10 Reasons Why I’m Glad the Olympics Is (Are) Over

1. China is a fascist-looking place masquerading as an “emerging world power.”

2. Every time I turned on the TV, NBC was showing volleyball. Who needs volleyball?

3. The “Redeem Team” was a stupid concept. Fielding an Olympic squad of NBA players—the greatest professional players on the planet—is not what the Olympics are about. It was a dumb idea when it started with the “Dream Team,” and it’s still really dumb. And uninteresting. And, as proven, a complete, unchallenging joke. Return this one to the college players, so we can maybe believe in miracles again.

4. Moppet female Chinese gymnasts give me the creeps.

5. Al Trautwig (bad name, blah guy) and Bob Neumeier, who's supposed to be doing horse-racing but instead they had him interview track-runners and he couldn't communicate with Jamaicans, so he might as well have been talking to horses.

6. A Chinese guy killed the father-in-law of the coach of the U.S. men's Olympic volleyball team. More Chinese creepiness.

7. Mark Spitz is a whiner.

8. China spent millions and millions of dollars on the Olympics, but built schools in Sichuan Province with substandard materials and when that earthquake came, it unnecessarily killed all the kids, leaving grief-stricken parents mystified and without redress. Reporters, eventually shooed away by Chinese police, found the parents hanging around at the school site with pictures of their kids. Still more Chinese creepiness.

9. Bob Costas’ sanctimonious, “I am a serious reporter and I’m here making history” vocal style.

10. The opening ceremonies had CGI but the Chinese didn’t want anyone to know that.

Where Old Quarterbacks Go to Die

Babe Parilli, Jeff Blake, Jack Trudeau, Boomer Esiason, Bubby Brister, Frank Reich, Neil O’Donnell, Vinny Testaverde, Rick Mirer, Quincy Carter, Jay Fiedler, Patrick Ramsey. They all put in time with the New York Jets, either at the end, or in the middle, of careers that had already peaked (or hardly ever were). Which is why Brett Favre’s move to the Big Apple has the ominous ringings of “aging quarterback pushing the envelope on legendary magic.”

We’ll waste no more words on the Favre-Packers PR slopfest. Instead let’s ponder what happens now that Favre has set his cap for a place where quarterbacks go to die. (That's Brett on the left, in much younger days.)

The Jets have made significant theoretical upgrades to their team, which finished a disappointing 4-12 in 2007, after the very hopeful 10-6 of 2006. They’ve made trades and they’ve drafted with purpose, with the hope that #1 pick defensive end Vernon Gholston, out of Ohio State, can help anchor a rebuilding defense.

But in acquiring Favre, in a weird trade that has more caveats than a domestic court custody decision, the Jets dumped Chad Pennington, which has the air of bad karma waiting to happen.

Check out the Pennington log here. He’s a gifted quarterback, whose main stumbling block to success has been primarily his proneness to injury. Pennington, 32 (almost 7 years younger than Favre), is a smart and savvy signal caller, admirable to watch, and he’s led the Jets to the playoffs three times in the six years he’s been the starting QB.

Pennington will find work elsewhere, and there’s always the possibility that his prime time has yet to come. Dumping him for Favre makes sense if one is committed to his Brett-ness, which apparently the Jets are. No sense in having another disgruntled first-string QB around, especially one whose abilities might rather challenge the Great One’s. All’s well with callow Kellen Clemens now holding the Jets’ sideline clipboard.

Of course, the bigger questions are about Favre’s ability to stay healthy and what going to the Jets will do to his psyche, given the team’s historical penchant for sabotaging impending success with abject mediocrity.

The Jets are not a team that gets off the schneid. They won a Super Bowl 40 years ago and haven’t won one since. Their playoff history is sometimes “one and done” but always ultimately disappointing. Now they are patching holes with serious amounts of spackle and have brought in a legend to lead the charge.

Certainly the dramatic tenor of the 2008 season just got a huge battery boost. The idea of Favre in New York is conceptually bright in and of itself, but God help us if we’re focusing on his stint there for all the wrong reasons. Like, he can’t spin straw into gold with the Jets’ question-mark offense. Or he gets pounded by the Patriots and Bills defenders, who will definitely be coming after him bigtime. Or, worst of all, he simply ages before our very eyes, and that old Jets voodoo curse hits him with Cajun fury.

Meanwhile, back in Green Bay, all eyes are on Aaron Rodgers—pictured left with general manager/mentor Ted Thompson—who, as far as anyone can tell, still hasn’t proven that he’s a front-line NFL QB. He may have the pedigree, but he doesn’t have the track record, and he essentially comes in to the season as most any rookie would. If he falters, especially while Favre succeeds, we’ll all certainly get an ironic chuckle out of that.

Both tragedy and drama have stalked Favre’s career, and there’s something about his country-boy stalwart that has also kept eyes focused on him. Now, in the twilight of his career, he takes the biggest stage of all, New York, where the reigning NFL champs are the rival crosstown Giants, led by another Mississippi-linked gunslinger, Eli Manning.

Okay, then. We'll root hard for ya, Brett. And if it comes to it, we'll resist the urge to say, "I told you so."

Random (but Pertinent) Baseball Musings

There’s dumb stuff happening in baseball, both on the field and in the ESPN studios. Time to weigh in and set the world right, even though the dummies won’t listen.

On the media front:

I don’t watch ESPN’s “Baseball Tonight” all the time. But lately I’ve gotten way too good a gander (and an earful) of Eduardo Perez, the Worldwide Leader’s latest pathetic dumbass diversity/ex-jock hire. Well, check that. Eduardo’s been doing ancillary baseball stuff for ESPN since 2006, so I guess his recent appearance on the in-studio dais amounts to a promotion of some kind. Yikes!

Poor Eduardo. Every phrase is an adventure. You can almost hear his brain ticking away, only the sequence in which the words come out indicates his brain is probably working very little. And if he’s getting it off the TelePrompTer, then apparently he can’t read too well, either. He’s got a dumb-sounding voice, too.

I guess we could excuse it—if Eduardo was born in a Latin American country or something. You know, just finally getting the hang of English after finishing up his beisbol career. But in case you didn’t know, Eduardo is the son of Hall of Famer Tony Perez. Dad was from Cuba, but son was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1969, when Dad was in the midst of his terrific years with the Big Red Machine. So Eduardo gets into the ESPN Club on the nepotism clause as well. But one would think he could speak English fairly well. If you’re gonna be on television and all...

As for his ex-jock status, well, I would guess most people don’t remember that Eduardo played in the majors from 1993-2006, clocking in with six clubs, playing infield and outfield and DH, with a career batting average of .247 and amassing 79 home runs and 294 RBIs. Well, at least Eduardo hit more home runs than the other Eduardo Perez, the guy who played from 1995-2005 for the Braves, Indians and Brewers, and who had to get saddled with the name “Eddie Perez,” doubtless to keep him straight from Tony’s kid. (Actually Eddie’s career batting average was better than Eduardo’s, at .253, but basically both were mediocrities.)

So let’s see....Eduardo was a dumb jock who was lucky to have had as long a career as he did (being Tony’s kid didn’t hurt that), and he’s an absolute stiff in front of a camera. So why would ESPN hire the guy, much less promote him? (Oh yeah, he’s Tony’s kid...and he played some ball.) Eduardo earned over $5 million in his pro career. He doesn’t need the money. Fire his ass. (Hell, give Eddie Perez a shot. He may actually need the money.)

And by the way, researching this story led me to Tony Perez’ career stats. There was some initial controversy about him getting into the HOF, and it took him 14 years after his retirement, and 9 years after his first eligibility, to finally get the nod. Back then, in 2000, his election seemed right. But now, I dunno. His key career stats—.279, 379 HRs, 1,652 RBIs—are actually looking a little “lite.” The championships with the Reds helped, of course, and Perez was a run-producer, for sure. But so were Andres Galarraga, Fred McGriff and Andre Dawson, all of whom have more homers and near-equivalent or better numbers elsewhere but have diminishing chances at getting to Cooperstown.

But at least Tony’s not merely filling space in the Hall the way Eduardo is on “Baseball Tonight.” Bench him, please. He’s an embarrassment.

On the front office front:

It took a lot of people about three months to realize that the Tampa Bay Devil Rays are now just the Tampa Bay Rays. That’s probably because the team is off to its best start ever and folks are paying attention to them. It was back in February when team president Matt Silverman announced that "we haven't made a final decision, but we are leaning toward the direction of a change in uniform, a change of colors, a change in logo and perhaps a slight modification of the name. But it's unlikely we will have a dramatic change in the name."

Change it they did, in a compromise decision, that kept the “Rays” but expunged the “devilish” connotation that some people supposedly found objectionable. Really? Someone actually found “Devil Rays” to be objectionable?? How wimpy.

"We've integrated fan sentiments, results from focus groups and surveys into this," Silverman said at the time. Focus groups. Great.

Sure enough, now they are the amorphous and gutless “Rays,” one of the blandest, most nonspecific names in the history of sports teams.

It’s always totally cool when a sports team’s nickname derives from the geography or history of the area.

Ravens comes from the Edgar Allan Poe poem, and Poe was a Baltimorean. That’s cool. Dolphins hang out in the water in Miami. Makes sense. Celtics are in Boston because the Irish settled that city. Good deal. Astros, because of the space program in Houston. Rangers ’cause of the famous Texas Rangers. Suns ‘cause it’s hot and sunny in Phoenix. Spurs and Mavericks ’cause of the cowboy stuff. Timberwolves in Minnesota (‘nuff said). Patriots in New England (y’know, Bunker Hill and all that?). Broncos in Denver (rodeos). 49ers in San Fran (1849 Gold Rush, remember?). Rockies in Colorado (no-brainer). Marlins in Florida. Knickerbockers in New York. Trail Blazers in Portland (Lewis and Clark, explorers). Pittsburgh Steelers, right? Brewers brew beer in Milwaukee, eh? Packers in Green Bay, named after a (guess what?) packing company. Diamondbacks are a snake in Arizona, hence...

