Fight the machines

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

I remember when fancy technology didn't decide which team was better. Not when brute strength, determination and bucketloads of desire were available.

Everyone in the media is clamoring for instant replay in baseball just because a few pansies couldn't hit the baseballs far enough to be definite home runs. Those bleeders that barely make it over the outfield wall shouldn't count for anything, Luis Rivas. If you're a man, you'd hit it into the third deck like Mark McGwire. If McGwire were alive today, he would not stand for this discussion of new technologies enhancing and changing the way me beloved game is played.

Bud Selig feels television monitors should not take away the "human element" of the game, and I agree. Hell, what is sports but one giant "human element?" If we didn't have players and officials making mistakes, why would we play the games? Free will is something that was given to us by God, after that bitch Eve couldn't resist some tasty fruit. It's Biblical.

The slow takeover of machines has already begun in sports. Instant replay in football and basketball, machines that say whether a ball is in or out in tennis, and sensors that say when a goal is scored in hockey. I've never trusted machines -- science is the opposite of sports. Plus, it slows the damn game down too much. If baseball started using instant replay, there may not be enough time for players and managers to fruitlessly argue calls, pitchers like Steve Trachsel to take 30 seconds between pitches, or Tony LaRussa to work his micromanaging magic.

When I was young, I followed in the McGuffin tradition and became a timekeeper for Olympic track and field trials. I used a trusty stopwatch handed down through generations of McGuffins. It worked most of the time, and I was damn good at my job. Sure, I might have missed a second or two in the 100-meter dash, but nothing that would have affected the outcome. That was all before people wanted machines to tell them how fast they were, instead of people.

I say do away with such "advances" as the shot clock in basketball and all that body armor in baseball. And football for that matter -- I don't need state-of-the-art padding before I go out and hit somebody. Football is a man's game. Let them figure it out. In fact, let's just get the referees off the field in general. I remember when we played football, we didn't have a "false start," we just had a "head start."

We certainly don't need scoreboards, either. I see these stadiums with their fancy digital readouts and complicated colors and numbers. I hate all of it. The score should be kept by hand, preferably on a giant chalkboard in center field.

Preserve the human element before it's too late. I can't talk much longer. The machines might hear me.

Joakim got to be starting somethin

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

I wish my daddy was cool like Joakim Noah's.

When I get in trouble -- like when I pee all over the chalkboard because Mrs. Burrows wouldn't let me go out for recess -- daddy spanks me and tells me to go to my room. There is nothing to do in my room! I get really bored, and cry, then throw myself against the floor so it sounds like I had an accident, and daddy will be sad for me and let me come downstairs and play the Halo game.

Boom boom! Die, aliens!

But Joakim Noah's daddy doesn't really care if his son does naughty things, like smoke the pot. I don't know why smoking the pot is so bad, but mommy tells me to stay out of the kitchen a lot, so she probably doesn't want me to do anything to the pot.

Daddy says Joakim Noah's daddy is a dummyhead, because he's French, and doesn't really understand a lot of stuff. I think Joakim Noah's daddy is Michael Jackson. Or maybe that's his mommy. It's hard to tell.

How come Joakim Noah doesn't have to say he's sorry and be grounded for two days if he does something naughty? It's not fair! Just because his daddy released all those records and danced with zombies doesn't mean he gets to do whatever he wants.

Maybe Michael Jackson isn't Joakim Noah's daddy. I think he looks like one of the Halo aliens, instead. Boom boom!

I may never care about the NFL again

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Man, did you hear the news about the NFL collective bargaining agreement? That the NFL owners might stage a lockout in 2011? That would be, quite possibly, the worst thing that's ever happened to my professional sports world.

We've already been at this stage in life, when Major League Baseball had a strike in 1994. My world came crashing down when there was no World Series, and I remembered how angry I felt. I told myself I would never watch another MLB game again. I ended up going back on that promise, but I did boycott Spring Training in 1995 successfully.

But if the NFL decided to lockout, I know I would never watch pro football again. I would be too heartbroken, smashed by this game that I love so much. These people run an entertainment business, and they reap millions of dollars every year, but they're going to shut out the little guy so they can get some wording right on a contract? You'll be sorry NFL, when you have a work stoppage. You'll never get me back.

Sure, I'll have to find other things to do on my Sundays once the NFL returns -- maybe picnics with the wife and kids in the fall and maybe I'll go snowmobiling with my buddies in the winter. I might even go to church. I'll live without that rush of anticipation as I jump out of bed each morning, and I'll be just fine without StatTracker whirring and giving me up-to-the-instant updates on my fantasy team. That stuff is all poisonous to the mind, anyway. Maybe my wife is right.

It will be just like baseball, when all those fans vowed they would never come back. Look at baseball now -- completely dormant because of all those fans they put off more than a decade ago. The game will never recover.

Neither will the NFL. There will be no gathering of 20-somethings to share beers and Doritos on Monday nights. There will be no packed stadiums with crazy lunatics who began drinking at 8 a.m. There will be no merchandise empire or sports bars filled to the brim with crazy drunken fans. There may be no drinking, period. It's just going to be another game, on par with hockey or soccer. I'd venture a guess that maybe one-tenth of American males will know who's leading the division on a given Sunday in November.

