Dr. Metablog

Why We Love Kenneth Faried

Because he plays with infectious enthusiasm. Because he's undersized for his position but unfazed. Because he plays a better game today than he did last week. Because he's so often the first man down the floor, outrunning and outhustling his opponent. Because he's not the most gifted athlete in the league, but he makes the most of his abilities. Because he plays within himself and doesn't force up bad shots. Because he can score fifteen or twenty points a game without a play being called for him.

Sure, he's occasionally out of place on defense.True, he hasn't yet learned how to play the pick and roll. His offensive games is limited to putbacks and short jumpers. And sometimes he has a bad game because the opponent is bigger and better.

But he's learning. He's coachable.

And because he's the first NBA player to pledge support for gay rights. (Kenneth has two mothers and he "loves them both.") Congratulations, Kenneth Faried, for speaking out.

Life after Football

Every year, football becomes harder and harder to watch. When the quarterback is blitzed and has his clock cleaned, or a receiver on a crossing pattern gets his bell rung, I no longer think, brilliant play. Instead, I think, pain and concussion.

Not a game goes by but that a lineman leaves the field of sport on a gurney, to admiring huzzahs and applause from the comfortable spectators.

Have I become more timorous -- or more compassionate?  I still admire the skill level of the players but I'm distressed because these gladiators have become permanently injured for my amusement.

There's a Washington Post article about a lineman named Tre Johnson, who left the game in 2003 after nine seasons in the NFL. Johnson, who earned two degrees before he was drafted, is now a highly-regarded middle-school social studies teacher at the private Landon School outside Washington. His is a post-career success story.

The Post article offers some information about Johnson's present state of health. He's forty-something years old and for three years has been walking three miles, twice daily, in order to shed some weight.  More power to him, he's now under 400 pounds and hoping to get back to his playing weight of 275. He suffers from diabetes, high cholesterol and elevated blood pressure. He's already endured nineteen surgeries (seven on his shoulders, seven on his knees, an elbow, hands and Achilles’ tendon). "He can't sleep more than three hours at a stretch. There’s not a morning he doesn’t wake up in pain, and it takes a full hour to get moving in tolerable discomfort." Although when he played, no one kept track of concussions, Johnson has some sort of brain injury, because he can't tolerate bright or fluorescent lights. To what degree his banged-around brain has been seriously disabled will not become clear for a few more years.

Tre Johnson is doing well, but what about other ex-players who are not quite so healthy?

Baseball, 1955 and 2012

In 1955, Duke Snider lived at 178 Marine Avenue (in Brooklyn's Bay Ridge). His was the middle house in this picture.

Gil Hodges lived here, at 1120 32 Street. Two floors, 1400 square feet. 

 
Harold "Pee Wee" Reese and family made their home in 970 square feet of 9714 Barwell Terrace. Carl Erskine's home, at 9318 Lafayette Walk, was even smaller, just   910 square feet.

Sandy Amoros lived in Bed-Stuy, in this brownstone at 147 Bainbridge Street, most likely on just one of the three floors. His was the leftmost building.

 

 And here is Alex Rodriguez's 2012 house in Miami, Florida.  It's up for sale for $38,000,000,

      

which is what 19,681 square foot waterfront properties go for nowadays. A bargain, for all I know.

Why We Love Sports

I have to admit that I'm thoroughly taken with the Jeremy Lin story. It's so wonderfully, ridiculously improbable. Asian-American guy, Harvard!! economics grad, plays OK with the Erie Bayhawks and the Reno Bighorns but is released by two not-so-strong NBA teams. A last-resort number 4 point guard on the Knicks, sleeping on a couch in his brother's apartment, he comes off the bench to lead the worst team in the league to five straight wins, drops 38 on Kobe and the Lakers, etc. etc. Tyson Chandler, grumpy all season long, is now smiling. It's not just Frank Merriwell; it's everyone's secret dream. And a morality play to boot-- keep trying, persevere, trust your own abilities, take advantage of the opportunities. An inspiration and a message in the same package. 

It can't last. JLin can't keep on averaging 27/8. The Knicks will eventually lose (though let's hope not tonight against shakey Toronto). One of those top point-guard defenders, such as Avery Bradley, is going to eat him alive one of these days. But he's the real deal and if he stays healthy, remains coachable, works on his three and on his left hand, he could have a great, historic career.

Meanwhile, it's absolutely fascinating. Ama're returns tonight; that should be easy. The test will come when Carmelo's groin heals. Can Lin and Anthony work and play well together? I'll be watching.

And congratulations to Tommie Amaker, Lin's Harvard coach; he's got to be one heck of a proud guy.

Another person who's mighty happy: David Stern, who's been struggling to get a toehold for the NBA in the world's largest untapped market.

Nugget-Watching

This year's Nuggets are now at 3-2 and each game has been worth watching. Because there are no superstars, there's a different plot every game. The ball moves and doesn't stop as when, in the old day, it came into the hands of Carmelo, or, even worse, The Answer. Everyone plays defense; everyone runs, almost everyone gets into the game. Arron Affalo is the key, I think, because he sets the example of constant effort. As soon as he gets into better shape, and his three starts to fall, he'll be even better. Lawson is fearless and swift as an arrow and he's become adept at pocket-picking. Andre Miller is a player to identify with: he can't run, can't jump, has no range, has no weight-room/steroid muscles and his mid-range is more of a leaner than a jumper, but he's smart, resourceful, tricky, and throws a better alley-oop than anyone in the league. He's the kind of steadyEddie you want to be in there for the last five minutes. Al Harrington, who was injured and out of shape last year, has come back strong and is now a classic sixth-man-scorer-off-the-bench-instant-offense-go-to-guy. The Birdman is as erratic as all get out but he remembers to swat a couple away every game. Unfortunately, he's mutilated his body to the point that any person of aesthetic sensibility must fast-forward through his foul shots. The furriners give the team great balance (and because they're untattooed, provide a welcome relief for the eyes.) Gallinari, the Italian, shows great promise, especially when he goes to the rim with two-handed authority. When Nene, from Brazil, plays up to his ability, he's sensational, and the more time he gets at PF the happier he'll be, which is why it's crucial that Timofey Mozgov, the massive Russian center. learns to move his feet and avoid the fouls. Mozgov will improve as the season progresses. Rudy Fernandez, the lone Spaniard, plays good man D., but won't make a real contribution until the outside shots start to fall. And then there's the half-Greek 7-footer, Kosta Koufos, who plays with great enthusiasm.