With the exception of standby aggressive names like Lions and Tigers and Bears, sports teams have delightfully reflected their regional character in their nicknames. Hence, “Devil Rays” comes from the Manta ray, Manta birostris, the largest of the rays or any species of ray in the genus Mobula. They’re unusual-looking fish with kind of an aggressive reputation, and it makes sense for Tampa Bay, a city on the Gulf Coast. It’s a name derived from the area where the team plays. It’s unique.

Ho-hum. “Rays” is not unique. It’s really boring. And that’s what focus groups’ll get ya: More wimpification of the society, and the extraction of anything that smacks of aggression in our sports names.

I hope the Rays start sucking again. It’ll serve ‘em right.

On the field folderol:

Jered Weaver got removed from the game this past Saturday even though he had a no-hitter going through six innings. You can’t really blame Angels manager Mike Scioscia—he wanted to win, and he was losing 1-0, and his team’s offense had been anemic of late. So he pinch-hit for his starter, which he had to do, ironically, since this was an interleague game with no designated hitter rule. The Angels never did score.

Meanwhile, Jose Arredondo came in and pitched two more hitless innings for the Halos. They lost 1-0, but since they were the visitors to Dodger Stadium, they only had to pitch eight innings in the losing cause. So they got the no-hitter, right? Apparently wrong. According to some arcane rule change of the early 1990s, no-hitters now have to be at least nine innings in order to be officially recognized. What kind of stupid crap is that? It may not have been a nine-inning no-hitter, but it WAS a no-hitter.

Lissen. Say Alex Rodriguez hits a grand slam in the fourth inning of a game that ends up rain-shortened after six innings but still goes into the books as a completed game. The game is deemed official, and ARod gets credit for his homer and four RBIs. Why the f&%k is it any different for Weaver and Arredondo? They collaborated on an eight-inning no-hitter, and that’s all there is to it. If the league wants to make a distinction about the innings pitched, okay. Or if they want to categorize the no-no’s into the ones pitched solely or the ones pitched as a joint effort, then so be it.

Records are records. Rain-shortened games happen, and the stats compiled in them go into the books. If Weaver and Arredondo could’ve gotten a crack at that ninth inning, they may or may not have completed the gem, but why punish them because they never had the chance??

Believe me, dumbass baseball execs, the folks at Baseball-Almanac.com won’t mind breaking the no-hitters down into categories for you. And they can keep the nine-inning gems in the forefront category, so we’ll all know the difference.

Sheesh...a lot of dumb people out there in baseball.

Negotiating the Weekend Media(te) Wasteland

REPENT! THE END IS NEAR!

Golfer Rocco Mediate, a normal-seeming, likable, straight-shooting average guy, received a strange brand of media mistreatment this past weekend at the U.S. Open in San Diego. Mediate, a 23-year vet of the pro tour, pushed the great Tiger Woods into an 18-hole playoff and then, when that didn't decide things, into sudden death, eventually losing the final hole. Mediate hadn’t won a golf tourney in six years and he’s never won a major, but he battled Woods tooth and nail through 90 holes in a wonderful display of steady, consistent, if unspectacular golf—the kind of golf that supposed superstars like Phil Mickelson or Vijay Singh could’ve learned something from. They talk about Tiger’s mental toughness; from where I sat, he’s got nothing on Rocco, whose lack of a long game betrayed him in the end but who squeezed every ounce of competitiveness out of his 45-year-old body.

Mediate conducted himself with humility, humor and sincerity through the five grueling days, but for some reason the NBC announcers, in particular Johnny Miller, treated him as if he were the simpleminded Italian tailor who lives down the street. In fact, Mediate is the Italian son of a barber, from a Pennsylvania town south of Pittsburgh. Yet he’s also earned $14 million in his pro career. Miller’s constant references to Rocco’s sweating, the expressions on his face (half-grimaces, smiles, forebearance, whatever), and his unlikely presence as a contender for the Open crown—these were the musings of a "stupid old white guy,” which is what Miller is. Announcing sidekick Dan Hicks assumed the same stance, implying endlessly that Mediate’s success could only be a fluke, how he’d be the oldest guy to ever win the Open, etc., etc.

I think Tiger’s great, y’all, but Mediate’s success—and near victory—was a time for celebration. By the time we reached the final regulation round on Sunday, the fatheads in the booth should have established nothing else about Mediate except that he was a pro golfer playing a marvelous tourney. But Miller refused to lay off, treating Mediate like a sideshow freak. Meanwhile, Hicks kept defaulting to spurious and/or fanciful Father’s Day references and tributes that obviously came out of the PGA public relations handbook. (But raise your hand if, after viewing that one spot, you in fact think that Earl Woods was kind of a dick in the way he inculcated “mental toughness” in his son by making noises and dropping his golf bag while Tiger the youngster and budding golf great teed off. Shades of Jimmy Piersall.)

Then we were treated to Jimmy Roberts’ pre-final round, pro forma “Tiger suck-up piece.” Like we needed another one of those. No, what we needed, and never got, what a bio piece about Mediate, which would have been tons more interesting, given the comparatively hard road the guy has traveled to stay afloat in the pro game. Roberts later teamed with Bob Costas in a queer few moments of “privileged network commentator mental masturbation,” in which they reminded us of the recent passings of Tim Russert, Charlie Jones and Jim McKay, a sequence climaxed by Costas’ wannabe Howard Cosell imitation. Pretty lame crap.

Other signs of media tastelessness the past few days, and possible proof that the end is near:

Father’s Day took another dive on Sunday evening when ABC ran a really cloying and also self-conscious father-son excerpt with neanderthal dummy Bill Walton and his Los Angeles Lakers son Luke. (That was a Gack! moment.)

Over on superstation WGN’s broadcast of the Cubs-Blue Jays game, color commentator Bob Brenly was saying the most godawful stupid things, which he always does but gets away with unscathed because he’s a former major league catcher and he actually won a World Series managing the Diamondbacks in 2001. Brenly is challenging Joe Morgan for the crown of absolutely the dumbest baseball jock to ever man a microphone. Honestly, he just makes this stuff up—it has no basis in reality. And think of the millions of dollars being paid to morons like him, which could otherwise go to flood relief in Iowa.

On the commercial side, the weekend thrived with tastelessness. Between Flomax, Cialis, and other products, we were assaulted by constant reminders of pathetic old-people ailments—the kind which no one (especially old people and old men, in particular) wants to be reminded of. No, I don’t want to see 60something guys canoeing—and glad they can take a good leak once the ride is over (without having first soiled themselves during the run down the rapids). No, I don’t want to see those awful spots about the guy who runs a modelmaking set design company, and who keeps going potty to the upraised eyebrows of his slightly younger male employees. (Keep your mind on your work, dumbasses!) And if male performance-enhancement drugs are going to affect my eyesight or give me stomach trouble, then no thanks. But those ads remain the worst example of corporate America tapping into our privacy in really ugly ways. (Hey, if I can’t be loved for myself, then I don’t wanna be loved.)

The vast media wasteland reached another new low on Monday with the appearance on Oprah of the Huckaby homosexual male siblings: The four gay brothers—one couldn’t make the gig—are all meticulously coiffed Metrosexual types, all ultra-confident, all ultra-articulate and all ultra-proud of themselves (and their gayness). On the heels of California opening itself up to legalized gay marriages, this is more fodder for the continued "de-normalization" of America, which aims to make us more or less slovenly average-type heterosexuals feel a little less certain about ourselves and our typical lifestyles, hangups, failures, etc. Thanks, Oprah, for continuing to ruin things for those of us who would prefer that our loved ones not be gay, even though we love them if they are. (Actually, it's getting to the point where I wish I could be gay so I could fit in. I feel so guilty and there’s nothing I can do about it.)

For only those with a really strong stomach, there was the afternoon “Tony Awards Concert Preview” on CBS, which was followed up later in the evening by the actual awards ceremony. You know the American theater has taken a serious fall when none other than insignificant pretty-boy and trash TV co-host Mario Lopez and has-been Whoopi Goldberg are the spokespersons for the big soiree. More signs of the theater’s demise: Retro performances and reminders of the shows A Chorus Line and Rent, the latter for some reason receiving a 12th anniversary tribute. (Huh?) Oh, well, it’s just another reason to reinforce the de-normalization process—Rent’s about homosexuals, HIV and AIDS, in case you haven’t seen it—plus do another lame-o tribute to composer Jonathan Larson, who died before he saw his musical become a so-called international success. (And why wouldn’t a contemporary musical about young people on New York’s Lower East Side getting AIDS achieve that?) Liza Minnelli kicked in an appearance. (Ouch. The pathos was palpable.) But if the state of the Broadway theater needed gauging, nothing said it more clearly than the performance of Kerry Butler, the screechy-voiced co-star of the musical Xanadu. If only Simon Cowell’d been nearby to say, “I’m sorry, Kerry, but you cahn’t SING!”

From there it was on to C-SPAN, where more signs of cultural and also governmental decay lay in wait:

First up were the congressional hearings on oil supply and demand, definitely an au courant subject. Some interesting folks laid out some interesting ideas, and the performance of the U.S. reps was focused and serious. But the air, and U.S. budget, was befouled by the presence of one Guy Caruso, who is apparently invested with the title of “Administrator, Energy Information Administration.” Now, we already have a U.S. Department of Energy, headed up by a guy named Samuel Bodman. Yet for some reason “information” is handled by this Caruso guy, in a totally separate agency. WHY?? What the f**k is the Energy Information Administration? Doesn’t Secretary Bodman deal with energy information directly?? Those questions go begging even moreso when you consider that Caruso is obviously a flunkie bureaucrat, offering only vague answers and rote responses to his questioners. Your tax dollars at work, folks, being wasted on paper-pushing do-nothings who collect fat government salaries with hefty pensions and benefits. (Remember that when you go to the polls in November.)