Not only that, but they're going to get rid of the salary cap, which will totally ruin football just like baseball. Can you imagine if there was no competitive balance? Where teams like the Patriots and Cowboys succeeded every year, and teams like the Bills and Texans struggled year-in, year-out? That would be devastating to the game.

It's all very disgusting, and I feel my fandom is in jeopardy just by them opting out of the contract and even making this an issue. You're on parole, football. If you perform a lockout, you're going to be locked away forever.

Pick me, OJ

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Name: Charles Xavier "DeJuan" Curtis C3Po
Hometown: The City of Angels, CA

Objective:
Get my hands on a fine position within OJ Mayo's inner circle now that the high-flying wunderdawg has decided to select some new friends. Willing to run errands and such, and unafraid to be called part of a "posse."

Summary of Achievements
Flotsam Media
2006-present: Fly scribe. Undercover brother journalism investigation of 2006 Olympics, the Barry Bonds shit, the Winter baseball meetings, and some hockey. Developed ability to irritate other media types. Generated large palette of adjectives and nouns, so if you need someone to tell that camera guy where he can stick it and you want it to be colorful, I'm your man.

West Coast Wonderland Tour
2004-2006: Supporting act (technical title: "roadie"). Hung out with several hip hop legends on tour across America. Would have held a more hands-on role, were it not for freak pyrotechnics accidents caused by a slight, tiny oversight on my part.

Mooch
2002-2004: Saw the countryside. Mostly lived in assorted basements. Blogged.

Experience
2007-present
Watched a bunch of your games on TV. Developed strong dislike for OJ Mayo haters. Coined term "No Holding the Mayo" in the national blogosphere. Bitches, I'm like a big deal on the web.

2007
Started paying attention to college basketball. Cool shit.

2000-2002
Propensity for being fly developed, worked with large crowds. Brokered endorsement deals here and there. I've already made some calls to Miracle Whip, and they are totally interested in working something out.

1993-1997
Junior varsity basketball, Lake Elsinore High School, San Diego, CA

Education

2000-2004
School of Hard Knocks
Specialization: Sexy

1993-1997
Lake Elsinore High School
San Diego, CA

Selected Publications

"DeJuan Does History or Something," published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. May 10, 2006. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2006/05/dejuan-does-history-or-something.html.

"People I've Impersonated", published by Flotsam Media. On-Line. March 12, 2008. http://www.flotsam-media.com/2008/03/people-ive-impersonated.html.

Go European or go home

By Isiah Thomas
NBA Mastermind

How very exciting that my hometown Chicago Bulls have been granted the first overall pick in this year's NBA Draft. I was hoping that my current team, the New York Knicks, had done enough in the regular season to merit the top pick, but I was disappointed when lady luck did not smile upon our franchise, which has been hit with some bad luck over the past few years.

I'd like to think if I hadn't traded all my draft picks the past couple years, I would have made some franchise-changing successes. If I presided over the Bulls -- say someone gave me a phone call and asked me to be their head coach -- then I know what I would do this year.

A lot of people are simplifying this draft down to two players -- Derrick Rose and Michael Beasley. Both are nice players, but I think some outside-the-box thinking is always a good idea when you're trying to turn your franchise around. You have to see potential where others have not found out, like in Eddy Curry or Jared Jeffries. You have to stick your neck out there to have success.

So rather than go with the obvious consensus selections, I submit another name to you, Chicago. Danilo Gallinari.

Foreign players aren't often as glamorous as the stateside guys, but there is some very simple logic here. My good friend Joe Dumars had the No. 2 pick not that long ago and had to choose between a European superstar and a college freshman who had just come away from playing in the national title game. He chose Darko Milicic -- and immediately won the NBA Championship that year. That's what it's all about. I salute Joe Dumars for making the call.

I urge Chicago to do the same. You obviously can't use the overall top pick on a guard like Rose, and there are just some non-specific things I don't like about Beasley. But Gallinari has the full package, and I think the Bulls would be wise to take my advice.

Take it from me. I drafted David Lee. Call me, John Paxson.

Whose No-Hitter is Awesomer?

By Jim Abbott
One-Armed Man

On September 4, 1993, I had one arm.

But that didn’t stop me from no-hitting the Cleveland Indians while wearing the New York Yankees pinstripes. You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive. I had ONE ARM and still worked nine innings without allowing a hit.

Jon Lester has a great story, don’t get me wrong. The dude overcomes cancer to throw a no-hitter for the Red Sox, and good for him. Nice kid, etc. But they have relays and benefits and galas and all kinds of stuff to raise money for cancer. You don’t see anybody raising money for kids with stubby arms. Hell, George Steinbrenner actually said it was an unnecessary distraction in 1993 when I was visiting disabled kids in the hospital!

So no offense to Jon Lester, but my no-hitter was way cooler. Way more interesting. I HAVE ONE ARM! I’d shake hands with you, but I can’t. Doesn’t mean you can hit my curveball.

