Category Archives: Sports

So the big news over the past couple of weeks—obviously—has been the unfolding of events at Penn State. There have been hundreds of stories blogged, Tweeted and shared since the news first broke, and the fact of the matter is, I have nothing to add. I have no personal experiences to relate (and for this, I am grateful) and every thought that I’ve had regarding the situation has already been emoted by a plethora of others.

Twitter, unsurprisingly, played a large role in the dissemination of the story and allowed people around the world to share their thoughts, both well-articulated and ridiculous. Here were a handful of Tweets, both interesting and stupid.

@jcharles25 (Jamaal Charles, Chiefs RB)

“Took long enough for Paterno to get fired. Now he should be sent to jail along with his child molesting assistant coach!!!”

It’s always refreshing to hear an athlete with balls say what they think, whether you agree with them or not. I don’t know anyone who’s a fan of the whole, “man, whut a tuff situation for all them peoples.” If you’re going to take the time to tap our your 140 characters, make them count. 

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This HAS to spell the end for Boxcar Haley’s reign of terror., right….

Please tell me he’ll be shown the door tomorrow, lest I vomit blood down the front of my vintage Marc Boerigter jersey.

And before people start freaking out, and shouting that this was a team loss, let me stop you: you’re right. It was ABSOLUTEY a team loss.

Matt Cassel was his usual, terrible self. Jonathan Baldwin—who had one of the top catches of the year negated by a penalty (not his fault)—dropped balls like he was playing with hooks for hands. The offensive line was disgusting, getting soundly beat on a majority of their plays. The defensive line, which has been a continual weakness throughout this season, let some jerk named Lance Ball run over them.

YOU CANNOT LET LANCE BALL BEAT YOU.

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In chapter one, available in the archives (by which I mean, um, scroll down on the page a bit), we took a gander at the midseason grades of the Kansas City Chiefs’ offense. Pretty horrid, when you really give it any sort of piece-by-piece analysis. In case you missed it, I made this bizarre, admittedly far-reaching analogy about a football team being a lot like a tree.

And though it clearly doesn’t make a TON of sense, I’m this far into the thing, goddamnit, and I’d be a coward to stop now.

Today, we’ll look at the defense and special teams, which, coming into the season, showed a certain amount of promise. Has that held up? Has Tamba Hali physically consumed a quarterback yet?! Has Javier Arenas returned 6 punts for touchdowns?! Did Ryan Succop kick a 70-yard field goal, or was that just a weird, Propofol induced dream that I had?

Read on!

The Defensive Line / Fat City-Pigeons: D

Wait, what are a bunch of fat, bumbling pigeons doing in our beautiful, leafy, make-believe tree?

Precisely.

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A football team is a lot like a tree. No seriously, play along with me here. A football team is like a tree in a number of ways. Often times, both are strong, deeply rooted objects firmly implanted in one specific place. Dependent upon on location, and how this tree (or team) is tended to, it can either flourish and become a mighty, leafy beast full of life and vigor, or it can die a slow, painful death due to neglect and oversight.

Any arborist will tell you it’s possible to nurse an ill tree back to health with proper care, and the same can be said about a football team. Though injuries may decimate, a general manager and his coaching staff have the ability to bandage the lightning strikes, to eradicate the borers and help the tree live to its fullest potential. The question is, eight games in, how is the Chiefs’ tree doing?

The Quarterback/ The Hawk: D-

Matt Cassel’s bi-polar passing attack is terrifying. From the highest of highs—last year’s pro-bowl appearance and fantastic TD-to-INT ratio— to the lowest of lows—this year’s litany of head-shakingly awful performances. You’re never certain which Matt Cassel will show up on Sunday. Will he protect the tree from predatorial assault, or will he spastically flip-out and peck off the face of his children? It’s anyone’s guess.

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As football reaches its meaty middle, and the NBA continues to labor on through pissy-pants negotiations, the nation turns its lonely eye to Twitter—woo-woo-woo—for some steamy, illicit, hot-stove talk. So what’s on the burner? A little Royals chatter, for starters. And while some of the hardware won’t roll in until Monday, November 14th (Rookie of the Year), standout 1st baseman Eric Hosmer is already bringing home some honors.

@KCKaegel (Dick Kaegel, Royals writer, Guy with Generic Twitter Picture of an Egg)
“Rookie 1B Eric Hosmer wins KC’s Joe Burke Special Achievement Award in vote by BBWAA members. More details coming on http://royals.com.”