A channel flip to C-SPAN2 found us at a panel discussion co-sponsored by Google, YouTube and National Journal. The host was the excellent Judy Woodruff, who remains an intelligent, poised and still very beautiful (great legs, too) newswoman. Woodruff was interviewing political campaign operatives and also members of the so-called “new media” (read: young internet people) plus reps from “old media” (read: older newspaper, magazine and TV people). The discussion centered on how internet technology has changed newsgathering and news perceptions and audience-building. Hottie Mary Katharine Ham was a panelist. She was ID’d as affiliated with DCExaminer.com, though her Wiki page affiliates her with other online pubs, primarily TownHall.com. Ham appears to be a seriously intent journalist, though being a hottie won’t hurt her career. She claimed that there were plenty of people now who will do political reportage for nothing, which maybe drew a raised eyebrow from Time magazine political analyst Mark Halperin (old media). But all Ham was doing was reaffirming what a media wag recently said in a similar forum, which is that “if you want a job in journalism, you better have a trust fund.” Not that that’s a problem for Halperin, connected for years with top journalistic and political organizations, and of course a Harvard grad, which guarantees that you always end up being rich and in control. Then we heard (quite often) from James Kotecki, a so-called video blogger for the ubiquitous Politico.com, which, like National Journal, no one had ever heard of six months ago. (Everyone must be working for free.) Kotecki, frankly admitting that he has no knowledge of journalism or ethics, apparently sees no difference between serious news reportage and, as he put it, “doing internet videos from my dorm room,” and he cavalierly laid out the prospect that it doesn’t matter what you do as long as people are watching (well, his video blog, anyway). I think Woodruff wanted to scream at some of this folderol, but she kept cool and continued exploring the topic. I’m all for new media. I’m one of “them,” you might say. But I’m not necessarily for anybody armed with a camera putting up their stupid stuff for all to see. (“Cats on rollerskates,” muttered Halperin.)

Not that it matters much. Tastelessness, stupidity, greed, self-absorption, egotism and political correctness run rampant on our airwaves. There is no regard for truth or decency. We're all doomed. You heard it here first.

You Betta' Be Talkin' 'Bout His Mama: Casino Drive Has a Womb with a View on the Belmont

By Steve Brady

[BELMONT UPDATE 6/7/08: Casino Drive, the second favorite in the Belmont Stakes, was scratched from the race. The colt suffered a stone bruise at some unknown point since arriving in Elmont, N.Y., in late April. Casino Drive reportedly will be returning to Japan to continue his career.]

Big Brown (looking majestically big and brown, left) had another stunning victory in the Preakness, crossing the wire under wraps from Kent Desormeaux, who wanted to make sure he saved enough horse for the third leg of the Triple Crown. BB’s performance in the Kentucky Derby scared off any real competition, and he blew away the weak field that showed up for the second leg. If he wins the Belmont Stakes Saturday—live coverage is 5:30-7 p.m., EST, ABC-TV—he will be the first Triple Crown winner since Steve Cauthen captured it aboard Affirmed exactly 30 years ago.

In light of Big Brown's dominance, it would seem that his only credible remaining challenger is a very lightly raced wild card, whose story involves a circumstance so farfetched it makes winning the Triple Crown seem almost mundane. Newcomer Casino Drive’s dam is Better Than Honour, who also foaled Rags to Riches and Jazil, the Belmont winners from the past two years.

Uhhh… we’re already talking about an amazing accomplishment. Mares can only have one foal per year. Dropping two stakes winners in a row would be impressive enough, but she’s had two consecutive Belmont winners (one of which was a filly!!!), and this third one is going to be the second favorite to what many are calling the greatest colt since Secretariat!! And by three separate stallions??!! I mean, I know Peyton and Eli turned out to be pretty good football players, but Olivia Manning, NFL mom: You've met your match.

Casino Drive (left) was born in Kentucky and shipped off to Japan as a yearling. There he thrived under the stewardship of trainer Kazuo Fujisawa. He won his debut by 11½ lengths on February 23 in Kyoto under jockey Yutaka Take. Here is Casino Drive’s impressive win. (Yes, horses run clockwise in Japan.)

CD was then sent back to the U.S., where he had to endure two months of mandatory quarantine before he could race. The time on the bench didn’t cause him to miss a beat. He romped in the Grade II Peter Pan Stakes on this same Belmont course, and finished that mile-and-1/8 race in 2/5 of a second faster than Big Brown’s time in the Florida Derby. Click here for the video.

Due to prior obligations in Japan, Take will not be traveling to the Belmont. Ironically, Casino Drive’s rider in his only U.S. race is Big Brown’s jockey, Desormeaux. That means Edgar Prado will be the third set of hands grabbing CD’s reins in as many races. Prado is best known for riding the ill-fated Barbaro to victory in the 2006 Kentucky Derby, but he is also known as a Triple Crown spoiler, having stopped the bids of both War Emblem in 2002 (atop Sarava) and Smarty Jones in 2004 (atop Birdstone).

Meanwhile, Big Brown has foot problems. His trainer Richard Dutrow has dismissed the quarter crack on his front hoof as minor, and he claims it will not affect BB in the Belmont. Dutrow hired the best pedicurist in the business, farrier Jim McKinlay, to work on his colt with the mega-million-dollar stud price tag. Even so, winning the Triple Crown remains the rarest of achievements, and, as we all know, battles have been lost for want of a nail.

Perhaps Big Brown is the greatest racehorse in 30 years, and maybe his march to immortality will not be derailed. Yet his Triple Crown attempt risks being trumped by an even rarer accomplishment: Better Than Honour’s motherhood hat trick.

The Picks:
Casino Drive
Big Brown
Denis of Cork
Da' Tara

View the complete Belmont field here.

Steve Brady is Sports Media America's resident horse-racing handicapper. He lives and works in Los Angeles and maintains a regular presence on the Southern California track scene. He is an avid Dodgers fan, too. Steve also performs and teaches with the improvisational comedy ensemble Cold Tofu.

Soccer versus Gum Surgery (I'll Take the Latter)

I went to the dentist today. The last of several appointments involving deep-tissue cleaning of my gums. I’m doing what I can to stave off the prospect of actual surgery. So now I have prescription mouthwash that’ll melt the top layer of metal off a Sherman tank, and I’m trying to get good about flossing (rots o’ ruck) and using this weird little gum massager they gave me.

It was an early appointment, and I was done by 10:30, and my mouth felt very strange and numb, and soon after it started to hurt as the novocaine wore off.

[Did you know: There’s epinephrine in novocaine. So as the dentist needles up your gums, your heart rate rises. I always thought those jitters I got were simply from being “in the chair”—or simply the trauma of having the gums assaulted with needles (“Okay, you’ll feel a little ‘pinch’ here”). But no, there’s a more direct reason why it happens. The doc took my pulse: 89. Definitely higher than the normal 70, but apparently in the right zone for an epinephrine fix.]

Later, back home, my mouth hurting more and more, I tried to work a little. Not much luck. (I failed to take any aspirin or acetaminophen, just because I try to avoid taking medicine if possible.)

Finally, I decided I was hungry and recovered enough to get some food. I also figured that I could get a drink (a medicine I do not avoid), so headed off to my favorite sports pub, Sam’s, in Nashville’s Hillsboro Village.

I rarely hit pubs at 3 p.m. in the afternoon. I figured it would be quiet. Couldn’t imagine any major event on the big-screen telly at that time, and besides, isn’t everyone at work?

Surprisingly, Sam’s was bustling. I found one of the last seats at the bar, looked up at a husky guy, and asked if anyone was sitting there. “You are,” he bellowed. “As long as you’re rooting for Manchester United!”

Of all things, a soccer game was dominating the three oversized TVs. Stranger still, there was a goodly number of other guys sitting at tables away from the bar, hollering loudly, urging on the soccer players.

Sore teeth, I thought—and soccer. Ugh.

I ordered a Margarita and some spinach dip with chips. Suddenly, my new pal to my left roared with approval, and I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

The event was the UEFA Champions League, uh, championship, explained to me by Soccer Guy as “the Super Bowl of soccer.” Described by a wire service report as “a night of high drama and emotion,” the competitors were Manchester United and Chelsea, both teams from England, yet the game (match?) was being played in Moscow, of all places.

Soccer Guy explained to me a little of why it was that two British teams were playing in Moscow. Near as I can figure, it would be as if the NFL had gone international in its regular season (teams all over the globe), with, say, Berlin bidding for, and then hosting, a Super Bowl played by the Green Bay Packers and the New England Patriots.

The score was 1-1 when I arrived at the bar. An hour later, it was still 1-1, I had finished two Margaritas and my food, and I’d been eyeing a TV on the other side of the bar, which was broadcasting Vanderbilt versus Florida in an SEC baseball game. (Could we maybe put that up on just one of the big screens?)

Then a guy came up and asked Soccer Guy about his plans for the near-term. SG said, “I don’t know, man. This could go on a while. I figure at least another hour.”

Another hour? Sure enough, it stayed tied at 1-1, the clock ran down, and then the two teams went into what they call “extra time,” a Byzantine exercise that I’ve never had the patience or interest to understand fully.

I was done. I was driving, so one more drink was out, and besides, the soccer just made my gums hurt more. Soccer Guy didn’t even notice I’d left.

I found out later that Manchester won the game after the extra time expired, beating Chelsea 6-5 in a series of “spot kicks,” which is sort of the equivalent of two football teams (real football, I mean) having their placekickers square off in a field-goal match. Theoretically, this could have gone on forever, so long as each team equaled the other’s spot kicks.

