1
Oct
2011
Why Sour Sweetness?
(photo courtesy of www.photobucket.com)
For anyone who watch football in the late 1970s and 1980s, Walter Payton was emblematic of all that was good in professional sports. He was graceful on the field, and gracious off of it. Soft spoken and dignified, Payton– or, perhaps more precisely, what we knew of Payton– was the kind of player– the kind of person– to emulate. The NFL calls its man of the year award the Walter Payton Man of the Year Award for that very reason. I was never a Bears fans. But, like many others, I was always a fan of Walter Payton.
Twelve years after his untimely death, Sports Illustrated has excerpted a book by Jeff Pearlman alleging that Payton cheated on his wife and did drugs. Why write this book? While I don’t condone cheating on your wife or using drugs, I fundamentally do not understand why this book needs to be written, now. For starters, the guy’s dead: he can’t defend himself. Moreover, people don’t still look up to Payton (see point one, he’s dead). Instead, they admire him for what he represented and, when they see an image of him dancing between defenders, the “C” emblazoned on his helmet, they think of when they were a kid. When Sunday was spent glued to a television, watching the voracious Bears’ defense serve as the perfect compliment to Payton’s elegance. Am I supposed to revisit that? Question it? Realize that, gee, idols aren’t always what they are cracked up to be when you peal away the onion? Wow, there’s a novel and timely lesson for the 40-plus crowd that admired him. Pearlman: for an encore, how about a book on the real truth behind the VHS versus Betamax fight for market share?
4
Sep
2009
SI’s Big Ben lovefest is tedious, at best
It’s Friday morning in Santa Monica, California. I’m brewing up a pot of coffee and scanning the NFL wire.
A few quick thoughts: Fantasy owners suffered a minor, but passing, freak-out this A.M.: the highly lauded Maurice Jones-Drew bruised his lower right leg in last night’s 24-17 victory over the Redskins. While X-rays were negative (they’re calling it a “shin contusion”), it could affect his participation in Week 1′s matchup against the Colts. Team officials are saying he’ll be ready to roll… in New York, Giants wide receiver Hakeem Nicks says he’ll be fine after suffering an infamous “hip flexor” during the team’s 38-27 defeat at the hands of the Patriots.
We believe that Madden 10 has sorely underrated our man Hakeem Nicks. Secondly, how do scores of 88, 84, 91, and 74 average out to 78? The correct average is 84.25. What's up, Madden 10? Get a calculator, boys.
Nicks has been sensational this preseason, with 8 catches for 263 yards and 3 touchdowns. People aren’t saying much, but the G-men desperately need Nicks to shine. Without Plaxico Burress, Big Blue’s in search of a leading wideout, and while that’s a tough role for a rookie to step into, Nicks has shown poise and big-game flash. Did UNC head coach Butch Davis have anything to do with that? Following his meltdown with the Browns, Butch has done a nice job down at UNC… Speaking of Cleveland, Mangenious has the Browns involved (for the 17th consecutive year) in a largely meaningless QB mystery. Man-G (I’m too lazy to type “Mangenius”) won’t say who his starter is. Neither quarterback played in last nights 26-23 loss to the Bears. Fans went so far as to comment on which of the two quarterbacks, Brady Quinn or Derek Anderson, seemed more “enthusiastic” on the field during stretches. Man-G, trying to get any advantage he can over the Vikings, knows the bottom line: If Quinn or Anderson–or a wrist-slitting combination of both–don’t put up solid numbers immediately, Man-G’s chasing the wind.
Would you trust this guy with your children?
Sports Illustrated has raised this Browns fan’s ire. The mag–and its illustrious soothsayer Peter King–see a grim tomorrow for the Browns, and defame the Seal Brown and Orange in style: (1) They place fat-faced, beer-swollen Ben Roethlisberger on the cover. (2) They pee aggressively on the Cleveland franchise, picking the Browns to go 2-14, the worst in the league. That’s a good sign, in my book. They’ve been getting it wrong year after year; routinely picking hanging-by-a-thread, old-news dynasties to reach the Super Bowl, season after season. Their pick for 2009? The Patriots and the Bears. (Wake me up when we get there.)
Do you remember, when you were young, and the SI Preview actually meant something? I’d pour over it for hours. Back then, I’d buy every football preview magazine I could get my hands on–SI’s was the glossiest. Its competitors were frequently amateur, printed on soiled newsprint, and filled with typographical errors–but filled with rich statistical information and strange file photos of mid-tier players. We’re talking 1985, 1986, 1987 here–the league coming into full bloom. In those years, I was shipped off to summer camp during June and July, and my mom–following my diligent, hand-written instructions–would peruse newsstands for football and wrestling titles, and send three or four at a time by mail. Whereas the football mags were pieced together by reputable companies, the wrestling publications were backwoods–filled with fan-snapped photos taken seven rows back from ringside. Some of the more obtuse journals would spend 20 to 30 pages detailing the pro wrestling scene down in Alabama, Georgia, Louisianna. The photos were bloody. Men being mauled with folding chairs; sliced by razor blades hidden in wristbands; “wimps” bitten in the kidney by masked opponents with no origin or human history.
At camp, we’d get a full hour to read and snooze after lunch every day–this was aptly named “siesta,” despite the fact that 98% of the campers were from Connecticut and had never spoken a sentence of Spanish. During “siesta,” while other campers played cards or picked their noses alone in bed, I absorbed wrestling and pro football data–storing it away for my return to the civilized world. Times have changed. Who has the patience to check our watches, waiting around for a FOOTBALL MAGAZINE, stuffed like a goose with last week’s rotting news? Big Ben on the cover? Come on, SI.
My coffee’s cold.
