Friday, August 13, 2010

A Last Chance Saloon

Mets Face Phillies In Latest Must-Win Situation

Although each late reaction by Jose Reyes on a groundball, each sidearmed and errant throw by David Wright at third, each three-pitch strikeout by Jeff Franceour and every last inscrutable and self-contradictory pitching move by Jerry Manuel kills a little bit more of the part of me that loved baseball so very much in the summers of 2005 and 2006, the Mets find themselves, largely thanks to the understated dominance of Johan Santana in last night's four-hit shutout of Colorado, with another chance to suck me back into their 2010 season. I'm not sure if that's quite the same as actually getting back into the pennant race. But for my television viewing habits it's about the same. And since I could be duped into buying more tickets, I'd imagine it's all the same to ownership as well.

Oh, and did I mention the jailing of a player for third-degree assault in the bowels of our home ballpark as one of the occurrences that has sapped some of my rooting spirit? No? Well, that too. Yet, the Mets are a .500 team with nearly two months to play in the regular season. For all the embarrassment and infamy they may have heaped upon themselves they could still re-write the end of this season, changing it from traditional horror a la Friday the 13th to horror-comedy with a happy ending, like Shaun of the Dead. They could also, perhaps more predictably, opt for straight up screwball comedy. Although, I must admit that I don't remember Clark Gable's character slamming the father of Claudette Colbert's character into a wall in It Happened One Night.

The Mets trail the Braves by 9 games heading into today's action. They trail Philly by 7 games. The Braves just lost Chipper Jones and there are plenty of games left against the Phillies, who have yet to score a run at Citi Field in 2010. Our local National League nine is not as out of the NL East race as AM talk radio and most of my fellow fans would say I gotta believe. With the Fightins in town for three in Queens and visits to the woeful Astros and Pirates on tap after that, it's not entirely impossible that the Mets find themselves back from the dead in a little over a week. And after next weekend's 3-game series at Houston, the Mets get the Marlins and Astros (again) at home for three games apiece.

If R.A. Dickey, whoever starts on Saturday and whomever takes the hill on Sunday can get the Mets 2 wins in 3 tries against the Philles then they will have four series against teams not likely for October. It may be no coincidence that this stretch begins on Friday the 13th. Like Jason Voorhees, perhaps the 2010 Mets could prove impervious to fire, shooting, stabbing and in-laws. Of course, that could just mean we're in for a sequel of collapses past and paster. Either way, this is the Mets latest last chance. Perhaps their last last chance. But perhaps not. The National League offers ample time to locate one's bootstraps and begin pulling. And, it seems like nearly every year someone makes a late-season charge to get into the postseason. Of course, it may just seems like that to a Mets fan because usually our team is the one being overtaken by such charges.

Back when frontiers involved sage brush and scoundrels with scars running across their faces instead of space and syndicated television, the were numerous roadhouses and bars with "last chance" worked into the name. The phrase could refer to the fact that there wasn't another whiskeying hole or watering hole or much of anything for a long ways or that travelers who kept on keeping on the trail where about to enter a dry township or county. These sorts of places proliferated across the country. Just like a National League pennant race in the 2000s, there were last chances around every bend in the road. Beginning with these three home games against the Phillies, the Mets are bellied up to the bar at their own Last Chance Saloon. The drinks are cheap. The water is warm. And the beer ain't much better off. But if they don't drink their fill now it might not be until next April that they get a chance to play a meaningful game. The first round is on R.A., a fella who seems like he might have fit in just fine in Caldwell, Kansas in the late 1800s.

For Love of the Game

What if the Velvet Underground had been more interested in the hit and run than intravenous drug use or had felt more at home in the Polo Grounds than on the Bowery? Or if Bob Dylan had written about Ray Chapman instead of Davey Moore? Of if the Gashouse Gang had been a New Wave band instead of a bluegrass outfit?

Then there would have already been something like the Baseball Project. But those things never happened. Like Harvey Haddix's perfect game. So this group featuring Steve Wynn (from the Dream Syndicate), Peter Buck and/or Mike Mills (from REM), Scott McCaughey (from the Fresh Young Fellows and the Minus 5) and Linda Pitmon (from my dreams) is the first All-Star band singing songs about Big League All-Stars.