I simply don’t get soccer as a spectator sport. I was dying for Soccer Guy to ask me how I was liking the match. I was prepared to say, “Not too much. There’s just too much scoring for me.”

Watching guys run around with intensity holds my interest for about a minute. Watching them run up and down a really wide and long field for an hour with no one scoring is just plain stupid.

Yeah, yeah, I know: Soccer is subtlety and drama, and you just have to appreciate all the constant strategies of moving the ball up and down the field (and up and down and up and down and up and down), not to mention the sheer stamina factor involved and the occasional semi-violent collision (which fans seem to take as a personal affront).

In soccer, the goalies have different-colored uniforms than their teammates. Soccer has weird things like “yellow cards” and “red cards” (I think they’re like detention slips that get handed out at boys’ boarding schools). The teams committed 47 fouls in this match. (Isn’t that a lot of fouls? You’d think soccer was cleaner.) Then you’ve got your “corner kicks” and “offsides.” (Whatever.) Plus these were British teams, but there were guys playing with names like Van der Sar, Anelka, Cech, Ronaldo and Drogba. (Probably signed as unrestricted free agents from the Eastern bloc.)

I have relatives who love soccer. My sister’s boys play it big-time and they excel. It’s the big, modern suburban game for “civilized” families. But for a Margarita-swilling, couch-potato sports junkie like myself, it’s a crashing bore. (Sorry, Soccer Guy.)

I’m also reminded of the episode of “King of the Hill,” when Hank’s kid Bobby stinks at football and so then gets involved with soccer. It’s hilarious to see Hank wince and grimace when the wine-and-cheese soccer coach announces that soccer is “a game where everybody gets to play, and no one ever loses.”

Yes, and that’s why soccer sucks. Come to think of it, it’s worse than gum surgery.

GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!

(Yawn.)

Torre Could Be Facing Facts: Jones a Dodger Liability

During the baseball offseason, the Los Angeles Dodgers signed former Atlanta Braves slugger Andruw Jones to a two-year $36.2 million contact. Too bad they didn’t just hold on to that money. It would have made a nice donation to the poor devils in Burma and China beset by natural disasters. And the psychic return on that would have been considerably higher than the impact Jones has had on the Dodgers’ season thus far.

Jones supposedly has a sore knee and sat out last night’s game. But suddenly, with the subtraction of Jones and his .167 batting average (2 HRs, 7 RBIs), the Dodgers’ lineup is looking like it should have five weeks ago.

Manager Joe Torre kept mixing and matching his youngsters, Andre Ethier and Matt Kemp, in the outfield, bookending Jones in center. The kids have talent, and, in theory, this was an interesting experiment. The problem was it left Juan Pierre and his .301 lifetime batting average (and a $44M contract of his own) sitting on the bench.

Last night’s Dodgers lineup looked just right: Pierre in left (leading off), Kemp in center and Ethier in right. The trio was a combined 8-for-13 in the Dodgers’ 6-5 victory over the Reds. Kemp is hitting .320. Ethier .291. Pierre, finally getting playing time, raised his average to .286, and he’s got 17 stolen bases.

The Dodgers lack power, for sure—only 31 homers in 44 games. Jones was supposed to help resolve that problem. Only 31, and theoretically at the height of his powers, Jones in fact exhibited serious decline in 2007—of the kind that should have given the Dodgers’ brass pause.

Earning $14 million last year with the Braves, Jones’ batting average dropped 40 points to .222. His homer total droppped from 41 in ’06 to 26 in ’07. His RBIs fell from 129 to 94. His slugging percentage sagged .118 points.

Jones slumped badly in the latter half of last season and could never really fix whatever ailed him. Now, with even fatter Dodger dollars filling his coffers, Jones’ power numbers in ’08 project to 8 homers and 28 RBIs—for the entire season. And this with Torre sticking gamely with him, Jones having appeared in 42 games, more than any other outfielder.

For the sake of the team’s investment, and the sake of driving in runs, Torre has given Jones every opportunity to reestablish himself as a premier power producer. It hasn’t happened. And the minor miracle is that the Dodgers—without a single player with more than 5 home runs, and with primo shortstop Rafael Furcal and fragile Nomar Garciaparra dealing with nagging injuries—still hold a solid second place in the National League West, five games behind the Arizona Diamondbacks.

Jones might be finished. When power guys suddenly lose it altogether, and can’t reclaim even a whiff of their production in a solid one-fourth of a season, it’s cause for serious concern. And speaking of whiffs, Jones has 44 of ’em, on pace for a season-long 160 or so. (This would top the 147 he had in 2004.)

The good news is that Torre may have found an outfield combo he can stick with. Power will remain a concern, but he’ll get hits, baserunners and runs scored from Pierre and the kids. If the pitching can hold up, the singles/doubles offense might be enough to remain in contention.

Meanwhile, sitting at the end of the bench, nursing a bum knee, is an extravagantly priced free-agent who all but defines what it means to put a big chunk of dough on a losing horse. Somebody in the Dodgers front office should have checked Jones out like a thoroughbred. His past performances weren’t good and certainly didn’t deserve such risky wagering.

Just "Show-vive," Baby! Preakness Bettors Look for Money in the Wake of Big Brown's Expected First-Place Finish

By Steve Brady

[LATE-BREAKING NEWS: Behindatthebar was scratched on Friday from Saturday's 133d Preakness Stakes at Pimlico Race Course because of a bruise in his left front foot. Behindatthebar trained early Friday morning at Belmont Park, but trainer Todd Pletcher said he was not satisfied with the way his horse galloped. The foot bruise was subsequently detected. Behindatthebar will now be pointed for a possible run in the June 7 Belmont Stakes, the final leg of the Triple Crown.]

Big Brown stared history down in the Kentucky Derby—and history blinked. He looked like the best horse going into the race, and he paid off at odds of 2-1. He was the first horse since the filly Regret in 1915 to win the Derby off just three prep races, and only the second horse ever to win from post position #20. (The gelding Clyde Van Dusen accomplished that latter feat in 1929.)

It’s one thing to beat a field of the top thoroughbreds in the country; it’s another to beat history. Big Brown did both, and he’s now a strong contender to win the Triple Crown, if only because he scared off almost all of his previous competition. Only one of Big Brown's Derby competitors will challenge him in Baltimore. Add to that the fact that there is almost no other early pace in this race, and the Preakness looks like a cakewalk for BB (post position #7).

BB's only competition on the front end is Tres Borrachos (#2), pictured left, but he’ll burn out by the top of the stretch and look like tres borrachos ("three drunks") by the time he gets to the wire. No, there’s really no getting around Big Brown as the probable winner of this race.

But horse racing is a betting man’s game, and even with his superior talent, Big Brown won’t be worth much as a wager. His odds’ll be so low, you’d get a better rate of return in a money market savings account. Even an exacta with BB on top won’t pay much unless you can narrow the place horse down to just one or two.

Also, there are no guarantees in racing. Things can happen—even to the most talented horses. Things happened to Barbaro two years ago in the Preakness, and something happened to Eight Belles at the recent Derby. Considering the risks, it’s tough to take odds of less than 1-1 in a Triple Crown race, and Big Brown should go off at less than 3-5. (He should win—but at less than even money??)

On the other hand, if you had picked Denis of Cork to show on Derby Day, you would have done all right—better than the win bet on BB, and that was for coming in third. And if BB hadn’t come in, the show payout would have been through the roof.

So, the gambler's question this time isn’t "Who will win?" It’s "Who will come in second and who will show?"

Riley Tucker (#10), Giant Moon (#11) and Kentucky Bear (#8) will try to stay close to BB in the opening quarters, but probably won’t have much left in the tank to hang in there to the wire. Of those three, I think Riley Tucker will stick around the longest. Icabad Crane (#3) has experience over this Pimlico track, but won’t get any pace to run at this time, and may get caught in traffic.

I tend to like late runners, so I’m picking Behindatthebar (#5), pictured left, with underrated jockey David Flores aboard, to finish strongly. I also think Alex Solis will know when to move Yankee Bravo (#4), pictured right, and give him a chance to finish in the money.

The race's late entry, Gayego (#12), is the lone holdover also-ran from the Derby, having finished a disappointing 17th. Gayego got jostled around at the start at Churchill Downs and never got into the race, yet trainer Paulo Lobo says his horse emerged no worse for wear. He might be a wild-card choice, worth considering for an exotics play.

So, here we go again:

The Picks
1. Big Brown
2. Behindatthebar
3. Yankee Bravo
4. Riley Tucker

For a rundown of the complete Preakness field, visit Preakness.com. Video of the contenders' past performances can be viewed at the Daily Racing Form site.

Steve Brady is Sports Media America's resident horse-racing handicapper. He lives and works in Los Angeles and maintains a regular presence on the Southern California track scene. Steve also performs and teaches with the improvisational comedy ensemble Cold Tofu.

Do the Right Thing—Let Rose In

I woke up today and realized that I missed Pete Rose’s birthday. It was a month ago today, April 14.

I always remembered Rose’s birthday (4/14/41) because it was printed on the back of his baseball card many years ago—as birthdates always were and are—and for some goshdarn reason it stuck in my head. (I also remembered Frank Howard’s—8/8/36—but not the way I remembered Pete’s.)

Pete is 67 now. That’s how old my father was when he died. So that sober thought made me think how sad and pointless it is that Rose isn’t in the Hall of Fame.

Here the guy is, heading toward 70, the equivalent of a rock ‘n’ roll geezer act, making what he can off his name and fame, with 4,256 major league hits to his credit—and the tightasses at the Hall of Fame refuse to let him in.

Many of us know the truth: That Pete is, and always was, a little kid stuffed into a baseball uniform. He probably shouldn’t have gotten married or had kids or tried to do anything responsible—because kids don’t have the maturity to do things like that successfully or without making major mistakes and screwing up.

