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Do You Believe In Miracles? (Revisited)

February 22, 2011 By Leave a Comment

On Feb. 22, 1980, in a stunning upset, the United States Olympic hockey team defeated the Soviets at Lake Placid, N.Y., 4-to-3. (The U.S. team went on to win the gold medal.) NYT story here.

If I’m not mistaken, this is the only cover in Sports Illustrated history that does not have a headline, or text of any sort. Naturally, it doesn’t need any. There were certainly magnificent (semi-miraculous?) upsets in sports before (The Jets beating the Colts in Super Bowl III) and after (Rulon Gardner beating the unbeatable Alexander Karelin in the 2000 Olympics), but the import of this victory has to be considered within the context of the times. Pre-Internet (pre-VCRs, really), pre-ESPN (pre-cable, really), in an era when you really did get news on the radio. As in, driving in the car with your parents, during a commercial. Because in 1980 most Americans actually listened to the radio in the car (pre-Satellite, pre-CD changer, pre-cassette, really). 8-tracks were entering the last stage of their ascendancy, not even aware that they were already dead and subsisting on the last gasps of their magnetic fumes. And how many 8-tracks could one family own? How many could one family fit in a car? And so, by default, the radio still ruled. Some people may even have listened to that epic game on the radio, in their cars, in real time. That was just over three decades ago.

Arguably, being nine years old, I was the ideal demographic to be fully impacted by this event. Not old enough to appropriate (or be unduly influenced by) the political implications, but old enough to understand that in winter Olympics games, the U.S.S.R. (and Eastern Europe) still held sway. We could not appreciate, or care too much about the irony of the big, bad U.S.A. casting themselves as underdogs, in any capacity. Two unavoidable facts: it was just a sporting event, and pure and simple, the U.S.A. were underdogs. Did this unanticipated and inexplicable victory tilt the scales in the escalating cold war?

Arguably, if you measure political history by such standards as Rocky Balboa defeating Ivan Drago in Rocky IV, it makes all the sense in the world. More, if you are of the opinion (aided by propagandist historical revisions by certain, influential right-leaning folk) that the cold war was an even battle between two socially and economically equal parties, this cartoonish perception of Good vs. Evil is resonant, and revelatory. For younger, less politically impressionable viewers, this victory did, unironically; reinforce the genuine (if mythical) notion inherent in the American Dream: if you worked hard and played fair, anything was possible. It’s not merely the ability to believe this claptrap that underscores the naiveté we lament losing as we get older and wiser, it’s the ways in which real events, however fictionally applicable to real life, can occasionally inspire kids to believe in miracles.

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On Hockey, Hooligans, Soccer and The Death of a Clown

February 13, 2011 By Leave a Comment

After my post yesterday, “Back To The Future With Old Time Hockey?”, wherein I acknowledged –and celebrated– the recent trend of accountability and team-toughness in our most misunderstood sport, it was inevitable that at least one of my well-meaning friends would take exception. It was my good luck that it turned out to be one of my most intelligent and savvy amigos, who knows a lot about sports (soccer in particular) and life (in general); a dude whose opinion I always appreciate. And so, with gratitude, I will take his comments as an opportunity to say more about my feelings toward hockey (in general) and hockey fighting (in particular). I hope in the process I at least address some of his remarks to his satisfaction, and stimulate some thoughts from others, especially non-hockey fans.

2/12/2011, 8:50pm:

Seany-boy, I remember when I was in High School, someone said to me: “Why don’t you like hockey?  It’s actually a lot like soccer.”  My response was: “Oh, bullshit.  In soccer I can dribble around someone with skill.  If I beat them, I beat them.  If I don’t, I don’t.  We pit our skills against one another and see who comes out on top.  Not so in hockey.  In hockey, if I beat someone on skill they can just knock me on my ass.  Or someone else can knock me on my ass.  It’s redneck soccer – a crass, hollow husk of a sport.”

I hate to say it, but my opinion stands.  All this emphasis on fighting is exactly what I expect from NASCAR fans, who, when faced with a couple consecutive accident-free races stare slackjawed and complain about the lack of carnage, instantly forced to confront how inherently boring their sport is.

Hahahaha!

2/13/2011, 10:21am

Sensh,

Needless to say, I violently (ha!) disagree.

However, I have heard similar sentiment expressed by friends (who love and understand other sports) over the years. I think it’s more than a little ironic, yet for purposes of this discussion, wonderfully appropriate, that you advocate soccer at the expense of hockey. Indeed, if there is one sport more unfairly maligned than soccer, I can’t think of it (I would say hockey, but as I readily concede, no one actually watches hockey!). Having found myself, on too many occasions to count, defending the great sport of soccer from simpletons who consider it “boring”, I can’t help but be amused by the fact that, of all things, you use the word “boring” to describe the one sport where there are no timeouts, no diving, and no malingering (hello baseball!)

