76.2%. As a freshman in 2006, when he was used largely as a third down quarterback, replacing the unimposing Chris Leak at key moments, he went 8-for-10 on third and short runs, plus another 3-for-3 while running on fourth-and-short. And inside the three-yard line with the defense stuffing the box like Election Day in Iran? Five rushing touchdowns in five attempts. The Buffalo Bills had zero rushing touchdowns inside the 3 last year.

Here’s where we find out if the Jaguars have truly fallen under the spell of the Glory of the Coming of the Tebow: Jacksonville led the league in the third and short conversion last season. Maurice Jones-Drew busted through at a 76.0% clip (on 25 attempts- the most in the league), but more than that, the Jags don’t have to look very far to realize that they already have Tim Tebow: David Garrard was 10-for-10 on third and short last season. No other QB cracked the top 20 in third and short conversion rate. Granted, Garrard is 32 and hasn’t delighted Jacksonville fans since high school the way Tebow has, but Garrard was not the Jaguars’ problem last year. Their receiving corps wasn’t exactly drawing double teams and their defense was awful. At best, Tebow maintains the status quo in Jacksonville, and that’s not worth a first or second round pick, unless they plan to shore up their secondary through a trade or free agency. What they really need on offense is Brandon Marshall, not Tim Tebow.

So, where does it make sense for Tebow to go? I’ve broken it down into two categories: Hail Mary and Touchdown Jesus.

Hail Mary: Our Offense Is a Disgrace, Our Team Hasn’t Won in Years (If Ever) and We Need Divine Intervention (Chance of Success=Heaving a Ball 50 Yards Through a Defense That Knows It’s Coming)

Cleveland- Right now, it seems that Holmgren is betting that the wind off Lake Erie will push Jake Delhomme’s passes away from the seemingly magnetic forces of the opposing team. If it lands in an eligible Browns receiver’s hands, Holmgren does a dance of joy. If it’s caught by the intended receiver, Holmgren pulls a Pat Riley and installs himself as head coach immediately. Either way, Tebow doesn’t have the arm Holmgren uses for his system, so I don’t see the Browns building their offense around him. And they have so many other problems, it would be foolish to take a backup/third down QB in the first two rounds. Wait a minute, did I say foolish? Count the Browns in! Chance of Browns selecting Tebow: 20%

Oakland- How much longer can the Raiders cling to JaMarcus Russell? How much longer can JaMarcus Russell cling to the title of king of the burgers? Raider Nation would love the hard-nosed Tebow, but he’s not solving their problems, which run deeper than Lake Tahoe. However, anytime Al Davis is calling the shots, anything can happen. I actually make sure my cell phone is on during the draft every year just in case he calls me to tell me I’m the newest Raider. Chance of the Raiders selecting Tebow: 25%. Chance of the Raiders selecting Weiner: 2%

Buffalo- This scenario scares me the most, because they have the most glaring need at QB and the thought of Tebow facing Rex Ryan and Bill Belichick defenses four times during his rookie season makes me feel sorry for Tebow’s parents, who (as we know from the famous Super Bowl ad) overcame much adversity just to bring little Timmy into the world, only to watch him get crushed so young. Still, word is that Jim Kelly is hot for Tebow. Chance of the Bills selecting Tebow: 40%

St. Louis- What if the Rams take the best player in the draft instead of the best quarterback? They pass on Sam Bradford, take Ndamukong Suh or Gerald McCoy to anchor their pathetic defense and then loop around to take Tebow at the top of the second round. Or trade down a few spots to shore up their secondary with Eric Berry or Joe Haden and collect extra picks along the way. Turn on the Steven Jackson show while Tebow warms into his role as game-manager and team leader. Nah, too logical. Good luck, sweet St. Lou. If Bradford doesn’t work out, you’ll still have the best roast beef sandwich in the country. Chance of the Rams selecting Tebow: 5%

Touchdown Jesus: We’re a Pretty Good, Contending Team, but it Sure Would Be Nice to Have Some Bruiser With Half an Arm Pick Up a Few Short Yardage Plays For Us to Get Us Over The Hump (And Save Money on Those Silly Punters & Kickers)

New England- The Patriots were a surprising 11th in the league last year on third-and-short conversions, given that Tom Brady couldn’t run past a pregnant Gisele any more than a line of scrimmage. Laurence Maroney was 9-for-12, but his inability to hold onto the football makes him a dead man walking on Belichick’s roster. I don’t think Belichick’s quite reached the point where he’s crazy enough to turn Tebow into a tight end, but I do think he’d love to extend Brady’s career by substituting Tebow on short yardage plays. Chance of the Patriots selecting Tebow: 30%

San Diego- Philip Rivers is the starter, no question, so there should be no ego issue bringing in a young buck like Tebow to beef up their 30th ranked third-and-short rate (and 26th ranked touchdown rate inside the three yard line). With the lackluster LT gone, those carries will fall to the even smaller Sproles, and the Chargers could certainly use a bigger option, who can also find Antonio Gates should Tebow’s rushing antics become too predictable (TT was 6-for-10 passing inside the three yard line in his career, with no interceptions). Chance of the Chargers taking Tebow- 20%

These are the only teams that make sense in terms of taking Tebow in the first two rounds. In the unlikely event that he slips to the third round (the hype-meter on Tebow is rising by the day), there are plenty of other teams that could use him. Teams like the Texans, Bengals, Dolphins and Packers would be better served filling bigger needs than spending on a luxury item such as Tebow, but all it takes is one riverboat gambler to make him a top-10 pick. And that is too much to bet on a third-down QB with a recent concussion.

Rhymes with Horses' Tails

2010-02-18T20:31:00.005-05:00

After my experience at the ’97 Belmont Stakes, I kept a passing interest in horse racing. I would make a point to watch the Triple Crown races on TV, but not much more. Sure, there was the occasional Preakness party hosted by a Baltimore friend, coupled with brief trips to an OTB, but no real investment in the sport until I met Jim.

Jim is a fellow writer who started graduate school in Pittsburgh a year after I did, so we did not meet until the fall of 2004. Over many beers these past 5+ years, Jim would regale me with tales of his father, which 85% of the time involved a horse. More specifically, the shenanigans Jim, Sr. and his buddies would get into on the way to, at and on the way home from various horse races. These stories are not mine to tell, and if I wrote them they would lack the style, charm and romance of the storyteller. Also, you would not believe a word of it. The “Horseshit Tales of Jim and Jim, Sr.” are so outrageous, so hilarious and so tragic, they put the Bible to shame. And not unlike the Bible, the parishioner is not asked to test the limits of physical possibility, but rather to believe in something Greater. It does not matter if our eyes have never seen a 100 year-old woman give birth, a sea split in two, or a man walk on water. These things simply happened and there were witnesses to tell the tale afterwards. It does no good to debate the truth, for doubt only ruins the story. Instead, choose to believe and thy will be enlightened. And so it is with the “Horseshit Tales.” I love them and I believe them because they fulfill a missing part of my soul. And because I am already damned to Hell for having listened to them.

After graduate school, I moved to New York. After a year in the city, I met Andrea, the woman who would be my wife. It would be three weeks between that meeting and our first date. First, there would be Saratoga. The day after meeting Andrea, I left to go on a family vacation to visit my sister in Portland and celebrate my father’s 60th birthday (and make a side road trip with my brother to Vancouver and Seattle). A few days after my return, I was scheduled to pick up an award at a film festival on Cape Cod. Sensing the geographical possibilities, I accepted an invitation from Jim to attend a couple of days of racing at Saratoga with his friend Perry before heading to Massachusetts.

Jim was driving from Pittsburgh to Perry’s house upstate and the two of them were to meet me at the train station in Albany, and then head over to our hotel to prepare to attend my First Communion at the Saratoga Cathedral. Perry is a professional Native American storyteller and between the two of them, my ears were burning with the heat rising from the horseshit. Or was it the actual 95-degree heat wave that flooded the Saratoga racetrack like a plague, thereby cancelling the day’s races for the first time in 130 years? Stunned, Perry and Jim decided that the only plausible way to salvage the day was to spend it in the most depressing place on earth: the Albany OTB.

Having never previously been to Saratoga, I could not fully appreciate the stark contrast this dank pit of a bettor’s palace held. Saratoga Race Course, for those who have not been, is the Garden of Eden. Surrounded by lush green grass and tall oak trees shading communal picnic tables, the track itself is in marvelous shape, with an inviting apron from which to watch the action thundering mere yards away. It was worthy of a stop on a road trip to Montreal with Andrea the following year. The Albany OTB is where the next overzealous religious cult should hold its mass suicide. Now, it could be that everyone in there that day was depressed that the Saratoga races had been cancelled, and were therefore forced to bet on harness racing at such luminous tracks as those in West Virginia, Delaware and New Jersey, but I’d be surprised if the mood changed much from day to day. It’s actually quite a large venue, almost like a converted strip club, with dozens of 13-inch screens trained on various races, some of them not even live. After a few miserable hours, we decided we’d be better off stripping naked and scraping our privates across the hot gravel of the parking lot, and then going back to our hotel room to drink, play cards and pray for cooler horses to prevail the next day.

And it was evening and it was morning, a second day. The weather cooled a bit and Saratoga rejoiced. We arrived at the track just before the first races, lugging in a cooler filled with sausages, cheeses and, of course, beer. Perry and Jim patiently refreshed my memory on how to read a Racing Form, while somewhat cheerfully bickering back and forth about which horses were going to win, a delightful ritual that continued throughout the day. Meanwhile, I took in the gorgeousness of the track and the picnic area and the festivities that surrounded me, drinking beer, making several uneducated guesses as to which horse might win and which horse might win me a lot of money, nervously placing bets at the betting window and then wandering onto the apron to watch the race unfold exactly the opposite of how I predicted, and then repeated the entire procedure eight or nine more times until the last horse limped across the finish line and the crowds headed to the parking lot to continue their partying in the town of Saratoga Springs. I have since returned twice to Saratoga, once with Jim and Perry and once with Andrea. There are few summer days so glorious as one spent on the shaded grass of Saratoga. From the tales I have been told, Louisville is a whole other animal. I look forward to forging my own tales, with Perry, Jim and (if I am lucky) Jim, Sr. himself as witnesses.

Running For the Roses on Valentine's Day

2010-02-16T22:48:00.001-05:00

My wife continues to amaze me. In the past year, she has given birth, moved twice (once while pregnant and once with a 5 month-old), started a new job, and come through it all relatively intact. Then, this past Valentine's Day, she went beyond the beyonds. A gift no married man (let alone father) dare dream of, for fear of psychological institutionalization. Yes, my wife gave me her unsolicited blessing and a plane ticket to attend the 2010 Kentucky Derby. With two friends whose reputations for the perpetuation of general nonsense precede them. On the weekend before our daughter's first birthday. I don't know if I could have reacted more enthusiastically if she had told me that Gisele was going to use our apartment for a week-long lingerie fashion shoot. I leaped up from the table at the restaurant and nearly knocked her over with my embrace. This called for celebration. This called for bourbon.