Lots of screw-up guys get entangled in hardcore gambling. Women, too. It happens. And looking back, should we be surprised that Pete, an overgrown kid paid well for playing baseball and doing Aqua-Velva ads, was one of them?

Yet the visual, anecdotal, and statistical facts don’t lie: Rose was a great baseball player. Ten seasons of 200+ hits, 17 times an All-Star, 1963 Rookie of the Year, 1973 National League MVP, 6 World Series, the 44-game hitting streak, plus 24 seasons of unallayed hustle and intensity, the sincerity of which no one—not even his sternest critics—has ever questioned.

Rose gave us big video moments—the Ray Fosse 1970 All-Star Game collision (left), the scrap with the Mets’ Bud Harrelson in the 1973 NLCS, the world championships with the Big Red Machine, the amazing foul pop-up catch in the 1980 World Series for the Phillies. And anyone who ever saw him play—I recall for myself one time in the late ’70s at Wrigley Field—would be crazy to venture that the guy wasn’t giving his all every single moment on the field.

Rose was born, and driven, to play baseball. If quantity of giving is a measure of anything, then he is truly the Hit King. He amassed his incredible hit total combining a certain skill with indomitable will.

4,256 hits. Achieved without steroids. The nearest active player to him (presuming Bonds is finished) is—don’t snicker—41-year-old Omar Vizquel, who somehow has, without many people noticing, totaled 2,602 career hits as of this writing. (Way to go, Omar! Who knew??)

The only active player with even a remote chance to approach the record is Alex Rodriguez, currently with 2,276 hits and soon to turn 33. If ARod plays 10 more years and averages 200 hits per year, he can pass Rose by. Anyone want to wager on that happening? (Besides Pete, I mean.)

And by the way, Pete’s record as a manager was even okay: 412-373 for a .525 winning percentage. That’s higher than Terry Francona (.512). Or Jim Leyland (.495). It’s exactly the same as Dusty Baker. Heck, even Casey Stengel only had a .508 lifetime winning percentage.

So what I think is that the baseball powers-that-be oughta lighten up on a little kid named Pete Rose, one of the most compelling baseball players and baseball-playing personalities of all time, who unfortunately had to face grown-up things, bungled the job, ended up doing time and now trolls the outcast waters of the sports memorabilia circuit.

It’s time to recognize what Rose did when he was a player in good standing. It’s time to forgive. And to honor.

Do it now. Before he dies of a sudden heart attack. Before that critical moment passes when the man cannot know how much he was appreciated for the contributions he made ON THE FIELD.

He was great. I know it. And you know it, too. Let him in.

Barbara Walters—Auditioning for Tackiness

My brilliant brother Steve has an excellent expression: “We’re gonna die just in time.” Alas, in the case of the publication of Barbara Walters’ memoir, Audition, we all missed the death deadline and now have to suffer through the ugly media coverage of what sounds like utter rubbish, including Walters’ revelation that she had an affair with former Massachusetts senator Edward Brooke. (Where’s that character the funny Kristen Wiig plays on “Saturday Night Live” when you need her? You know, the auntie who reviews films? “Gack!”)

An opportunistic skeeve, Walters will now make appearances to sell her book, including an “Oprah” spot and God knows how many forthcoming trash “entertainment” shows. Now 78, and no less a refuse-monger now than she was in her heyday as a ”journalist,” the pathetic Walters still seeks attention and continues to embarrass herself, mainly because that’s always been her M.O.

Devoid of any intellectualism, Walters has been an obnoxious media presence for decades, exploiting her New York connections to gain a foothold as a “TV personality,” first on NBC, and later ABC, foisting on a defenseless world her sappy, witless, often tasteless brand of reportage, some of which included simply awful interviews with actual world leaders.

Just because Walters has had a podium for however many decades doesn’t make it right, and I’ll leave it to you to surmise how an average-looking broad like her, with a less-than-average mind, who never went to speech school to improve her stupid-sounding regional vocal style, turned it all into a mega-millions television career.

But even if we grant that Walters indubitably established herself as a TV presence through all the years, that’s no excuse for her taking the low road now that she’s a doddering old fool. And yet, would we expect anything less? Sad.

A person with grace, class, a sense of decency and a seriously iconic public profile doesn’t publish a tell-all memoir unless she’s so insecure and craving the limelight that she doesn’t care where the grapeshot of her naval-gazing musings lands.

Edward Brooke is now 88, living out his life in Florida. But no, that’s not enough for Walters. Let’s dig up some bones and say “Look at me!”

Stupid people—Walters’ career-long audience—will possibly buy her book, if they have any money left after buying groceries and filling their cars with gas. Meanwhile, the “author” will sanctimoniously make her media appearances, defend her work, and no doubt tell us how cathartic it all feels.

Here’s the truth, Barbara: Nobody of any substance cares. And that will be the legacy of your life and career.

The 134th Kentucky Derby—Can Big Brown Deliver?

By Steve Brady

The first Saturday in May is upon us, and once again I attempt to untangle the mysteries of the Kentucky Derby, once and always a chaotic race. There are a couple of stories to keep an eye on in this year’s Run for the Roses.

The story off the track is the same one taking place in every other aspect of modern life—the availability of free information provided on the web. Horseplayers no longer have to buy solely into the opinions and perceptions of racing analysts and clockers. For any of the significant races leading up to the Derby, there is easily accessible video evidence you can peruse with your own eyes. Seeing is truly believing.

Didn’t catch Big Brown (left) demolishing the field in the Florida Derby on March 29? No problem. Go to YouTube and watch it to your heart’s content. You were busy taking a box of old flannel shirts to Goodwill on April 12, and didn’t see Gayego hang on to win the Arkansas Derby? No sweat. A couple of quick clicks, and it’s right there on your laptop. Having a hard time believing that Bob Black Jack really set a world record on January 26 in the Sunshine Millions Dash at Santa Anita (6 furlongs in 1:06.53)? Well, what are you waiting for? Click fer chissakes!!!

In fact, between YouTube, Calracing.com, and Kentuckyderby.com, you can watch videos of almost any race you want—and it’s all completely free. The Derby site (see link, below) has videos of all the major prep races. It’s absolutely invaluable. They even have video footage of all the contenders going through their morning workouts at Churchill Downs, so you can see how they handle the new surface.

On the track, the big story is the post positions of the major players. The Derby has an extremely large field, with a two-tiered method for determining starting positions. They first draw a number for order of selection, then choose a post position from the available slots. Colonel John (pictured above, the 4-1 second favorite) had an early selection, and got a nice, comfortable spot at post 10. Big Brown (the 3-1 morning line favorite) was one of the last to pick and—given his limited options—chose the far outside post (#20).

The outside is where all the speed is. In posts 17-20, you’ve got Cowboy Cal, Recapturetheglory, Gayego and Big Brown. A little closer in (at 11 and 13) are two more speedsters, Z Humor and Bob Black Jack.

I am wondering if that is why Dick Dutrow, Big Brown’s trainer, chose the outside post. Jockey Kent Desormeaux does not like going to the lead, and he may want Big Brown to sit off the pace until after the speed battle has been determined. If he can do that, he’s got a good chance to win, but if he gets caught up in a pace battle, or if he is forced into a wide trip outside of the other speedsters, it might open the door for one of the closers.

Inside of Z Humor, there is no blazing speed, so the break should be very interesting on Derby Day. While all the horses on the outside are bolting toward the front, look for horses on the inside—Pyro, Colonel John, Court Vision (pictured, left)—to try to settle into a nice position and wait for their stretch run.

Interestingly, there is no real “cold closer” in this race. The closest we have is Court Vision, which is why I’m giving him a chance at long odds (20-1) to finish in the money.

[Quick trivia: There are only seven active jockeys who have won a Kentucky Derby, and four of them are in this race. Desormeaux is one. The other three are Mike Smith (on Gayego, 15-1), Calvin (“Bo-rail”) Borel (Denis of Cork, 20-1), and Edgar Prado (Adriano, 30-1).]

The Picks (with odds and post position)

1. Big Brown (3-1, #20) is the morning line favorite and difficult to ignore. BB’s had only three races, but he demolished the competition every time (by 11-1/4, 12-3/4, and 5 lengths), and his times at a mile and 1/16th and a mile and 1/8th are the fastest in this field.

2. Colonel John (4-1, #10) After his recent blistering workout at Churchill, he may eclipse BB as the favorite. But is he the best horse in the field? I’m not convinced, but he does seem to be the most dependable in-the-money finisher.

3. Court Vision (20-1, #4) is a pure pace play. If BB and Gayego get hooked up with Bob Black Jack and Recapturetheglory, he could take advantage of the situation.

4. Pyro (6-1, #9) was second in the Breeder’s Cup Juvenile, and the favorite earlier in the season until a disappointing finish on April 12 at Keeneland in the Bluegrass Stakes on Polytrack. Can you throw that race out now that he’s back on dirt?

5. Gayego (15-1, #19) is coming up as the wiseguy choice. He might be for real. Still, he didn’t look completely comfortable working out on the Churchill dirt.

The Plays

• A show bet on Colonel John
  
• A three-horse boxed exacta using Big Brown, Colonel John, and Court Vision
  
• If you want to get fancy, you can play a $1 trifecta bet:
  4, 10, 20/ with 4, 9, 10, 20/ with 4, 9, 10, 19, 20 = $27
  
• If you want to get even fancier, you can try a $1 superfecta bet:
  4, 10, 20/ with 4, 9, 10, 20/ with 4, 9, 10, 19, 20/ with 4, 9, 10, 19, 20 = $54 (If this one comes in, you can buy me dinner—in Monaco!)
  

For a rundown of the complete Derby field, plus related video features on the horses, visit kentuckyderby.com.

Steve Brady is Sports Media America’s Los Angeles-based handicapper.