Doesn’t it drive you nuts when bozo-Americans say “nothing *happens* in soccer?” The only answer, which could never satisfy the unimpressed fan (who probably prefers the wrong type of football) is that *everything* happens in soccer, it just happens in its own way, at its own pace, by its own logic, and in a fashion that should not –and cannot– be compared to other sports. Since we are simpatico on this, I won’t belabor the point; I suspect we probably have used similar arguments, however futilely, to try and enlighten non-soccer fans. That said, I also have to acknowledge some of the issues non-fans have with the game (even, if especially the game at its highest level: during world cup competition). The diving and drama has long-since gotten way out of hand; it denigrates the game to a considerable extent and drives me nuts. The (understandable, but infuriating) tendency of teams, if they happen to score first, to shut everything down and play ultra-conservative in the hopes of maintaining their lead. The embarrassing savagery of the fans (ever read Among the Thugs? by Bill Buford? Highly recommended).  

And, I suspect, any serious fan of soccer with a modicum of sociological perspective innately understands that even the hooliganism is rooted in class and economic context; in other words, even that indefensible aspect of the game is more complicated, historically inculcated and, yes, explicable than a casual assessment would suggest. (Lest that sound like I am in any way defending or advocating  soccer-related shenanigans, I am not; only recognizing that it has a lot more to do with things aside from a taste for “a bit of the old ultraviolence”…which, in another discussion, could conceivably bring us back to hockey and its origins which are not unlike lacrosse, a game initially played—in very brutal fashion—by the Native Americans. More on that later, as well as the socioeconomic elements of hockey’s origins and ongoing association with a very blue-blood—and blue collar—populace in the Great White North also called Canada.)

 

That said, when people claim soccer players are soft, I like to say the same things I tell people when they make fun of tennis: try running around for 90 minutes. Not even in the context of a game; just the simple fact of RUNNING AROUND for 90 min. Ah yes, but that just means they are in shape, the people inexorably say. Okay, try and maneuver a soccer ball, while running and having people stick their feet, arms, shoulders, and torsos at and around you. (Just like it’s always humbling, to this day, to think I’ve got some game when I play b-ball and shoot around with myself, draining all my shots; then get into some on-court action vs. actual people and I realize, instantly how short, weak and white I am).

The best part, to me, is that of all the sports, soccer and hockey are most similar. If you watch a hockey game you’ll see the similarities are astonishing: it’s just that everything is faster and (sorry) much more intense. The “field” is smaller so there is less space, therefore more contact, and in this regard, it’s like (American) football. ON SKATES. Interestingly, for a person like yourself, you might be pleased, or at least surprised to know that the skill-set (similar to most sports) has increased incalculably over the years. Not unlike other sports (football in particular), looking back at footage even 20 years ago makes it seem that, by comparison, it used to be in black and white and slo-mo; even the fourth line players these days are in top shape, cut out of marble and fast: they are, in a sense, like linebackers, ON SKATES.

I feel, in the end, much like I do when people ask me why I listen to jazz music: because it’s great. That’s the easiest (and most truthful) answer. I have no interest in trying to convince or convert anyone; but I will say, if you are the least bit intrigued, check out hockey during the playoffs: that is BY FAR the most intense and exciting sports action you’ll see. Or, let me pull that back: certainly March Madness is tough to top; and (sigh) even NBA playoffs eventually elevate the game (where, for the duration of the regular season, most players seem to phone it in). I would say, respectfully and as a huge fan of soccer: as excited as I get for the World Cup, I’m disappointed by at least half the games (for many of the reasons listed above); I’m never, ever, disappointed during ANY games during hockey playoffs, and I could care less which teams are playing– a sentiment that exposes me as a true fan, or a hopeless case (or really, when it comes to hockey, those are the same thing).

Notice we didn’t even get into the fighting aspect yet?

I realize I could/should say more, but I already offered some opinions on this controversial aspect of the game this past July on the unfortunate occasion of Bob Probert’s passing. Probie was arguably the consensus all-time heavyweight champion enforcer (or goon, if you must) and any discussion of his life—and impact—necessarily touches on several aspects of an element of the game that entices some and appalls other. I’ll repost, below. And I definitely welcome comments, opinions and the inevitable assumption by some/many that the only thing more inexplicable than watching hockey is taking time to discuss it.