As the romantic dinner at our favorite intimate restaurant in Brooklyn Heights continued, and the glow showed no signs of wearing off, I began to wonder to myself: "Why am I so damn happy?" I wouldn't call myself a hardcore horse racing fan by any means. Yes, I have been to the track a handful of times in my life, and I know how to read a Racing Form, but it isn't something that I keep up with daily, like I do baseball and football, or even casually, like basketball and soccer. I have never especially wanted to attend a Super Bowl, unless the Patriots were involved, and even then, I've had four chances in the past decade and I never once bothered to cruise eBay for tickets. Sure, they would have been out of my price range, but I was a dumb 26 year-old when they won Super Bowl 36 in 2002 in New Orleans, where my parents live and am generally allowed to stay free of charge. Surely, if there is any time to toss away $500-$1000 on a Super Bowl ticket, it's then. "Eh," I reasoned, "The seats will probably suck. Better to watch on TV." A World Series game? Sure, if the Red Sox are involved. Did I bother in 2004 or 2007? No. So, what is it about watching 20 or so horses I've never heard of race for two minutes that has me so pumped? For one thing, Touch Gold.

In 1997, I took a summer job in New York before my senior year of college at Washington University. I was crashing on the futon in my brother Adam's one-bedroom walk-up apartment in the East Village and ready for my first 21 summer in the city. My brother's friend is a bit of horse aficianado and they invited me to attend the Belmont Stakes. I had never been to a horse race before and now I was going to a Triple Crown race. Not only that, the city was abuzz about Silver Charm, who had won the Derby and the Preakness and was the favorite to take the first Triple Crown since Affirmed in 1978. We took a train to Belmont Park, which I had no idea was near the city, let alone virtually in Queens. Until this point, I had refrained from raising one of my main concerns for fear of seeming uncool: "How much am I going to have to pay to get into the Belmont Stakes?" Surely, Adam's friend had gotten us tickets in advance and I would have to come up with the cash eventually, somehow, but how much? I mean, it's a Triple Crown race! With an actual Triple Crown at stake. Could it be $100? $200? $500? We get to the ticket booth and the moment of truth arrives. The ticket man says "Two dollars." Excuse me? Two bucks to get into the biggest sporting event the entire world is talking about? God bless horse racing! God bless America!

We get in and I am stunned to learn that the Belmont Stakes will not take place for another 6 hours. What am I to do in the meantime? Learn to bet the ponies, of course. Adam and his friend try to teach me the racing form, but like any natural gambler, I am only interested in the big payoff. Who cares if a particular horse is favored to win me $3 if I bet $2? I want the horse that will set me for life if it wins! 50-1 odds? Come on down!

By the time the showcase race rolled around, I had wised up a bit, but I still wasn't onboard with betting Silver Charm and his paltry payout. I was conflicted because wouldn't it be more fun to bet on the horse that could make history, the one everyone was here to see? Instead, I bet Touch Gold, who was among the favorites, but promised a bigger payday than Silver Charm. Little did I know that I had made the best choice of all. Not just because Touch Gold won, spoiling the Triple Crown bid, but because "Touch Gold" is so much more fun to say roughly 156 times in succession as he's turning into the homestretch with a two dollar ticket in your hand. Caught up in the excitement of the moment, surrounded by thousands of people, the only natural thing to do is repeat the name of the horse over and over again throughout the race. It was then that I was hooked. But, that is only a small part of why this year's Kentucky Derby race excites me so much. The other part belongs to my friend Jim, who I will be going with, along with another friend, Perry. The story of Jim deserves its own blog post, coming soon.

Fantasy Results

2009-10-13T19:14:00.002-04:00

Although my owners Lumbergh and Tweedle Dee quit on me the last two months (in addition to the one month sabbatical they took in midseason), our boys were able to muster a 10th place finish in a field of 17. Could've been a lot worse.
In another 20-team league I was in, I won my 10-team division and then made it to the championship game before falling to the #1 seed.
In my own league, I blew a healthy lead in the last month and finished an unconscionable 5th out of 12 teams. I led the most laps, but ran out of gas at the end. First time I have not finished in the top 2 in 7 years.
Of course, there's always next year.

And Now Back To Fantasy Baseball

2009-06-11T15:38:00.002-04:00

Okay, a lot has happened in the fantasy baseball season since I last wrote. The Cobble Hill Gang of my Yahoo! league is once again near the top of the standings. I've been in first place for most the season, and am momentarily in second place. This won't last long.

The league of Lumbergh and Tweedledee, however, is another matter altogether. It became clear in the first month that my strategy was doomed to fail. Most of the other teams in the league have essentially punted the saves category that I coveted so dearly during the draft and are instead racking up wins and strikeouts at an alarming rate. To compensate, I ended up trading Matt Lindstrom for Barry Zito and the injured Franklin Morales, who should come off the DL shortly and force me to make a difficult roster move. At the same time (about a month ago), I also traded for Dontrelle Willis, who might become a roster casualty when Morales comes off the DL. I need strikeouts badly, and Willis has been very inconsistent. I may have to trade him or possibly drop him soon.

I have also been burned by season-long disappearance of Big Papi. Certainly, I was not expecting a mere 3 home runs through the first two months of the season. I am hurting in virtually every category, except for Saves, ERA and RBI. No one is stealing bases for me, either. When Nate McLouth became eligible for the league by being traded the Braves, he was picked up off waivers for 93 units! We only have 100 to use for the whole year, give or take, since units can be traded. David Price went for 92 units. Comparatively, I bid 9 units. So, there is very little hope of me making a big move to rise in the rankings, where I currently sit 14th out of 17. Soon, I will have to trade Brad Ziegler, who has very little value anyway since he's on a team with few wins to save. I need starting pitching, but there aren't very good options out there. Hopefully, my hitting will turn around and I will have a chance.

A Brand New World

2009-06-11T15:34:00.003-04:00

Greetings again for those still out there. Pardon my delinquency in my posts. On May 6th, I became the alleged father of Emily Juliet Weiner. She's happy and healthy and so are her parents.

Lumbergh Calling

2009-04-14T10:29:00.001-04:00

Lumbergh says whatever Tweedledee and I decide is fine. Tweedledee doesn't respond. Methinks it's time for a renegotiation of the terms of our contract...

Call Me?

2009-04-09T11:27:00.004-04:00

Now that the season is underway (we're in 3rd place, but it's early), I want to make a few changes to the team. I wrote an e-mail to Lumbergh and Tweedledee, outlining my proposal to pick up a replacement for Jeremy Bonderman (who is on the DL) and trading a closer for a starter. 24 hours later I get an e-mail from Lumbergh asking me to call him. I call him and he's in a meeting. Meanwhile, roster changes can only be made on Thursday by noon. It's currently 11:29 a.m. and I still haven't heard back from him. All he had to do was say "yes, go for it." Instead, I get "call me." Not very efficient. I don't even think they've paid the league dues, which would mean that we can't make any moves, anyway.
Wonder what he wants...

Failure To Report, Part II

2009-04-09T10:20:00.002-04:00

After the experience of getting Johan, I became giddy with bidding power. Ryan Braun (The Hebrew Hammer), Matt Holliday, Lance Berkman and David Ortiz all became members of Team 8 within the span of an hour. Braun for $34 was probably a buck or two more than I would have liked, but I didn't want to be left out of star power. Holliday for $28 I thought was a good deal and the same goes for Berkman for $25. Big Papi could be a steal at $20 if he stays healthy, but I didn't realize that I could no longer bid on a DH for the rest of the draft, since he occupied the only DH spot on my roster. This left me out of the game when it came to bidding up players. The same thing happened when I later snatched up my two catcher spots relatively early.

So, now I've got 5 players I'm really happy with, with 4 of them being consensus first or second round picks in a regular fantasy draft, but I've already spent an incredible $140 for them, leaving me with a mere $120 to spend on the remaining 18 players I need on my roster, an average of $6.66 per player. Yikes! One would think that I would proceed with caution and, in a way, I did. For the next two and a half hours, exactly zero players joined Team 8, as I rued feeling handcuffed by my budget and leaving the bidding early and missing out on players that went for far less than their value, such as Jason Bay for $23, Bobby Abreu for $19, Miguel Cabrera for $31, Manny for $28, and Mark Teixera for $27, to name a few.

Once I let other teams' budgets catch up with mine (albeit with more players than me), I re-entered the bidding and again spent wildly, acting on my fear that the top closers were disappearing from view and grabbing Jonathan Broxton for $18 and Bobby Jenks for $14. I now had 7 players on my roster and $88 to play with, lowering my average budget per player to $5.50. In my crazed state, I deluded myself into feeling comfortable that my total amount left was on par with the other teams, while Adam kept pointing out the inconvenient truth that I had more players left to get than other teams. Details, details...

Matters were not helped by my overzealous purchase of one Bengie Molina for a whopping $11. Yes, he's a cleanup hitter, but it's for the San Francisco Giants, not exactly a dominant offensive team. I also wanted to make sure that I got two regular starting catchers for my roster, since only 24 starting catchers were available for 34 roster spots (2 each for 17 teams). I rationalized that Molina pick with a reasonable $6 for A.J. Pierzynski, but I later learned that other slightly lower-tiered catchers were going for $3 and I probably could have saved some valuable money there.

I was pleased with my purchase of J.D. Drew for $8. If he stays healthy, it's a fantastic buy, but that's a giant if. Comparitively, I don't think he's less than a quarter of the player that Ryan Braun is, so I felt good about it. I filled out my 5-man outfield with the immortal Ryan Spilborghs and Ryan Church. Three Ryans in the outfield must be good luck, right?

I was getting down to the nitty-gritty and really had no money left for top players, but as it was most of the top players were gone by this point in the draft, which had stretched on about 8 hours at this point. Marlins closer Matt Lindstrom for $7 I thought was a good buy, though I perhaps chose poorly with the remainder of my starting pitchers: Jeremy Bonderman for $5, Anthony Reyes for $5 and Jorge De La Rosa for $4. None of these pitchers are particularly impressive, nor were they even targets of mine in the first place, but it's just where the panicked chips fell. I later filled out my pitching staff with Hong Chih Kuo for $1 and Brad Ziegler for $7 (though I could have gotten him for less, but he was the last player I had left to pick and I had $7 to spend, so I just nominated him with an opening bid of $7 when it came to my turn at around 8:00 p.m.). In retrospect, my plan of securing first place in the saves category and lowering my ERA by drafting relievers might be undone by placing last in wins and strikeouts, as most other teams focused on starting pitching, with virtually no relievers. As a result, I am going to blow everyone away with saves, but that doesn't help much, so I going to look for a way to trade my top closer for a top starter.