Four Years to Grade a Draft, Says Fisher—So Here's the Grade on 2004

“Seems like every year you have to remind people, 'Why don't you grade this draft four years from now?' That is how you grade drafts." That was Tennessee Titans head coach Jeff Fisher after this past weekend’s NFL Draft. “If anybody wants to grade us, so be it.''

Well, a lot of people did, Jeff. No one gave you an A. More often it was, like, C-. Or D. But we want to be fair and play it your way. So, instead of grading the 2008 Draft, let’s take a look at the 2004 Draft, now that we have four years of perspective.

Here they are, a hefty crop of 13 guys. They weren’t losers, exactly. Well, not all of them, anyway. Some had serious contributing moments. On the other hand, not a one made it to the Pro Bowl. Take a stroll down memory lane. Players drafted by round:

2 Ben Troupe TE/FLORIDA
2 Travis LaBoy DE/HAWAII
2 Antwan Odom DE/ALABAMA
3 Randy Starks DT/MARYLAND
3 Rich Gardner DB/PENN STATE
4 Bo Schobel DE/TCU
4 Michael Waddell DB/NORTH CAROLINA
5 Jacob Bell OG/MIAMI (OHIO)
5 Robert Reynolds LB/OHIO STATE
6 Troy Fleming RB/TENNESSEE
7 Jared Clauss DT/IOWA
7 Eugene Amano C/SE MISSOURI ST
7 Sean McHugh RB/PENN STATE

The Player Evaluation

Troupe—Showed signs of breaking out during the ’05 season, but regressed in ’06, fell off the radar in ’07, and left recently in free agency to Tampa Bay.

LaBoy—He sorta earned a starting job, but wasn’t much of an impact player. Left for Arizona through off-season free agency.

Odom—Sorta a starter and sorta a backup, but in ’07 he started to come on, recording 8 sacks. Then he left for Cincinnati in the off-season.

Starks—10.5 sacks in four seasons, with a big fat zero sacks in ’07. Nothing but yearly regression. Recently signed with the Dolphins. (Does Bill Parcells know?)

Gardner—Currently playing cornerback for Team Michigan of the All American Football League. Played for Titans in ‘04 and ‘05, latched on briefly with Seahawks in ‘06, cut by them in ‘07.

Schobel—Will reunite with LaBoy in Arizona. Two years with Titans, one year with Colts, last year with Cards, always and strictly as a fill-in.

Waddell—Scrappy guy, everyone rooted for him. Made a few good plays in ‘04, less so in ‘05, then nothing. Trying to make the Raiders’ 53-man roster is his current challenge.

Bell—Developed into a starting guard. Got so good that St. Louis lured him away recently in free agency.

Reynolds—Fill-in and special teams guy for three years. No action in ‘07. Trying to latch on somewhere.

Fleming—Had a few interesting moments for the Titans in ’04-’05. Since then it’s been practice squad stuff with Broncos and Panthers.

Clauss—He’s joined Gardner with Team Michigan of the All American Football League. Got a little playing time with Titans in ’04-’05. Tried to hang on since with Redskins and Raiders, to no avail.

Amano—Actually started five games in ’07. Versatile lineman who’s managed a decent career, but has never earned a full-time starting job.

McHugh—Picked up by Packers prior to ’04 season, then latched on with Lions in ’05 and has been with them since as a back-up.

The Grade

Exactly what should go into a grade that’s four years down the line? Probably a lot more than a snapshot grade only hours after a brand-new draft. Did the draft produce a star? Did it produce a starter? Did it produce a steady contributor? Did it produce anyone with even a temporary monster year that really helped the team? Did it produce anyone who got overlooked by the Titans and then went elsewhere to become a regular? (We’re not grading on development; we’re grading on the recognition of raw talent.)

In fact, the Titans’ 2004 draft reaped one full-time starter—Jacob Bell. It also gave us Troupe, LaBoy, Odom and Starks, who all had starts and serious playing time, with none becoming an all-down/every-down starter. All the other draftees were, or have been, essentially fill-ins, with Amano actually establishing himself with a team and having a steady career. For all practical purposes, 6 of the original 13 are out of NFL football. Of the 7 remaining, probably only Bell will continue to start, with the others needing to step up in a big way to solidify their career position.

So, how would you grade this draft?

It’s not impressive in my book. It produced some pros, but, like, isn’t that what a draft is supposed to do?

Bottom line: Four years in, and not one of these guys will be a starting player for the 2008 Tennessee Titans. That says a lot.

Grade: C-/D+

Titans '08 Draft Reflections, Plus a Look at the ECU Pedigree

New Tennessee Titans #1 draft choice Chris Johnson hails from East Carolina University in Greenville, North Carolina. With his 4.24 speed in the 40-yard dash, Johnson is definitely gifted, and if things work out, he’ll add an exciting dimension to the Titans’ needful offense. (Vince Young clearly not being exciting enough. Unless you think Chinese fire drills are exciting.) Johnson also is a demon kick-off returner, and it’s actually possible that he could score more touchdowns in that role in ’08 than Young will throw as the QB. (VY had all of 9 TD passes last season. Not exactly on the fast track.)

For the sake of history, here’s a look at all the players ever drafted out of East Carolina. I guess we shouldn’t use this list as an indicator of Johnson’s potential pro success, ‘cause based on hits and misses, ECU’s track record looks mediocre. Three names jump off the list: current Jaguars QB David Garrard; former journeyman QB Jeff Blake; and former running back Earnest Byner, who had an excellent 14-year NFL career, won a Super Bowl ring with the ‘91 Redskins, and who just happens to be the Titans’ running backs coach. There are a few other ex-NFL names on this list (Tony Collins, Jerris McPhail, etc.), but ECU historically is not a hotbed of NFL All-Pros. (Sorry. It had to be said.)

But, hey, see if you can spot some of your favorite players from the past. (If it's Carlester Crumpler, you score twice: both father and son were ECU draft choices.)


ALL-TIME EAST CAROLINA FOOTBALL DRAFT HISTORY
(year, round, pick, overall pick, name, team, pos)

2008, 1, 24, 24, Chris Johnson, Titans, RB
2007, 5, 9, 146, Aundrae Allison, Vikings, WR
2006, 4, 32, 129, Guy Whimper, Giants, OT
2004, 7, 45, 246, Brian Rimpf, Ravens, OT
2002, 4, 10, 108, David Garrard, Jaguars, QB
2002, 7, 30, 241, Leonard Henry, Dolphins, RB
1999, 5, 20, 153, Roderick Coleman, Raiders, DE
1999, 6, 32, 201, Troy Smith, Eagles, WR
1998, 3, 21, 82, Larry Shannon, Dolphins, WR
1997, 5, 1, 131, Lamont Burns, Jets, OG
1996, 4, 16, 111, Emmanuel McDaniel, Panthers, DB
1996, 5, 2, 134, Jerris McPhail, Dolphins, RB
1994, 6, 4, 165, Bernard Carter, Buccaneers, LB
1994, 7, 8, 202, Carlester Crumpler, Jr., Seahawks, TE
1993, 6, 8, 148, Tom Scott, Bengals, OT
1992, 1, 24, 24, Robert Jones, Cowboys, LB
1992, 6, 26, 166, Jeff Blake, Jets, QB
1992, 8, 14, 210, Luke Fisher, Vikings, TE
1992, 9, 26, 250, Chris Hall, Cowboys, DB
1992, 10, 22, 274, Dion Johnson, Oilers, WR
1991, 9, 3, 226, Ernie Logan, Falcons, DE
1990, 3, 14, 67, Walter Wilson, Chargers, WR
1990, 5, 1, 110, Junior Robinson, Patriots, DB
1990, 7, 14, 179, James Singletary, Colts, LB
1990, 10, 27, 275, Anthony Thompson, Broncos, LB
1988, 8, 5, 198, Anthony Simpson, Buccaneers, RB
1988, 10, 4, 253, Ellis Dillahunt, Bengals, DB
1986, 6, 27, 165, Kevin Walker, Buccaneers, DB
1986, 10, 3, 252, Tony Baker, Falcons, RB
1985, 3, 24, 80, Stefon Adams, Raiders, DB
1985, 8, 4, 200, Ricky Nichols, Colts, WR
1984, 2, 27, 55, Steve Hamilton, Redskins, DE
1984, 4, 27, 111, Terry Long, Steelers, OG
1984, 5, 3, 115, Clint Harris, Giants, DB
1984, 5, 13, 125, Jeff Pegues, Redskins, LB
1984, 5, 21, 133, Hal Stephens, Rams, DE
1984, 10, 1, 253, Norwood Vann, Rams, TE
1984, 10, 28, 280, Earnest Byner, Browns, RB
1984, 11, 4, 284, John Robertson, Eagles, OT
1983, 2, 18, 46, Jody Schulz, Eagles, LB
1982, 4, 2, 85, George Crump, Patriots, DE
1982, 4, 7, 90, Tootie Robbins, Cardinals, OT
1981, 2, 19, 47, Tony Collins, Patriots, RB
1980, 11, 11, 288, Sam Harrell, Vikings, RB
1980, 12, 9, 314, Mike Brewington, Chiefs, LB
1979, 2, 28, 56, Zack Valentine, Steelers, LB
1979, 6, 21, 158, Eddie Hicks, Giants, RB
1978, 6, 28, 166, Harold Randolph, Cowboys, LB
1977, 6, 27, 166, Reggie Pinkney, Lions, DB
1974, 4, 2, 80, Carl Summerell, Giants, QB
1974, 4, 17, 95, Carlester Crumpler, Bills, RB
1973, 16, 1, 391, Tim Dameron, Oilers, WR
1973, 17, 22, 438, Leslie Strayhorn, Cowboys, RB
1969, 17, 1, 417, Wayne Lineberry, Bills, LB
1964, 14, 5, 187, Tom Michel, Vikings, RB
1961, 5, 8, 64, Glenn Bass, Cardinals, TE
1951, 28, 12, 339, Roger Thrift, Browns, QB

Titans Draft Lowdown

Uncritical Titans fans were filled with hope by the team’s weekend draft choices. Count me out. Reinfeldt 2.0 is a gambler’s delight, a roll of the dice on just about every pick, with only vague attention to need. For example, who’s replacing Jacob Bell, the offensive guard lost to free agency? Who’s playing defensive tackle next to Albert Haynesworth? Who’s backing up #2 QB Kerry Collins, who’s getting old but will probably see some action in ’08 since VY runs around a lot in those Chinese fire drills and could get injured? Not a good sign when a draft evokes more questions than it answers. Here are the newbies, by round:

1. RB Chris Johnson, ECU—Fantastic speed. Once he’s loose, he’s gone. I say build the offense around him. (Sorry, Vince. Just concentrate on throwing those screen passes to the new kid. You’ll be fine.)