Somewhere along the way, the world stopped caring about the New York Yankees. It used to be that they got all the coverage, but now it’s all about the Boston Red Sox. So when Lester does his thing, ESPN can’t stop talking about it. How many times have you see Jacoby Ellsbury make the diving catch, or Alberto Callaspo strike out to end the game, and it has barely been 24 hours?

Who is Alberto Callaspo anyway? These are the Royals. When I threw my no-hitter, I dominated guys like Kenny Lofton, Carlos Baerga, Albert Belle, Manny Ramirez, Jim Thome and Sandy Alomar, Jr. And Felix Fermin.

I HAVE ONE ARM!

By Dwight Gooden
Doc Feel Good

On May 14, 1996, I wasn’t exactly in my heyday. I did most of my damage before I turned 21 years old, in fact, accumulating something like 1,000 strikeouts before I could legally (tee-hee) drink. Look at my numbers in 1985, when I had 24 wins, 268 strikeouts and a 1.53 ERA. Hello, those numbers are insane! It was shortly after that when I also went insane. Thanks to cocaine.

Eric Clapton said it best when ne noted that cocaine, she don’t lie, and she sure as hell didn’t want me to keep playing baseball. I was spending time with my favorite lady when I missed the Mets’ World Series victory parade in 1986. Relationships are hard, man, and sometimes you gotta make sacrifices. I’d say I sacrificed a lot to be with coca cola.

I almost got my ass released in April of 1996 because I was pitching so badly in one of my comeback attempts, but then I no-hit the Seattle Mariners at Yankee Stadium. I sure as hell hadn’t thrown a no-hitter when I was young and awesome, but here I was – an old man who just wanted a hit, and yet threw nine innings without a single one. That’s legendary stuff, folks. Way better than Jon Lester’s story.

Since Lester pitches for the Red Sox, ESPN is behaving like he just saved the world or something. I know he had cancer and all, but they’ve got incredible medicine for that sort of thing. For me, the medicine WAS the issue. It’s hard to overcome your problems that way.

I wish ESPN paid more attention to other teams in baseball – like the Yankees.

By Nolan Ryan
Owns Robin Ventura

I threw seven.

Dakota's finals preview

By Dakota Brezinski
Seven-year-old

Charles Barky is not going to gamble anymore! But Charles Barky loves to gamble. What if he goes sad because he can't gamble, and then he stops keeping it fresh? Mommy says I shouldn't eat the fruits in our fridge that aren't fresh. I don't listen to mommy very much.

I love Charles Barky, and I will also give up something I like to do to show how much I love him! Peeing. I will pee again when Charles Barky gambles again.

Even if Charles Barky is sad, this is my favoritest time of the NBA season, because there are only four teams left. Gregg Popovich and his silly face will take on Kobe Bryant, who mommy doesn't like because he never shares. And in the other games, it's a bunch of little leprechauns (I love leprechauns) against the Pistons! The Pistons are there every year. Daddy says it's easy to win every year when you're the 16-year-old repeating second grade. He thinks the Eastern Conference is in second grade. I wish they really were, because it would be cool if Anderson Varejao came to my math class. Crazy hair!

Tim Duncan is boring. He doesn't make me go whoop like Chris Paul. Boooooo, Tim Duncan. Stop being so boring.

So I am cheering for Kobe Bryant and the leprechauns. But I will show you who will win:

Guards: You know that guy Rondo? I bet he's related to Waldo Geraldo Faldo from Family Matters. Did I do that? Urkel makes milk come through my nose. The Pistons have Chauncey Billups, and he hurted himself. You can't be sore against Rondo! Or Ray Allen or that guy named The Truth. Advantage: Celtics. In the other series, Kobe Bryant is a guard. Advantage: Lakers.

Centers: Tim Duncan is boring and smells like poo. The Lakers have POW POW POW Gas-all, and everyone wants Gas right now because it's so expensive. Advantage: Lakers! In the other games, silly Rasheed and his bald head is pretty good, but Kevin Garnett drinks Gatorade! I like grape the best. Advantage: Celtics

Forwards: Kobe Bryant could be a forward if he wanted. Advantage: Lakers. In the other games, the Celtics have Leon Powe! POWE POWE POWE. He's like Pow Gas-all, but not as good because he has a silent letter. I hate those. Advantage: Celtics.

So the winners will be Kobe Bryant, and the Celtics. I have drunken lots of Gatorade, and I don't know how much longer I can be on Charles Barky's side. Gamble soon, Charles Barky!

I'm (expletive) sorry

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Men normally don't admit their wrong. That's the way it's been done for 100 years, and no pansy umpire is going to change evolution.

But I had a strange sensation when I watched Bob Davidson use a series of F-Bombs to explain how he completely (bleeping) blew a call on Sunday Night Baseball, where he disallowed a home run. He did that because he was a moron, and does not know what a foul pole looks like.

Of course, the Mets still won by nine runs and the two that they missed out on because of Bob Davidson didn't really matter. It's only newsworthy because it's the annual media sploogefest known as New York vs. New York. My days of sploogefest have long since passed me by. I'm lucky just to urinate pain-free these days.

