My Varsity Letter

If secrets constitute us as individuals, and secrets are crucial to storytelling, then it must be storytelling itself that expels us from Eden. Storytelling is corrupt and corrupting. - James Wood, writing about the works of Ian McEwan, in the 4-30-09 London Review of Books

So let me tell you a story.

When I was in high school, I thought long and hard about going out for football. This would have been a spectacularly bad idea, as I was/am 5'-3", around 135 pounds, and not even all that fast or shifty. My role would have been, at best, fourth quarter special teams, mascot/joke, and de facto star jock tutor. But what the hell, right? Life is short, death is long and the writer in me (yes, always) just wanted to hear pre-game motivational speeches from the coach.

Eventually I took the laughter of the coaches to heart and kept the clipboard in my hand as the team's reporter for the school paper, which let me go to all the games anyway. The coach even let me listen to the speeches, because why not, really? You don't have that job unless you like the sound of your own voice. (Or this one, of course.)

The Northeast High School varsity football teams that I covered were pretty mediocre. As with most "magnet" schools, we had a thin level of top-tier talent from the inner city, supported by scrappy/overmatched borderline 'burb candy asses. Let's just say you could really tell who our bench guys were, and that we were not at our best in an endurance contest.

Our best player was our starting QB and CB, a tall athlete who was basically a homeless man's Randall Cunningham. He was also our best basketball player, and while dreams of MVP level stardom came to those who saw his good moments, he was really more of a I-AA player, which is where he wound up.

In my years of following the team, there were two very memorable games. The first came when we played Frankford, who had Blair Thomas (a star RB at Penn State, a first round draft bust with Jets). It was a tight game for a long time, but every time Thomas touched the ball, the difference between his future and everyone else's became more clear, and he eventually dragged his team to the win.

The second was our big annual game against arch-rival Central. The game was played rain and mud that made Scooby Doo-esque foot fumbling common, especially for a reporter without cleats. Closest that I came to that special teams work, really.

At the half, buoyed by the knowledge from my feet and eyes and not noticing the presence of actual real-life reporters, I burst into the coaches room to tell the head coach to call more rollouts, so that our mobile QB actually had a chance at making a defender miss on the only part of the field that still had grass. It got me laughed out of the room so that the real minds could work. Maybe it's coincidence, but we did get more rollouts in the second half.

At the end of the year, I also found that the coaches, who relied on me as the only source of statistics, had voted to give me a varsity letter. Your call as to whether they did that to thank me for not trying out. I had my mom sew it on my gray 80's bomber cloth jacket, and didn't get any action, ever, while wearing it. There's nothing like being the reporter/hanger-on for a dramatic lack of action, kids. One benefit of the death of print journalism, really.

Come After Me

On the off chance that you read the blog, aren't on my e-mail list and want to come celebrate me finally becoming, after 40 years and 2 days, A Man... well, email me at dmt shooter at gmail dot com. (Aka, my 40th birthday.)

Inspiration, as always, comes from self-righteous college football coaches who are taking life far too seriously.



I especially like the fact that he got applause when he left. That's what you do when you are in the presence of a man -- you show some respect!

Anyway, your date is Friday, June 5, your place is an Atlantic City casino that has a poker room TBD later, and we will eat manly things, drink manly drinks, and make manly wagers. I'll hit you back late next week with the details.

(Oh, and the final word on this was given by the Shooter Wife, who told me not to spend too much on the hooker. When I shot down the idea of paying for it by asking her what I'd do after the first 14 minutes, her reply was "Tell her about your blog?" I married well.)

Is there any wonder...

that so many people of my generation are genuinely disturbed, when this was deemed as suitable children's entertainment?

Good luck getting that out of your dreams. I'm off to the medicine cabinet.

205 Drop: Top 10 reasons to envy the old

Today's link is another in a series of happy moments where I stare down the barrel of mortality and tell all of you punks how it's all going to hell in a handbasket. Good times!