The biggest trouble I had was filling out my infield. I already had Berkman, but the top or even middle-tier infielders mostly went during my spending moratorium, so I was left with the following slim pickings: Luis Castillo for $7 (a special request of Lumbergh and Tweedledee), Nick Punto for $3, Josh Fields for $3, Mark Ellis for $2 and Casey Blake for $6. I'm hoping I was able to get serviceable speed and/or power from each of those spots, without killing my batting average. I'm relying on the big guns I got at the beginning of the draft to carry the weight of the hitting categories.

Meanwhile, throughout the day, food and beverages were trotted out with much appreciation from the exhausted and punch-drunk drafters. Cheesesteaks and lobster rolls were the lunch feature (obviously, not a kosher law firm), and later a popcorn machine was rolled into the room, with accompanying baseball-themed snacks such as Cracker Jacks, beer nuts and baseball-shaped Baby Ruth packs, along with an array of brownies, blondies and cookies. My decision to load up on coffee (partly for energy, partly to stay warm in the freezing cold room) backfired on several occasions as I had to bolt the draft to hit the men's room when players I wasn't interested in were being bid on. Luckily, I needed no extended stays in the restroom, though I'm sure Adam could have handled it in my absence.

All in all, it was quite a grueling 12-hour experience, but it was also a lot of fun. I enjoyed being able to have a shot at every player available, rather than the regular draft structure of picking players in turn. It was frustrating at times to have those 6 MLB team's players excluded from the bidding, but I guess that just added to the challenge. With our pick of Brad Ziegler, Adam and I quickly packed up our computers, bid a hasty farewell and headed for the nearest pub to watch the second half of the Pitt-Villanova Elite Eight matchup, which ended in spectacular last-second fashion. Over a couple of refreshing beers, we unwound ourselves from the hectic pressure-chamber of the draft room and congratulated each other on a job well done. Again, I couldn't have done without Adam, and I can't thank him enough for all his help.

Failure To Report, Part I

2009-04-08T10:58:00.003-04:00

So, the draft was a good 10 days ago and I have failed to achieve the modest task with which I was charged: reporting on the much-anticipated auction. I moved, plus there was the task of winning my March Madness pools for a combined total of $335. Without further ado:

Early on the morning of March 28th, I traveled to the corporate headquarters of Muckety Muck, LLC to partake in their 17th annual fantasy baseball auction. Upon reaching the 29th floor at about 7:45 a.m., I was ushered into a large conference room by a very nice 60ish hostess named Mary and her team of able assistants, where I found my large desk with two chairs, two notepads, two pens, two coffee mugs, and a power strip waiting for me. The identical set-up was multiplied 17 times around a large rectangle where other teams were setting up shop. A full array of assorted baked goods was on hand (including a decent spread of lox), along with coffee, juice and water. After some technical difficulties involving wireless for my two computers (one for draft software and one for online research), I was good to go. Then my knight in shining armor strolled in: Adam.

Oh, lord, had Adam not decided to come, then stay for the ENTIRE twelve hours of the auction, I might have spontaneously combusted. Occupying the seat next to me, Adam helped research players, keep tabs on other teams' budgets, remind me who the hell I was bidding on, offered emotional support and did my taxes. Okay, the last part isn't true, but he was my cut man, through and through. Mad props to Adam for sacrificing Elite Eight Saturday to help me. He even was able to get my computer to show streaming video of the basketball games online.

The way the auction was operated was that each team went in order around the room, nominated players and starting the bidding, sometimes as low as $1, or other times cutting to the chase with a $10 first bid. The latter approach is a little risky, as evidenced by one team's opening bid of Randy Winn for $10. No one so much as raised a finger to up the bidding and Randy Winn was sold for $10 to the opening bidder, who likely spent the rest of the day wondering if he could have gotten Winn for less (answer: yes). In any case, it took me awhile to get used to the nominating and bidding procedure and I often lost track of who was being bid on because I was still recording the information from the previous bid, i.e. putting the name of a player into the appropriate fantasy team's roster for the amount of money spent, so that I could keep track of everyone's needs and budgets (a plan that was later virtually useless). When the player's bid comes around, each team must either raise the bid or put down their team's sign that stands on the desk, signifying they are out of the auction. As Team 8, I would wait for Team 7 to make a bid and then make my move and then watch as the bidding continued around the room until it got back to me or (if I had folded), ended with someone else's winning bid. The biggest problem with this relatively orderly approach was the fact that there was no official auctioneer, announcing clearly who was being bid on and for how much, so there was a lot of "Who's the player?" and "What's the bid?" being asked all around the room. There was, however, an official budget-keeper, so that everyone could see how much money everyone had left (but not who their players were; that was our own responsibility).

Once the auction began, my carefully-crafted plan disintegrated like a clay pigeon in the Texas sky. I was confident that starting pitching was deep and that I would not need to spend very much of my budget on my mandated 9-man pitching staff. I was hoping to spend about $80 on pitching and the remaining $180 on the 14 hitters I needed. Instead, I spent $94 on pitching and $166 on hitting. Not terribly off-course, but my money certainly could have been spent more wisely. Part of the problem was Johan Santana.

Jose Reyes had already gone for $41, Hanley Ramirez had gone for $37, and Albert Pujols had gone for $36, so the market was set for the consensus top 3 players (even though I think Hanley is more valuable than Reyes and certainly not worth $4 less; this is a NY-based league, after all). When Johan's name was called out, I had no intention of bidding on him, much less getting him on my team, especially since I knew that he had gone for $40 last year. But, for some reason I stayed in the bidding, just to see what it would be like and the final number landed on $33 and Santana was mine. If the other person bidding on him had gone up to $34, there was no way I would have gone up to $35, but I was pretty pleased with having an ace to anchor my staff for what I thought was a discount. Tim Lincecum and CC Sabathia ended up going for $33, too, so that appeared to be the max number for top starting pitching. I felt confident that I could get other pitchers for cheap, so I wasn't too worried about using over 41% of my pitching budget on one guy. Plus, he's a Met, so I knew that would make my owners happy. However, blowing through another $107 in the next hour was definitely not part of my plan.

D-Day Approaches

2009-03-27T17:32:00.003-04:00

The draft is tomorrow and I'm exhausted already.

On Tuesday, I met with Lumbergh and his co-owner, who we'll call Tweedledee, mostly because he failed to reveal any distinguishing characteristics about himeself during the meeting. We gathered at the same midtown pub/restaurant where Lumbergh and the Thin Man met me a few weeks ago. This time, I followed Tweedledee's lead and ordered a beer. I needed it.

I had just finished my own league's fantasy baseball draft the night before and had spent that entire day furiously cramming for the draft, which didn't do me as much good as I would have liked. My team is fine, but I've left myself plenty of work to do during the season to make sure I win. That's fine, a little competition isn't bad. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time for it with the two other leagues I'm in, plus a baby's imminent arrival.

In any case, I came to the lunch meeting prepared to talk about my auction strategy and the kinds of players we should be going after. I waxed poetic about the economics of the salary cap and how we should be conservative with star players and instead target below-market values across the board. With 17 fantasy teams choosing from a pool of 24 major league teams to fill 23 roster spots, it's going to be challenging to find quality players at each position. The fact that 6 major league teams are left out of the bidding is a little discouraging, since so many good "sleepers" are on those teams: Royals, Orioles, Mariners, Nationals, Pirates and Padres. To be sure, those are the worst teams in baseball, but there's no need to leave them out.

My strategy session was met with approval from Tweedledee and complete bewilderment from Lumbergh, who was only interested in whether I thought Luis Castillo and Daniel Murphy would be good players to have. Clearly, I am going to have to balance their desire to win with their preference for crappy Mets role players. But with 391 players being drafted tomorrow, I'm going to have scrape the bottom of the barrel at some point, so it might as well be with Mets.

After a long, trying ordeal, I was able to download a fantastic auction draft software that will really help me during the draft. For some reason, it's only compatible with Windows, and I have a Mac, so I had to dig deep into the abyss of moving boxes in my apartment to resuccitate my old Dell in time for tomorrow.

Adam is going to come and be my assistant GM for a bit tomorrow, which will be helpful as I get my feet under me in this foreign auction format. I think it will be a lot of fun, but also incredibly draining. 12 hours of constant chess matches and poker faces with a room full of hardcore lawyers. I am counting mostly on my knowledge of baseball to keep from being eaten alive. I'm well prepared, but it's also my rodeo, so we'll just have to see how it all plays out.

8:00 a.m. tomorrow it begins. Nice way to start the weekend.

A Different (And Bizarre) Kind of Fantasy Baseball

2009-03-05T20:38:00.003-05:00

That's why I get it in 'til the sun rise
Doin' 90 in a 65
Windows rolled down screamin' "Ah!"
Hey-ey-ey, I'm so paid.

- Akon

A few weeks ago, I was approached by a pair of partners at a high-powered New York law firm to draft their fantasy baseball team for them. They had heard of my fantasy prowess from a mutual friend and had scheduling conflicts with the draft date and wondered if I might be available to run their team on draft day. Ordinarily, it doesn't take much arm-twisting to get me to draft a fantasy baseball team; I am a three-time champion and three-time runner-up in my six year-old 12-team rotisserie league, after all. But, this draft is different. This league is different. We're talking about a 17-team auction draft. We're talking about a draft that could take twelve hours. On a Saturday. In an office.

Lumbergh's gonna have me come in on Saturday, I just know it.

Originally, this plan was pitched to me as a networking opportunity, being as I am, in fact, looking for a high-paying full-time job. Networking is nice, yes, but 12 hours! And unfamiliar rules in a format I've never played before? That's gonna come at a price. I'm no fly-by-night fantasy ride. I put serious work into this. Let's try this again.

"You won't have to pay in to the $550 league fee, and it'll be fun!" Uh huh.

"We'll give you 10% of the pot. Last year's winner won $3800." Keep talking.

"All right, what's it worth to you?" Well, I might have to take a day off of work (at the time, not a lie). How about you pay me a flat fee for the draft prep and the draft day work, plus the 10%.

Boom. $200 in my pocket.

The next step was meeting one of the co-owners and the person who founded the league to explain how everything will go down. We met this past Monday for lunch at a Midtown tavern. Me, two lawyers who make more taking a leak than I make all week, and serious fantasy baseball. In retrospect, I'm just a cheap $200 whore. Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.