I'd read an article in some MLB-produced publication about this group at least a year ago and thought that it was a fun novelty project for some musicians accomplished enough to pull it off. And then I heard a few of the songs and thought they were clever novelty tunes befitting the talents of those involved. So when I scored a free pair of tickets to the show last night I assumed it would be a light-hearted diversion on a Thursday night. But nothing more. Certainly not. I mean, how many rock songs about baseball could I listen to in a row? I thought I'd pedal over to Maxwell's, chain up my girlfriend's bike and head in to check out some live music for an hour and then pedal back home to catch Seinfeld at 11:30. Even if I wasn't planning on staying for the duration, it was tough to pass on seeing a band singing tunes about baseball in the town that claims to have hosted the first organized game in the sport's history.

I wasn't expecting to find a bigger crowd - especially one that included at least two guys sporting Clemente shirts - than I've seen at the Hoboken venue for the last few shows I've been to (although the familial atmosphere the makes the place so special was still in full effect with bandmembers greeting family and friends before, during and after the show). Nor was I expecting for the bona fides of these performers to make these songs really seem genuine and poignant. But all of the above happened. They had Maxwell's rocking like Shea in '86, Forbes Field in '60 and Fenway after Game 6 in the '75 Series. And, I stayed throughout the long set, not only missing Seinfeld but also the episode of The Simpsons that followed it. Because The Baseball Project was [forced baseball metaphor] rocking and rollicking through their entire catalog as well as a few tunes from the musician's day jobs.

Whether it was Mills impersonating the late Yankees announcer Bob Sheppard introducing Manny Mota as a pinch hitter in the Bronx, Wynn add-libbing references to Armando Galarraga in a song about perfect games, McCaughey expressing thanks for players like K-Rod that screw up just enough to keep the game and its participants from seeming too corporate, there was no doubt that this foursome knows there hardball nearly as well as their hard rock.

Without any t-shirts or commemorative beer cozies being sold at the back of the room and the band's latest tunes being given away for free online, there was also no question that they play these songs with each other because they enjoy the hell out of it. Whether talking about sports or music this sort passion and spirit seems like a relic from the sepia-toned age that so many of the songs engage. Satchel Paige, Jackie Robinson and Ted Fucking Williams populate the group's lyrics, song by Wynn and McCaughey.

Ted Fucking Williams
People say it’s hard to like a man who doesn’t fail and show he’s a human.
But failure’s not a sign of grace. It only means you don’t know what you’re
doing. And everyone says “hey Mick!” Mantle this, Mantle that—it makes
me sick. It’s just so hard to see. Why do they like him better than me? I’m
Ted Fucking Williams!


Although they are happy to sing about Curt Flood and Willie Mays, the group's members do make an appearance in "The Yankee Flipper," which chronicles the night when Mills and McCaughey were out for a night in the Big Apple with former pitcher Jack McDowell when he playing for the Yankees. A night of boozing and covering The Replacements led to "Black Jack" passing out in a bathroom and ultimately flipping off the crowd at Yankee Stadium the next afternoon as he left the field after getting shelled in the second game of a doubleheader on July 18, 1995.





Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Happy Birthday John Starks

The Knicks' birthday blitz continues with longtime New York shooting guard and forever fan favorite John Starks celebrating his 45th birthday. Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma on Aug. 10, 1965, Starks grew up in a city losing it's status as one America's booming oil towns. Being born and raised in Tulsa didn't mean what it used to by the time that Starks was out of grade school.

Starks attended Tulsa Central, the oldest high school in town, and starred on the basketball court. But standing around 6 foot 3 with only a streaky jumpshot and lacking the demeanor to run the point there weren't a lot of Division 1 colleges knocking down his door. Instead of heading to a blue-blood program like so many of his eventual peers, Starks bagged groceries and got some run at a string of community colleges.