This hurts.

R.I.P. Probie.

Quick tally: #24, over 3,000 penalty minutes. Member, along with Joe Kocur, of the legendary “Bruise Brothers” tandem back in the days when the Detroit Red Wings were more feared for what they could do after the whistle stopped play. Participant in a handful of the all-time classic fights in hockey history. Man who inspired t-shirts that read “Give Blood. Fight Probert.” Simply put, if one were to try and create the ideal enforcer (especially for an era that may not have been the toughest or most iconic era but was one of the most enjoyable), one could hardly imagine a more suitable cartoon character than Bob Probert.

As The Kinks once sang, Let’s All Drink To The Death Of A Clown.

And lest anyone think I’m using the word clown carelessly or disrespectfully, it is in fact chosen with the aim of being both accurate and approbatory. (A Probie-tory, if you like.)

Think about what a clown does: he is the minor but essential character who shows up at a circus with the objective of instigating misconduct. Above all, his purpose is to entertain with a mixture of mischief and cheer. A superficial assessment might conclude that a clown is simply doing, in make-up, what any drunk idiot might do. But of course whether it is juggling, dancing or doing tricks, not just anyone could be (or would want to be) a clown. It’s a job.

Think about what a hockey enforcer (what we used to call a goon just like we used to call escorts hookers or stockbrokers sociopaths) does: he is the minor but essential figure who shows up in an arena with the object of instigating misconduct (hopefully without receiving a game misconduct). Above all, his purpose is to settle scores and entertain a crowd while invigorating his teammates. A superficial assessment might conclude that an enforcer is simply doing, in a colorful costume, what any drunk idiot might do. But needless to say, trading bare-fisted blows (sober or especially drunk) in a bar is considerably different than standing on skates and going toe to toe with an opponent who is well-prepared (and in some cases, well-paid) to kick your ass in front of thousands of people. Many people without athletic ability are very capable goons; only an extremely select group of individuals are able (much less willing) to abide by “The Code”. It’s a job.

It’s difficult to talk intelligently with anyone about hockey because so few people watch (or care) about it. That goes double when trying to articulate the science of sanctioned pugilism. How can one possibly rationalize or defend the spectacle of adults engaging in behavior that would get them arrested out in the streets? (Indeed, fans are arrested nightly at hockey rinks all over the continent for imitating, albeit often drunkenly and with far less flair, the very behavior occurring in real time below them.) The answer is at once easy and complicated, like all truths tend to be. The easy part: there is no need to explain it. If you’re not a hockey player, you can’t hope to comprehend it; unless you are a fan, you have no hope of understanding or appreciating it. It’s really that simple. Seriously. Just ask a hockey player. (And, as perspicacious commentators have pointed out for decades, one notices how nobody gets up to grab popcorn once a fight breaks out. While that may speak volumes about the distressing devolution of our species and our insatiable appetite for violence, there is something a bit more sophisticated going on.)

So what is complicated about it? For starters, hockey fighting remains a diversion that people who genuinely deplore violence (like this writer) endorse and get excited about. What does that say about us? I’m not certain. But I do know that unlike the “real” world, it is exceedingly rare for two hockey combatants to enter the fray unwillingly. Yes but, doesn’t that make it a great deal worse, if they do it because they get paid? (Well, is boxing beatiful? Brutal? Your opinion here will go a decent way toward explaining your ability, or willingness, to negotiate the enigmatic charm of the expression “five minutes for fighting”.) That gets to the not-so-easily explained sensibility of athletes (in general) and hockey players (in particular). Hockey players have traditionally been paid a great deal less than other athletes in more popular sports. It is, therefore, a bit ironic to consider that these players are more immune to pain and prone to play a regular season game like the world is on the line. It is, for hockey fans, refreshing that the players have an integrity that has been ingrained from generations and is remarkably resilient against the corrupting forces of salary, fame and product endorsements. Put in less exalted terms, people tend to get (understandably) cynical when, say, a baseball player with a multi-million dollar annual contract goes on the D.L. with a strained hamstring. That type of commonplace indifference is especially noticeable –and appalling– when one realizes that hockey players routinely return to the ice moments after receiving stitches, or losing teeth, or suffering bruised (and in some cases, broken) bones. Google it if you don’t believe me.