This odd apology has given me new perspective. After all, I'm going to die someday, and my kids aren't going to get anything close to the sum of money they expect. I do love stringing them along, however, as they politely come visit me every Sunday and pretend like they're all interested. Fuckers.

With the last laugh already written on a legal document, I might as well use this opportunity to apologize for all those times through the years I've been wrong. Allow me to use Bob Davidson as my beacon of contrition.

1920: I'm sorry, Harry Frazee, that I told you to sell that one fat guy to the Yankees so you could finance your Broadway show. I still maintain you can't pass up a chance at Broadway, but I concede that the fat guy was probably the wrong guy to trade. I (expletive) blew that one.

1969: I'm sorry, my beloved Colts, for getting that punk Joe Namath drunk during the week of the big game. I thought we were in good shape when he opened his big yap and started talking about guarantees. Nobody (expletive) feels worse about that than me.

1983: I'm sorry, Portland. You probably shouldn't have paid me all that money to be a consultant prior to the NBA Draft. I knew that kid from North Carolina was good, but if you had seen Sam Bowie play, you would have gotten that tingling feeling like I did. I think it was Bowie who caused all that. Anyway, I'm a (expletive) stick and totally (expletive) that up.

1989: I'm sorry, baseball. It was a very dark period in my life, and I happened to be using a whole lot of fantastic anabolic steroids so at least my body was bitching, even if my mind was not. I should have never invited Jose Canseco to my grandson's bat mitzvah. (Expletive)! I (expletive).

1997: I'm sorry, Evander Holyfield. I needed the money and paid your trainer to sprinkle some seasoned salt on your ear, hoping it would drive Mike Tyson into a furious rage of awesomeness. I wasn't exactly sure what it would do, but I can promise you that wasn't the intended effect. If I wasn't such a (expletive) (expletive), the world would be a better (expletive) place.

2003: I'm sorry, Chicago Cubs. I had a bad case of the runs when I was watching Game 6 of the NLCS at Wrigley Field, and I told this nerdy punk kid that he could sit in my seat down the left field foul line. I was in the can for 25 minutes. When I went in, the Cubs were on their way to the World Series. When I came out, everything smelled like shit. (Series of expletives). Also, (expletive).

Who needs Goliath?

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Bitches, I was on the edge of my damn seat Wednesday night watching the elimination episode of American Idol. Dog, I love me some Syesha Mercado, but I would be damn pissy if my boys the Davids -- David Archuleta and David Cook -- did not make the big finale next week. They couldn't be more different dudes -- the Disney-loving 17-year-old shrimp cocktail (non-alcoholic of course -- boy won't be hitting the sauce for another four years) and the seasoned bartending rock dude. It's the clash of the damn titans! We're all gonna die!

So who is America's favorite David? There are so many other Davids who deserve consideration for that shit.

1. David Beckham. Y'all, he plays some game that nobody gives two shits about, but can you imagine how many times he has heard that shitty Spice Girls song "Spice Up Your Life?" That's hardcore, bitches. Can't believe he hasn't killed a man yet.

2. David Ortiz. Big Papi! According to my massive research, that's French for "Large Patriarch."

3. Dave Winfield. Remember the good old days of baseball, when all the best dudes were skinny? Man, what did they eat for breakfast before protein milkshakes got invented?

4. David Padgett. Well what do you want from me? I scanned all the Greatest Damn Athlete lists I could find, and there just aren't that many athletic famous Daves out there. For some reason, I just got hungry for barbecue.

5. David. Dog, put on some damn clothes! Yo, any dudes out there interested in feeling better about themeselves? This David is considered a work of art, and he ain't exactly Santonio Holmes.

Honorable mention: David Chappelle (funny as shit!), David Letterman (not funny as shit), Davy Crockett (furry damn hat), David Wright (good at baseball, probably should be up there instead of Padgett), Dave Roberts (fast and old).

A tribute to Annika Sorenstam

By David Harrison
Sports Fan

Like most sports fans, I was stunned yesterday when Annika Sorenstam announced her retirement from professional golf. At just 37, many say that she still had a few good years left in her.

There's no doubt she's had a tremendous impact on the world of sports. I'll never forget that one time she made a putt in that tournament back in 2001, or maybe 1999. I'm pretty sure it helped her win a tournament, or finish in the top 10.

And no doubt you've heard about those times she won a major tournament, beating out other similarly talented golfers for the title of whatever it was that she won.

I still remember the day, back in late 90s, when I was flipping around the channels on a weekend afternoon and I saw Sorenstam smiling and hoisting some sort of trophy above her head. I bet that victory made her feel really, really good about herself.

And who could forget her incredible, come-from-behind victory against Lisa or Dawn in a particularly important summer tournament? I clearly recall seeing that highlight on Sportscenter the next day.

Of course, I applaud Sorenstam for leaving on her own terms. It sounds like she still wins some tournaments, so I imagine she still can hit the ball. Of course, it is always better to go out while still playing well, rather than wait until your skills have declined precipitously. Smart move, Annika. You always were probably pretty smart.

So today, let's all toast Annika Sorenstam. Toast her for her incredible drive to repeatedly enter golf tournaments, show up, and often perform well. Toast her for her easy demeanor, since I don't recall any egregious off-the-course problems. Toast her for his signature shot, the one that she could do really well pretty consistently and helped her over the course of her career. Toast that swing, which I'm guessing was probably pretty nice, since I remember her winning some tournaments.