Not to mention Kenneth Faried, college rebounding sensation, who's chomping at the bit, waiting for one of the regulars to go down.

Other reasons to watch the Nugs: no J. R. Smith (a most talented nutcase), no Kenyon Martin (effective on D but always borderline thuggish, and with the ugliest no-spin set shot ever); no Carmelo playing matador. Addition by subtraction.

It's a short long season, ths year. Stay healthy, guys.

Landau versus Gottlieb

While in the Bay Area, I visited SF's Museum of Asian Art,  where this grotesque, beautiful piece of maximum conspicuous consumption was on display. 

It's a silver Landau made for the Maharaja of Bhavnagar around the turn of the last century.  Needless to say, I was utterly appalled by the waste and extravagance though dazzled by the workmanship.

 Afterward, I took a trip to Alameda's Pinball Museum. Here's a bank of classic 50's Gottliebs.

I played this magnificent piece of craftsmanship

and, still a master of the flipper, won three (3) free games.

I can't remember whether the silver coach was owned by this couple of dandies (also in the Asian Art Museum) or one of their cousins, 

but no one who looked like either a maharaja or maharani was playing with Gottlieb's silver balls.  I didn't spy anyone at the pinball museum who was nearly so well accoutered.  

What's the Deal with the Necklaces that Baseball Players are Wearing?

What are those beads with which half of the players now accesorize?  Why, they're magic titanium necklaces. "The necklaces... work by stabilizing the electric flow that nerves use to communicate actions to the body. All of the messages in your body travel through electricity, so if you’re tired or just pitched nine innings, the electricity isn’t flowing as smoothly as it can,” said Joe Furuhata, a Phiten (Phiten is the company that manufactures the beads) spokesman." “Our products smooth out those signals.” Persuasive as all get out, isn't he?  Nothing like smooth-flowing electric signals, though whether AC or DC he doesn't specify. Here's some more science from the website: "Titanium Necklace Benefits have been proven to be many. Some of these benefits include alleviation from discomfort in your shoulders and neck, and it helps the whole body to relax as well. Titanium necklaces are known to ease pains and aches of the upper back, and also enhance the circulation of blood from the upper body to the brain and other major organs. Included in the titanium necklace benefits are that they have anti-radiation and anti-fatigue properties."  So it's not just electricity: it's also pain relief and improved circulation, plus the beads ward off radiation (a major problem in ballparks nowadays). 

Gotta love the use of the passive voice: "Titanium necklace benefits have been proven to be many."  Proven by whom?  Here I am searching for a citation, an experiment, a demonstration, a study, even a minuscule perfunctory footnote. But there's nothing. Not a whisper of evidence. Nor could there be: what sort of double-blind experiment would it take to prove the efficacy of the beads. I guess I'm a non-believer, once again. So is the chief of sports medicine at NYU, who says, "it's all superstition."

OK, so baeball players are superstitious. No news there. But what are we to think when Ron Washington, the manager of the Texas team, sports a magic necklace?  Here he is:

Can you see the beads: trust me, theyre not ordinary; they're genuine "titanium-infused plastic." 

Does "Wash" think that his beads improve the performance of managers, whose job is of the brain rather than of the body?  "Wow, I never would have thought to call for that double steal if I hadn't been wearing my magic beads?"

Altogether, the ubiquitous necklaces lead me into further despair about the quality of American education.  

Lady Stallions!!!

Lady Stallions!?! Not only a New Jersey soccer team, but an oxymoron of Shakespearean dimension. Not a simple oxymoron either, like Romeo's "cold fire, sick health," but a figure of speech on the far frontier of Oxymoronia, along with such classics as Utah Jazz and Christian Science. What, pray tell, is a Lady Stallion?  Even in an age of gender fluidity, it's hard to get a grasp on this one. Oh, I understand the principle -- the men's team is the Stallions, and therefore it follows as night the day that the distaff team acquires the same name, prefixed with Lady. In the same way, we have, out here, the Buffs and the Lady Buffs. I would offer not the slightest demurral if the men's team was called the New Jersey Horses and women's team was the New Jersey Lady Horses. It's awkward but logical. Lady Horses may not be either a poetical or an intimidating moniker, but it doesn't boggle the grammatical mind. But a stallion is archetypically male, the snorting captain of his harem-herd of equine odalisques, groupies, wives, mistresses, and girlfriends. Against all challenges, he bites and kicks and if necessary injects himself with steroids and horse growth hormone in order to maintain his macho primacy. A lady stallion is therefore utterly impossible both emotionally and linguistically. The term is a travesty. Better to call them the New Jersey Mares, which makes linguistic sense. Or even better, the New Jersey Geldings (which are, in an odd  kind of a way, no-longer-male stallions).    

Although I myself would reserve the name Geldings for institutions named after gentleman who have made the sacrifice and earned the right: the Origen Divinity School Geldings or the St. Abelard Preparatory School Geldings. But that's a horse of another color.   

Although particularly egregious, Lady Stallions do not stand solitary in their linguistic purgatory. Also competing are the Lady Rams (suggested alternative: Sheep), the Lady Bucks, and the Lady Bulls (alternative: Cows). No teams named the Goats. No Lady Boars (or Pigs either, for that matter). In defiance of all logic, there are the Oregon Lady Ducks, which is truly an impossibility, because properly, the men's team should be the Drakes, the women's the Ducks (or Lady Drakes). There are no teams, as far as I'm aware, named either the Geese or the Lady Ganders; yes, there are the South Carolina Gamecocks, but I'm going to guess that the distaff side is not named the Lady Gamecocks. Wait, I'll google it. OK, the South Carolina women's softball team is named ... the Gamecocks, which is bad enough, but could have been worse, because in my world of propriety, "lady" and "cocks" should never inhabit the same sentence.  

Dogs are a problem. No one calls their team the Dogs. But there are some breeds who are allowed to play. Bulldogs and Mastiffs and Greyhound are in, Poodles are out. The University of Georgia proffers the Lady Bulldogs, but not one college, high school, or club has thought to give us either the Lady Dogs, or whatever is that word by which female dogs are denominated.