None of this is to say that one might enjoy the sport more if one learned more about it, but a casual viewer (or hater) might be genuinely surprised to learn a few things about the history of hockey fighting. For starters, the opposing players seldom hate each other and in it is not uncommon for them to be friends off the ice (particularly if they are old teammates). Also, the aforementioned code does have a rather elaborate –and universally endorsed– system for the rules of engagement. Finally, and perhaps most significantly: not only are enforcers generally the most popular players (amongst the fans; amongst the teams), they tend to be some of the more thoughtful and soft-spoken ones. (For two obvious examples, consider the ever-humble Craig Berube –”The Chief”– who toiled many seasons in the NHL including for my hometown Capitals and now is an assistant coach for the Flyers; then there is George McPhee who happens to be one of the more respected and successful GMs in the game.)

Of course, not all of them are model citizens, and for a variety of reasons (some understandable, some inscrutable), some of them have had very challenging and troubled lives.

Enter Bob Probert. Though it is debatable whether or not he (or any particular player) was “the best” enforcer in the history of organized hockey, not many people would argue with any credibility that he is not at least in the Top 10. For my money, pound for pound and in terms of longevity, respect, quality of opponents and success, Probert is the preeminent knuckle artist of the modern era.

Let the cliched encomiums unfurl: he feared nobody. He fought everyone. Ultimate warrior. Ideal teammate. Crowd pleaser. Accomplished actor? Well, see below:

As Detroit (and Chicago) residents know, and as fans of the game remember, Probert battled the proverbial demons off the ice as well. His struggles with alcohol and substance abuse is amply documented. His occasional escapades drew the attention of law enforcement officials. He was, in short, a troubled man in certain ways, but he was always resilient, and never let his addictions keep him down (or out).

(The actual history of his difficulties is sufficiently reported that folks interested in more can easily find out with the click of a mouse. I also acknowledge that his livelihood may have done as much to exacerbate his issues as it did to ameliorate them. In other words, he quite possibly may have gone down certain roads whether or not he played hockey or threw a single punch. But I readily concede that there is an ugly side to sports, just like there is a sinister side to life, and all of us are constantly pushed and pulled by the momentum of necessity and choice, and the inexorable reality that we have to pay bills and obey laws. A more sustained –and serious– discussion of sports, hockey, hockey fighting and some of the casualties of this game (think John “Rambo” Kordic’s tragic story) should occur at another time.)

For now, in addition to wishing him a fond adieu and sincerely sending out support and goodwill to his family and friends, I’d like to celebrate some of the most memorable instances of him doing what he did better than just about anyone who ever laced up the skates.

1. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round One):

2. Bob Probert vs. Craig Coxe (Round Two):

3. Bob Probert vs. Dave Semenko:

4. Bob Probert vs. Troy Crowder:

5. Bob Probert vs. Tie Domi (The Epic Saga):

**Bonus: It might make sense to go ahead and include, just for the heck of it, THE BEST HOCKEY FIGHT OF ALL TIME**

Bob Probert vs. Marty McSorley (Two of the best of their generation in a game called by the best hockey announcers of their generation, Gary Thorne and the immortal and inimitable Bill Clement):

If he had kept his act together a little better, he would have retired a Red Wing, possibly kissed the Cup, and pretty much owned the Motor City. Somebody could make a movie like that. Of course, somebody already did: his name was Bob Probert and the movie was his life. Not all movies have happy endings, alas. And like anyone who will be missed once they are gone, he gave us far more than we ever gave him.

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Back To The Future With Old Time Hockey?

February 12, 2011 By 1 Comment

I’m not sure what is going on here, but I like it.

The biggest beating that has occurred in hockey the last two decades has involved its popularity. Always the neglected stepchild in the American sports scene (a distant fourth behind the holy trinity of football, baseball and basketball), hockey almost did not recover from an ill-advised lockout during the 2004-2005 season. Until then the sport received coveted prime time coverage on ESPN (and ESPN 2); once the NHL imploded as a result of myopia and greed –two things all pro sports do not suffer from a shortage of, but have sufficient funds and popularity to lure fans back– ESPN came to realize that replays of poker games and women’s basketball got higher ratings. Seriously.

Since then hockey has struggled, most of its games being shown on the Versus network. Fortunately, perhaps miraculously the league still gets occasional bones thrown its way via NBC games of the week and the Stanely Cup finals do get big-time coverage. What this means is that there are fewer games shown each week (at least for those without a full cable buffet of sports offerings), and hockey has receded even further in the national consciousness.