In any case, it was immediately clear that the bossman (we'll call him Lumbergh, after the aforementioned "Office Space" character) knew absolutely nothing about fantasy baseball. Very nice guy, late 50's, Mets fan, but fantasy baseball savant he is not. That's okay, that's why he hired me. The founder of the league (we'll call him The Thin Man, because, well, he's thin) has been doing rotisserie baseball in an auction format for 25 years. He won last year. He knows what he's doing, but he approaches fantasy baseball with all of the joy of a doctor cupping a pair of testicles and asking for a cough. Out come the charts and the graphs and the droll, soul-sucking description of how exhilarating it's all going to be. Thanks, Thin Man. Let's get together for a discussion of the ancient Roman tax code next week!

After the meeting, Lumbergh walks me to an ATM and handed me a wad of bills I didn't even bother to count. All I know is it's four days later I haven't had to go to my own ATM. He then took me up to the offices of the firm, which occupy several floors of a very tall building. He showed me the conference room where the draft will go down on March 28th. Food and beverage will be provided. Oh, one more thing! There are no breaks. The Thin Man advises me that most teams have two representatives on draft day so that one or the other can use a restroom instead of the diaper I will apparently be using. Fortunately, my good brother Adam has volunteered to assist me on draft day, and at least let me relieve myself like an able-bodied human being.

Like any good office meeting, we adjourned by establishing when our next meeting will be: March 23rd. For lunch, of course.

The Oil Can Cometh?

2009-02-17T09:36:00.002-05:00

Seems our friend Oil Can caught a little bug at Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Check this out from the Boston Globe:

"
At 49, Boyd wants to turn fantasy into reality

Dennis "Oil Can" Boyd has long felt the game of baseball was taken away from him far too soon. He was 31 years old when he threw his last pitch for the Texas Rangers in 1991.

But now, at age 49, Boyd believes his shoulder is stronger than ever. He says his velocity is up in the low 90s and the 12-6 curveball and changeup have returned. He wants a chance to show a major league team he can still pitch.

"I have nothing to lose, and all a major league team has to lose is 15 minutes," said Boyd. "Give me 15 minutes and I'll show I can still pitch. That's all I want."

It's always been Boyd's dream to carry on the legacy of Satchel Paige and pitch into his 60s. Two weeks ago, at the Red Sox fantasy camp, Boyd started throwing in earnest again and was pleased with the results.

"After surgery in '87, it took me 10 years to feel good," he said. "I wasn't on the field, started gaining weight. All of a sudden, my arm has healed. The arm strength is there and it's there consistently. The more I throw, the better it feels."

Former Red Sox catcher Mike Stanley, who caught Boyd at the camp, said, "He looks no different to me now than when I caught him in Texas. He still has the same passion. I don't know if he was getting to 90 because we didn't have a gun, but he still had the same stuff. The same tight slider, curve, fastball."

"Satchel being my idol and knowing he didn't come into the game until he was in his early 40s, that's always been in the back of my mind," said Boyd. "Now, I've been given back the fastball I once had. I want to play.

"I spoke to some people about it. If I was given an opportunity, I'd love to work my way back. I think it would be good for the game. It shows me baseball is a forgiving game."

[End Excerpt]

Oil Can loves to talk and clearly it's a slow news day when the Globe decides to run a story about this, but I can hardly blame a reporter for being sucked in by the vacuum of Oil Can's mouth.

One day during Red Sox Fantasy Camp, Adam and I were walking into the hotel lobby after a long day at the ballpark and saw Oil Can just standing around near the door of the hotel bar, seemingly waiting for someone. Turned out, he was waiting for us. Or rather, anyone. I can't remember what we asked him, but it hardly mattered. What followed was over an hour of stories about his childhood as the son of a logger in a small town in Mississippi, with anywhere between 18 and 24 siblings, depending on either the father or the time of day, his career in the majors, the injury that derailed his career, and the barnstorming tour he began after his retirement, each story laced with lots of "muthafuckas" and "shits" for a heavy hand of color.

Clearly, he is a man who lives by his own credo for better or worse, and I'm not surprised he doesn't listen to naysayers tell him he's too old to come back, the same way he brushed off the racism he experienced as a ballplayer, especially in Boston. I'm particularly interested in his barnstorming tour, which takes the style and flair of Negro League baseball and pits them against a Washington Generals-esque white baseball team in exhibitions at minor league parks around the country. Unfortunately, the link to his tour's Web site doesn't reveal anything recent, which is pretty consistent with the amount of hot air that comes out of his mouth. I do hope that it gets organized because I would love to see them play, especially as I have been writing a play about a Negro League baseball player in the 1930's.

One thing that Oil Can lamented about today's game is that there are not enough characters, begetting nicknames, to keep baseball entertaining. That I can agree with. "The Big Unit" might be a funny nickname, but it's not a character. It's not a man who speaks his mind no matter who is listening and will tell stories that probably aren't true, and tell it all with an intoxicating, unpredictable flair. It's not Oil Can Boyd.

More Award Banquet Pics

2009-02-08T09:45:00.003-05:00

Me, Adam and former Sox manager Butch Hobson, who, when Adam told him it was thrill to meet him, responded: "Me, too." Glad that we were able to fulfill Butch's lifelong dream of meeting Adam Weiner.

Spaceman couldn't stop getting a kick out of two Weiners and two Nathans being on a team together coached by a Johnson.

Adam Takes Home The Prize

2009-02-08T09:32:00.003-05:00

To the shock of virtually no one, Adam scored the not-so-coveted Trainer's Award for his diligent time and effort in the trainer's room getting his various muscle and blister ailments treated. Actually, the biggest shock was when Joe Castiglione mistakenly called my name as the winner. The right man went up to the podium, however.
Savoring the sweetness of victory. Only 10 men out of 120 took home trophies. Congrats to Adam!

The guy who threw a complete game shutout at us won the Cy Young award. Adam got a hit off of him. The batting champ hit .800, so my .363 average doesn't look quite as good as it might have seemed.

Adam and trainer Paul, who kept Adam on the field and helped him feel better as the week went along.

Awards Banquet

2009-02-08T09:19:00.003-05:00

Me, Adam and banquet emcee Joe Castiglione, the voice of the Red Sox radio network.

Joe not only emceed the banquet, but also called the games against the pros earlier in the day, even singling out Adam's backhanded stab at third base.

Pros and Campers Line Up For Post-Game Handshakes

2009-02-08T08:50:00.003-05:00

More Pics From Pro Day

2009-02-08T08:43:00.003-05:00

Johnson's Jackals manager Ron Johnson takes a bite out of a sandwich in the dugout during a game.

Johnson's Jackals coach UL Washington warms up in the on-deck circle.

Legendary Sox pitcher Luis Tiant inexplicably takes an at-bat. He grounded into a double play.
Rick Wise, the pitcher I faced in the game against the pros. Lucky bastard caught my line drive. Curses!

Me and Adam during Pro Day

2009-02-08T08:37:00.003-05:00

Behind the pros' dugout.

Top step during our game against the pros.

Me and former Sox manager Joe Morgan, author of Morgan's Magic in '86, and the pride of Walpole, Mass.

Spaceman on Pro Day

2009-02-08T08:11:00.004-05:00

The Spaceman gives signs to our player Tommy (Nick L.'s doppelganger?), who got to catch a couple of innings for the pros side in relief of Mike Stanley. Spaceman gave Tommy the signs for the pitches he planned to call from the mound. "Just catch it, kid."

Spaceman having fun. The old man can rake- from both sides of the plate, too.

Adam shows off his mastery of photography timing in these two separate at-bats by Spaceman.

Oil Can Boyd Plays For The Pros

2009-02-08T08:03:00.005-05:00

Oil Can pitched a few games against the campers in the morning during Saturday's marathon. The pros played 30 innings and Oil Can and Spaceman played all 30.

Oil Can has a smoke between innings.

Adam's Scoreless Inning of Relief

2009-02-07T17:46:00.003-05:00

On Friday afternoon, Adam recorded one scoreless inning of relief, as well as one inning of relief that was not recorded-- on video at least. Here's the youtube footage:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bysWdSN9tcs

Last Day of Red Sox Fantasy Camp

2009-02-07T17:08:00.004-05:00

Just back from a fantastic day at City of Palms Park, watching the pros take on all 10 teams in 3-inning games. No camp teams beat the pros, and only two runs were scored by camp teams-- which is actually an improvement over last year.

First, we were bused over to the training complex in the morning where we cleared out our lockers. Very sad, like were all being demoted to Reality, Mass. We tipped out the clubbies and the trainers and then boarded a van to City of Palms Park, where games were already in progress. We had the 6th out of 10 games, so we didn't have to play until 12:30 or so. We got there early and watched some games, cheered on our fellow campers, and chatted up the pros in their dugout. Pictures of that later.

In our game, we began by being introduced by Red Sox radio man Joe Castiglione, which was very cool, though he announced me as "Number 12, Craig Winer," despite already correctly pronouncing Adam's last name. He corrected the name and the number, but the moment was gone. It was still pretty cool to hop out of the dugout to a smattering of applause from campers and their families who had come to visit, and then go down the line, high-fiving teammates.

As the visiting team, we batted first, starting from the top of the order. Fortunately, everyone was guaranteed at least one at-bat, so my spot in the number 11 hole was safe. As expected, we went down 1-2-3 against former Sox pitcher Rick Wise, who won 188 games in the majors and once threw a no-hitter. In the field, I managed to distinguish myself by ruining a great backhanded stab by Adam at third when I dropped his throw to the bag at second. I somehow lost sight of the ball while trying to get to the bag and just stuck my hand out where I thought the throw would be. The ball hit the webbing of my glove perfectly, but just popped out. My bad, bro. Fortunately, it didn't cost us a run, not that it mattered. We lost 4-0. In my only at-bat, I was way out in front of a fastball from Wise, who I had somehow assumed would be pitching faster even though he's 63 years old. I adjusted a little bit on my second swing and hit a line drive up the middle that Wise snared on the fly. Maybe it would have gone into center field for a single if he hadn't stuck his glove out, but he did, and an out is an out. I was, quite frankly, glad to hit a fair ball, so that's good at least. In fact, I somehow managed to not strike out swinging once the entire week, which is fairly miraculous. I did take one third strike early on and vowed that it wouldn't happen again. I was here to be aggressive, not work a walk.

In any case, after the game, we hung out more in the stands, had some lunch, drank a few beers and watched more games. Great day. Tonight is the award banquet, which ought to be fun. Sad to take off my uniform for the last time, but I get to keep it so maybe I'll start waking around New York in it, just for kicks.

Adam Takes Hill

2009-02-07T08:42:00.003-05:00

I'll post video from his scoreless inning of relief later. Off to ballpark!

The Clubhouse

2009-02-07T08:39:00.003-05:00

The endless line for the trainer's room is in the back...

