Entroducing... Tampa Bay's DJ Kitty

Blood feuds between cities, double-crosses by free agents or tight-fisted owners, redemption for players felled by injury or who have run afoul of the justice system due to crimes against women, pets and/or teammates are the sorts of backstories that I try to tease out whenever watching sports with my girlfriend. For example, knowing that Texas Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton wears those long sleeves under his uniform because he hates all the tattoos that he got when he was a crack head, that long-haired Tim Lincecum got busted for pot possession, and that Alex Rodriguez purportedly wears lipstick and has a fetish for women with very masculine physiques all make watching the baseball playoffs slightly more palatable for her. So does being appraised of which players have or have not bedded Alyssa Milano. Figuring out "clever" heckles based on player names - "... more like Brian McCan't" - also helps.

The hope is to infuse the game with the interpersonal drama that makes her love reality programs like Project Runway. Meanwhile, what I should have been doing is trying to appeal to her love of kitten mittens, cuteoverload.com and random videos of two bunnies and two cups. Which is exactly why she is rooting for the Tampa Bay Rays to win Game 5 against Cliff Lee and the Texas Rangers on Tuesday.

CC Riders

Most Yankees fans are relieved that one-time No. 2 starting pitcher A.J. Burnett has been dropped from the pitching rotation for the division series against the Minnesota Twins because Burnett struggled mightily in the second half of 2010.

After a first half in which he was rarely better than mediocre and frequently less than adequate, the right-hander pitched to an unsightly 5.60 ERA in September, which wasn't what the brass in the Bronx had banked on when they'd inked him to long-term deal that paid him $16.5 million this year alone. Of course, they weren't nearly as upset in September as they were in August when he tallied a 7.80 ERA. In a world with no New York Metropolitans, A.J. is likely the biggest NYC baseball pariah in 2010. Hopefully he'll put Ollie Perez on his postseason comp ticket list.

With Burnett banished, Andy Pettitte untested after a long injury layoff, and 24-year-old Phil Hughes (whose performance this season should make him the No. 2 starter in Burnett-less Bronx) relegated to one start in the ALDS, there is a lot riding on CC Sabathia's performance in the opener.

Watching Tampa Bays race ace David Price go down against Texas today really crystallized that for me. Behind Price, Tampa has Garza, Shields and a bevy of other capable arms. Now, I don't know if they brought any bats with them into October, but that's another questions for another post. On the other hand, if CC doesn't earn the win tonight in Game 1 then this Yankees team, for all its offensive fireworks in 2010, could be dispatched by Minnesota without anything too extraordinary happening at Target Field. After CC, the Yankees' rotation is filled with question marks heading into the playoffs and the club has been dismal against left-handers lately (the Twins will send out southpaws in Games 1, 3 and 5). Obviously, any team that loses Game 1 is emminently beatable in a five-game affair, and I don't mean to imply that I've discovered that point. In other groundbreaking WWOD? discoveries, he who spends all his money on lunch will not have much for dinner. What I'm saying is that this Yankees club is especially vulnerable after Sabathia in a way that the other playoff teams are not. A Game 1 loss potentially hurts them more than Tampa, Texas, San Francisco, Atlanta, Philadelphia and Cincinnati. Perhaps the only other club as dependent on a win in the opener is Minnesota, who would ask Carl Pavano to pitch Games 2 and 5. Which makes CC's Game 1 outing arguably the most important start in the any Division Series.

Despite tossing just 13.1 innings since the middle of July, Pettitte is scheduled to start Games 2 and 5. Granted, the veteran had posted an 11-2 record until he went on the shelf with a groin injury. And his resume is stocked with more postseason wins then I've had jobs with the word "assistant" in the title. Nevertheless, it's a lot to ask of a guy on a 20-month stroll to 40 years of age and just coming back from injury to pitch twice in a five-game series, including a potential winner-take-all game 5 on the road. Could anyone really be that surprised if he were to scuffle or pull up a little lame on a third-inning pitch in the cool Minneapolis air? I don't think so. And, no one could blame Pettitte.

If CC were to get edged by the Twins' Game 1 starter, Francisco Liriano, and Pettitte were to sputter then the secondary consequence of Burnett's ineptitude would become apparent. Had Burnett posted Hughes' 18-8 record or even his 4.19 ERA then there would be no doubt about who starts Game 2 in any postseason series. But without Burnett's track record or pay check, the inexperienced Hughes doesn't get that assignment. Which means that that the team's second best pitcher doesn't pitch twice in a best-of-five series. Which means Pettitte gets bumped up a spot due to his "experience" and despite his recent injury.

Again, the Yankees' offensive prowess can make these all moot points, but if CC can't deliver a Game 1 victory and the Yankees get dumped then it won't necessarily be the fault of Sabathia, Pettitte or even Hughes. It'll be the fault of a guy in the bullpen unlikely to even appear, whose poor performance led New York skipper Joe Girardi to ask too much his veteran workhorse and too little of his promising pitcher of the future.

The VerKNICKular

Aproperez

Form:
adjective; adverb; preposition

Etymology:
Facing an extra-inning game on the final day of the 2010 regular season, erstwhile Mets skipper Jerry Manuel had no choice but to call on exiled left-hander Oliver Perez as the game entered the 14th frame. The score had been knotted at 1-1 and neither anemic offense seemed to be able to dot the final lower-case j of their respective jokes of seasons.