205 Drop: Top 12 old-time MLB traditions that didn't last

Today's link stars longtime blog obsession Carl Mays, pictured here in the middle of his windup. I want you to imagine being an MLB hitter. Now, take away the helmet. Next, play the game without the benefit of artificial lights, with games frequently extending into the twilight hours. The next move is to exchange your clean new regulation baseball for the same ball being used for the entire game; if it goes foul, fans throw it back in. Step four is to have the infielders and players on both teams mark and scuff the ball to their heart's delight, for the benefit of their pitcher, especially if they get an early lead.

Finally, put it in the hands of a monster like Mays here, who was one of the hardest throwers in the game. He'd come at you underhanded, and was a thoroughly unpleasant son of a bitch, in that he frequently led the league in hit batsmen.

Oh, and add this little bit of knowledge to the table: in 1919, Mays *killed* a guy on the field, Cleveland's star shortstop, Ray Chapman. He also got to stay in the game, still pitching like that, for most of a decade. He won championships for the Red Sox and Yankees, and was a teammate of Babe Ruth.

I guess what I'm saying here is that when your grandfather tells you that you punks have it too soft, believe him.

Oh, and click the link for some of my finest race-based humor in many a moon. I was feeling ornery, children. Special points to anyone that can successfully point out the real ones amidst the Kom O 'Dee...

205 Drop: Top 10 sports complaints that make you sound old

Today's link helps you be a tiresome crank that's filled with youthful piss and vinegar. Later on, it'll just be vinegar.

Oh, and just because my brain always plays this routine when we're close to the holiday, and I clearly need to double-dip on the sacrilegious when I seem to be one of the 50% of people actually going to work today, albeit on the slowest train of the month... here's the more than occasional word of wisdom from site hero Bill Hicks. Happy holiday!

The Series Pick

Twenty eight years ago, the Phillies, fresh off an NLCS that I still think might have been the most exciting playoff series ever played, opened up the World Series at home against the Royals. The Game One started wasn't ace Steve Carlton, but their #5 starter, Bob Walk. In front of the home faithful, Walk fell behind 4-0, but held on as the offense bailed him out. He worked seven innings and got the win, setting up Game Two for ace lefty Steve Carlton. After another Phillies comeback, the home team lead 2-0, with Carlton getting the win.

There was an ease about Carlton that was palpable. His best pitch, a slider, was rarely a strike; it produced whiffs and feeble ground outs. He worked quickly and without emotion, and had led them for most of a decade. When he was on, it was as if the batter simply wasn't there. He won four Cy Youngs in a decade, and might have been the second-best starting lefty in MLB history, behind only Warren Spahn.

They expected to win behind him, and most of the time, they did.

Cole Hamels reminds me so much of Carlton, I keep expecting him to stop talking to the media, develop freaky Zionist conspiracy theories, and go live as a hermit in Colorado. (There's just something about left-handers, really.)

The first game of the World Series is, in this era of baseball, absolutely essential. With the 2-3-2 travel plan and the better league having home field (the All Star Game coin flip notwithstanding, the simple reality is that the Coke/Pepsi BOS-NYY Salary War has ensured a higher standard for AL teams for most of a decade now, as the won-loss record in interleague has proven), it's absolutely imperiative for the NL team to take home field in the first two games. There's just too much pressure on the trailing team to overcome a series deficit on the road for the final two games.

The Rays are from the better league, have home field, and are playing as free and loose as you possibly can at this point in the season. The Phillies are carrying 25 years of failure in the uniforms, along with the collective Win Or We'll Cry Forever baggage of their entire metropolitan era. The Rays are also more balanced, hand-wise, on offense than the Phils, and have more lights-out plus arms than just about any team in baseball. Finally, there's this: long layoffs at this point of the year are rarely good for a team. See the Tigers against the Cardinals, or the Rockies against the Red Sox. You don't want a ton of time off in October.

However, the Rays have one very large problem.

They don't have Cole Hamels.