Another Great Moment in Basketball Announcerese

It was an excellent win for Dallas. The series isn't over yet, but it's better to be up 3-2 than down 2-3.  Terry, Kidd, Chandler, Marion, and Berea all played beautifully. Dirk Nowitzki had another lovely game. 

And in the booth, Jeff Van Gundy continued to mangle the language at a yogiberra level: "Dirk Nowitzki is now a household name in every locker room in the world."     

A Great Moment in Sportscasting History

Rajan Rondo is knocked down by Dwayne Wade and falls awkwardly dislocating his left elbow.  Even though it's gruesome, the tape is repeated over and over again. We see Rondo's arm bend backwards and we see him writhe in pain.

Jeff Van Gundy:  "It's horrible. I can't watch."

Mark Jackson (a Brooklynite who doesn't like Van Gundy):  "You can't look?  I always wondered where you were from.  Now I know.  You're from the suburbs."

Later, Rondo returns and heroically plays the fourth period with just one working arm. 

Hoop Words Once More

Now that "March madness" is fully upon us, and indeed approaching its annual climax, it's fitting to reflect on basketball jargon, which is distinguished by its many colorful monosyllables:  hoops, hops, bigs, stuff, slam, jam, slash, dish, board, glass, dunk, pick, screen, paint, lane, point, wing, trey, rim, post, trap, "D", roll, box, press, tip, swish, bank, brick, feed, stroke, hole, "J", rock, range.  But down-home slang is not basketball's only linguistic register. Curiously, roundball jargon exhibits a contrary tendency toward polysyllabic words of Greek and Latin origin. Some teams, for example, are said to be "physical." "Physical" (from Gr. physicos = nature) means, in basketballese, simply "rough" and does not imply that the other team plays either an ethereal or spiritual game. Until recently, a guard played on the "outside" and the center on the "inside"; nowadays they've become "perimeter" (Gr.) and "interior" (L.) players. A fast break has become "transition offense." A player doesn't drive to the basket;  he "penetrates." Players no longer jump; they "elevate"; they don't block a shot, they "reject" it.  In an odd linguistic development, a point guard no longer passes the ball; he "distributes" (Latin: distribuere, to allot) it. In its ordinary signification, to "distribute" a basketball would be to cut it into pieces like a loaf of bread and give each teammate a slice. Only a few years ago, it was still possible to "switch" from guarding one man in order to guard another; now players "rotate."  "Rotate," derived from the Latin word for wheel, means "to turn on an axis, to spin."  A defender who did not switch but rotated would, properly, pirouette, and pirouetting is not an effective defensive strategy.  (A better classical upgrade for switch would be "revolve.")  Even sillier than rotate: "rotate over" or "rotate around"-- a usage that evokes the grotesquerie of a big guy in a tutu pirouetting across the baseline -- a vision that is all the more picturesque now that traditional basketball shorts have been replaced by big ol' floppy bloomers. Just last night I heard a TV announcer declare that a seven-foot tall player had "a lot of verticality."  Players don't score;  they "convert," as in, "they had a transition opportunity  but failed to convert." They don't push an opponent out of the way;  no, no, no, -- they create space (Latin: creant spatium). Inasmuch as I am not a physicist, I wonder whether space is like matter, and can therefore neither be created nor destroyed.  How silly of me;  neither the laws of physics nor the usual constraints of language are binding on punditor basketballensis. OK, game's on;  let's see how well they play -- sorry, how well they execute.   

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Arena

Thank you, thank you. (Applause)  You're a terrific audience. (Applause).  Hey, did you see what's going on in basketball.  A Brigham Young player was thrown off the team for having pre-marital sex. (Audience groans).  No kidding.  Doesn't look good for BYU.  They got rid of the only kid on the team who could score.  (Laughter)  Wouldn't it be great if Duke played BYU in the NCAA finals?  The Blue Devils versus the Blue Balls.  (Laughter) Thank you, thank you.  Actually, the team isn't named the Blue Balls.  They're called the "Cougars."  Who would name a team "cougars?" Unless out there in Provo, Utah, they think that "cougars" means "mountain lions?"  (Knowing laughter)  Did you know that the official airline of Brigham Young is Virgin Atlantic?  (Hoots) And that Brigham Young players don't have numbers on their Jerseys;  they use letters.  The team color is scarlet.  (Audience groans). Hey, just checking -- did Wilt Chamberlain go to BYU?  (Audience is mystified)   How did the coach find out about the sex?  I don't know but there's a rumor that the girlfriend, a BYU volleyball player, is pregnant.  No one knows whether she is or not,  because they can't see under her burqa. (Confusion, jeers, embarrassed tittering)  OK, we have a great show lined up. We'll be right back. (Hysterical laughter and applause)

Baseball Facts

In 1968, the average AL batter hit .230 and Carl Yastrzemski won the batting championship, hitting .301;  in 1930, the average NL batter hit .303.  In 1904, 87.6% of starting pitchers completed their games;  in 2004, of 4854 starts, only 150 were completed (3.1%).  In 1997, the Texas Ranger franchise was purchased for $252 million;  The Ballpark in Arlington was built for $191 million;  in 2000, Alex Rodriguez signed a ten-year conract with the same Texas Rangers for $252 million.  In 2004, the New York Yankees sold 3.78 million seats at an average ticket price of $27.34;  in the same year, the Montreal Expos sold 750,000 seats at an average price of $10.82.  In 1976, the average salary for a major league baseball player was $51,501;  it's now $2.632,655.  In the new Comiskey Park, built in 1991, the first row in the new upper deck is farther from the field than the last row in the old park.  In 1932, the Giants' shortstop "Doc" Marshall was nicknamed the "ancient mariner," because "he stoppeth one of three."  In 2004, the Colorado Rockies hit .305 at home;  they hit just .258 on the road.  In 1904, Jack Chesbro introduced the "spit ball."  He won 41 games, a record that has never been surpassed. 