It's hard to win golf tournaments if you suck. And since Sorenstam won some tournaments, she definitely didn't suck.

Congratulations on a job well-done, Annika. Enjoy your retirement.

Shop Until You're On Top

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Good value is everywhere, if you know where to look.

I can tell you if you get something for full price at Kohl's, you've probably done something wrong. If you haven't at least considered eBay before buying something at an antique depot, you're doing your purse a great disservice. If you don't hit at least 17 garage sales per summer season, then not only are you a bad shopper, but also an uneighborly bitch.

Shopping is an essential component of any good life, and I applaud the way the Florida Marlins are able to get good deals for virtually no money at all. They're spending 21 million on their team -- far less than the Yankees are paying Alex Rodriguez to sit on the disabled list -- and they've produced one of the best records in baseball thus far.

They are America's discount darlings, and a great template by which a good shopper can base her decision making. After all, expensive goods (Barry Zito, Andruw Jones, Eric Gagne) seldom bring happiness, especially when they are unceremoniously ripped to shreds by the family pet.

Sidebar. There is a new bassett hound -- available for free -- at the local humane society. Now that's a bargain. She responds to the name "Rosalita" and "get away."

However, when a person makes a bargain purchase, they can't help but feel proudly attached to their goods. I have made the mistake of going fancy, buying an expensive blouse only to discover a massive flaw in the stitching on the back. This is akin to what happens everytime someone buys Mike Hampton. But I didn't really like the sweather anyway. On the other hand, the gorgeous pants suit I found at Sally McNee's garage sale is one of my favorite items, and it was only 10 dollars. We'll call it the Rule 5 Garage Sale, and we'll call the pants suit Dan Uggla.

Obviously, sometimes it's about being ahead of the curve. Nobody thought those mosquito alarms (with the torturous sound that can only be heard by young people) were ever going to amount to anything, so I bought one online for 20 dollars. Now, I'm encouraging all the women on the block to get one, but they have to pay through the nose. I knew those things would eventually catch on, allowing women like me everywhere to get a midday nap while forcing the children to stay outside, rain or shine. This is like buying Hanley Ramirez. He's useful to no end -- maybe invaluable -- but if you get him before he becomes expensive, you're really doing yourself a favor.

Shoppers also never take a day off. Sure, the Florida Marlins may only have 5,000 or so people at each game, but that's because the smart fans are out pounding the pavement, looking for that next deal. No good shopper is satisfied with what they already have in their sanctuary at home. It's a hunter-gathering society.

While you're out scoffing at the malls of America and instead finding your deals at smaller, better places (or Wal-Mart), think of the Florida Marlins.

Joba Chamberlain creates new words

ESPN has apparently invented a new word to describe middle reliever Joba Chamberlain, the darling of the network.

The word is "expessive." It appears that ESPN has combined the demeanor of the reliever (expressive) with their own coverage of him (excessive).

I applaud ESPN's continuing innovation.

King of nothing!

By Bandwagon Burt
Wind Sock

Nike (SWOOSH!) says I am a WITNESS, but if I was called to testify, the prosecution would be very disappointed, cuz I ain't seen NOTHING from LeBron James!

I've got my right hand on the Bible and I solemnly swear that Mr. French-For-The-Bron has not made a single shot since this round of the playoffs began! OBJECTION! No, better yet, REJECTION -- as in the Cleveland playoff chances! Have you EVER SEEN LEBRON SO BAD? He's pleading NO CONTEST.

Someone tell the people to stop smoking at the Boston Garden! It's so hazy!

SMACK THAT GAVEL, JUDGE, and declare your verdict: LeBron is past his prime! That's right, it's over. The guy is just too old now, I mean LOOK AT HIM, HE'S FORTY and has all that chest hair and it's somebody else's time now. THIS IS MY TESTIMONY. I SWEAR TO TELL THE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

I tell you what I am a WITNESS for -- CHRISTOPHER PAUL! He's amazing! When does he get a multi-gajillion dollar Nike contract and a bunch of crazy shoes? He's the GREATEST POINT GUARD EVER, according to some former player on ESPN, and he's got the Spurs on the ropes in the West. And who cares about the Eastern Conference anyway? As they say in court, the East is IMMATERIAL EVIDENCE -- cannot be admitted into court! It's all about the WILD WILD WESTERN.

King James can't be king of the court (HAHA, DOUBLE MEANING) if Paul is in session. He would be MVP if not for Kobe-Won-Kinobe (STAR WARS REFERENCE! -- Kobe has the FORCE!), and LeBron is just some guy on some irrelevant team. I PLEAD THE FIFTH! I MOVE FOR RECESS. v

A-Rod sucks at public relations

Marv Blackstone
Editor-in-chief

God damn it, A-Rod.

I've spent the last several years defending you against critics, telling them that they had you pegged all wrong. I said they couldn't possibly know you. They don't know how you tick.
But still, you kept doing things to embarrass yourself. And I kept defending you.