The Phillies' left-handed has been dominant in the post-season after being a borderline Cy Young candidate in the regular season. By the numbers, he had a 3.09 ERA with a 1.08 WHIP in a bandbox in the first 162 games. In the playoffs, he's 3-0, 1.23 ERA, 0.86 WHIP. When they've needed him in the postseason, he's simply been better than anyone else working in MLB this month. When he's needed strike three, he's delivered -- with a slider that's got such good late movement, he's even fooling the umpires with it. Go ask Jeff Kent how much fun it was to go against him with money on the table.

He also gets the ball tonight.

Facing him is Scott Kazmir, who, I am certain, will own the Phillies... for about 5 to 6 innings. After that, his pitch count will be problematic, and maybe the Rays will make a critical defensive mistake -- they gave the Red Sox seven extra outs with errors in the ALCS, which made that series much more dramatic than it had to be. They'll also go to a deep but undefined bullpen with a manager (Joe Maddon) who was near Grady Little on the Shaky Level in the ALCS.

When the dust settles, the Phillies will have a one game lead. The Rays will be a little tighter. And the AL Mystique will be broken.

In Game Two, I'm expecting a sloppier game, with Brett Myers facing James Shields. The road team will swing the bats better against the right-hander, and if they give Myers any kind of lead early, he'll pitch like a guy with a ton of ability, rather than the special needs child that he frequently resembles. Both teams will attempt to run more, but Carlos Ruiz is better at cutting down that aspect of the game than Dioner Navarro, and the Phillies are simply the most efficient base stealing team in MLB. I think there's a very good chance that they go back to Philly up 2-0, which is good -- because they are going to need the wiggle room.

In Game Three, the Rays have their most pronounced pitching edge of the series. ALCS hero Matt Garza will face aged lefty Jamie Moyer, who was beyond useless against the Dodgers. At home and against a Rays team that will be in Win Or Die Mode, I think he falters -- unless Garza is a shot fighter after his marathon effort against the Sox. In any event, this is the game that I think the Rays win.

Game Four will have Philly Fan clamoring for the return of Hamels, as the schedule gives us Andy Sonnastine against Joe Blanton. Charlie Manuel will not cave, despite the specter of not having Hamels available for a Game Seven, because Manuel just doesn't care what people think of his moves (witness Myers being his closer last year). It will also pay off for him, as Blanton will keep the ball in the yard and the Phillies will capitalize on the hittable Sonnanstine (24 homers in 206 IP this year, and right-handed to boot). In the true turn game of the Series, the Phillies' bats will carry the day.

Game Five is as close to a double-elimination game as you can get, before Game Seven. The Phils will be doing everything possible to end it without going back to Cowbell Hell. THe Rays will grip the bats too tight. Scott Kazmir will give up some walks to the howling mob.

And the Phillies will have Hamels, 28 years and 6 days after Carlton won the town its only baseball world championship, to win the second.

Phillies in five.

Execution

As part of my role as the World's Oldest Sports Blogger, I need to point out the following: Bernard Hopkins is older than me. By a substantial amount.

He is, in fact, 43 years of age, and while part of that time (nearly 5 years) was spent in state custody for armed robbery -- and hence, not being spent in the meat grinder world of the ring -- that's still an absurd age to be in a boxing ring for money.

Tonight, he ensured that he can continue to pursue that profession. And then some.

Against a highly regarded fighter in his prime (Kelly Pavlik), The Executioner didn't just survive. He dominated. It went the distance, and was never in doubt.

Here's how good Hopkins is: in 54 fights, he's never been knocked out. He's only been knocked down twice. He's 49-5-1, and might be the best that's ever been at his age.

Now, I don't get too much into boxing; it's a fine thing in person when you can get deep into the live event, red meat vice of it all... but if you're looking for anything more than Human Cockfight, it's a hard sport to deal with. People who know what they are doing are relatively rare. Like basketball, the quality of the opponent is paramount; you can watch the best boxer in the world, but if he's paired up against someone useless, it's not going to be very good.

But still, think about the scope of the accomplishment here. At an age where most of us are just trying to avoid stepping up in pants size, Hopkins is beating the crap out of guys that are 16 years younger than him. In over fifteen professional hours in a ring against people trying to take his head off, he's never been stopped.