Meaning:
1. to succumb to one's worst flaw; as to occur in a manner befitting the precipitating circumstances; poetic justice.
2. occurring at the least opportune time.
3. so as to flaunt a shameful secret.
4. to be hoisted with one's own petard

Usage:
1. With the 2010 Mets' campaign played under a cloud of poor personnel decisions and marred by injuries, ineffectiveness and malaise it was aproperez that disgraced and obstinate hurler Oliver Perez walked in the final run of the season.

2. After murdering his brother and usurping his throne in Denmark, it was aproperez that Claudius was felled by a familial relation.

Antonym: Aproposey


Meaning:
1: at an opportune time : deservedly
2: fortuitous timing; a happy coincidence
3: a deserved victory, especially one by means of one's strong suit.

Usage:
1. After providing much-needed pop to the Giants' lineup in second half of the season, it was aproposey that NL Rookie of the Year candidate Buster Posey capped off San Francisco's 3-0 division-clinching victory over the Padres with a solo home run.

Rock and Roll Is Not Water Soluble

A moment after a duly ordained representative of Summerstage in Central Park, perhaps the second-best job in the New York City Parks Department after whatever job Jerry's cousin (Uncle Leo's kid) had in Seinfeld, informed the drenched crowd of mid-20s-to-mid-40s indie rock fans that Pavement's set was being halted for the safety of the band, the ever-inscrutable Stephen Malkmus retook the microphone to inform us, with that sweet sarcasm that may be his trademark, that the officials were, of course, worried about our safety as well.

Perhaps. I mean, they did eventually inform the increasingly waterlogged crowd that the metal bleachers toward the rear of the space were not ideal seating locations due to their lightning-conducting capabilities. We were also informed that the unexpected free time would be best spent purchasing beer and souvenir T-shirts. Considering that the sky above the park looked the final act of Ghostbusters (although I'm pretty sure that Dana lived on Central Park West), the enforced break was probably for the best. As instructed, I purchased a round of unopened beers can for my date and myself.

Unless you happened to grab one of three and a half spots under the umbrella at the City Winery stand (and then managed to not be pushed out by the older couple hiding from the weather in full rain gear and wondering aloud, "Why can't the band play in the lightning storm?") then you were soaked. But, for the most part, nobody seemed to mind. Which was nice. This was as unaffected a crowd as I've been around for a concert in any of the five boroughs in quite some time. There were "oohs" and "ahhs" as the lightning forked through the night sky but no exodus, no one (that I noticed) worried about their shoes getting wet or their vintage Shawn Bradley jersey getting soaked. Such an unaffected, hipster-free vibe at an NYC concert was even more refreshing than the rain after the wooly humidity that enveloped me when I left my Midtown office to hike up to Central Park. Maybe E. 69th street is too far to travel from Williamsburg and Park Slope?

When they came back out, Pavement rampaged through a hit-filled setlist (read: most of the songs that I, admittedly not a superfan, knew) with what may have actually been enthusiasm - something missing from most of the shows they played toward the end of the 1990s. I'd never seen these guys play live, but having heard about the vaguely antagonistic shoe-gaze fuzzfests that they were prone to before they hung up their instruments in 1999 and being a little weary of reunion shows in general, I was super-duper please with what I saw and heard. It was a great show.

I'm probably going back for the finale of the four-night run on Friday thanks to a friend with extra tickets. And friends with extra tickets are in abundance, because of the way the shows were announced, so if you have any interest in this band or would like to go see some live music this week then get up to 69th and 5th and you will find a way in for less than cost of a round of unopened beers can inside.

(Image is lifted from Brooklyn Vegan, where there are many pictures and more musically-inclined commentary)

NFL's Conservation of Advertising Animals

Similar to the way that all mass in a closed system will remain constant over time there is a careful equilibrium to the advertising messages during any broadcast of a National Football League game.

If there are five advertisements featuring Howie Long shilling alpha-male trucks that rattle off towing capacities as if the biological possession of testicles meant duties hauling of steel or lumber as regular as menses then there are also five spots, also featuring Long, for eco-friendly, pocket-sized cars trumpeting miles per gallon and emissions standards in a fashion that might not send Ed Begley Jr. into a tizzy.

This one part yin, one part yang and no parts that didn't already exist in another form. Mass media can neither be created nor destroyed. Just rearranged before and after punts and kickoffs.

So, it must be the case that the downfall polar bears is a boon for some other animal. And, yes, it is. Shrimp. Endless shrimp.



Fear the endless swarms and prepare to welcome your new crustacean overlords. Unless, of course, Red Lobster can fry, grill or saute enough of the decapod conquerers before it's too late.

WWOD? Investing Tip of the Day

Some analysts find that gold and other precious metals are the safest investment, whereas others claim that the so-called vice stocks - gambling, alcohol and tobacco - are savvy choices in a down economy.

I advise running not walking to a computer, navigating the Interwebs to eBay, and sinking your fortune into vintage New York Knicks memorabilia. This will be arriving at the HQ shortly. It's size 48 and has been waiting for me, in a smoke-free home, to come along and claim it.

When I was a child going to Knicks games with my father, uncle and grandfather I dreamed of coming out onto the Garden floor wearing one of these warm-up jackets. And, years from now, it will be one tile in a mosaic explaining why my offspring must pay their way through college.

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.

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.

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.