But damn it, man. Passing out during the birth of your kid? What the hell? That's the last straw. You're dead to me.

See, I'm not sure you're aware of this, but there is a thing called public relations. It helps control how you are viewed in the public eye. Your image.

When you slap at Bronson Arroyo's glove, or talk about how you and Derek Jeter don't sleep over anymore, or get caught hanging around with burly strippers, or pass out during fucking childbirth, it hurts your image.

LeBron James understands this. His handlers carefully control his image and his likeness. He's a brand right now. When people think of LeBron James, they think of a cool badass who dominates the game. When they think of you, they picture a pretty boy passed out on a tile floor while his wife gives birth.

You and LeBron both play your sports at incredibly high levels. So why the difference in public perception?

Because you suck balls at public relations.

Back in the 1980s, during a brief respite from journalism, I worked in the PR world. I had just been fired from the San Jose Mercury News for stealing the break-room fridge, and was looking for a new gig. Thanks to an old connection, I landed at Nike.

At the time, Nike was known as a running shoe company. That was their niche. But I barged in and told Nike that no one gave a shit about Steve Prefontaine and running. They nearly threw me out, but then I told them -- sign Michael Jordan. Sign that rookie from North Carolina and let's build a shoe for him.

They listened.

So we created the Air Jordan line. In fact, I designed the first shoe. I decided that Spike Lee was the perfect complement for Jordan's first television commercials. I said we should pony up the cash to get these ads on prime-time TV.

The ads were a huge hit. Kids loved them, and begged for the shoes. I remember a meeting I had with him, where I told him he needed to keep his image squeaky clean. And if he did, parents would embrace him as a role model for their kids.

He listened, and the Jordan brand took off. The man knew how to market himself. He was savvy. People adored him. Eventually, the man became the second recognizable face in America, behind Jesus Christ.

All because of me, really.

But that's beside the point. The point is that you, A-Rod, need to get some PR help. I'm available, should you need my services. I can also negotiate deals for you, cook great Lebanese food, and make balloon animals that look like genitalia. Contact me for an all-inclusive package.

Remember "Be Like Mike?" That was my idea. And really, who would actually want to be like A-Rod at this point?

Stop looking like a douchebag, you douchebag. Get an image.

Call Marv today!

Bury Barry. Bitches.

DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Are you a hippy? If so, you're probably damn annoying.

Let me give you some advice, hippy. Stay out of San Francisco.

Bitches, none of those tooty-fruities in the Golden Gate City want any more hippies in their village, cuz Barry Zito has ruined the fun for everyone. Dawg, it is cute and adorable that you're a zen master and wakeboarder and guitarist and shit when you're also throwing the craziest curveball in baseball. But when you're grooving 84 mile-per-hour slowpitch softballs, nobody wants to hear about your inner damn Buddha.

The Giants should probably stop dealing with Barrys altogether, my bitches. They're going to let Dr. Z make his next start after sending his regularly-tattooed ass to the bullpen, even though he didn't stay long. None of this would really matter except for those 7 years and 126 million dollars hanging out on an official piece of paper locked somewhere in some secret vault, probably in some Hindu temple or voodoo cabin.

I wonder if Brian Sabean and Matt Millen hang out once a year for a shitty GM's luncheon. They can invite that guy who runs the Memphis Grizzlies, too, whoever that is. Dog, if I was that bad at my job, and still employed, I would have luncheons every damn day, and I would charge all goods on the company card. I'd still be doing that now, if my purchase of that pink disco ball hadn't raised a red flag on last month's credit card statement. Marv's gonna flip when he sees I bought an alligator before my privileges got revoked.

Bitches, Barry Zito is terrible. He's 0-6, has like a 7.53 ERA and his WHIP is like 1.93. Shit, give me a baseball and I'll keep two dudes off the basepaths per inning. Actually, that's probably a damn lie, but Barry Zito! Get your juju or jobu or whatever together. Jobu loves the curveball, I know that for sure.

Giants ain't even that bad! I mean, don't get me wrong, they're going to lose hella lot of games, but they're better than the two damn teams who tied for the Wild Card last year, and they're only a few Should Have Pitched Some Other Guy Instead of Barry Zito starts away from .500 and shit.

Let that be a lesson, that you can't trust hippies. Always on your damn lawn.

Up here in horsie heaven

By Barbaro
Martyr

Dear fans,

I write to you once again on the anniversary of my big win in the Kentucky Derby. Can you believe two years have passed since then? Lots of exciting things have happened in my life since then, and I have been enjoying my time in Horse Heaven.

The newest development has been the arrival of a lovely lady in my life. I haven’t known Eight Belles for long, but already I feel a very strong connection. She’s a little younger, of course, but her energy and beauty has brought me great joy. We’re already talking about a life together, perhaps with runs through the endless Horse Heaven pastures, sipping from the gold-rimmed troughs that are filled with mint julep, and maybe even starting a family.

(I kind of missed out on all the fun breeding that was supposed to happen after winning the derby, and now I finally have my chance. Since, you know, there’s no gravity here, it’s kind of cooler than on Earth, anyway).