We Are All Frail/ Brooks Conrad

Even moderately serious baseball-watchers know that we've just experienced a disaster of the Mickey Owens-Willie Davis-Bill Buckner variety.  Poor Brooks Conrad, a journeyman infielder, playing for the Atlanta Braves in an important playoff game, committed three horrible errors.  He bobbled a ball, dropped a popup, and then, with the game on the line, let a routine grounder go right through his legs. He was nutmegged, as they say in soccer. Game over, Atlanta eliminated.  The hi-def TV camera focussed on him, allowing millions of Americans to lipread the poor guy's puzzled, exasperated, embarrassed, "What the fuck."  Interviewed after the game, Conrad was more decorous but no less defeated:  "I wanted to dig a hole and go to sleep in it."

 Sleep won't do it, because Conrad's errors will be re-played forever and ever and ever.

The play that lost the game was one that Brooks Conrad has made time and time again -- at Arizona State, during his ten years in the minors, and during his three-year (229 at bats, 53 hits) and now completed major league career.  He wouldn't have been in the game -- as a substitute for the injured Martin Prado -- if he didn't have the ability to put a glove on a pop fly or handle a ground ball.  One of the announcers called it accurately:  "they say you make errors with the glove but in this case the problem is right between his ears."  Brooks Conrad somehow lost the ability to do things that should have been entirely routine  -- which is why I feel so sorry for him, and why I identify so strongly with him.  It could happen to anybody, anytime.  I remember once driving along on a big four-lane and for a second I forgot which foot operated the accelerator and which the clutch.  I panicked, momentarily, but I recovered, and no one every knew.  I didn't have millions of people watching me and clucking.

I'm glad to say that the next day, when Brooks took the field during warmups (he was mercifully held out of the game), Atlanta fans gave him a big cheer.   "We are all frail," as Angelo says, and it's not wrong for us to be reminded of it once in a while.  But poor Brooks, condemned to a lifetime of waking up in the middle of the night, Buster Posey's grounder skidding past his glove and through his legs, runners endlessly, one after another, in an infinitely loop, crossing home plate to the deafening roar of the crowd. 

Brooklyn Watchamacallums

The 6' 8" Russian oligarch and billionaire Mikhail Dmitrievitch Prokhorov, chairman of the conglomerate Polylus Gold and president of the Onexim Group has acquired the New Jersey Nets. The Nets (or as they are sometimes known, the Swamp Dragons), are moving to Atlantic Yards in Brooklyn year after next, and Prokhorov wants to change the team's name to something more germane. It's a monumental challenge to find the correct moniker. After all, what Brooklynite would be content with Brooklyn Nets, especially when the New Jersey team carries with a storied history of failure, mismanagement, and dysfunction. Who can forget the sale, for a few paltry bucks, 0f Dr. J himself?

Should the Nets be renamed the Brooklyn Dodgers? Too presumptuous by half. In honor of Prokhorov, how about the Brooklyn Billionaires?  Not fan-friendly. Brooklyn Gold? Brooklyn Samovars? Brooklyn Borsht? 

My good friend Otis Jefferson Brown proposes Brooklyn Eagles.  I think it's a brilliant idea. It has history, especially for those who remember the Brooklyn Eagle (once edited by Walt Whitman -- 5 '11", 200); it has patriotism, it has style, and it lends itself to headlines -- "Eagles Soar Once Again";  "Eagles Tear Apart Hawks." 

Unless someone comes up with a better name, I'm going with Brooklyn Eagles. 

 

All-Awkward

While I admire the highly skilled, I am also much attracted to the guys who do a lot with less.  It's good to throw 100 mph, but my hat goes off to the pitchers who succeed with little more than desire and guile.

I don't mean just baseball.  I've been watching the NBA playoffs and I'm now prepared to name my All NBA Overachievers, guys, who, metaphorically, can throw 65 on a good day.

Center:  Joakim Noah.  The most awkward center in the league and one of the most effective. It's terrifying to watch him try to dribble the ball downcourt.  His outside shot is, to say the least, unorthodox.  But he works hard on every play and when he's knocked down, as is frequently the case, he bounces up like some mythological figure who draws strength from the earth.  Plus there's not another center in the league who's fluent in French and Swedish. 

Forward.  Paul Pierce.   Can't run, can't jump, but is a perennial all-star and the go-to guy at the end of a close game.  I've seen him play hundreds of games (since he was at Kansas, in fact), and I've never seen him "fill the lane."  He can't get there in time.  Great shooter, though, even if you can't figure out how he does it, year after year.

Forward.  Shawn Marion.  He must have the ugliest shot in NBA history.  He seems to hold it out in front of him and push it off with a stiff arm.  And yet it goes in.  He couldn't have gone to basketball camp as a youngster.  He does everything "wrong" and yet he's tremendously effective.  And he's an outstanding defensive player.

Guard:  Andre Miller.  He's slow, he can't jump, he has no muscles in his arms, and he can't shoot 3-pointers.  But he's intelligent, makes the right decision, and throws the best alley-oop pass in the league.  He's a marvelous player, way undervalued.

Guard.  Omigosh, I can't think of another active all-overachiever guard, so I'm going to go with  Mark Jackson, now retired, who's the archetype.  Not particularly athletic, not big, not quick, not a leaper by any means, and yet third on the all-time assist list.  Smart though -- a Brooklyn boy.  

Rhinestone Cellist

The hype and hoopla at sports arenas are truly deplorable, especially to aged eyes and ears. At a Washington Wizards game in DC a couple of weeks ago, members of the starting team were introduced not only with spotlights, screeching, and "music" but also with bursts from a high-powered flame thrower. Even fifty yards away, I could feel the toasty heat.  

Wild over-the-top absurdity and irrelevance, in my opinion. I go to a basketball game to see a basketball game, not to be danced at, kiss-cammed at, or showered with gift certificates, free pizza, and t-shirts.

I'm back home in Boulder again, and last night I heard performances of Prokofiev, Beethoven, and Brahms by the ever-so-formal Escher Quartet. Lord-a-mercy, did they ever make me long for a little sporty glitz. The Eschers (three men and a woman, all of whom appeared to be in their 20s) conducted themselves as if they just woken up from a long day of sleeping in their coffins. They were utterly joyless. They resolutely avoided looking at each other or at the audience or betraying the least emotion. The expressions on their faces did not say, "magnificent music"; they said, "is that curdled milk, or what?" They plucked and sawed at their instruments with as much enthusiasm as if they were cleaning out the septic system. Their playing was exact but uninspiring--but what can you expect from three mortgage brokers and a dental hygienist?  The Eschers acknowledged the generous applause of the audience as if they were feudal overlords hearing the petitions of dung beetles. 