As the man himself said, after the fight but before the scores were read, "I'm tired of proving myself." Somehow, I'm thinking that won't be an issue for a while.

One Teeny Tiny Point About McCarver v. Manny

Independent of the merits of what McCarver said, perhaps this man should not, how shall we say, be working in television?

Sentiment

So they played the final baseball game ever at Yankee Stadium tonight, between two teams that history will little note, nor long remember. The third place team in the division, the hometown Yanks, beat the fifth place team in the division, the Baltimore Orioles. It was a 7-3 win, with Andy Pettite getting the win and Jose Molina, of all people, getting the final home run in the Stadium's 85 year history. Short of a collapse and comeback for the ages, the Yanks are done for the year.

A person from outside of sports would, of course, wonder what the big deal is. A building is a building is a building, and while Yankee Stadium history is clearly the most jam-packed in terms of having more important moments than any other MLB arena, it's not as if the place itself made it all happen.

And yet, as you see the shots of old men and little kids fighting back tears as they watched the Yankees take a victory lap -- and kudos to the Yankees for not holding to their base nature and making people vacate immediately -- you had to feel for them on some level.

The end of a place where you have memories is a reminder that all life is finite, all moments are fleeting, and that you have to take pleasure with the knowledge that it's all tied into the meaning that you give it.

It's just a building, except that it's not.

It's just a game, except that it isn't.

And baseball, even for the Yankees, always ends in the small heartbreak of autumn, when the leaves begin to fall and the cold begins to creep in, and the weather itself reminds you that everything changes, whether you wish it to or not.

The Raiders Need An Intervention

I'm going to try to speak delicately here, because Lord knows there just isn't enough of that in Blogfrica, and after taking some shots at Vince Young last week, I'm still a little gunshy. (Did you know that criticizing VY meant you were a racist? I didn't either. The dear fellow will be safe from me for the rest of his life, especially as it looks like that might not be long or involve a lot of football. Anyway, moving on...)

Word out of Oakland is that despite today's physical thumping of the I-AA Chiefs, Raiders head coach Lane Kiffin might be looking for work in the morning.

Given that the team now resembles an NFL football team at times, and has a genuinely exciting rookie in running back Darren McFadden (164 yards today), you might think this, um, makes not a whit of sense.

You would also not have been paying attention to most of the last decade of Raider Football.

Al Davis runs this franchise, as he has for damn nearly its entire existence. He will also be 80 years old on July 4 of next year. Now, I can respect the desire of a man to spend his golden years trying to make everyone around him long for death's sweet embrace first; it's a perverse kind of game, but you have to respect it.

However, it might be nice if it were backed up with any kind, of, you know, plan.

The Raiders have spent most of the decade trying to win with quarterbacks that look like they are big enough to withstand any pass rush, and throw the ball through a car wash without it getting wet. (This would describe Andrew Walter and Jemarcus Russell.)

When that hasn't worked, since most of these guys have been unable to evade any kind of pass rush, they've gone for scamper types like Josh McNown or Marques Tuiasosopo... rather than have, say, a Rich Gannon type that might be able to, you know, complete the ball accurately and resemble something that another team might hire.

They've bought and overbought on speed wideouts that can't actually play. James Jett was the prototype, and he's been duplicated with Drew Carter and Javon Walker. Needless to say, no one is making anyone forget Tim Brown. Or even the later years of Jerry Rice.

Since losing the Super Bowl to prodigal son Jon Gruden, the Raiders have gone 18-62 (!). This, despite having the draft picks that the Bucs gave up to get Gruden, not to mention the high picks the Raiders earned on their own with their spectacular craptitude.

And rather than give Kiffin the keys to the car, they are going to decide to turn back the clock and try the same old thing with Al.

Now, honestly, Raider folks... we have the technology to make this all much better. Just confine Al to a few places -- you know, for his safety, since those NFL bastards are clearly trying to have him killed -- where you can manage the screens he watches. Let "The Truman Show" be your guide, and have him spend his last few years thinking the Raiders are still an NFL franchise.