Otherwise, things are pretty much the same in Horse Heaven. I’ve been supping diligently on my personal salt lick, which remains the size of a 1971 Buick Skylark despite my many fervent lickings. I like to have friendly races with other past Derby winners, gliding effortlessly through the scientifically-perfected field turf. It looks like real grass (and TASTES like real grass), but it’s actually synthetic! Can you believe that?

I never have to sleep, so that gives me ample time to catch up on my favorite football team, the Indianapolis Colts, and play a little fantasy football. Since we are granted omniscience here in Horse Heaven – and since you damn well better believe he’s on my fantasy team AND my real team – I can tell you whole heartedly that Marvin Harrison is innocent.

Also, I pee liberally.

I have been reading the Earth-bound newspapers since last Saturday’s race, and I see PETA is already calling for heads to roll. Eight Belles and I share a laugh about that a lot. I’m pretty sure they’re the only organization in the world that actually gets noticed every time they say something, just because what they have to say is so hilariously off base. The only way to make the crazy guy on the street corner stop begging for change is to ignore him. I wonder why America hasn’t done the same thing with PETA.

Seriously, if PETA hadn’t gotten everyone to think that animals had equal rights, maybe my long, agonizing drawn-out death would have been a little shorter. But that’s all water under the bridge. I’m in Horse Heaven now, and it rocks. Just the other day, I was talking to Secretariat about how crazy PETA was, and we both agreed that we could totally go for a gyro with pita bread.

Eight Belles says hi to everyone back home, and wants you to know that she wishes she could have won the race and made a statement for girl power everywhere. Keep your letters coming, little children!

Love,
Barbaro

Like, I guess she liked the Yankees

By Brenda McDonald
High School Socialite

There's like, so many better ways to make a person sorry. Running over them with your car is so 1980s, back in like, the stone age when that pony-tailed man Steven Seagal was popular.

First of all, let me just say that I am deeply saddened that this woman was allowed to roam the streets without some kind of makeover. Like, you know those really old commercials that are like, "friends don't let friends drive drunk." Well, there's also like, "friends don't let friends look like dead witches and talk about the Yankees a lot." Like, that's so unflattering on a woman. And it hurts me that her friends didn't just stand up and say, "oh my God, Ivonne, you are hideous and bad in conversation. Let's go to the spa and do something about it!"

Ew. If I knew how to delete pictures, I so totally would, because that is like a scar to humanity. That hair! Totally unkempt. Hello, Herbal Essences! I wonder if the state of New Hampshire has an Adopt-an-Ugly-Inmate program ... I can totally be of service here. It makes me kind of want to do something good and righteous. If it wasn't prom week, I would SO look into it.

Stop staring at me, bitch!

Secondly, if you really want someone to know like, how much you love your team, there are way better ways to deal with it. You can totally talk about them behind their back, get access to their facebook page and change their interests to "whoring casually," throw eggs at their cars, or pretend that you like them, when really you don't and you just want to stomp on their heart. Oh my god, I just had an epiphany -- can we go back to the facebook thing for a minute? If you can totally steal their password, you can also make their interests say "cheering for the Yankees!" or whatever team they really hate.

Driving over people has like, so many drawbacks. Paint could get smudged, it could like, affect the transition or whatever that's called, or it could cause a flat tire. Hello, I am SO not interested in changing a flat tire. In this dress? My car is way too new and shiny for homicide.

Anyway, I forgot the moral of the story, but school is almost over! Omg, I'm going to have so much fun this summer! Like, I should probably start applying to colleges and stuff.

From the vault: Harvey and Julio

By Harvey McGuffin
I remember when ...

Editor's Note: With the official announcement of Julio Franco's retirement, Flotsam's Harvey McGuffin was too verklempt to offer new insights about his favorite baseball player of all time. Since McGuffin can't be sure if it's 2008 or 1998 anyway, we reflect on a past post adoring the late, great Julio Franco.

An event happened yesterday that took me back to a better time, a better place, a better state of mind.

Gone was the talk of steroids, potential asterisks on home run records, any images of Astros pitcher Ezekial Astacio and quibbles over revenue sharing. Instead, in my head, was a simple tune.

Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo Doo DooDoo Doo, Doo DooDooDooDooDooDooDooDoo.

That's the sound of RBI baseball on Nintendo, you punks.

Julio Franco, older than I am and still hitting baseballs out of ballparks, became the oldest man to ever homer in a game when his 47-year-old eternally-young-because-of-voodoo corpse went yard for the New York Mets. He should be collecting social security and taking Sunday drives with his wife down to the flea market, preventing me from speeding up beyond 25 miles per hour on a 35 mph one-lane backroad. But instead, he is showing whippersnappers who weren't even born when he started playing how it's done.

But here he is, a Tuck Everlasting relic from the days of yore, when everyone was small, white, stocky and caught the ball by raising their hands to the sky and praying for the best. It was a time when every struck ball -- fair or foul -- sounded like the highest key of a xylophone. Fans cheered for you no matter which team you played for. And there weren't so many goddamned teams at all! Just eight of them, all good ones.