Whenever I go to chamber music concerts, I feel young. Actually, I am young, because in the chamber-music crowd, anyone without a walker or an oxygen bottle is a kid.

The Escher should loosen up a bit -- and perhaps attract a younger and livelier audience. 

Here's the fantasy. Cue spotlight. Cue big-voiced announcer. "And now, on cello, from Thousand Oaks, California, in his fifth year, out of the Manhattan School of Music, Andy Janss." Janss runs on to the stage, carrying his cello overhead, his rhinestones glittering in the lights. He high-fives the other members of the group, shakes the confetti off his shoulder-length hair, tosses some talcum powder into the air....etc. etc.  Crowd roars. He plays with enthusiasm.So do his comrades.

But let us not sacrifice the dignity of classical-music. No flame throwers.  

Alliterative NBA All-Stars

Everyone out there in Bloglandia has been eagerly awaiting my NBA All-Star team chosen to accord with the template, A**** A****, B**** B****, so here it is at last:

Centers:  Moses Malone, Alvan Adams, Darrell Dawkins. 

Forwards:  Paul Pierce, Bill Bradley, Happy Hairston, Joe Johnson, Walt Williams, Dale Davis.

Guards:  Rajon Rondo, George Gervin, Gale Goodrich, Lafayette (Fat) Lever, Steve Smith, Wally Walker.

Coach:  Scott Skiles.

If anyone can suggest important additions to this list, I'd be mighty grateful.

February 11.  Spike Cohen writes:  "inasmuch as the spoken language has priority over the written, George Gervin is ineligible.  In place of Gervin, at guard, how about Phil Ford. 

Damn Yankees

The Yankees 2009 payroll was $201,449,189, exceeding the next largest (the Mets) by more than $50,000,000.  The median major league payroll was about $80,000,000 and the lowest $36,834,000.  With 103 wins in regular season, each victory cost the Yankees $1,955,810.  The other teams that made it to the playoffs incurred considerably smaller but greatly varying costs per win:  Boston Red Sox, $1,285,300;  Philadelphia Phillies, $1,215,097; Los Angeles Angels $1,172,325; Los Angeles Dodgers, $1,056,995; St. Louis Cardinals, $852,803; Colorado Rockies $817,402;  Minnesota Twins, $816,165.  Should we be surprised that the Yankees could beat the Phils?  Given the numbers, it would have been shocking if they couldn't.

Cheers to the Cardinals, Rockies, and Twins. 

Cost per victory is a measure of management efficiency.  By far the most effective 2009 team, dollar for dollar, was the frugal Florida Marlins, who won 87 games at a cost of just $423,379 per win.  On the other end of the scale, the woeful New York Mets, with just 70 successes, were the only team to pay more per win than the Yankees.  It cost the Mets $2,133,910 each time that they walked off the field in triumph.  

As long as the Yankees are allowed to pay salaries one-third larger than their nearest competitors and two and a half times more than the median, it must be expected that they will win regularly  -- which is why I'm for rigorous, enforced parity.  Let's level that playing field.

And with all that money, how to account for the fact that the Yankees sported such an entirely run-of-the-mill outfield.  Melky Cabrera?  Nick Swisher?  Gosh, there must be better players than those to entice to the brand new ballpark.

Which brings us to the next spending spree. free-agent outfielders wanted.  Must be able to hit the short porch. Bring joy to the eyes of George S.  

Another Baseball Dream

I have recurrent baseball dreams, most of them nightmarish. The most frequent is that I hit a sharp line drive to right, start for first but run as if I were stuck in a sea of mucilage.  My legs won't move. The right fielder throws me out before I'm halfway down the line.  I leave the field in disgrace, thirty-thousand fans vigorously booing.  What does it mean?  "I can't get to first base" sounds like an adolescent sexual worry, but I suspect that such an interpretation might be too specific. Let's just say that the theme of the nightmare is ineffectiveness and frustration.  

What a relief, then, that this World Series time I can report on a very pleasant dream.  My team (Dodgers or Phillies or just a bunch of nameless guys) was pounding the Yankees.  (Cultural context for you non-Brooklynites out there in Bloglandia: the New York Yankees represent all that is evil in American society, and have done so since the days of Joe Page and Snuffy Stirnweiss and Charley Keller, or for some sixty-plus years.  There is no question but that the rich, whiny, crybaby Yankees are the special favorites of Bernie Madoff, Ann Coulter, and Dick Cheney.)  In the dream, my side hit one opposite-field line drive after another and the score went from 5-0 to 13-0 to 17-0.  Finally, we brought to the plate a cute, tow-headed four-year-old boy.  He blasted the first pitch over the head of their center fielder and knocked in three more runs. I woke up elated, and in an aroused condition that gave me confidence that, yes, I could get to first base. Possibly to third base.  Perhaps even score.  .  

As Time Goes By ( in Baseball Years)

Two nights ago, I watched the Phillies trounce the Dodgers, 11-0. What a colossal drubbing!  HDTV let me appreciate Cliff Lee's southpaw masterpiece in exquisite detail. But for me the most memorable moment of the evening wasn't Lee's artistry or 270-pound Ryan Howard's mad-dash triple to right.  Instead, it was the discovery that the Phillies' lanky, awkward-but-effective scraggly-bearded right fielder Jayson Werth sports a noteworthy baseball pedigree  His grandfather was Dicky Schofield, a good-field no-hit infielder from the 1950s -- from the days of my golden youth. Holy jumping jiminy!  I saw this young feller's grampa play! 

Youch!  More evidence, as if more were needed, of my long-in-the-toothedness.

Why should I be surprised?  I went to my first baseball game in 1946;  (At Ebbets Field -- Cardinals 3, Dodgers 1.)  Before there was TV.  I've been attending to the game for 63 years.  Close to three generations. 

I've grown accustomed to father-son combos.  Bobby and Barry; the Griffeys (who once played together in the same outfield; Felipe and Moises; huge Cecil Fielder and his even more enormous son, Prince; the Hundleys, the Stottlemyres, and many, many others.  Sometimes I can be watching a game and suddenly lose track of time.  Eric Young, Jr. looks and runs so exactly like his father that it's easy to fall into flashback mode.  I remember watching a game in which Pedro Borbon came in to relieve.  Holy moly, I said to myself -- he's a right-handed pitcher.  Why the heck is he throwing with his left hand?  Then after a few seconds of complete bafflement it came to me: Pedro Borbon, Jr.  I had simply lost twenty-five years -- a phenomenon to which your "mature" brain is occasionally and increasingly prone.