2. DE Jason Jones, Eastern Michigan—What the...? Dude “amassed” 3.5 sacks in ’07... in the Mid-American Conference. You know, the MAC? Famous for its manhandling perennial All-Pro defensive linemen? Uh...no.

3. TE Craig Stevens, Cal—Welcome to Nashville, Craig. Take a seat. That one right there. No, a little further down. Past high-priced free agent Alge Crumpler and down beyond veteran Bo Scaife. We’ll let ya know when we need ya. From NFL.com: “His style is similar to Anthony Becht. He is a decent underneath receiver but not suited to go deep.” Holy crap! We got an Anthony Becht clone! Now that’s good work.

4. DE William Hayes, Winston-Salem St.—Can you say “bastard step-child of Refrigerator Perry”? Maybe they can give him the ball on goal-line situations. A project. From NFL.com: “Hayes is a bit of a surprise at this point in the draft.” Agreed.

4. WR LaVelle Hawkins, Cal—LaVelle Hawkins? Oh, I thought you said DeSean Jackson, the other Cal receiver. (Damn!) Oh, well, in order to get him we’d’ve had to have passed on Jason Jones in Round 2. NFL.com: “Even though his physical numbers are not real strong, he's an example of a player who plays much faster than he works out.” Well, I’ll be—it’s the second coming of Paul Williams, ‘07’s fly-by-night West Coast receiver.

4. LB Stanford Keglar, Purdue—Possible sleeper. NFL.com: “His toughness is one possible question mark.” Well, that’s not good.

7. CB Cary Williams, Washburn—Fascinating fact: This guy played first string at...are you ready...? FORDHAM...before transferring to...still ready...? WASHBURN. The odds of Mr. Williams making a pro roster are slim and none. But he’s the fitting capper to a really weird Titans draft.

Titans' Early Draft Picks Add More Puzzlement to Off-Season Maneuvering

ESPN’s John Clayton categorizes the Titans as one of the NFL Draft’s “first-round losers.” I’m inclined to agree.

Like everyone else in Nashville, I sure hope first-rounder Chris Johnson (#24 overall) turns out to be a winner. The guy’s lightning fast. His footage is impressive as hell. (Go plug his name into YouTube.) What’s weird is that he wasn’t showing up on any common lists of elite running backs prior to the draft.

Surely the Titans weren’t surprised when RB Felix Jones of Arkansas was taken by the Cowboys at #22. So they had to be interested in the still-available Rashard Mendenhall of Illinois. Only the Steelers at #23 stood between the Titans and Mendenhall, and why would Pittsburgh take a running back when they’ve got Willie Parker? Surprise! The Steelers did.

I’m not sure if Titans fans saw the import of this moment, mainly because most of ’em probably figured the team would grab one of the many wide receivers available, to procure some weaponry for Vince Young. Devin Thomas, DeSean Jackson, Limas Sweed, Malcolm Kelly—all four of these highly regarded WRs were still on the board. Matter of fact, not a single wide receiver was drafted in the first round, so the Titans had the pick of the litter. It wasn’t to be.

Now the Titans will head into rounds 3-7 knowing that all four of the highest-profile WRs are gone, snapped up quickly by others in Round 2.

So here’s the message the Titans sent to VY on Draft Day: “We’re so skittish about your abilities as a quarterback, that we’re not going to waste an early draft choice on an elite receiver, and have to spend another year watching you figure out how that works. Instead, we’re going to get a running back with what we hope is major upside—unlike last year’s pig-in-a-poke Chris Henry—and pair him with LenDale White and do the thunder-and-lightning thing on the ground and hope you can hit newcomer Johnson out of the backfield with short passes and let his 4.24 speed do the rest. If we happen to pick up a decent wide receiver somewhere along the line in the later rounds, then that’s gravy. Otherwise, you can stay familiar with Justin Gage and Roydell Williams, and get newly familiar with free-agent tight end Alge Crumpler, and, if we’re lucky, we’ll actually have an offense of some kind.”

So then, with their second-round pick (#54 overall), the Titans go weirdo again, selecting Eastern Michigan defensive end Jason Jones. Now, the Titans certainly need help on the D-line, especially after waving bye-bye to Antwan Odom, Randy Starks and Travis LaBoy in free agency, and gutting some essential working parts that helped make All-Pros Kyle VanDen Bosch and Albert Haynesworth so effective.

Yet who is Jason Jones? You won’t find a single highlight reel or workout film of him on YouTube. Jones was a productive performer—in the MAC—though his 3.5 sacks this past season don’t exactly appear exceptional. Of course, there’s always the chance he’ll be better than Jevon Kearse, acquired by the Titans as a free-agent this off-season, and surely a high-risk venture if ever there were one. Kearse, after ACL surgery, has yet to regain his All-Pro form, which seems long ago indeed. His most recent four seasons with Philadelphia never measured up to his first five with Tennessee. On September 3, Kearse turns 32. He’s trying to make a comeback on a reconstructed knee. How many serious observers realistically think that Kearse will excel in ’08? And if he doesn’t, is Jason Jones the man?

Day 2 of the draft may yet bring some needed help. And maybe Johnson, from East Carolina, will indeed be the second coming of Tony Dorsett. Alas, as impressive as his highlights are, his performances came against Conference USA competition, and that’s why a lot of observers are saying the Titans reached for this pick—because you just never know, and guys from bigger and better conferences seem more battle-tested for the pro game.

So let’s tote up the past few months in Titans general manager Mike Reinfeldt’s reign:

1. Losing DLs Odom, Starks and Laboy, up-and-coming guard Jacob Bell, and tight end Ben Troupe to free-agency.

2. Signing Crumpler from Atlanta. He’s 30 and hasn’t been at peak health the past two years.

3. Signing Kearse on a wing and a prayer.

4. Drafting an unknown running back after the big ones got away, and following up with a DE draft choice who wasn’t even a world-beater in his mid-major college conference. (And they’ll have to pay the guy second-round money.)

These should all be interesting experiments... but that doesn’t mean the results will be good.

Moyer Proves Resilient, Keeps Winning with Junk

I’m not that big a fan of Tim McCarver as a baseball announcer. He’s pretty obvious and cliche-ridden. He’s more like an ombudsman for baseball, rather than an original voice. His rap is also riddled with a lot of what I call “manly jock crap.”

However, I am a big fan of McCarver’s syndicated Sunday night interview program (broadcast locally on Nashville’s ABC affiliate, Channel 2). McCarver trots out old-timers and discusses their careers, and his subjects are not always the most obvious guys, which inevitably ends up being totally cool.

The other night he had on Jamie Moyer, who is an old-timer only by virtue of his chronological age. On November 18, 2008, Moyer will turn 46 years old, yet he is still pitching for the Philadelphia Phillies. The Moyer career story is both baffling and triumphant and bears rehashing.

I was living in Chicago in 1986, when 23-year-old Moyer came up from the minors to pitch for the Cubs. He was a promising new face, and even though he tended to give up well over a hit per inning, and his ERA that year was less than stellar (5.05), the guy was 7-4 and threw a shutout in 16 games. Moyer went 12-15 in ’87, again with a high ERA (5.10), but he made 33 starts and pitched 201 innings. Then he went 9-15 in ’88, and while he continued to give up too many hits, he pitched 212 innings and his ERA dipped to 3.48.

Then came an offseason trade. Moyer was shipped with a young Rafael Palmeiro to the Texas Rangers in exchange for Mitch (“Wild Thing”) Williams, a reliever who helped the Cubs to the playoffs in 1989.

Then Moyer hit the skids. From 1989 to 1991, with Texas and then the St. Louis Cardinals, the lefthander compiled a record of 6-20, including a 1991 ERA of 5.74. He was getting hit way too much and his control was only so-so. Things were so bad that Moyer got released by the Cards, then was re-signed by the Cubs, only to be cut prior to the 1992 season. He signed again with Detroit in May of that year, but never put in an appearance in a major league uniform that season. At the age of 29, Moyer looked washed up.

Then the Baltiore Orioles took a chance on Moyer prior to the 1993 season. He rewarded them with a 12-9 season, with a 3.43 ERA. Moyer slogged through the next few seasons with more general mediocrity, but he was allowing slightly fewer hits, and his control improved. In a 1996 season split between the Orioles and the Seattle Mariners, Moyer was 13-3, with an ERA just under 4.00.

Finally, at age 34, Moyer’s career took off. From 1997 to 2005, he was 133-73 for the Mariners. He kept his ERA mostly in the mid to lower 3.00s during those seasons, and his control was decent, and even though he kept giving up a lot of hits, Moyer somehow proved himself a tough, gritty competitor, but most of all, a winner.

What makes the Moyer story even more improbable is that he has managed to pitch into his mid-forties without the benefit of a trick pitch, like the knuckleball. He throws unadulterated junk. His fastball barely breaks 80 MPH. He throws change-ups and curves in the 70 MPH range. With limited physical skills, and a modest 6-foot, 170-lb. frame, Moyer has re-defined the notion of “crafty lefthander,” and he has now managed to tote up a career mark of 231-178, with a lifetime ERA of 4.22.