It's hard to say whether Starks, at that time, believed deep in his heart that there was a future for him playing ball or whether he was just had no other idea about what to do with his life. Regardless, he worked at his game with the same ferocity that would make him a star on the game's brightest stage. He worked. He hustled. And, probably, pissed off a lot of Okies playing weeknight games at the local YMCA. All of this earned him a spot on the Oklahoma State hoops squad in his senior year. Playing under coach Leonard Hamilton just before the dawning of the Eddie Sutton era, Starks showed up on campus for the '87-'88 season and led the team in minutes per game at 32.8 per contest. Second on the team in minutes per was Richard Dumas, who shined so briefly and brightly for the Phoenix Suns in the early 1990s before succumbing to addiction and drugging himself out of the Association. Starks averaged 15.4 points and 4.7 boards per game while shooting better than 80% from the line in his lone season at OSU. He led the club in assists, steals and made three pointers. And, then, within a few months he was gone. To the NBA. Sort of.

After being predictably overlooked in the NBA draft, Starks tried to latch on with Golden State Warriors and got some intermittent run in the CBA over the next few seasons before landing a tryout with the New York Knicks before the 1990 season. As the legend goes, Starks' chances of sticking with the team seemed slim. Then the indomitable Starks went up to dunk on the team's incumbent superstar in the pivot, Patrick Ewing, in practice. The 6 foot 3 inch Starks didn't manage to scale the 7 footer but he did manage to secure a spot on the roster. By injuring himself. By twisting his knee in the dunk attempt, Starks found himself protected from release. This wouldn't be the first time that a complete disregard for his own well-being and for the established pecking order on an NBA court would be his saving graces.

Befitting a kid born in "Tornado Alley," Starks tore a haphazard, full-force path through the NBA. He played 82 games for the first time in 1991-92 and started more the 50 contests the following year. Starks didn't back down from anyone. Especially the game's biggest stars. He defended Michael Jordan as well as anyone this side of Joe Dumars and did so with a lot less size and physical strength to rely on. Although nobody was stopping Jordan in the early to mid 1990s there may not have been anyone making it harder to get his customary 28 to 35 per game in the postseason.

And while Indiana Pacers shooting guard Reggie Miller may have built a cult following on a few big moments against the Knicks, there was no doubt that ferocity with which Starks attacked the long distance marksman made it all possible. Starks went at Miller, sometimes too literally, in each playoff matchup between the two Eastern Conference aspirants. And, to his credit, Miller responded in kind. But for all Miller's heroics, there was no relationship between a player and a fanbase like the one between Starks and the Knicks faithful. It was different than the way that teams felt about their preternaturally gifted stars. It wasn't the same way that we felt about Patrick. Or that Pacers fans felt about Miller.


Part of the reason that so many casual fans around the country may have rallied around Miller, despite his being a spotlight-loving prima dona from UCLA, is that those from outside the New York metropolitan area tend to harbor some nebulous resentment against those of us who were raised and/or make our homes in the orbit of the Apple. Perhaps it's an inferiority complex. Perhaps it's that they assumed that our lives and apartments and jobs are as pampered and frivolous as those belonging to the characters from Friends. Which really was based out of LA. Like Reggie Miller. But, I digress. There were a lot of fans around the country rooting for the Pacers in their battles with the Knicks simply because they wanted New York to lose. And they wanted this because they imagined New Yorkers to be rich, corporate, greedy, violent, godless and without loyalty. But enough about Pat Riley. Ba dum cha! Rubes from the provinces project all their false and founded fears and prejudices about city folk on anyone wearing the "NY." They see white-collar crime. They see dark-skinned minorities. They see opulence that makes them envious. They see poverty that disgusts them. They see hustlers with cardboard laid over stacked milk crates for three-card monty and hustlers with Brooks Brothers suits working down on Wall Street. This is, in part, why they loved Reggie and loathed Starks.

Now when the home fans in the Garden saw No. 3, we also saw an exemplar of New York City. But we saw an underdog getting by on heart while others may be coasting on skill. We saw grit and passion and anger and righteous rage. We saw someone with goals not circumscribed by humble beginnings. We saw someone who was never going to stop working, even if the face of ultimate failure. We saw someone who wouldn't give up and who, like Han Solo flying into an asteroid field, didn't want to know the odds were against him. We saw everything that makes New York and New Yorkers resilient and tough. And sometimes great.