Jayson Werth isn't even the sole grandson.  Aaron Boone's father was the catcher (and manager) Bob Boone and his grandfather was the Cleveland infielder Ray Boone, whom I also saw play, but only on the TV.  And then there's the Bell family: grandsons David and Mike, father Buddy, and grandfather Gus, a big hitter with Cincinnati during the Dicky Schofield years.  

So here's the question.  Will I hang around long enough to watch the great-grandsons play?.  Is Jayson Werth married?  Does he have any kids?   Are there any budding Boones or baby Bells waiting in the wings?

Some Mid-Career Baseball Deaths

Ray Chapman, the most notorious of  the dead-in-mid-career, was batting .300 when he was hit on the head by a spitball thrown by Carl Mays in August of 1920. "Big Ed" Delahanty, a Hall-of-Famer, fell drunk off the International Bridge at Niagara Falls in 1903.  Cory Lidle, Thurman Munson, Nestor Chavez, Ken Hubbs and the great Roberto Clemente died in plane crashes.  Many players, including Nick Adenhart, a pitcher of great promise until April 9, 2009, have died in car crashes.  Danny Frisella died in a dune buggy accident.  Steve Olin and Tim Crews ran their motorboat into a pier in 1993.  Steve Bechler was a 2003 victim of Ephedra. Tiny Bonham and Jake Daubert died of appendicitis, Harry Agganis of a blood clot, Darryl Kile was found dead in his hotel room, having succumbed to an unsuspected heart defect. Urban Shocker died of pneumonia, Danny Thompson of leukemia.  Dernell Stinson, Gus Polidor, Dave Shotkowski and Lyman Bostock were murdered.  Just last year, Geremi Gonzalez was struck by lightning. Jim Umbricht died of cancer at age 34. His ashes were spread over the field he loved.  Unfortunately, he played at domed stadium with artificial grass, so after a few days, he was vacuumed up and spends eternity in a Texas landfill.    

Told You So, Said I Did

A while back, I complained about Allen Iverson.  Here's what I said:  "he can do everything on the basketball court except win....  When the Nuggets come down the floor, whether Iverson eventually shoots or not, he clings to the ball and dribbles around while the rest of the team stand and watch.  Iverson turns his teammates into spectators....  He isn't going to become a team player;  he's 31 years old and he's averaged 23 shots a game with a .422 shooting percentage for an entire career."  "The Answer," I said, was not the answer.  Not even close.

But things have changed for the Nuggets.  They finally unloaded Iverson -- which would have been blessing enough.  Detroit put him on the shelf -- didn't even play him at the end of the season.  But in exchange the Nuggs received Chauncey Billups, who is everything Iverson is not:  a skilled point guard, an intelligent man, a team player.  A leader, a defender.  It's marvelous how one player can change the complexion of a team.  The Nuggets are now a serious contender.  I like their chances against the Lakers.

Was it a brilliant move by the team owners and management?   I'm not privy to the details, but I'd say, not brilliance -- just plain dumb luck.  I don't think they knew either how bad Iverson was or how good Billups could be.

Bad planning, in any case.  If management could have guessed that the Nuggets would make it to the western conference final, would they have let Marcus Camby and Eduardo Najera slip through their cheapskate fingers a year ago?  No -- they would have made the investment that one makes when a championship is a possibility. The Lakers can put three seven-footers (Bynum, Gasol, Odom) on the floor at the same time -- wouldn't we love it if we could bring in Camby (an all-league defensive player) to help Nene?  And who's going to guard Bryant?  Dahntay Jones will take a crack at it, but wouldn't it be helpful if Najera could have given us some minutes as well -- if not to stop Bryant, at least to bang him around a bit?

And hey, does anyone remember that we gave up not only Andre Miller but two first-round draft picks for 'The Answer'?  We might have had a dynasty in the making if we had played our cards right -- and been willing to pay the freight.  Two first-round picks, I repeat.

So the Nuggs have a chance -- but not the chance they might have had if they'd been a little smarter, a little more imaginative, a little less tightfisted..

My New Career - III

This blague's enthusiastic readers are well aware that each year for the last two, Dr. M. has made himself available for the NBA draft, but that not a single team has selected him, even the lowly, strife-ridden Knicks.  It's incomprehensible, but true. Why are these GMs so unadventurous?  

As a consequence of being overlooked, I'm developing an entirely new marketing strategy this year.  I'm no longer going to sit at home waiting for the telephone to ring.  Heck, no!  I'm going to advertise my skills by competing in the dunking contest.  

I've developed three imaginative new dunks, any one of which could carry the day and get me the attention I require.   

The first is a variation of "making change."  I drive to the basket, leap into the air with a basketball in my left hand.  With the right hand,  I leave a quarter on the top of the backboard and take down the dime that's been previously placed there. With the left hand, I gracefully drop the ball through the net. 

My second dunk.  I have a ball in each hand and put another one under my shirt.  I spring, dunk both basketballs authoritatively and successively, then grab the third one and throw it high into the air. I land right under the backboard, and then, without pause, immediately spring into the air again and power that third one through just as it comes down into the cylinder.   

I've perfected these two moves, which, I can say without bragging, are far more interesting than anything I saw in the contest last year.  To be absolutely honest, so far I've only done them with six-foot rim and with those mini-basketballs that they sometime distribute free during the second half timeouts.  Not to worry -- I'm working on it every day and in a couple of weeks I'll be ready for the standard rim and full-sized basketball.  There's still plenty of time before All-Star Weekend. .

My third dunk is even more extraordinary.  I start at the far basket and do a series of back handsprings and back flips across the floor.  Then, as I approach the target basket, I pick up a basketball between my ankles, and with one final back flip -- in which my feet are actually above the level of the rim --.  I slam that sucker home. It's going to be something spectacular to watch, I guarantee,  just a soon as I work out a few kinks in the execution. .