So what? For me, I still get to see games on Versus and, of course, we get all the Caps games. Still, it’s kind of sad to consider that the late ’90s are golden years by comparison. I still lament the dissolution of the Gary Thorne/Bill Clement partnership, for my money the best hockey annoucing tandem in modern history. I don’t just miss them in a nostalgic sense; I really miss Bill Clement calling games and his absence makes the already-grating Mike “Doc” Emrick and the ever-insufferable Pierre McGuire that much more difficult to stomach. (Not one to look askance at good fortune, I still count my blessings that Caps fans have the indispensable Joe Beninati and local treasure –and ex-Cap– Craig Laughlin calling each game. It is also a source of considerable good fortune that Caps hockey is quite relevant and, thanks to the impeccable stewardship of Ted Leonsis –the anti-Dan Snyder– should remain viable for the foreseeable future.)

 

One reason (arguably) that hockey has stumbled in the last ten-to-twenty years is because of the very controversial oversight of commissioner Gary Bettman. In case you were wondering, there is in fact a site called firebettman.com; you can see some widely-held opinions here. One issue that has been a constant topic during his tenure has been the efforts to eliminate fighting from the game. Interestingly, and tellingly, it’s invariably former players who disdain this approach, pointing out that “back in the day” enforcers had a role, and their ability to police the ice kept a lot of the cheap shots out, and kept accountability in. What has happened, in the ostensible effort to “clean up” the game and make it more appealing to the casual fan (Bettman apparently not understanding that when it comes to pro hockey there is no such thing) is that we’ve had more injuries, more dirty play and a general carte blanche for teams to rough it up without having to pay a price. Ignorant ranters who know nothing about the game (and there are many of them employed by major American media outlets) claim that getting rid of the “goonery” has made hockey a better game. Veterans, real fans and ratings say otherwise.

All of which brings us to the past two weeks, a period of intensity, bad blood and old-school frontier justice not seen much, if at all, since the late ’80s. The Bruins have, seemingly overnight, gone from being a fairly soft team to the reincarnation of the Broad Street Bullies. Avenging some unfinished business from a game several years ago (!), Boston engaged in an epic throwdown the other week with Dallas. Then, the other night, they rekindled a half-century old grudge with Montreal. The videos below show the highlights. Appropriately, it begins with the end of the Penguins/Islanders game the other week where the cocky superstar goalie Rick DePietro brought nothing but a smirk into a pas de deux he instigated with (ex Cap) Brent Johnson. It was quick, ugly and wonderful. The frequently injured (soft?) DePietro, humiliatingly, is out for several weeks as a result of the fight he never should have picked. As it happens, there was a dirty hit (shocker) by a Penguin that night so between that, the DePietro smackdown and the merriment on the Pittsburgh bench afterward, a reckoning was all but preordained for the rematch on Long Island.

Brent Johnson TKOs Rick DePietro:

The Bruins and The Stars: some unfinished business prompts three fights in four seconds. As you can see, the fans are appalled by this, and to quote the great Barry Melrose, you never see a spectator leave to grab popcorn during a hockey fight. This team toughness may turn around Boston’s season.

Old school? This is ancient school when it comes to the love lost between Montreal and Boston. The fact that Boston is obviously a scrappier, bigger and tougher time would almost leave a less-than-savory taste in a knowledgeable fan’s mouth, but it turns out that Montreal is perhaps the team in the league most overdue for some old-fashioned comeuppance. Eager to cheap-shot, talk smack and skate away, Montreal is an excellent example of the type of hockey that has been tolerated (encouraged?) on Bettman’s watch: lots of chirping, stick-work and less-than-clean nonsense, the instigator rules and general crackdowns prohibit other teams from squashing it. What went down the other night could be considered a decade and change of pent-up frustration spilling out, and I guarantee few, if any, players in the league shed any tears for The Habs. (For my money the Penguins are the dirtiest team by far, but they at least have players that, for the most part, answer the bell and stand up for one another when necessary. More on that in a moment.)

The much-anticipated rematch last night. Even Gordie Howe would have been surprised, and delighted, by the extent of the carnage. Pens fans are up in arms about how the Islanders went after their smaller players. I suspect this will be revisited in April when the teams meet up again, back in Pittsburgh. (It’s a shame the gutless punk Matt Cooke was not on the ice; as it happened he was serving a suspension for one of his myriad cheap hits. Boston’s Shawn Thornton gained some measure of revenge last season, but it will be a happy day when someone is able to give Cooke a fair and final taste of his own medicine.)

Last night’s festivities between The Penguins and The Islanders:

To be continued, hopefully.

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Meet The New Boss Hog (Revisited)

February 2, 2011 By Leave a Comment

While I can’t say I’m surprised to see this in today’s paper, I still can take a moment to sigh/laugh at what a clown Daniel Snyder is. I could (and would) say more, but I said most of what I needed to say back in October 2009; taking a quick drive down memory lane this piece seems a bit dated (George W. Bush? Who was he?) but virtually all of the assessments still ring true (just like they would have rung true had I written this piece in 2005, or 2001…)

Here it is for anyone who missed it the first time, or who wants to wallow, during the week of the Super Bowl no less, on how unfortunate it has been for fans ’round these parts this past decade and change.