So, we also saw New York in John Starks. But we saw the flip side. The side that makes this the most dynamic city in the world. We saw the guy whose effort and talent raised him from bagging groceries to playing in the NBA Finals. It was the American Dream. And it looked like it was coming true. The fact that someone like Starks existed was enough to get a thousands of kids out of bed to practice each morning. Because he wasn't handed anything. He wasn't born to be 6 foot 7 like Miller and to have such a natural shooting stroke. He wasn't ready for advertising and broadcasting from day one, having to battle a prominent stutter early in his career. When Starks slammed home "The Dunk" in the waning moments Game 2 of the 1993 Eastern Conference against the Bulls that was the closest that most of us Knicks fans ever came to feeling like we had dunked. Starks rose up along the baseline and, with this left hand, rattled it home over Horace Grant and an incoming Jordan. It was like watching Tiny Tim throw down over Mr. Scrooge while Jacob Marley was trying to take a charge in the restricted area. It was a metaphor wrapped in an Ahmad Rashad-narrated NBA Inside Stuff highlight. I've still got the souvenir shirt that I bought shortly thereafter. It means so much to me that I rarely wear it.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Braylon Edwards is Rocking the "Full Set"

When folks in ancient Greece saw a fellow with a full beard, like the one sported at pre-season training camp by Jets wide receiver Braylon Edwards, they assumed this was a virile, masculine man. Romans felt the same way. In ancient India, a long flowing beard symbolized wisdom. The handling and holding of another man's beard was considered an act of disrespect and an invitation to a duel in the Middle Ages. You shouldn't mess with another man's beard. I wonder if Edwards freed the follicles of his face because he heard that cornerbacks in the NFL abide by similar customs.

Beards have historically been such a signifier of badassery that royalty in ancient Egypt would sometimes wear false metal beards just to impress their minions. And, I don't mean metal beard as in a heavy metal beard like guitarist Kim Thayil from Soundgarden but something actually forged from metal and attached to the chin. It was called a postiche and most sarcophagus depict Pharaohs as rocking them.

And, while Alexander the Great and the Macedonians went clean shaven, which sort of squares with what we've all heard about him all and his pretty boy pals, there has been an association with beards and might straight through the from the knights of the Middle Ages to generals in the American Civil War, like Union skipper Ulysses S. Grant, to Baron Davis of the National Basketball Association.



Alexander wanted a clean shaven military to keep enemies from grabbing onto the beards of his men in combat. He felt that such a beardhold could put his soldiers in jeopardy. Same could go for a wide receiver, I guess. However, that did not mean that fierce facial hair was barred from future military ranks. Aside from the proliferation of flowing face locks in the Civil War, the British Navy, for example, allows beards provided they are part of a "full set," meaning a beard with a mustache. Not just one or the other. Should this ball catching thing not work out for Braylon (and, to be fair, the results have been mixed) perhaps there is a future at sea in her Majesty's Navy.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Happy Birthday Big Fella

It was 48 years ago today that Patrick Aloysius was born to Dorothy and Carl Ewing in Kingston, Jamaica. As a young boy he took to cricket and soccer, where played in the net. First his mother and later his father emigrated to the United States when he was 11 years old. They settled in Cambridge.

At this point, Patrick had yet to touch a basketball. Yet within 10 years he had taken his high school team to the state championship and his college team to the national championship. At Georgetown, he would be the most dominant collegiate player in the country, leading the Hoyas to the Final Four three times. He won a Gold Medal in 1984. In 1985, he was drafted by the Knicks. By 1988, he was my hero. In 1992, he won another Gold Medal as the starting center of the "Dream Team" In 1997, he was announced as one of the 50 Greatest Players in NBA history. Through it all he played with fire and dignity, whether on mediocre teams or when being targeted by the media for failing to deliver on the promises they made for him when he arrived in the Big Apple. Today he is an assistant coach of the Orlando Magic and still busts his tail by all accounts as he tutors Dwight Howard and works toward a head coaching gig.

Whereas most athletes are, to borrow from a contemporary of Patrick's, not meant to be role models, I'd like to think that the Big Fella's integrity and effort, the way that he never left any game having given anything less than his best effort, did make me a better person. Watching him vie for a title year after year, as the injuries mounted and the naysayers gathered taught me that there are rewards to be gotten and pride to be taken from the manner in which one makes their journey regardless of the final destination.

Happy Birthday to you, Big Fella.