BASKETBALL ANNOUNCER EXHIBITS PROFOUND KNOWLEDGE OF BIBLE

I watched the Nuggets beat the living whatchamacallit out of the Toronto Raptors.  Actually, I didn't watch the entire game -- it was a gruesome mismatch.  I can endure only so much garbage time at a single sitting.  The high point, for me, was a comment by one of our home team announcers (I'll not reveal his name).  Toronto has a reserve point guard named Willie Solomon, who acquired the nickname "King Solomon" when he played for Maccabi Tel Aviv in 2005.  "Must be a reference to the movie," suggested our announcer.  I'm guessing that he means King Solomon's Mines.

Ignorant schmuck.

The Sculpin. Slimy or Mottled?

Knowing little of the finny tribe, I borrowed the Bradford Public Library's copy of Langdon's introductory Fishes of Vermont (2006).  It's an excellent, informative, helpful guide. With Langdon's help, I can now declare that it's undeniably the brown bullhead, a species of catfish, that has been multiplying in our pond,  The bullhead, a villainous omnivore, is one of the causes of the steep decline of our population of frogs.  The butt-ugly, scaleless, bebarbelled brute gobbles frog eggs.    

Readers of this blague will not be astonished to learn that Dr. M .has fallen deeply in love with fish names.  Take the brown bullhead, for example.  It's also known by such evocative and lunatic denominations as the horned pout, the mudcat, and the minister.  Minister?  To whom, or under what circumstances, would a brown bullhead minister?

My favorite Vermont fish, nomenclature-wise, is the slimy sculpin, also performing under such titles as the blob, the chucklehead, the rock cusk, the stargazer, and the cockatouch.  The slimy sculpin should not be confused with its near cousin, the mottled sculpin -- which can also be addressed as the slowfish or gudgeon. 

Many of the common Vermont fishes have lost their colorful historic names.  The bowfin was once called the John A. Gindle, the stonecat was the doogler, the lake trout was the togue or longue, the burbot was variously ling or lawyer (lawyer? minister?  why not accountant? or dentist?), the quillback was the buffalo, and the gar was the needlenose. On the other hand, the blandly-named pond perch of olden days is trending in the reverse direction:  it's now called the pumpkinseed -- a name which seems curiously vegetarian for a denizen of the deep.   

If I had known that there was a fish called the cisco (known on jolly days as the tollibee and on prosaic days as the sand herring), I would long ago have promoted Galen Cisco to my all-time-great Baseball-Fish Team, adding him to such piscine luminaries as Catfish Hunter, Dizzy Trout, Chico Salmon, Sid Bream, Bobby Sturgeon, Art "Red" Herring, and Shad Roe.

No Sculpins in MLB that I can recall, but In a more poetic universe, "Slimy" Sculpin would have been a spitball pitcher, or perhaps even a team owner.

My New Career - II

Regular readers of this blague will remember that last year I made myself available for the NBA draft.  I'm sorry to report that not a single one of the general managers was daring enough to gamble on me.  It was disappointing and inexplicable.  I would have suspected that at least one or two of the teams would have read my official statement.   And jumped at the chance of adding me to their roster.  I was depressed for a couple of weeks, but now, every day for eleven months, I've been working on my inside moves.  Baby hook with both the right and left hands.  My basketball is worn smooth from the concrete driveway.

I now believe that I have discovered the reason that I was not snatched by the Lakers or the Celtics or another one of the elite teams (frankly, I'm not all that enthusiastic of starting my pro career in an off-brand situation like Memphis or Denver). 

Last year, I was scrupulously honest about listing my height.  It was exactly "five feet ten and one-quarter (formerly five feet ten and three-quarter) inches." How naive I was!  Apparently, guys are exaggerating their credentials, and I now discover that chicanery and bloviation are rife in the hallowed halls of the basketball-draft world.  For example, Michael Beasley of Kansas State, supposedly 6' 10", measured only 6' 7" even wearing sneakers.  Derrick Rose of Memphis dropped from 6' 4" to 6' 1".  You see what's happening -- I'm playing the draft game fair and square and so I don't get the same kind of publicity that the guys do who tweak their credentials. 

So there will be some changes on my application this year.  a) I'm taking out all references to my atrial hypertrophic cardiomyopathy -- it hasn't bothered me for months and certainly doesn't stop me from playing at my peak for periods of 3 or 4 minutes at a stretch.  So that's gone.  b) I'm also going to list my height at 6' 2 1/2".  A slight exaggeration but I doubt anyone will notice because I play big.  Also, I'm wearing thick soles. c) In the interest of absolute truth, I'm going to admit that I've put on a couple of pounds during the last year.  Not a deficit -- an asset.  I'm getting to the point that I could be described as a "widebody"  -- very rare in the NBA --and much coveted.  Also, my cataracts are stable and, though I take the prostate medicine every other day, there's no sign yet that it will compromise my ferocious aggressiveness.  And let me be perfectly clear -- there's not the slightest bit of truth to the rumor that I will have to frequently leave the field of play to make use of the restroom facilities. 

CCNY Basketball Ups and Downs, 1950-51

My friend (and frequent contributor to Dr. Metablog) Otis Jefferson Brown has reminded me about the crushing sports-and-morals tragedy of our joint childhoods.  It all took place in 1950/51, when I was a creeping like snail to sixth grade in P. S. 217 and Otis, a Bay Ridger, was trudging with satchel and shining morning face to P.S. 102.  Our guys, our local heroes, the CCNY basketball team, won both of the major basketball tournaments, the NIT as well as the NCAA.  The city -- New York City -- was electric with excitement.  Headlines, victory parades, demonstrations. 

The twin wins -- it never had happened before and will never happen again -- was a great event in the public sphere but an even greater one in my family.  My father had attended CCNY for a year in the 1920s but, like so many of the sons of immigrants, had to drop out to help put potatoes and black radishes on the family table. While at City, he had played on the freshman basketball team.  Would he have made the varsity?  Who can tell?  He was a strong man, a fine natural athlete, very graceful in his movements even into his 70s, and very serious about basketball.