Though this is an award specific to Kansas City, a trophy is a trophy. After exhaustive internet research, it appears that the award is named after front office/managerial legend Joe Burke, who was serving as Royals club president at the time of his death in 1992. This makes much more sense than my original theory, where the award was named after the actor who played Corky on the 1990’s dramatic television series “Life Goes On”.

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The weather has gotten decidedly crappier. The leaves are all mostly dead, the winds have turned bitter and hateful, and everywhere around the city, heaters are clicking on left and right, making that weird, burning smell they get the first time you use them for the year. Wait… your heater does that, right?

Oh shit. Am I going to die?

Well, if I am, I certainly hope God finds it in His compassionate heart to wait until after this weekend. There’s a lot of good football to be watched, and couches to be lounged upon. It may even be time for the first pot of chili. You heard me, chili. 

And though one could be driven nuts trying to pare down what to watch, here are but a few ideas. 
 

Miami Dolphins (0-7) at Kansas City Chiefs (4-3), 12pm CT, Sunday

Miami is really, really, really… really bad, right? I mean, 0-7. A rotating cast of Keystone quarterbacks (well, two, but you’ve gotta imagine that the recently signed JP Losman will make it into a game sooner or later, after Matt Moore throws three or four picks in a half, right?). A mostly terrible running game. This should be a cakewalk for the Chiefs, right?

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I’m not gonna lie. I can’t lie. I turned this game off. With the score tied, and the Chargers within chip-shot range, with two minutes or so left, I turned the channel to Palladium, where they were showing “Lemmy”, a documentary about Motorhead’s mole-faced front man. I watched a few different people discuss their favorite Motorhead song—Dave Grohl cited the Ace of Spades, I believe, as did Ice-T—and turned it back, fully expecting to catch some sort of potentially newsworthy, icy handshake between Todd Haley and Norv Turner.

Instead, I saw Matt Cassel dropping back with the ball.

What the fuck? I

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“…Mrs. Bergen was lying on the bed, with her hands raised as if in supplication or trying to ward off a blow. The little boy was lying on the floor with a large wound in the head. Mrs. Bergen’s skull was terribly crushed, having evidently been struck more than one blow by the infuriated husband. The appearance of the little girl also showed that a number of savage blows had been rained upon the top and side of her head. Bergen’s throat…”

From the New York Times, Saturday, Jan. 20th, 1900.

Superstition and sports are like peas and carrots, and nowhere is that more prevalent than in baseball. From the starting pitcher leaping over the baseline to the designated hitter not changing his socks after busting a slump. Wade Boggs ate chicken before every game.  Jason Giambi wore a gold thong.

Superstition also breeds ghosts—or perhaps it’s the other way around? Therefore, it’s understandable that ghosts and baseball make terrific bedfellows. Tales have been told about the haunted Detroit row house of America’s Original Asshole, Ty Cobb. Additionally, Cobb is said to haunt Comerica Park, a rather puzzling occurrence since he died some 38 years before it was built. Babe Ruth’s portly ghost can be found at old Yankees Stadium, new Yankees Stadium, Fenway Park and a former bordello in Marlborough, MA. Busy apparition.

But this isn’t a story about ghosts, per se, but about the violence that breeds them. Murder and madness are more frightening than any campfire tale because they’re real, tangible acts of desperation, not some unseen terror peeking out from a closet door left slightly ajar.

This is the tale of Marty Bergen, one of the craziest, scariest, most unpredictable men to ever play professional baseball.

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This is huge.

This is monumental.

It’s been almost a year since the Chiefs have hosted such an important game at Arrowhead. Can you believe it? One whole year? It feels like eons ago. Take yourself back … where were you? What were you doing? Were you wearing something totally unfashionable? Were you drunk? Yeah, you were probably drunk.

Let’s set the mood. It was a frigid January day. The murderously stabby Baltimore Ravens were in town. Kansas City was a 4-seed, hosting their first playoff game since failing to punt in 2003’s debacle against the Indianapolis Colts.  The surprise AFC West Champions were riding the wave of an efficient Matt Cassel and an epic running game. Expectations were astronomical.

And then, like an octogenarian who indulges in too much delicious Christmas goose, Todd Haley’s squad shat all over themselves. I needn’t remind you of what happened, but I will: Cassel sucked, the defense bended AND broke, and when all was said and done, the Ravens walked out of Kansas City victorious.

But this time, it’s different.