Yet in a 22-year career, covering 607 games, Moyer has completed only 31 games and thrown but nine shutouts. He’s the quintessential “Give me five or six good innings” kind of guy, and it’s astounding how he’s managed to parlay moxie and an apparent canny understanding of the hitters into such a long major league stint. It’s paid off big-time, too. Moyer has earned nearly $70 million in salary through the years. Not a bad haul.

Moyer’s got a bunch of kids, seven in all, including an adopted child from Guatemala. And he’s still married to Karen Phelps, daughter of former Notre Dame basketball coach and now ESPN analyst Digger Phelps.

Now that Julio Franco appears to be gone for good from baseball, Moyer is the oldest current player in the major leagues.

The message is: Never give up.

Democratic Political Follies: "Just Folks" Hillary and Obama's Holy Man

Sometimes it’s hard to resist getting into the political fray.

I had to laugh heartily the other day when I learned of Hillary Rodham Clinton telling stories about her youthful visits to her family’s summer home in Scranton, Pa. Hillary wants to win Pennsylvania (in the worst way), and she proves this by trying to link her past to Scranton, a Middle American town with blue-collar leanings. I also heard that Hillary said that she used to shoot guns with her father. This is hilarious stuff. Anything to win the hearts and minds and votes of a political bloc—the hard-workin’, gun totin’ crowd in the Keystone State.

A few facts. Hillary Clinton was born in Chicago. When her father started to make his upwardly mobile way in the world, he moved his family to Park Ridge, Illinois, a bedroom community on the city’s northwest edge, very near O’Hare airport.

Here’s where Hillary and myself intersect. Somewhere around 1993-94, I was playing piano for Chicago’s Second City comedy theater. Our troupe embarked on a fairly lengthy tour of New England, and one of our gigs was at Wellesley College in Massachusetts. The Clintons were in the White House, and because of that everyone knew that Hillary attended Wellesley as an undergrad. It’s an elite private school with a lovely campus, and being there was certainly an occasion to get reminded that we were gigging at the First Lady’s alma mater.

A couple of years later, I was out of work as a musician and needed a job. After two weeks on unemployment—and having gotten really depressed just walking that one time into the unemployment office—I looked around for something/anything to pay the bills. I ended up very shortly thereafter taking a job driving a cab—in Park Ridge, Illinois.

Park Ridge Taxi Co. was one crazy gig. My four years in that job are worthy of a book in and of itself. But here I was, driving the good upper-crust folks of Park Ridge around the suburbs and also taking a good many of them to and from their many business and vacation flights at O’Hare. Somewhere about the middle of town, on North Prospect St., was the former home of the Rodhams, a characteristically lovely and large suburban house amid where the wealthiest folks lived.

So here’s the 4-1-1 on Park Ridge and its ilk. After driving these folks around for four years, I can tell you that it is, by and large, one of the most financially conservative enclaves you’ll ever see. Nobody is poor in Park Ridge, and a lot of people are filthy, stinking rich. The residents come across as the most obviously Republican-type folks you’ll ever see.

To know Park Ridge is to make it very easy to scoff at the notion that Hillary Clinton is a friend of the working class. Her background is decidedly NOT working class. It is closer to silver spoon. She grew up in comfortable upper-middle-class splendor in an idyllic conservative suburb and later went on to Wellesley. Later, Hillary attended Yale Law School, further cementing her link to upward cultural and financial mobility and classic Eastern establishment elitism.

In other words, Hillary hasn’t worked a day in her life. At least not how most of us define “working.” She is a well-connected conservative elitist parading around Pennsylvania in liberal blue-collar sheep’s clothing. She is doing this because she will do anything to procure the Democratic nomination for the presidency.

I wonder if the folks in Scranton were scratching their heads. “Summer home? What’s that?”

On the Obama front, his reverend, Chicago’s Jeremiah Wright, keeps opening his big mouth. He was at it again on Saturday, when he spoke at a memorial service for the late former Chicago appellate judge R. Eugene Pincham, like Obama a member of Wright's Trinity United Church of Christ.

[Sidebar: I hadn’t heard Pincham’s name for years. When I lived in Chicago, he was an obnoxious, impolitic fellow who presided controversially over court cases, and also had a penchant for saying ugly and/or inadvisable racial things that judges shouldn’t say.]

So, on this solemn occasion, among other things—and on the heels of his prior awful public remarks that have embarrassed Obama—Wright took after the Founding Fathers, claiming they “planted slavery and white supremacy in the DNA of this republic.” He also took after Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice, described Thomas Jefferson as having engaged in “pedophilia,” and attacked FOX newsmen Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity.

Not too cool for Obama, who has yet to distance himself from this guy.

Will someone please take Rev. Wright out to see the musical 1776? Beside being excellent theater, the show also provides a wonderfully clear history lesson on the Founding Fathers’ struggles to get our nation started. Yes, it’s true that the issue of slavery was not dealt with by the original framers. That is, they were unable to deal with it the way they would have wanted.

In fact, Adams, Jefferson et al. wanted to speed up the abolition of slavery through the wording in the Declaration of Independence. Alas, there were delegates from the South on hand who feared such verbiage and would not ratify the vote for independence as long as the original wording—”freedom for ALL men”—was in place. The reality of the situation caused Adams tremendous consternation. He wanted to assure the end of slavery, but his more immediate problem—declaring independence from England—had to be solved first.

And so Adams, like any good politician, did a bit of horse-trading (or what we more nobly refer to as compromise). The language in the document regarding slavery was struck out in exchange for the Southern votes to separate the colonies from the king. This is surely an unfortunate asterisk in the early history of the U.S., but the exigencies of the moment forced Adams to act practically. It wasn’t what he and others wanted, but first things came first.

It took 86 more years until Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. As a white guy, all I can say is that, yes, Americans might’ve acted more swiftly on the issues of slavery and racial equality. Slavery is a stain on our past. The good news is all the progress that has been made since the Civil War, admittedly never occurring as fast as we’d all have liked. But there are better days ahead, and, well, there’s even a half-African American running for president, and he just might make it.

So don’t be a hater, Jeremiah. Better yet, be a reverend. Talk about God and faith instead. Isn't that what reverends are supposed to do?

NCAA Showdown: Memphis Blows It; Kansas Claims Victory "Lite"

Well, Memphis blew it. They were the better team, they had a legit lead, they could’ve iced it easily with free throws, then didn’t, then should’ve fouled the Kansas guy who brought in the inbounds pass before he dumped it off to Chalmers, the kid who hit the trey to send it into overtime.

Yeah, Kansas is a very good team, and I won’t say they didn’t deserve to win, but it looked like CBS-TV’s Jim Nantz and Billy Packer were having a hard time finding an “insta-story” on the court while surrounded by the Jayhawks, who looked as shellshocked as triumphant. They won, all right, but they were not superior. If Chalmers’ shot clanks off the rim, only Memphis gets remembered this night. As it is, Memphis will probably be longer remembered: as the supertalented team that choked. Too bad.

As for Nantz and Packer, their replacement on this telecast is long overdue.

Nantz, who dreams of golf at night, just does not have the necessary edge to broadcast an NCAA championship game. He’s soft. And he’s always trying to find warm and fuzzy stories about the kids. (Gack!) At times he’s overly, and incorrectly, dramatic, and while he has one of those “announcer" voices, it’s just too prissy. It’s fine for whispering on the 18th green as Tiger’s about to drop a critical birdie putt, but for basketball? No thanks.

Packer, who has been skewered in these pages before, remains a hot-air balloon full of spurious observation. The man’s incapable of developing a broad theme coherently. He nitpicks at every play, trying to find rationales for every action and reaction. If a kid hits a shot, he’ll say, “See, that’s a good shot for him to take.” If a kid misses a shot, he’ll say, “That’s not a shot he should be taking.” It’s obnoxiously lame stuff, and he’s been getting away with it for decades.

And here’s something I never thought I’d say: Dick Vitale knows what he’s talking about.

I have found Vitale’s style totally goofy and rather queer for years. All that “Diaper Dandy” stuff always sounded a little, uh, well, offputtingly “intimate.” (Don’t be talking about young, virile athletes and diapers in the same sentence, Dick. Not cool.) But anyway, despite his clearly obnoxious persona, I started listening to the guy more closely during the NCAAs. What can I say? His analysis was almost always spot-on, and his projections were rooted in sound assessments of the teams. The guy actually could put the on-court stuff into context, thus clarifying what we’d seen or were about to see. So hats off to Dickie V, who was recently announced as a new member of the Naismith Memorial National Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Massachusetts. (Memo to Packer: There is no room for you there. Don’t even think about it.)

More b-ball media fodder: I don’t think Digger Phelps liked having Bobby Knight on the ESPN set during this Big Dance. They bumped Digger over to the right and stuck Knight right smack dab in the middle, and allowed him the run of the roost. Knight was okay. It was fun to hear what he had to say. Sometimes he was repetitive, but he was always happy to defer to his partners, and he seemed reasonably comfortable on the dais. Which may be why Phelps looked slightly less than comfortable. As the resident college b-ball guru (with ESPN since 1994), his thunder got stolen a lot, not only by Knight but also by Vitale. Plus, Digger couldn’t trot out championship stories. His best effort in 20 years as head coach at Notre Dame (1971-1991) was a Final Four appearance in 1978. Not to put down Digger. He had an excellent coaching career, and he took Notre Dame to places in basketball that they had not seen before, nor have seen since. Including his one-year stint as head coach at Fordham, Digger’s career record is 419-200. Nothing to sneeze at.

Digger’s given name is Richard. I don’t think I ever knew that before. Did you?