Meanwhile, you can actually pick players that resemble guys who can succeed in the NFL, and the NFL can have 32 teams that operate in reality. Everybody wins!

The Hornets Do Not Respect Their Elders

Tonight in New Orleans, the home town Bugs did something that the Suns were not able to do for their entire series, even in the Game 4 loss where the Spurs were never really in the game. Tonight, the Spurs looked genuinely uncomfortable, like they didn't have confidence in the matchup.

Tim Duncan, especially, didn't look like himself, scoring just 5 points on the night on 1 of 9 shooting. This was mostly lost in the five game first round runaway, but the Spurs didn't win with their big man; as a matter of fact, Shaq held him down to bad percentages, and if he doesn't make that 3 in Game 1, more would have noticed the performance slippage.

No, the Spurs beat the Suns on Parker and Ginobli, most especially Parker. And that's really not going to work as well in this series... because while CP3 isn't exactly a shutdown point guard on defense, he's not the toreador that Steve Nash is, either. And when he does get beaten on the dribble, his bigs -- West and Chandler -- not only have the physical quicks to close out on shooters from pick and roll, but the interest in doing so.

So while the initial response to a 101-82 Bugs Win is not that big of a deal, especially one where the home team trailed into the third quarter before piling on late, you need to look deeper into the numbers.

The Spurs were only in this game due to the 3-point shooting of Bruce Bowen. They had serious problems guarding Peja Stojakovic off the dribble, which hasn't been his game for years. The refs didn't seem interested in giving the Spurs the benefit of the flop all night. West makes Duncan come away from the basket to guard him, leaving space for Paul and his finishers. And finally, the Bugs have Bonzi Wells, who might be the only guy in the NBA willing to play dirtier than Bowen. (And how is it that no one, especially in a late game, hasn't just gone after Bowen with a clothesline? Bowen didn't do much after the pain. Oh, the irony.)

Can the Spurs get Game 2? Of course. Duncan is the best power forward in NBA history for a reason, and he might have avoided guarding David West in this game just to set him up for the next one. Bowen could still hurt someone. The Spurs got little from their bench. Popovich is a dramatically better coach than Byron Scott. The Bugs will look worse on the road. The Spurs have been beaten badly before; they know how to respond.

But after watching tonight's game, especially in the second half, leads one to wonder if maybe the Suns didn't just beat themselves. Because if tonight's Spurs team shows up for the whole series, they are going home in 5.

Epic Drop: Top 11 Signs That Miguel Tejada Was Older Than Advertised

Your list is here, and it hurts this old A's fan's soul, really. Even when Miggy took the money and left, we didn't hold a grudge. It didn't hurt that the Orioles were no threat, and we'd never have to worry about seeing him in a playoff. In his last year, and especially during the 20-game Streak, Miggy was everywhere and everything; he was the A's David Ortiz that year.



Now, of course, he's guilty until never proven innocent, his power a probable bottle product, his joy at playing the game long gone, his worth quickly ebbing. No one will look back on his career and think Hall of Fame; no one will remember just how wonderful the left side of the A's infield was with him and a healthy Eric Chavez. (How good were they? I grew up with Schmidt and Bowa; Tejada and Chavez were better.)

Anyway, the fact that he's 33 instead of 31 is just the latest indignity. It's 10 pounds of sad in a 5 pound bag, and one more tale of warning that Free Agent Riches don't always work out...

Epic Drop: Top 10 Signs Chris Webber's Comeback Wasn't Working Out

Your link is here, and all rancor from his Sixers dog show and buyout aside, he was one of the best passing big men in NBA history. Having said that, he still didn't defend in the clutch, and seemed more interested in getting paid than anything else -- even back to his college days, of course. What the Warriors were thinking in this re-run, I have no idea, unless Nellie just wanted to be the one to tell him it was over. (Hmm...)