FedEx Field

The good news: George W. Bush is no longer running Washington.

The bad news: He is now running the Washington Redskins.

No, not literally.

However: the comparisons go beyond simple simile and inexorably, enter into metaphor.

Daniel Snyder is George W. Bush.

I know.

The only thing more played out and passé than blindly bashing (or praising) Barack Obama is blindly bashing Bush.

He was the sine qua non for polarizing political certitude. And he is likely to remain the heavyweight champion for the foreseeable future. He is, not to put too fine a point on it, our country’s Asshole Emeritus. Like those wizened professors put out to pasture and summoned only at graduation ceremonies, Bush earned that status; he put in the time and we do him and ourselves a disservice if we ever forget how incredibly, and uniquely awful he was. This most untalented and incurious man had to experiment often to eventually understand—to the world’s chagrin—that his one true talent was being a moron. He was a genius at incompetence.

But everyone knows that.

So what is the point, where is the originality, not only engaging in the gratuitous name-checking of he-who-should-never-be-named, but using him as a basis of comparison for anyone? Logically, the rationale does not sustain itself; employing such a singular entity as a metaphor is a crime against grammar and sustained thought. But still, it is, in the end, inevitable. It was not a rhetorical flourish easily arrived at, and it was not for considerable lack of effort hoping to avoid it. Ultimately, it was as T.S. Eliot once wrote: We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

I knew that place for the first time when I—along with a loyal and long-suffering fan base—watched the Washington Redskins go from being a disappointment to an enigma to disgrace to, finally, an outright caricature. This once-successful (I can’t quite say once-proud because the name has always been Redskins which is slightly worse than unconscionable by any reasonable standard) franchise has now become a veritable case study for how not to run a professional sports organization.

al

Let’s get the unspeakable out of the way as quickly as possible. Here is something I never thought I would say: Al Davis is not the worst owner in sports. And, for anyone who does not know, Al Davis is the gold standard for over-the-top, meddlesome, megalomaniacal team cancers. But, at this point, he’s got one thing going for him: he’s not Daniel Snyder.

Seriously, at least at one point Al Davis was a legend. At one point Al Davis did put in the time and build a respectable (and winning) franchise. Snyder, on the other hand, knows less than a little about the actual nuts and bolts of evaluating talent or inspiring confidence. He is literally a nerd who happened to get filthy rich, so he bought a team. Put another way, Al Davis got old and senile and has slowly but steadily sucked the life out of his organization; he is a sports version of King Lear and his is a straight-up tragic story. But Raiders fans can hold their noses and hang in there until he eventually goes to that big pirate ship in the sky.

It would be tempting, and too simple to decree Snyder a sports version of Macbeth, (or better yet the conniving, deeply evil Lady Macbeth) but that sells these great Shakespearean figures short. Better off turning to an earlier, less significant work: perhaps Danny Boy, with all the failed plots and burned bodies in his wake, could be considered a sports version of Titus Andronicus. But no. Snyder simply does not have the heft to be tragic; he is little more than a bit player in a minor comedy. And yet, the team he has ruined is still the second most profitable franchise in all sports: the stakes are substantial and the ultimate carnage is infinitely larger than the man creating it. Looking at a tragedy and finding comedy, Daniel Snyder is the Pigskin Polonius.

Polonius

This is a serious charge, not made lightly. So let’s consider this with the carefulness it warrants and examine the case before us before we feel we can render a verdict without reservation.

The first step is diagnosing the subject and determining certain inviolable symptoms. So, for starters, let’s confirm that some or all of the obvious ingredients, shared by any bad owner, are firmly in place.

Owner never actually played the sport at a competitive level: Check.

Owner’s wealth has obliterated any sense of perspective that might allow him to relate—with anything approximating authenticity—to the fan base: Check.

Owner is petty: Check.

Owner is a bully who insists on surrounding himself with craven and sycophantic lackeys: Check.

Owner, despite unimaginable net worth, is consistently cheap and will cut corners every time: Check.

Owner has the worst sort of interpersonal skills: Check.

Owner takes rabid and historically solid fan base largely for granted? Check.

Owner confident in powers of perception and intelligence that do not remotely exist: Check.

Owner alienates people who do—or have—worked as employees: Check.

Owner can’t find anyone not on the payroll to offer support, solidarity, or utter any sentiment that could be construed as positive: Check.