Adam's Gator bag rests on a chair in front of his locker

Rare Morning Post

2009-02-07T08:13:00.003-05:00

It's 8:15 a.m. and I'm still in my hotel room for a change. After waking up before 6:00 a.m. for the past few days, this is a much-needed break, although it means the beginning of the end of Red Sox Fantasy Camp. We have one 3-inning game against the pros today at 12:30 p.m. at City of Palms Park, which should be a blast. We'll spend most of the day hanging around the ballpark watching the other 3-inning games before and after ours. At 7:00 p.m. tonight is the awards banquet at the hotel.

Last night we took our coaches out for dinner at a Mexican restaurant close to the hotel. We were split up into two tables, one with RJ and one with UL. We sat with UL and listened to his stories, including him being on base when George Brett hit his famous Pine Tar homer against the Yankees in 1983. UL had singled to center with two outs and the Royals down by one in the top on the ninth inning, with Brett on deck. Here's the clip:

http://mlb.mlb.com/news/article.jsp?ymd=20080723&content_id=3181787&vkey=news_mlb&fext=.jsp&c_id=mlb#

Trotting Home During the Friday Afternoon Game

2009-02-07T08:11:00.002-05:00

Infield Dirt

2009-02-06T17:30:00.003-05:00

Luis Tiant doesn't mind giving campers a ride from the complex to the hotel, as long as the campers don't mind that he smokes a cigar in his rental car the entire drive.

One camper was fined during the morning meeting for "cockblocking" Oil Can Boyd at the bar last night. The OCB was not pleased.

One of our better players struck out swinging in his last at-bat and promptly broke his bat over his knee, the shards of which UL Washington then used as a toothpick.

UL Washington sometimes gets mistaken for the three other black coaches, so when he's approached for an autograph by someone who thinks he's Al Bumbry or Felix Maldonado, he signs their names, but misspells them. He thinks this is hilarious.

Frank Malzone spends all day being driven around in a golf cart to each field, but still feels the need to make his presence known in the shower.

There are a few father-son pairs in camp, but one has a twist. The father and son have been estranged for 5 years and coincidentally both signed up for Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Apparently, the father asked the son if they could talk, but the son refused. Awkward.

Last year, a camper showed up, took his locker-room swag on the first day and promptly left to go to Hawaii with his girlfriend. No word on whether his wife found out.

Spaceman harbors deep resentment toward Arthur Miller for writing "The Crucible." He seems to think this "book" is responsible for stunting his exploitation of the sexual freedom of women everywhere.

I suffered what can only be described as a dislocated testicle while getting off the bench to high-five a teammate. Don't worry, I found it.

I finished the camp season batting .363 with three walks. If you take out my abysmal 1-for-8 start from right side, I batted .500 lefty with two doubles and those three aforementioned walks.

I Am Not A Good Pitcher

2009-02-06T17:13:00.003-05:00

If Red Sox Fantasy Camp has proven one thing to me, it's that I can put to rest any fantasies of ever having had a chance to be a major league pitcher. What a burden lifted from my sucky shoulder, elbow and hand.

In the morning game, we were able to beat up on poor Butch Hobson's team, who saved their only win for the last game of camp in the afternoon. I went 1-for-4 with a single and a run scored. The coaches pitched in the morning games this time so that the campers could pitch in the "postseason" round in the afternoon. We finally scored our first victory over our coaches, which is fairly ridiculous since they're just throwing batting practice fastballs. I played a pretty uneventful second base.

In the second game, I started for our team, which essentially cost us a victory. After scoring a run in the top of the first, I took the hill in the bottom of the inning and proceeded to issue free passes to anyone who wanted them. I think I even walked an opponent's wife who was in the stands. My final line was 2/3 IP, 1 strikeout, 2 hits, 9,000 walks, 6 runs, 4 of them earned. I was only saved by the 6-run mercy rule, though I did induce a pop-up that would have ended the inning after 4 runs had scored, but alas, it was dropped by our 58 year-old second baseman. I did much better at the plate, however, going 2-for-2 with three walks, a run scored and an RBI. Adam, however, did a much better job pitching two innings of relief, including one scoreless inning. We mounted a furious comeback in the bottom of the 7th, but fell a couple of runs short.

The championship game was played at City of Palms Park, but by the time we had showered and gotten ready it was too late to check it out. I'm sure we'll hear all about it tonight. The team is taking our coaches out for dinner tonight, so that should be fun. Mike Stanley showed up yesterday and became our bench/first base coach, even though I think he was supposed to coach with Spaceman. Stanley was a catcher for the Sox and a former Gator, so that's a good combination to have on our side.

Right now, I'm dog tired, so I'm going to post a few little tidbits while I can still remember them and catch a little nap before dinner.

RJ Sings Craig's Praises

2009-02-05T23:02:00.003-05:00

RJ holds court at the morning meeting. He likes to refer to me as "Big Weiner" and Adam as "Little Weiny." He's also extremely pumped about his plan to have us show him around New York if we visit his place in Tennessee.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZRtaeQHsdE

Thursday's Pics

2009-02-05T22:27:00.005-05:00

Me and Youk.

Me, Adam and Luis Tiant at the Reserve Cigar and Wine Bar. El Tiante's left hand is gently resting upon by left buttock.

Me, Adam and Kinda Cousin Mike's Kinda Cousin Charlie, who is the southern version of Mike E. in virtually every way. It's scary.

Jackals Split

2009-02-05T21:56:00.003-05:00

Just back from an organized social event at a cigar and wine bar where Luis Tiant put his hand on my ass. Our van driver also described Venezuelan minor league players as more intelligent than Dominican players, who were "savages." Good times.

This morning, Adam and I waited an interminable amount of time to get into the hot tub at the training facility to warm up our aching muscles, which caused us to abandon our plan of taking extra batting practice in the cages. The morning meeting went well, especially when our manager referred to my hitting as similar to Ted Williams'. I'm fairly certain he was exaggerating.

We won the morning game, and I went 2-for-3 with a run scored, but the one out I made was the best contact I made the entire camp. Hit it right on the screws to right-center, but the center fielder made a nice catch. I had never experienced this before, but the feeling of hitting a ball "perfectly" is when you don't even feel the ball hit the bat. It just makes a beautiful hollow sound as it jumps off the bat. I didn't even care that it wasn't a base hit. UL Washington still can't get over me hitting from the left side of plate after my abysmal start as a righty. After one of my hits this morning, he high-fived me at first base and yelled "You could've been somebody!"

We lost the second game, but not before rallying for two runs in the bottom of the 7th (last) inning to tie it and force extra innings. I was able to make an aggressive base-running play to make it to second on a hit with a runner on first, and then scored the tying run on a single. Unfortunately, we lost 9-8 in nine innings. Our record is now 2-4, but spirits are high. I'm now batting a fairly respectable .312 for the camp, with decent enough fielding, not that I've had many non-routine chances to handle.

Other highlights from today include another Youkilis sighting (with a signed bat), as well as seeing Jon Lester and Manny Delcarmen warm up while we were stretching in the morning. Mike Greenwell was the featured guest during lunch today and was very nice and chatty with people while signing autographs.

I'm pitching tomorrow, which is bound to be disastrous since I haven't pitched in 20 years, so I better get some rest.

RJ Sings Adam's Praises

2009-02-04T22:29:00.004-05:00

During today's morning pre-game meeting, Ron Johnson awards Adam with the Defensive Player of the Day award for his work at third base during our team's opening day doubleheader.
For some reason, I can't upload this video onto the blog, so I've put it up on YouTube:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pX2lNQ2QBfs

Today's Pics

2009-02-04T20:15:00.004-05:00

Holding the World Series trophy during the freezing cold BBQ after the Home Run Derby that I missed watching because I was busy soaking in the ice tub.

Getting an autograph from Dwight Evans, a really nice guy who seemed happy to be here.

The indominatable Bill "Spaceman" Lee and the OCB (Oil Can Boyd) during the morning meeting.

Chilly in Ft. Myers

2009-02-04T18:35:00.003-05:00

Greetings from Ft. Myers again, where the weather is a cool, crisp 52 degrees, which wouldn't be too bad if I had been wearing any appropriate clothes at the BBQ we just attended. Supposed to be even colder tomorrow.

In any case, today was not a good day for the Jackals, falling 1-0 in the first game to a team with a pitcher who was pretty phenomenal. I continued my lousy streak of hitting by going 0-for-3, including striking out looking with a runner on third to end the first inning (the last of three straight victims after putting runners on first and third with no outs), fouling out to first and grounding out the catcher to end the game. In the second game, we lost by a count of Many to Less. Possibly, the score was 10-4, but we really lost count after the third inning after falling behind so quickly. I finally batted lefty (I couldn't have done worse than righty) and went 1-for-2 with a solid ground ball single to hole between first and second, but not before straining what might be the oblique muscle in my side by lunging for a pitch too far outside and only getting a piece of it. That was painful. So, I finished the day once again 1-for-5. I am nothing if not consistent. Defensively, I made a couple of routine plays at second base and right field, but nothing spectacular. As a team, we have virtually no shot of the championship, but in a way that's not too bad because now we can relax and have fun without worrying about whether a bad at-bat or an error will cost our teammates a shot at a trophy.

Enough of the boring details, I want to focus a little more on the atmosphere of the camp. There are 120 guys in camp, ranging from 30 to mid-70s. Some are hardcore adult league baseball players; others are more like me and Adam, fans of the game who want to have a little fun playing a little boys game in a major league environment. Some campers have returned to Red Sox Fantasy Camp year after year, which is pretty incredible.

The coaches are all for the most part very friendly and approachable and very willing to accept drinks at the hotel bar and regale us with stories of glory days. They're regular guys who love the game and talk about baseball the way fans do. Lou Merloni was by no means a great player, but he made it to the big leagues for a few years and was a big fan favorite in Boston because he was from nearby Framingham, and he couldn't be more of a "regular guy." He rode in one of the cargo vans that shuttle players from the hotel to the training complex this morning and commandeered a detour to Dunkin' Donuts and went in and helped a camper make a run for coffee (granted, Lou held one coffee and the camper held six, but still, he slummed it with the rest of us in the van instead of in his own car). Butch Hobson is another guy who's not afraid to make eye contact with us and say hello and ask how we're doing. Just today, UL Washington encountered Adam in the locker room and asked him if he felt better than UL looked. UL was buck naked at the time. Spaceman is a strange cat, who signed my bat "Bill Lee, 2009, Earth" and tried to convince us that if Marilyn Monroe had married Henry Miller instead of Arthur Miller, she'd still be alive today. And, Oil Can, oh Oil Can; he can talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere. And you won't be able to walk away in less than an hour; he won't let you.