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Much like the recently crowned 11-time World Champion St. Louis Cardinals, I just can’t lose folks. What’s that old Jerry Reed song? When You’re Hot, You’re Hot? That’s right. That song’s about me, and my mad game-prediction skills.

See, from the beginning, I’ve been calling this a Cardinals’ championship in 7. If you don’t believe me—and frankly, I’m a little insulted—go back and check yesterday’s piece. It’s all right there, laid out cleanly (and honestly). I even called how the shit would go down, you see? Allen Craig starting in leftfield? Yeah, I knew he’d get Berkman and The Bombers started early with a blast off of Texas starter Matt Harrison. That set the table for a persistent offensive attack that didn’t let up.

So, congratulations to Tony LaRussa and his Cardinals, and in fact, the whole goddamned city of St. Louis. Man, I love that place. The Arch. The Professional Bowling Hall of Fame. That runny fucking Provel cheese they insist on putting on all of their pizzas. What a fine little town.

Ok… you got me. I can’t go on living this charade.

Maybe I didn’t pick the Cardinals. Maybe I was completely wrong. I guess the pressure of picking at such a high rate of success just overcame me. It ain’t easy keeping up with the Glazers.

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Oh, my.

In case you missed it, Game 6 was one hell of a… something. Debacle? At times. Barrel of monkeys? Perhaps.

If you’re waking up as a Rangers fan, you’re thoroughly disgusted. Your team squandered leads in the 8th and 9th innings, managed to regain the lead in the 10th, give it right back in the bottom half of the inning, and ultimately lose it in the 11th. Cardinals’ postseason sensation David Freese pissed all over your Toaster Strudel, ripped your heart out, did a Texas two-step on it, and told you to like it.

If you’re a Cardinals’ fan, you couldn’t have penned a better ending to a game that was marred early and often by sloppy, Little League caliber play.

Steven St. John said it best on Twitter:

“Is there a keg in each dugout? I think both teams are drunk.”

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So the big news ‘round these here parts over the past few days has been the lopsided Chiefs’ victory in Oakland. Though it wasn’t a pretty victory at times—10 penalties for 98 yards is damned awful—the defense shined. Derrick Johnson was unstoppable and our secondary feasted on the deliciously terrible Kyle Boller and a rusty Carson Palmer, picking off the duo a remarkable six times. Javier Arenas scored a rushing touchdown out of the Wildcat and Jon Asamoah’s jiggly-ass fell on a loose ball in the end zone. A complete victory.

What did Twitter think?

@Mellinger (Sam Mellinger, columnist, Kansas City Star)

“Most stereotypes are wrong or exaggerated. The one about the #Raiders parking lot is not. #chiefs”

“Just saw a guy sell a toke of his blunt. There’s a cop maybe 10 yards away.”

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In every contest, there must be winners, and there must be losers. It’s an irrefutable, scientific fact. Sometimes, it’s difficult to differentiate—there are levels of grey that force deep evaluation. Other times—this weekend, for example—it’s brilliantly obvious.

For no particular reason, let’s start by looking at the winners.

Tim Tebow/ Denver Fans/ Christianity

Look, I don’t know why people want Tebow to fall flat on his handsome face. Perhaps it’s his humble nature that people misconstrue as smugness. Maybe it’s because he seems to have some deep connection to God that most of us can only dream of. Regardless of reason, I don’t know that there’s a more unwarrantedly polarizing figure in the NFL. Some people—grandmothers, Coloradans, Floridians, preachers—love the ‘Bow. Others—NFL fans everywhere but Denver—detest him.

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Another week, another batch of moist, delicious Tweets, just like your grandmother used to make. This week had a bit of everything, from deep, dark personal confessions of love, to an undying need to Tweet about nature’s most fascinating creature, the common squirrel.

The big news in the NFL this week—aside from Donvan McNabb’s benching—was the Hail Mary, desperation signing of rouge QB Carson Palmer by the ghost of the recently departed Oakland Raiders’ Head Warlock, Al Davis.

@sportsguy33 (Bill Simmons, sportswriter, ESPN/Grantland.com)
“Oakland traded 2 first round picks for Carson Palmer? Al Davis is still alive!!! I knew it!!!”

@bobfescoe (610 am)
“Why does everyone think the #raiders were dumb? they are a winning team that lost a qb and has no legit back up. desperate times.”

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There was a moment in the NLCS Game 6—probably after Albert Pujols’ 3rd inning homerun and before Yuniesky Betancourt’s 4th inning RBI double—when I began to wonder when the bloodletting would stop.