You get the picture.

funnyredskins

But for a fair and accurate rendering of what an impossibly tone-deaf, cocky and self-immolating imbecile Daniel Snyder is, one act stands out (above and beyond the coaches who have turned the front office into a not-so-merry-go-round, the abrupt firing of a successful and respected GM, the cycle of signing increasingly outrageous and irresponsible “big name” free agents—often at the expense of high draft picks, the firing of a coach who had managed to wrestle the key away from the inmates only to hire the head lunatic, the unwarranted promotion to VP of Football Operations of the most singularly and spectacularly unqualified buffoon who happens to be his racquetball buddy) above all others: having owned the team for little more than a year—and on the heels of yet another in a series of mind-numbingly stupid free agent signings (Bruce Smith? Deion Sanders?! Jeff George?!?!)—had the temerity, nay the audacity, nay the chutzpah to charge fans admission to watch the team practice in training camp. If ever there was a moment where prescient people should have taken to the streets with torches and pitchforks (or, short of anything truly dramatic, just refused to show up at that dump called Fed-Ex Field—of which more shortly), this was it. Everything we needed to know about the man, and where he was coming from (hint: it rhymes with $), was abundantly revealed in all its non-glory. Practically everything that has happened since has grown out of that indelible desecration.

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Anyone who follows the team knows the sordid details, so no need to rehash each and every awful decision, underperforming free agent, abandoned draft pick and stadium-related outrage. But speaking of that abortion called FedEx Field (how many rotations per minute do you think Jack Kent Cooke is doing in his coffin, by the way? Dude owned the Skins during the glory years, and paid for the new –albeit awful– stadium, which was appropriately named after him, only to be sold, literally, to the highest bidder, so Snyder could wrangle every stinking penny he possibly could out of his investment: file under: soul, sold), that is just a matter of terrible timing that JKC was in the process of building a new palace for his franchise (which never, ever should have left RFK –the best home field advantage in sports during the ’80s along with the also dearly departed Boston Garden) when most baseball and football stadiums were wisely following the excellent example of Camden Yards and incorporating old school aesthetics with modern amenities.

Suffice it to say, FedEx Field is old school in the awful sense of the word: it has every deficiency of those ancient concrete monstrosities from the ’60s and ’70s with none of the charm. It’s oversized yet underwhelming, it has an utter absence of character and it’s conveniently located in the middle of nowhere, with no hope of utilizing that new-fangled concept of public transportation that most major cities use as a prerequisite before construction on a new stadium is undertaken.

In fairness, it’s important to point out that Snyder inherited this mess. So he gets a mulligan for buying a team that happened to have a brand new, terrible stadium. But, in his inimitable fashion, he has not only done nothing to improve the situation, he has actually exacerbated it. The parking lot was a disaster in 1997; it remains a clusterfuck in 2009. The concessions are the worst in the world (this is coming from a person who had the misfortune of eating cinderblock pretzels and dirty-sponge hot dogs at the old Shea Stadium), and they are expensive. No doubt, concessions are expensive everywhere these days, but at least in the new stadiums you get quality food and drink. Case in point: it costs a pretty penny to get a snack at Verizon Center but the food is consistently good (and hot) and you have options beyond plastic bottles of Bud or Bud Light. Speaking of bang for your buck, ever seen that monitor? You’d have a better chance watching replays via a Time Machine. And those graphics (DEFENSE!) are pretty cutting edge. Way to enhance the experience there, Danny Boy. Having sat in the upper, upper decks multiple times, I can propose with some degree of certainty that the PC speakers I had in 1995 were capable of producing louder sound with better fidelity. Think I’m piling on or being petty? Try tacking an hour onto the experience (especially after a loss!) battling the catastrophe masquerading as a parking lot. Ernest Shackleton had an easier time navigating his ship through ice in the South Pole. But at least the parking is free. Just kidding.

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Many Skins fans have gone through the familiar stages of grief over the past several years. Once Spurrier spurned Snyder, that seemed like a low point of sorts: the clown prince of college football couldn’t hack it as a pro coach and left many millions on the table to walk away from the team. Joe Gibbs seemed to represent an overdue oasis, but he too finally decided he could not get back to Nascar fast enough. He did try and anoint the controversial, but undeniably talented, Gregg Williams as the heir to his throne. Needless to say, Snyder (and his half-witted consigliere, Cerrato) put their clown shoes through that plan. Besides, who needed a proven veteran coach when untested, inexperienced and underwhelming Jim Zorn was waiting in the wings? (Hiring him was ridiculous enough; the Bataan Death March he is now being made to endure is…typical. Everyone knows Zorn is gone, it’s not a matter of when he’s fired, it’s how much meat will be left on his bones by the time his body is taken off the spit. The recent indignity of bringing in the Bingo-playing Sherm Lewis to call the shots is…typical. But if, as seems likely based on his track record and lack of character, Snyder is stringing the emasculated Zorn along in the hopes of inciting a resignation so he doesn’t have to pay him in full, well he is officially beneath contempt –not just as a scumbag businessman, but as a human being.)