Other little details that I've previously left out include the action at the morning meetings we have before the games begin for the day. They are led by Ken Sanders, an older ex-player whose sole purpose seems to be to authorize all the fines for the Kangaroo Court, which is a haphazard misdemeanor court of law with random infractions such as leaving your back pocket untucked after taking out your batting gloves, agressively adjusting your jockstrap, and showing up late to meetings or games, along with many other ridiculous crimes meant to get a laugh out of us. Fines range from one to five dollars. Speaking of laughs, Dick Berardino is the resident jokemaster and his job seems to be to tell one bad joke at the end of the meeting to send us on our way to the morning stretch. Today, the managers of each team gave a brief summary of their team's performance from the day before, which was pretty cool. Ron Johnson (or RJ) singled out Adam as the team's Defensive Player of the Day for his work at the hot corner, which was pretty cool of him to do in front of all the coaches and players/campers.

During the games, RJ and UL are pretty relaxed, especially RJ. He's always got a smile on his face and is ready for a high-five at any time, though you do have to keep an eye out for his loosely-packed wad of chewing tobacco, which could end up anywhere, but usually just limits itself to the entirety of his face. In any case, I have no doubt that I could call him during the season and he would get me tickets to a Pawtucket Red Sox game and chat with me afterwards; he's just that way with everyone he lays eyes on. UL is a little more shy, but really nice and gets kicks out of little things. He was so amused to see me stand up at the plate lefty against him in the second game, his eyes nearly popped out of his head; when I got a base hit, he nearly fell over laughing.

After the games (there's one at 9:30 a.m. and another at 1:30 p.m., with about an hour and half break in between for lunch and autographs), we wait a long line in the trainer's area to get ice wrapped on whatever muscles are killing us, whether it be hamstrings, quads, calves, shoulders or elbows (or in my case, an oblique) and/or wait in a long line for one of the two ice tubs available to us, in which we dunk our aching bodies for 10-15 minutes at a time. Then we hit the showers and possibly encounter a conversation with a naked for major leaguer, some of whom seem to almost prefer to be naked than clothed. Today, Oil Can walked past me in the trainer's area in a towel to help himself to a handful of Vaseline, which he promptly ran through his hair while telling about 37 stories at once. After the showers, we get in a van or bus back to the hotel and relax in the hotel bar or get together with others to go out to eat at nearby chain restaurants (they're all chain restaurants here), or hibernate in our room, just hoping to feel well enough to play lousy again the next day.

Getting the arm iced down after a bullpen session

2009-02-03T20:00:00.001-05:00

Jim Rice!

2009-02-03T19:57:00.001-05:00

Adam and Oil Can Boyd, Talking Third Base

2009-02-03T19:53:00.002-05:00

Tagging up from second, and the aftermath

2009-02-03T19:43:00.003-05:00

Pinch-running after a batter had drawn a walk, I moved over to second on another walk and then inexplicably chose to tag up on a fly ball to right field. I was safe, not that I had any help from my third base coach, who gave me no indication how close the throw was to getting me out.

My first visit to the trainer's room, to fix my boo-boo.

Action from City of Palms Park

2009-02-03T19:28:00.003-05:00

Me about to swing weakly at a pitch
Adam playing the field
Adam about to hit the ball and hobble to first base
Me and Adam at the ballpark.

Weiner Unis

2009-02-03T19:25:00.003-05:00

Johnson's Jackals Split Doubleheader

2009-02-03T18:35:00.003-05:00

Adam and I arrived at the training facility around 6:45 a.m. today to beat the rush at the training table, workout areas and breakfast lines. We found our laundry hanging in our lockers, including the dirty undies and under shirts, which is a big relief because I'm pretty sure I didn't pack enough of those for the week. In any case, I got in a little bit of a workout on the exercise bike to warm up, had some breakfast and then hit the batting cages for some hitting off a tee. Unfortunately, that workout didn't translate to success on the field.

While I was standing around in my locker getting dressed, Red Sox pitcher Jon Lester walked right past me into the training room to get on an exercise bike. If only I had slept in and hit the bike later! He kept his head down most of the time anyway; I get the feeling these guys aren't big fans of a bunch of wannabes invading their space, but at least they're not rude about it. Kevin Youkilis also passed through my locker area. And later in the afternoon, Theo Epstein walked right through a little conversation Adam and I were having with a teammate, on his way to do a workout in the training area. Very busy day of star sightings, beyond the old-timers who are around for the camp, which is a nice bonus.

After the obligatory camp picture, we got on the bus to head over to City of Palms Park, which is an immaculate spring training/minor league stadium. It was definitely cool to have an actual dugout as opposed to sideline benches. Our manager, Ron Johnson, set up a rather random batting order based on how well he knew us, so Adam and I batted near the bottom of the order. Fortunately, the batting order picks up from the person who was on deck when the final out of the game is made, so we don't get screwed out of at-bats every time. I ended up rotating between right field and second base during the game and played fine in the field. Fielded a couple of routine grounders at second, no big deal, even though I had never played second base in my life and I was slightly terrified of the ball being hit to me and not knowing where to throw it in certain situations, but it worked out fine. The batting was a different story.

I only had two at-bats in the first game, which we ended up winning 4-2. My first at-bat was a check-swing grounder to the pitcher, which was really annoying because I either shouldn't have swung at all or I should have gone all the way with it; it was a good enough pitch to hit. On my second at-bat, I got jammed a little bit inside and hit a line drive to the pitcher, which he caught. I was pretty frustrated with my hitting, which continued to the second game.

The highlights of the game were the excellent defense played by Adam at third base, snaring a liner that almost certainly saved a run, and seeing Oil Can Boyd smoking a cigarette in the opposing dugout. It was also kind of fun to just sort of shoot the shit with Ron Johnson and our coach UL Washington while hanging out in the dugout or on the field. Oil Can was coaching third base for the other team and came over to Adam while he was playing third and gave him some pointers. More on Oil Can in a later post; he may require a whole other blog unto himself.

During lunch, newly-elected Hall of Famer Jim Rice made an appearance, signing autographs and posing for pictures. He is still a big strong man, though he wasn't quite as enthusiastic to do the autographs as Frank Viola had been the day before.

After lunch, we played a second game, this time at the regular training complex. In the afternoon games, the pros pitch easy batting practice pitches to us, whereas the morning games are pitched by the campers, which is fun, but also results in a lot more walks. Nobody walks when the pros pitch; everything is pretty much right down the middle, 45 miles an hour. I again rotated between second base and right field and played well enough without making any errors, which is nice. As much as I'd like to play some first base, we have some guys on the team who really shouldn't be playing a position where they have to run a lot, so I don't mind taking one for the team and playing the outfield. I may not be able to catch the ball, but I can at least chase after it relatively quickly.

Batting-wise, I continued my frustration, popping up twice, before finally smacking a nice solid single to the left-center. I felt good about that, finishing the day 1 for 5 between the two games, which isn't great, but at least I improved. Unfortnately, we lost 5-4.

After the game, Adam and I joined a couple other players to throw off a mound in a nearby bullpen, just to get some practice in, in case we're called upon to pitch, which we've been promised will happen. So far, I feel my value to the team lies in my relative health, since a few players went down with minor injuries during the second game, so I don't feel like I'll be sitting out too many innings during the week. There are 12 players, but only 9 can play at a time (8 in the afternoon games when the pros pitch), so there's a natural overflow on the roster, but it seems there will always be enough guys who are hurt that everyone who is healthy will get to play pretty much every inning. No matter what, I'm having a blast.

Fantasy Draft Recap

2009-02-02T22:40:00.003-05:00

The fantasy draft results were revealed tonight and unfortunately we were not drafted by the Spaceman. I feel deeply betrayed. However, we were drafted by Ron Johnson and UL Washington, two coaches who did not even see us play during drills or the evaluation game, which shows how impressive we must have been to the coaches who did see us play. In any case, we're excited to play and will do so with a chip on our shoulder to show all the other managers who passed on us in the draft what they missed.

Despite our disappointment in not getting two of the most colorful managers in camp (Spaceman and Oil Can), Ron Johnson seems pretty ripe for entertainment. He parades around in a cowboy hat and has a big, Texas-sized personality. He is currently the Triple-A manager at Pawtucket, so he must know what he's doing, even though he seems pretty laid back. I'm pretty sure we'll have a fun time playing for him.

Our first game is tomorrow morning and will be at the main field at City of Palms Park, which I feel is a good thing since none of us will be hurt for our lone appearance on the big boys field, except for the 3-inning game against the pros, and possibly the championship game. Adam and I are also hoping that we'll be placed in the lineup according to our youthful appearance and get more at-bats at City of Palms park before he realizes that we probably belong closer to the bottom of the order.

Forgot to mention earlier, but we met Kevin Youkilis today between sessions. I didn't have anything for him to sign, but I did get a nice firm handshake from him. Not a tall man, which continues a trend I've noticed among a lot of the ballplayers past and present at camp. Baseball is not a sport in which height is necessary. If you're 6'1", you're a giant. In any case, it's good to see that Youk has reported two weeks early to Spring Training, getting his hacks in, etc.

Off to bed with prayers that my legs feel as good in the morning as they do right now.

Hitting the Tubs

2009-02-02T17:56:00.002-05:00

After a long day of baseball, I iced down my aching muscles in this near-freezing tub. I iced down my hand and throat, too, as you can see.

Frankie V and the Hooters Girls

2009-02-02T17:49:00.002-05:00

Coincidence that Hooters girls were brought in for his appearance? You be the judge...

Me and Sweet Music Viola

2009-02-02T17:47:00.004-05:00

Frankie V stopped by to sign some autographs and regale us with tales of his playing career. He is one big, tall man. Nice guy; I got an autographed baseball from him.

Adam's New Best Friend

2009-02-02T17:43:00.003-05:00

Adam gets worked on by the trainer- before any physical activity has taken place at the camp. He made no fewer than 3 trips to the training room on the first day. He's having some quad issues that will hopefully clear up.

The Locker Room

2009-02-02T17:42:00.002-05:00

Day One, Day One, I'm Barely Making Sense

2009-02-02T17:05:00.003-05:00

One would think that being around former major leaguers would be intimidating, but once you've had a pat on the back from Oil Can Boyd, showered with Butch Hobson and seen Frank Malzone's 80-year-old bits and pieces, there are no barriers anymore. What a first day of Red Sox Fantasy Camp.

The day began with a 6:00 a.m. wakeup call, barely scrounging enough energy after the Super Bowl to get dressed, and getting on a 7:00 bus to the Spring Training complex. It had just stopped raining and we were worried that we would be stuck in the clubhouse all day losing money playing poker to more experienced guys. Thankfully, the weather cleared up for most of the day. We arrived at the complex and were ushered into the clubhouse, where we found our lockers with our names on them, along with freshly washed jerseys (also with our names on them) hanging there, waiting for us. It was a little bit surreal. They also mixed in the pros with the campers, so some people had former major leaguers changing right next to them. The aforementioned Butch Hobson and Frank Malzone were in our row. Adam and I had adjacent lockers. He's wearing #14 (in honor of Nanny's birth year of 1914 and possibly also Jim Rice) and I'm wearing #42 for Jackie Robinson, who I admired greatly even though he was never a Red Sox. Mo Vaughn also wore #42, but that's just lagniappe.