I remember the way it felt to see Vince Coleman fly up the first base line, unstoppable unless the ball was hit directly to the second baseman. I remember the way Jack Clark was guaranteed to hit a homer with runners on base, or the way nobody could touch a Bobby Grelts fastball. I loved the way players cried and acted momentarily stunned as they committed an error or the way every outfielder scampered with his little legs, showing teamwork with his other fielders as they moved in concert toward the direction of the musical baseball.

This was the golden era. Julio Franco, bless his soul, is a staple of that era and when he dies, probably within the year, he's going to leave a gaping hole in the hearts of throwback baseball fans everywhere, like myself. We salute you Julio, for hearkening back to that time, and for not dying yet.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to prove Mrs. McGuffin wrong when she says the AL All-Stars cannot be beaten by the 1988 Boston Red Sox.

Revving up for summer

Jonny Dave Floyd
Southerner

Spring has sprang and y’all know what that means: the birds are singin’, NASCAR’s in full swing, and baseball’s back.

It also means the weather’s gettin’ warmer and the air’ more humid-er and you know what that means: the sweating of my crotchal and buttal regions significantly increases which leads to uncomfortable chafing and exponentially more butt pimpling.

But that’s besides my point, really. What I’m gettin’ at is that I’m particularly excited this spring and it’s mostly because of how pumped up I am about baseball.

Ya mighta thought that I didn’t like anything but NASCAR and football, as far as sports go. You’d be wrong as gun control. Baseball’s one o’ my most favorite sports. You already know what my most favorite one is, and baseball’s third -- sandwiched between college football and the World’s Strongest Man contests. Fishin’s fifth if you’re wonderin’ how my top 5 rounds out.

But I kinda got away from baseball maybe just a little bit until this year. But somethin’ got my dander up this year. It was this little baseball documentary that I watched right before openin’ day.

It’s this little story about some little summer league in the north (I know, but it was still all right) and it followed this left-handed pitcher from the wrong side of the tracks with a great fastball, no control, some strange European accent, and, judgin’ by his facial expressions, some sort of digestion problem. Seriously, the kid was making constipated faces all through the thing. I can only presume on the ferocity of his farts, but I’m presumin’, by the looks on people’s faces while they were talkin’ with him, that he was cuttin’ some pretty righteous cheese.

If he wants to be accepted in dugouts, then he’s gonna have to stifle that funk a tad. Fartin’s funny, but it’d get old after a while.

Anyway, the movie follows the kid around as he stinks up the summer (on the field and in a 7-foot bubble around hisself) and it was awesome. It hardly feels like a documentary at all, which is good because those usually suck.

There were a lot of subplots, too. One of the more interesting ones was about a guy that likes fat girls. I didn’t see nothin’ wrong with that. I spent my formative years chasin’ fat girls. I didn’t have a choice. Every single girl at my school was pretty fat. At least the ones that would talk to me were. The dude in the documentary woulda been in heaven here because those were some champion eaters. Some of ‘em did with only half their teeth, too. That’s dedication, y’all.

Another interestin’ subplot was about a little Mexican kid that did it with an old lady. I didn’t see the big deal or think anything was wrong with it because you know how them Mexicans fudge their birth certificates. The guy was probably pushin’ 40, which kinda made it a pretty little love story, I think.

Now, I don’t wanna be one of those guys that gives away the end, so I won’t be. I’ll just say that if you wanna get your baseball love-fire re-kindled, then go watch this documentary. I never did catch the name, but I’m sure my description will suffice for any respected video store chain worker person. It had to’ve made a ton of money.

One more thing, if you still ain’t convinced you wanna see it and you’re kinda a pervert, then there was a pretty hot little number in it that chased the pitcher around and, apparently, had no sense of smell. She gets in a bikini at one point and it was danged sexy. And she looks a lot like Momma. Which adds a sense of comfortableness to the sexiness.

Anyway, that’s all I got. Don’t worry about Junior in NASCAR. His win’s comin’ any week now.

Y’all be good.

Carrots derby carrots

By Big Brown
Horse

Love me some carrots, eating carrots all day thinking about big race, lots of horses and I’m Big Brown thinking about carrots. Carrots. Kentucky Derby driving to Churchill Downs and running all day cuz they’ll give me carrots if I win and roses or something smells nice.

Eight Belles. She the first philly in big race in a long, long time. I wonder what she’s doing later, she’s pretty but not as fast as me. Want to win because (CARROTS!) then they’ll let me get with whole lotta mares and maidens and make Little Brown babies. Love me some lovin. Not sure what the big fuss about Kentucky Derby is, but folks love it and so do I cuz I run fast thinking about oats and wheat and carrots.

Why my name Big Brown anyway? Named after Santonio Holmes. He's not hung like a horse, cuz I’m hung like a horse. Hear that, Eight Belles? Racing against Z Humor and Z Fortune, they brothers or something? They’re gonna team up and try to stop Big Brown, but not worried cuz I’m the fastest horsy in the stable.

Eight Belles looks good in the sunlight. Can’t see at night, else she might look good then, too. Hot mama. Not as fast as me though, cuz I’m Big Brown running and MOTHERFUCKING CARROTS! Stop whipping me, elfboy. I go fast, and you keep whippin.

Hungry.