Halftime Notes

Fat white people run to see senior citizen Tom Petty's vaguely phallic light display. I'm not saying he's old. I'm saying he's ancient. In HD, he's already dead. But at least he's playing "American Girl" to start off, which, let's face it, has never been the same since "Silence of the Lambs."

He follows up with oxygen and "I Won't Back Down." Fox cuts to some 20-somethings whose parents taught them this song, enjoying themselves. One hopes they show us some nip before Tom does...

You have to give it up for his roadies, who are somehow even older than Petty. He slows it down with "Free Fallin'" as the crowd waves the lights that someone had to give them. Pity poor Mike Campbell, who has to go to one of those double-neck dork guitars, which can't be easy to lift at his age. Why, oh why, can't the NFL ever give this gig to a band that's anywhere close to their prime?

Dirty Davey wonders "are the people massed on the fields those who were earlier in the stands, or are they a separate population without game tickets and only admitted to the stadium for the halftime show?" Excellent point, in that the people on the field appear young and enthused, which wouldn't describe any of the Pats or Giants fans right now, really...

Petty kicks this party up to Upping The Dosage Stage with "Runnin' Down A Dream" -- proving, as always, that there is a CONSPIRACY against the Black Man (Prince only got three). However, it should be noted that all of Petty's songs can be reduced to a two minute essence, so they just more or less feel that long anyway.

Show wraps up, and all kidding aside, Tom Petty Is Really Old. Even older than Paul McCartney, and the Rolling Stones... and Mike Campbell deserves better. Thanks for the lack of wardrobe malfunction, though.

Welcome to Milford, aka Loserville. Population: You

The image is from This Week In Milford, the Web's dominant Gil Thorp blog. GT is kind of a Mary Worth for the sports pages, only with even more self-loathing.

And what does this have to do with sports, you might ask, and is this part of that whole scary Experimental Phase that I posted about last night? You're both right!

When I was growing up with the Philadelphia Daily News, and playing fantasy sports back in the day when we had to (gasp!) use pen and paper and rely on the USA Today for stats, our only source for how our players did was the box scores in the newspaper.

And there, every day, was this strip.

For no good reason.

And since it's a cartoon, and takes only slightly more time to read than to look at... and it was on a page that we were all staring bullets into... well, it was impossible to *not* read Gil Thorp.

He was the "This Is Our Country" of the box scores. Only more persistent.

Every time you finish a Gil Thorp, you kind of want to hurt yourself, and then maybe, the guy who wrote it, or the people who brought it to you.

And yet, after a while, a dull -- very dull -- moment of zombie consciousness would kick in, and you'd realize that Milford was in a playoff and maybe they'd win AND HOLY MOTHER I'M READING GIL THORP!

Like most things about sports, you can easily imagine enjoying the experience without the strange '50s netherworld that is GT. But once you've gotten exposed to it, much in the same way that people eat at White Castle or listen to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or watch midgets wrestle, you're not getting out of it alive. (Perhaps I've shared too much.)

Anyway, FTT is... proud? no... ashamed? kind of, but not quite... nonplussed! that's it! nonplussed! ... about spreading this fevered aspect of our adolescence to a new generation. We're planning on sharing out of context panels from time to time, assuming that the Welcome to Milford guy doesn't freak out that we're impinging on his gimmick.

But by all means, go to his site, read some GTs, and then smack yourself in the face. It's curiously addictive!

I Need A Heavier And Much Less Convenient Phone

One of the ways in which you start to realize you are entering the great and terrible box canyon that is middle age is that you start to find yourself rejecting new technologies. Or, at the very least, new designs on old technologies.

Take, for instance, the phone. In the Shooter House, we have one corded phone that's bolted to the wall in the kitchen, and three wireless handsets stationed throughout the house. The Shooter Wife also has a cell phone, and I can get calls on my work Crackberry.

Now, which phone gets used the most? Show of hands?

Correct. The corded one that's bolted to the wall.

Why? Because it's the only one that you know with absolute certainty, where it should be. (We have children.) It's also the only one that can give you any kind of satisfying sound when you slam it down to hang it up, which is how something like 9 out of 10 calls that we get wind up.