After changing into our uniforms, we helped ourselves to breakfast, which consisted of bacon and eggs, as well as lighter fare such as cereal and yogurt. I opted for the cereal and an apple to go along with my coffee. No sense weighing myself down with the heavy stuff. We then had a sort of introductory meeting where we split into groups alphabetically and then rotated around 5 different skills stations for minor instruction and evaluation:

1) Baserunning, led by Dick Berardino, George Thomas and Rich Gedman. This was held indoors and they used my glove as a demo base. Former pros have stepped on my glove. Swoon.

2) Pitching, led by Spaceman Lee, Oil Can Boyd and (nominally) Luis Tiant. El Tiante didn't do much, but Lee and Boyd taught us how to throw a fastball properly (which I had apparently been doing wrong my entire illustrious career), and Oil Can taught us how to throw a slider. Kinda cool to get hands-on instruction from those guys.

3) Infield, led by Lou Merloni and John Valentin, which challenged our quads, but was mostly valuable for Merloni and Valentin's evaluation of local strip clubs and the former players who frequented them. Classy.

4) Outfield, led by Butch Hobson, who didn't really seem to want to be coaching outfield, but did it anyway. I made a nice running catch on a deep fly ball, so that felt good. Afterwards, Adam and I rubbed in the Gator football victory over Alabama in the SEC Championship game (Hobson's an Alabama alum).

5) Hitting, led by no one in particular, but I ended up in a batting cage with Chad Epperson, a minor league manager and hitting instructor, who gave me some pretty good tips. I might have gotten a little overconfident smashing balls gently lobbed toward me, as opposed to the 65-70 mph fastballs I was barely making contact with back home.

After the last drill, we had a lunch of salmon filet and salad and a pb&j sandwich (on quite possibly the worst bread ever), as well as an autograph session with Frank Viola, who mostly made his mark with the Twins, but also pitched a couple of years for the Sox toward the end of his career.

After lunch, we stretched and then split up into teams, again alphabetically, for evaluation games. Adam and I were of course paired up on the same team, but that didn't help our team's cause much. I played a sorry rightfield, with two balls going over my head, and popped up to the infield on all three of my at-bats. Adam helped turn my last pop out into the rare double play by getting doubled off first base after going too far off first. I batted righty on the first at-bat and then lefty on the last two, but it didn't seem to make a difference. There was a hellacious wind blowing in the entire game, but that's no excuse. They were crappy at-bats. I definitely fulfilled Spaceman's desire for me to "shit the bed" during the evaluation sessions, so we'll see where we get drafted later tonight.

Adam and El Tiante

2009-02-01T23:01:00.002-05:00

Me and the Spaceman

2009-02-01T22:57:00.002-05:00

Fantasy Madness Begins

2009-02-01T22:37:00.004-05:00

Just back from the preliminary events of Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Quite an affair, as they rented out a huge ballroom in the hotel for an open bar meet-and-greet, with introductions of the coaches, followed by a Super Bowl party. They had the World Series trophy, along with championship rings from 2004 and 2007, which Adam and I are wearing above (forgive the horrible picture quality).

We met many Red Sox greats such as Luis Tiant, who informed us that he would be selling his brand of cigars in the dugout during games. Nice. The highlight of the meet-and-greet was Bill "Spaceman" Lee, who definitely lives up to his nickname. Adam and I got pictures with him and he had heard about us because we are a "package deal" when it comes to picking teams. He sized us up, admired our physiques (even telling Adam that he had a "nice body") and told us to "shit the bed tomorrow" during tryouts, so that he could pick us in a lower round. We told him it would be no problem for us to pretend to suck. One of the other campers who had been to fantasy camp before said there's a lot of wagering going on amongst the managers and coaches, so it gets very competitive for them. I hope we get picked by the Spaceman, though we are bound to disappoint him. We also met his wife Diana, who is a lovely lady and also attested to the Spaceman's competitiveness. I think we were able to persuade her to get Bill to draft us tomorrow night.

After a long night of being plied with free drinks, and watching the incredible Super Bowl finish, I'm off to bed with a little bit of headache and a 6:00 a.m. wakeup call. Good luck to me.

Red Sox Memories

2009-02-01T11:40:00.003-05:00

Day Two in Ft. Myers so far seems a lot warmer than Day One. We spent last night trolling around Ft. Myers Beach, about a 10 mile drive from our hotel. Typical Florida beach town, not much terribly exciting. We did encounter a friendly cafe owner and her one-toothed patron/friend/local beach bum. Delightful. Afterwards, we headed to a bar closer to our hotel and watched the debacle that was the Florida-Tennessee basketball game.

Today is when the pre-camp festivities beging: registration, meet-and-greet cocktail hour, and a Super Bowl watching party. We're so ready to get this camp started. Anything somewhat officially Red Sox related is grounds for excitement and the fact that I'm participating is off the charts.

I'm often asked why I'm a Red Sox fan, since what most people know about me is that I grew up in Florida and live in New York, but my Red Sox roots grow deep. Yes, I was born in Malden, Mass., in the same hospital as my mother and grandmother, but that isn't what qualifies me to be a Red Sox fan. The credit for the shaping of my fandom has to go to my grandmother Ethel, who I called Nanny. She lived in the Boston area her entire life and ever since I can remember, whenever I would go to visit her during baseball season, she would be listening to Sox games on the radio. Or later on as technology caught up to her, she would watch the game on TV, shut it off in disgust, usually with the flourish of mispronouncing some player's name, and then promptly lie down on her bed to go to sleep. Invariably, five minutes later the radio could be heard from her bedroom, with the tragedy of the ballgame carrying out its final inevitable conclusion. These were the ingolorious days of the '80s and '90s, of course, where the Sox would flirt with ending the Curse, only to drive the stake deeper into our hearts. Nanny was only 4 years old the last time the Sox had won the Series, so she had a lot more water under the bridge than I had, for sure, and it ate at her just as deeply as it did me.

I have a couple of fun memories of going to ballgames at Fenway Park with Nanny and it always makes me smile when I think of them:

1) In the summer of 1995, I was a counselor at Camp Ramah in Palmer, Mass. and was able to take a weekend off to go visit Nanny in Boston, about an hour and a half away. She took me to a game against the Detroit Tigers. I remember sitting in the grandstands along the right field line, shaded by the deck above. All I remember about the game itself is that Mo Vaughn hit two home runs. The feeling of having the team's slugger come up to bat, with the entire stadium demanding him to hit a home run, and him delivering not once, but twice, was euphoric. As I look at the box score from that game, I see that the Sox went on to win 12-11 in the bottom of the ninth, but all I remember is the Mo Vaughn home run show.

2) In 2000, I moved to Boston after graduate school, in part to be closer to the city I always loved and in part to spend more time with Nanny. Soon after I moved there, we went to a game against Tampa Bay. It was an unseasonably cold August night and we were sitting in the bleachers. The ninth inning came around and the score was tied and I noticed that Nanny, though excited about the game, was starting to get tired. I wondered how much longer I could reasonably ask her to stand out in the cold of a game that could go on for a few more innings, at least. "Let's stay through the bottom of the ninth," I said, "and then we can listen to the rest in the car on the way home." After a scoreless top of the ninth, the Red Sox quickly got two outs with a man on base and it didn't look good for sticking around for the end of the game. Then, the Devil Rays intentionally walked two batters to load the bases so that they could face Rico Brogna, a veteran on the last legs of a modest career. With the crowd properly revved-up for a bases-loaded, two out, bottom of the ninth situation, Rico Brogna not only delivered the game winning hit, he sent it soaring over the right field fence for a walk-off grand slam. I just remember jumping up and down in the stands, and Nanny jumping up and down with me. It was the last game Nanny and I went to, just the two of us. She never did get to see the Sox win another World Series; she died in 2003. The first person I thought of when the Red Sox finally won it all the next year, as I gathered with a small group of friends in my Pittsburgh apartment, was Nanny. I know she kept her radio on for that one.

Greetings From Ft. Myers

2009-01-31T15:15:00.003-05:00

After an early morning flight from Newark, we landed in Ft. Myers to find a bright, blue sky awaiting us. Unfortunately, it's also a tad chilly, with temperatures in the low to mid 60s. That's not too bad when we'll be playing, but it puts the screws on any beach action. We might do a little running (or not) and then watch the Florida-Tennessee basketball game tonight.

As I look ahead to the week of baseball coming up, I can't help but think back to my brief baseball career as a youth. I played one year of organized baseball in my life, sometime in middle school for a City League team, which was a rival of the local Babe Ruth League. Gainesville didn't have a Little League then. In any case, I have 4 distinct memories of playing baseball:

1) Pitching in one game, likely in middle relief because I begged to pitch so much that I probably annoyed my coaches, I remember throwing what can only be described as the most perfect curve ball ever thrown. Never mind that I did not (and still do not) know how to throw a curve ball, this pitch came over the plate in a perfect 12-6 motion, starting up near the hitter's eyes and then completely falling off the table into the lower half of the strike zone. The poor kid didn't know what hit him and quite frankly, neither did I. On the next pitch, he grounded weakly to me and I tossed over to the first baseman to get out of the inning. It is the only memory I have of pitching, though it's quite likely that I was an otherwise horrible pitcher, or else I would've been summoned to break off the old Uncle Charlie more often, no?

2) The only at-bat I remember is an opposite field double that bounced once and hit the right-field fence. I must have closed my eyes when I swung, or done some other ridiculous action, because when I got to second base, the opposing team was laughing at me. I couldn't hear what they were saying to me, so I just shrugged and pretended that they had never seen a ball hit so far in their lives and thus they could only throw their hands up and laugh in despair when facing such an imposing hitter and that I must have been called upon to be their God.

3) In my senior year of high school, I tried out for the baseball team. I had been on the varsity soccer team my sophomore and junior years, but I knew I wasn't going to get an opportunity to start and I had just been elected North Florida Council Vice President of my youth group (BBYO), so I didn't have time to play soccer in the winter anyway. But as spring rolled around, I got the baseball jones. By this time, I hadn't played baseball in 5 years and was competing with varsity and junior varsity players for a roster spot. Of that experience, I only remember two moments: 1) been yelled at for sitting down when proper protocol was to "take a knee" and 2) hitting an inside-the-park home run to deep center field (whatever that means). Needless to say, that fleeting display of power and speed were not enough to overcome my inexperience and my instinct to plant my ass in the grass when told to relax.