Game 6—along with the entire series, along with the ALCS, along with the entire postseason in both leagues—was a squealing pig having its throat sliced by steely-eyed butcher. You know, supposing that the pig had hemophilia.

But finally, after 18 combined runs and a never-ending parade of seemingly ill-prepared bullpen sacrifices, it was mercifully over. The St. Louis Cardinals were heading to their 1st World Series since 2006, their 18th overall appearance, and the Milwaukee Brewers—once champions of some nonsensical motivational slogan deemed “Beast Mode”—were left shaking their heads, wondering why big name offseason acquisitions like Zack Greinke and Shaun Marcum were so decidedly terrible when it mattered most.

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In light of Nick Wright’s report about Todd Haley’s impending termination, and Bob Gretz’s report about naming rights for Arrowhead Stadium, I think that there’s really only one indisputable truth: Pioli and Haley aren’t going to be taking in any corporate trust retreats together anytime soon. It’s been reported by many sources—the local sports talk radio media, the national media, even that barista at the Starbucks on Main with the chain that loops between her septum piercing and her lip-ring—that they’re on the outs.

There aren’t enough little Dutch boys in all of Holland to stop the holes forming in the Chiefs’ dike. Unless the organization finds their own “Little Hero of Haarlem,” all credibility and sanity held loosely behind that wall threatens to drown everyone in the village below.

On this morning’s Chiefs’ preview show on KCTV, Rich Baldinger got into the act, stating that he thinks that there’s only one way Haley keeps his job past this season: by winning a playoff game.

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After improbably victories in two straight weeks, the Kansas City Chiefs’ bye-week could not have arrived at a more inopportune time. Instead of building off of an avalanche of momentum, players and coaches alike are left trying to fill the void that a Sunday conquest typically provides.

So, seeing as how idle hands are the devil’s playthings, how are young, rich, testosterone-laden men supposed to stay out of trouble?

I asked around (made stuff up), and was surprised by some of the answers I received.

Check it out.

Coach Todd Haley:

“I plan on doing some diving. You know, dumpster diving. Man, these Leawood cats throw away some pretty nice sh*t,” he said, wiping a dirt-caked hand across his sweaty brow. “Look!” he exclaimed, holding up a broken lava lamp, “this would be kickass in the basement.”
 

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Twitter was a bit dry over the past week and a half. Not dry like two British guys with monocles sitting in front of a fireplace with snifters full of brandy sharing bawdry limericks, but dry like two octogenarians making sweet, powdery love.

There were no fantastically inaccurate Nick Wright injury updates, Javier Arenas has been mum, and I’m guessing they cut off Jose Canseco’s internet service. I mean, come on, would you be surprised at all if you heard that he couldn’t pay his Comcast bill? I know I wouldn’t.

One thing that did manage to get a lot of Tweets was a renegade squirrel in St. Louis.

Brace yourself for the hilarity.

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Look, I’m no Craig Glazer. All of my hair is real, I’ve never had to be treated for the clap, and when it comes to picking winners, I’m shakier than Michael J Fox in a vibrating massage chair from Sharper Image.

My record speaks for itself. In the divisional series, I had Tampa Bay, New York and Philadelphia advancing. Wow.

1 out of 4 ain’t bad, right? No, it is. And that’s fine. I’m not THAT kind of sports writer. I’m more of the kind that tries to pretend that he knows what he’s talking about and hopes that a majority of the readers won’t notice. And that’s fine. Just wanted to throw that out there—that I shouldn’t be trusted.

That being said, here’s who you should pick in the Championship Series and why… And yeah, I get it. We’re already a game in on each side. Hey, that’s what happens when you’re a normal dude with a normal job. You have to make some concessions when it comes to living out your lifelong fantasy of covering sports for a third tier news, entertainment and leisure website.

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It’s that time of year. Everywhere around us, the leaves are changing, Major League Baseball’s postseason is in full effect and throughout the land, thousands of pasty-faced sportswriters are sitting around their Smith Coronas, brows drenched in sweat, trying to determine who—WHO, DAMNIT?—deserves this year’s individual achievement awards.

And unless they have a vote, they’re simply trying to fill up column space by debating the merits of two guys who would have given them wedgies in middle school.

“Oh my! Is it Justin Verlander? He WAS 24-5 on the season, but take a close look at his VORP after night-games, adjusted for a divisional opponent’s park ratios, two days after shaving but three days removed from the last time he ate tropical fruit. In that case, you’ve gotta give it to Jacoby Ellsbury. He’s half Native American, after all.”

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