His coach had been Nat Holman (one of the first stars of professional basketball), and Nat was still the City College coach twenty-five years later.  So whenever CCNY played, everything in our family came to a halt, and we all gathered around the Philco to listen as my father's team went down to the wire against Bradley or Kentucky or Toledo.  My father was as partisan and as jubilant as I ever knew him to be.  Not only were the victories a fulfillment of his own hopes, but it was all accomplished by a bunch of local players -- Jews and "Negroes" from the Bronx and Brooklyn who, in those days, would not have been welcome at most of the big basketball powers.  Ed Roman and Ed Warner and Irvin Dambrot and Normie Mager and Floyd Lane were household names as familiar and as admired as Koufax and Campanella. 

It was the very next year that it all blew up in our faces.  The CCNY players, or most of them, confessed to taking bribes from the gamblers and bookies and to shaving points and managing the spread.  There were indictments, "perp walks," headlines, indignant editorials.

My father was devastated.  Although in size he was only a scrappy guard, in person he was a tower of rectitude, and it was beyond his ken that our guys, even poor guys who desperately needed cash, would compromise their integrity and their futures for a few bucks.

He turned the episode into a morality play.  Every day, for a year it seems in retrospect, I heard still another lecture about keeping to the straight and narrow.  Not that there was anyone in the world who would pay me to miss a shot;  I could miss shots on my own.  But I knew what he meant.   

I've now read the Charles Rosen's Scandals of '51, how the gamblers almost killed college basketball [New York, 1971]).  It's a shoddy, melodramatic, disheartening book. Rosen makes it clear that there was more than a little nativist glee about taking CCNY and its upstart culture down a peg.  It was sad to read that players from many other colleges were also indicted (I hadn't remembered), but discouraging to learn that their defenders were happy to extol heartland values and to blame the corruption on big city depravity.  It was also sad to be reminded that the only basketball player who served hard time was Sherman White, the biggest, the best, and the blackest of all the athletes.  Nor was it pleasant to discover that although there were apparently point-shavers at St. Johns, a Catholic college, DA Frank Hogan brought no indictments against them because the evidence was "inadvertently" destroyed.

The events were a blight on my basketball-loving childhood.  But I must say that we, as a family, engineered a strong comeback.  It was only a few years after the scandals that one of those 13" black and white TVs with the rabbit ears made its first appearance in our home.  And along with the Zenith came the NBA. I think that my father was on perpetual alert for signs of malfeasance, but our faith in the game and in humanity was restored by a new set of New York heroes:  Harry Gallatin, Connie Simmons, Carl Braun, Bud Palmer, Vince Boryla, Sweetwater Clifton, Max Zaslofsky.   

Hoop News

Extremely important bulletin:  Cornell's basketball team is going to the NCAA tournament -- first time in a generation.  Twelve and 0 in the Ivy League, Randy Wittman's son the main man.

Is the Big Red going to manhandle Kansas and UCLA and Duke?  I'm not, at this moment, prepared to bet the house.  But Cinderelloid success is not beyond possibility. 

Let's hear it for Cornell, where I took my first timid steps into adulthood. 

March 22.  Bad news:  Cornell played like a bunch of junior high-schoolers.  They were nervous and intimidated.  Hey, Duke didn't do much better.  And is that a rug that Coach K is wearing, or is he just using too much black shoe-polish? 

More on Religion and the Rockies

I'm trying to remember the name of the superstitious 1940s Dodger pitcher, who, when the inning ended, would flip his mitt into the first base coaching box, then walk over and reposition it so that the fingers pointed directly toward the mound.  (I'd better stop here and remind the young folks that in days of yore, players left their gloves out on the field when they came in for their turn at bat. I can't remember exactly when the Commissioner prohibited this harmless, colorful custom -- was it in the late 50s?)

Baseball players have always been notably superstitious. They don't step on foul lines or talk about no-hitters in progress.  They wear the same underwear or socks for the length of a winning streak.  Turk Wendell had to brush his teeth and chew licorice between innings.  Wade "Chicken Man" Boggs, a good enough hitter not to solicit divine intercession, had to eat a meal of chicken before every game.  Craig Biggio refused to wipe the dirt or the pine tar off his helmet for an entire season.  Baseball is where the Curse of the Bambino and the Curse of the Billy-Goat are items of faith. It's also where players wear gold crosses in their ears and ostentatious floppy crucifixes around their necks and point triumphantly to the sky when they bloop a single to center.

Chewing licorice and making the sign of the cross are equally effective procedures, as far as I can tell.  The only difference is that one is a private superstition while the other has the sanction of religion.  It's individual delusion versus mass delusion.

At this writing, the biblethumpatudinous Colorado Rockies, baseball's most Christian-y organization -- the only team with a chaplain on its payroll -- have won twenty-one of twenty-two games and will (after an eight-day timeout) head for their first-ever Series.  It's astounding and wonderful, and I'm rooting for the home town boys.  But my enthusiasm is tempered because fanatics are already calling it "a miracle," or "destiny," or claiming that "it's meant to be."  Baseball's a gritty, subtle game, and the Rocks are winning because they're playing excellent defense, getting timely hits, making great pitches at the crucial moments, and committing very few mental errors -- not because of their prayer circle or their morning bible study or because the Great Signifier in the Sky has decided that this year, the Rockies are kosher and the Diamondbacks are treyf.   

But, say the superstitious, it's unlikely that any team could take twenty-one of twenty-two.  Of course it's unlikely.  But if statistics tells us anything, they tell us that even unlikely events will occur some of the time.

Here's what's genuinely unlikely:  that the Rockies' shortstop, Troy Tulowitski, who (if there's any justice under the heavens) will be soon named rookie of the year, has a "Christian" name that is an acronym for The Rookie Of Year. What, pray tell, are the odds?  And also, that the Rockies' have a catcher, Yorvit Torrealba, whose name is an anagram for "real toy vibrator."  Such an extraordinary unlikelihood has never happened before and it's never going to happen again, and it's entirely more remarkable than any winning streak, however extended.  Yorvit Torrealba is one of those gosh-darned superstitious sky-pointers.  It would suit my Manichean view of the world if Yorvit would also point downward, toward Sheol or Gehenna or whatever is supposed to be down there, every time he futilely chases a high fast ball, which he does far too frequently.   

I would also like to point out that the Rockies have a reliever named LaTroy Hawkins, whose name would also anagrammatize into "real toy vibrator" if he would simply rechristen himself LaTroy Riverboat.  Coincidence?  Or destiny. 

Go Rockies!