4) Perhaps my most traumatic experience as a baseball player didn't even take place on a field. When I was in middle school, my parents found a gift certificate to a local bookstore, on which I had crossed out my own name and written in the name of our 17 year-old neighbor Chris across the street. Of course, my mother thought that it must've had something to do with drugs, and my refusal to tell her that I had in fact hoped that he would buy me some dirty magazines did not serve to assuage her fears. I had a baseball game that night and she threatened to keep me home if I didn't tell her the truth. Here I was, a lonely and woman-obsessed thirteen year-old faced with a choice of missing out on a baseball game or suffering the humiliation of telling my mother that I not only wanted dirty magazines, but that I also wanted to implicate the neighbor (who had already refused the mission) in my filthy conspiracy. Finally, we hit upon a solution in which I would call my brother at college and tell him what I was up to and then he would judiciously give my mom the Yay or Nay as to whether I should be burned at the stake for my crimes. Not that telling my big brother that I was some kind of pervert was my idea of a compromise, but I was left with no choice if I had any hope of playing baseball that night. So, I told him I had wanted Chris to buy me the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. In my adolescent mind, I felt that this represented enough of a version of the truth, while still maintaining my dignity in my taste for pictures of scantily-clad women. I then suffered an awkward (how much more awkward it must have been for Adam!) lecture about how "women aren't everything" and that I should "focus on other things in life." With all parties satisfied that I was not a juvenile threat to society of my family's honor, I did make it onto the ballfield that night. I was the one with the bright red face.

Winter Training Ends

2009-01-30T16:04:00.002-05:00

Last night completed my semi-rigorous preparations for Red Sox Fantasy Camp. Adam, Mike and I met up at the illustrious Astoria Sports Complex, humbly billed as the "Madison Square Garden of Queens", and did a final round of batting practice in the cages. Predictably, I regressed from the last session. I couldn't get my legs to work in concert with my upper body, just leaving my arms to do all the work, which isn't a recipe for success. The real wild card in this endeavor is what kind of pitching we're going to see at the camp. Will the pitches come in at 55 mph? 75 mph? All fastballs, or will someone break off a curve ball that will either freeze me completely or result in a wrenched back? As Brandt in The Big Lebowski would say: "Well, dude, we just don't know."

After hitting, we drove to the East River Park to meet up with Carl, ostensibly to do some base running, fielding and throwing. Once we saw that most of the field was covered in a sheet of ice, that plan changed to just throwing, which was further complicated by bright stadium lights in our faces. In any case, it was good to practice throwing further than 40 feet and I felt pretty warmed up by the end, with very little soreness today. Coincidentally or not, our session ended after I unwisely decided to kick a wayward baseball into a nearby soccer goal, promptly slipping on the ice and landing on my face. More accurately, it wasn't the goal that caused the fall so much as it was my failed Brazilian celebration. It just a minor spill with a little bit of a turned ankle that feels fine today.

Speaking of soreness, I can't recommend highly enough the heatrub gel Arnica, more commonly found in drug stores under the name Arnicane. I've had it rubbed on my lower back and thighs and woken up the next day good as new. I picked up an extra tube each for me and Adam today. I have a feeling we'll need it.

Preparation For Battle

2009-01-28T16:07:00.006-05:00

I have already run the gamut of emotions leading up to Red Sox Fantasy Camp. At first, I was beyond excited, dreaming even of establishing total domination of a camp likely comprised of out of shape 50-somethings who would not be able to hope to compete with my raw power and blinding speed. Then I took a good look in the mirror, examined my excess gut poundage, acknowledged the fact that I have not played baseball in twenty years, and felt complete and utter fear. What if I suck? What if I can't make contact with a pitch, much less put the ball into play? What if my arm makes Johnny Damon look like Willie Mays? What if I generally look like an ass on the field? To take my mind off all of that, I quickly decided that my greatest fear really ought to be for my health. I once sustained a fracture of my tibia rounding third in a softball game. Playing two games a day for 4 days straight leave pretty good odds of something similar happening again. Not to mention being pretty well out of shape; if professional athletes can pull a hamstring and be out for a week, why can't I? So, my goals for the week swung from dreams of camp MVP to "Please, let me not tear a muscle and spend the entire week chewing sunflower seeds in the dugout."

Given all of this, I decided to do a little preparation for the trip. While stepping up my visits to the gym from monthly to weekly surely won't help much, I did manage to get a little running in on my trip to New Orleans to visit my parents last weekend. The main thing I wanted to do was make sure that my leg muscles feel and understand pain before it counts, hopefully allowing for quicker healing during the camp. I also wanted to get used to the distance between bases (this ain't a softball diamond we'll be playing on), as well as the turns my legs will have to make rounding bases (assuming I can get on base).

So, I snuck into the Algiers Babe Ruth baseball stadium in a rather shady neighborhood on the West Bank of New Orleans, not too far from my parents' house. The gates were locked, but I was somehow able to squeeze my fat ass between two gates with a loose chain lock around them. It reminded me of how I used to fetch balls that landed in a gated utility area outside my house in Gainesville. I'd stuff myself in between the gates when I was smaller and then, as I grew, would have to stand on the lock and slip through a bigger opening near the top of the 7-foot high gate. It was a lot of work to get through those gates, but I was dedicated to getting whatever ball I had thrown or hit into there. Now, I am a much bigger kid and I needed to get into that field.

A field of dreams it was not. The clay was wet from an overnight shower and green and brown weeds crawled through the cracks of orange dirt on the infield. Still, I stood in the batter's box, swung an imaginary bat and bolted for first. In my mind, I was Jacoby Ellsbury-fast, but I'm sure I'll discover next week that I am, in fact, averagely-fast. At the very least, I didn't fall down. I spent about 25 minutes running the bases, going first to third, second to home, spending several seconds between dashes to catch my breath. I spent the majority of my time perfecting the home run trot. No one wants to look silly after hitting a 400-foot blast. I went back again the next day, this time adding a lap around the field to my regimen. I really didn't think I would make it past center field without collapsing, but to my surprise, I made it all the way from home plate to the right field foul pole across to the left field foul pole and then home again without stopping. My legs stung a bit, but I was still able to do the full set of drills I had set up for myself.

The hardest part was the following day (yesterday), when I could barely walk at all. My stride was cut in half as I gingerly made my way to, around and from work. I wondered to myself "Is it normal for my ribs to hurt after running?" Today my legs are a little better. In any case, I'm going to have to grind out whatever pain my legs are in, but I most certainly do not aim to be a hero with my speed on the basepaths.

Tomorrow I am making my final visit to the Astoria Sports Complex, where I have been throwing and taking batting practice the last few weeks with Adam, Carl and Mike. The throwing has been okay, but we only really have about 40 feet to work with, so I can't say I'm really stretched out. It's just too cold to throw outsided. My first round of batting was horrid, but after some helpful tips from Mike and a little bit of practice, I've gotten to the point where I have a little bit of confidence going into the camp. Perhaps too much confidence, since I am now considering batting left-handed, despite being a right-handed batter/golfer most of my life. We've cranked up the pitching machine to 65-70 miles an hour with really no idea how fast pitches will come at the camp. Hopefully, not much faster than that, or my original fears will all come flooding back.

The Anticipation Builds

2009-01-27T22:23:00.004-05:00

For those of you who are curious about what exactly Red Sox Fantasy Camp is, here's what I know (though I have a feeling it can't possibly be what I expect):

First of all, the whole set up seems really cool. We're using the Red Sox spring training facility, including the clubhouse where the big leaguers go about their business each year. We'll each have our own locker, with home and away uniforms with our names on them. We'll get to use the same trainers that the pros use (can there possibly be enough trainers for all the out of shape guys who will show up at the camp?), and I'm pretty sure we'll be breaking in the post-game kegs for Big Papi and the like. Radio voice man Joe Castiglione will even call out our names over the PA during one of the games. We're staying at a nearby hotel and get bussed in each day for the games. I've always dreamed of being a professional ballplayer and now I'm going to get the opportunity to live a small microcosm of that life for a week. Unbelievable.

On Sunday afternoon, we congregate for a meet-and-greet with the staff, former ballplayers and other campers, followed by a Super Bowl watching party.

Monday is "drills and evaluation" day. If "drills" consists of anything other than lazy pop ups and weak grounders hit directly at me, I'm in trouble. Monday night is the "draft," in which the managers select players for their 10 teams. My brother and I are guaranteed to be on the same team, so that will be cool (we wouldn't go otherwise), but it's still kind of cool to imagine John Valentin and former Sox manager Butch Hobson arguing over which of them gets the Weiner Brothers. The fantasy has already begun, you see.

Tuesday through Friday is two 7-inning games a day, round robin style, culminating in a championship game Friday afternoon.

Saturday, each team gets to play one 3-inning game against a team of former pros. It will be an honor and a privilege to be struck out by Oil Can Boyd.

The list former pros who will be coaching isn't too shabby:

Bill "Spaceman" Lee
Luis Tiant
Rich Gedman
Lou Merloni
Bob Montgomery
Dick Drago
UL Washington

Then there's the list of greats who will be stopping by for appearances:

Dwight "Dewey" Evans
Jim Rice
Mike "Gator" Greenwell
Frankie "Sweet Music" Viola

Sadly, Yaz isn't well enough to attend this year. Would've been great to see him. He's taken the torch from Teddy Ballgame as the Greatest Living Red Sox player.

In between the games, there's sure to be great social events and excuses to drink beer and get to know all the guys. Should be great!

My first time and yes, I am nervous

2009-01-27T20:12:00.001-05:00

Here we are, my first blog entry. I started this blog because I am about to embark upon Red Sox Fantasy Camp 2009, so if this is indeed my fantasy (and believe me, it is), then it ought to be recorded in some way. This is my attempt.

In late December of 2008, my brother Adam approached me about taking a vacation together, as a sort of Farewell to Non-Fatherhood for me, since my first child is due to be born in May. The official philosophy behind this is that once my kid is born, my life as I know it will be over. Days of carefree dalliances with irresponsibility will dwindle into a few secreted moments of nap time before the next diaper changing, feeding or coddling demand arises; certainly, the days of taking a full week away to play baseball with my brother among former Major Leaguers against the backdrop of the Red Sox Spring Training site will vanish. If not now, then never.

Now, I have never been a father before, so perhaps I am a greatly overstating the degree to which my life will be altered; certainly, there are plenty of parents who take vacations without their children and live to tell the tale. However, for now my overprotectiveness of my future daughter’s well-being serves my purposes quite well: With the great generosity of the King of All Big Brothers, I am off to Red Sox Fantasy Camp in a little less than a week. To live, to play, perchance to suffer a horrible leg injury, that is the stuff dreams are made on.