Riggo speaks big truths.

Here’s the thing: it’s not the quarterback, it’s not the coach, it’s not even the useless GM (though it’s impossible to overstate the wreckage he has left in his wake); the reason this fish stinks is because it’s rotting at the head. And that head is Snyder. The only hope is for the owner to hire an accomplished (or merely adequate, if need be) individual to run the operations and step quickly and quietly out of the way. And stay out of the way. (Use some of that impulsive energy constructing a new stadium, in D.C.; or better yet, invest some money into revamping the cathedral otherwise known as RFK Stadium and get the team playing where it never should have left.)

One can only wonder what Snyder sees when he looks in the mirror.

Here is what the rest of us see:

gordon-gekko + MiniaturePoodleSnowbell7YearsOld = Bush_codpiece

Presumably, disgracing a franchise and a fanbase was not the mission he wanted to accomplish.

In conclusion, it’s obvious what Snyder needs to do, and only he can do it. That’s the answer.

The question is, will he do it? Can he?

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The Coolest Man In The World Cheers on The Greatest College

November 22, 2010 By 1 Comment

Bill Murray

(Props to Derek Eads for the genius above.)

What can you say about this? (Huge h/t to Dan Steinberg and his D.C. Sports Bog for bringing this magical moment to our attention).

Everyone knows Bill Murray is the coolest dude in America. And everyone should know that George Mason is the coolest university. Okay, that second part is a stretch, but alumni are entitled to be irrational, particularly after that Final Four run in 2006.)

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The Big C Claims A Cop And A Coach

November 21, 2010 By Leave a Comment

You have to hand it to Cancer. It does not discriminate: all it requires is a living body to inhabit and attack. That’s it. Certainly, if you are impoverished or unable to acquire adequate medical care, this disease will make quicker work of you. But even the wealthy, well-connected and powerful are ultimately susceptible to the Big C.

This week the universally despised and dreaded ailment claimed another influential life. And it proved that no matter how tough you are, it likes its chances if it can remain undetected long enough to get a head start. If there is any human whose prospects I’d wager on in a mano a chemo battle, it would be Pat Burns. (Decent overviews of his career and achievements here and here and especially here.)

This excerpt pretty much sums it up:

“As for my career,” he said at the arena ceremony, “I always said to my kids, ‘You don’t cry because it’s over, you’re happy because it happened.’ That’s the main thing. I’m very happy that it happened.”

A few weeks later, Mr. Burns said he could not imagine himself being anything other than a cop and a coach.

“No, that’s all I was,” he said.

Nice tribute here:

One of my favorite Burns memories is from ’99 (in what turned out to be a disappointing regular season after the Caps’ shocking and wonderful Cup run in ’98) when he was coaching Boston. Bad blooded still simmered from the previous year’s playoff series and after the Bruins jumped out to an early lead, an old school line-brawl ensued. This one was epic in that it featured all-time greats Ken “The Bomber” Baumgartner trading with Mark Tinordi (one of the grittiest and gamest D-Men and take-all-comers fighters of his era — and a personal favorite) and the priceless stand-off between best friends Olie Kolzig and Byron Dafoe. And then, at the end, when order was somewhat restored, we see the pugnacious Burns beaming on the bench. He loved it, and when he flexes his muscle at Ron Wilson, it manages to convey his intensity, his sense of humor and his inimitable air of mischief.

His passion for the game was a gift to the sport, the players who battled for him and for fans: he never coached my team and I still loved him. If you loved hockey (or life) you could not help but love Pat Burns. Cancer may have gotten the last word but it amuses –and inspires– me to know Burns kicked its ass as long as he could, and went down swinging. Our world is a hell of a lot less enjoyable and invigorated without him. R.I.P., Coach.

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Daniel Bard: Sports Porn

August 11, 2010 By 1 Comment

Describing what music sounds like is difficult enough.

Trying to articulate what Daniel Bard is capable of doing with a baseball is pretty much impossible. Fortunately, a picture is worth a thousand words; a GIF is worth a million. (That it’s against the Yankees: priceless.)

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