Here are the list of things that I want the phone to do: send and receive calls. Maybe, if I'm feeling really techie, I want it to have call waiting. I also want it to take messages if I don't pick it up.

That's it.

I don't want it to take pictures that I will, in all likelihood, never look at again. I don't want it to have a peppy little ringtone that no one else has. (As a matter of fact, if it's a cell phone, I don't want it to have a ring tone at all. If I can't feel it vibrating, so be it.) I don't want it to double as my MP3 player, because then I've got way too much invested in a single piece of technology that, by dint of its size and portability, is in constant danger of being damaged and/or stolen. I don't want it to have bitchin' wallpaper, play freaky games, or be used as a substitute for cash at vending machines.

This makes me old, one suspects, as does the following attitude: I don't care.

If I could replace every phone in the house with corded ones, I would -- big, heavy, industrial age things that make you realize that talking to people is time spent not doing something useful, so you might as well be doing dumbbell curls. Besides, that big long cup of an earpiece... actually lets you hear the person who is calling you. What a concept!

They'd also allow me the single greatest joy left for anyone taking phone calls -- the ability to engage in primal scream-level rudeness by hanging up with extreme prejudice, without having the phone collapse into a tangled heap of dead circuits.

(Oh, and for everyone who loves the wireless because it lets you take a dump while on the phone? Get a corded phone in your bathroom, and try slamming it down there. The acoustics are outstanding. If I had this, I'd keep telemarketers on the phone long enough just to transfer to the other room, just so I could set up the moment. I'd be like a kid at Christmas. A mean kid. With a gun.)

Tune in next week for our loving paean to the joys of typing angrily on a manual typewriter. It's a blogpost and good exercise!

Epic Drop: Top 10 Reasons Why Marv Levy Is Stepping Down

Your list is here, and it's chock full of old age jokes that I'm still young enough to make. (Barely.)

Besides, who can resist another opportunity to crack on Kevin Everett?

The Giant Urinal Cake Known As Wrigley Field

(Ed. Note: Part of a continuing series where FTT throws dirt on the graves of dead stadiums to show that yes, we are freaking old. Enjoy!)

For those of you who have been following our series on Craphole Stadiums of the past, you might be wondering why we are covering an active stadium. We made a special exemption for Wrigley Field – basically the world’s largest urinal cake. Even the rats stay away from this place.

I’ve been to Wrigley probably 20-30 times over the past 20 years. The funny thing is it doesn’t feel any older each time I go. Probably because 20 years ago it was already 75 years old. I love it when Cubs fans gush about how great this old stadium is, what a treasure they have and how they want to keep it forever. Who are they kidding? You could piss down their backs, tell them it’s raining and they’d believe you. In fact, I think I actually saw that happen in the bleachers once. This thing is a relic that will be replaced as soon as the Tribune Co. sells the Cubs later this year.

The place is literally falling apart and the city almost closed Wrigley for a while a couple years back when concrete chunks of the ceiling started falling. It’s eerie how the stadium is directly tied to the team. Both fall apart when the slightest amount of stress is applied.

The hallways are cramped, the vending areas are few, and if you don’t love sausage/hot dogs/nachos, you are out of luck. And the beer of choice is Old Style. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of Old Style, go grab a Bud, Miller Lite or Coors can and put it out in the sun for a week before you drink it. That will give you an idea of the sophisticated tastes Cubs fans have. It’s one thing to be stuck with a craphole stadium, but do you have to drink crappy beer too? And they drink so much of it, they finally added a basket above the outfield walls in the early 70s. This was to keep the drunks from falling onto the field.

Wrigley’s biggest draw is its bleachers. You can go on a weekday day game and find it filled with 20 something unemployed drunks. I couldn’t think of a better representation of a fan with a team than these folks. Tickets now run upwards of $40 for a general admission seat in the bleachers. And that doesn’t guarantee you a seat either as the Cubs sell more tickets than seats for the bleachers each game.

Now I do have to give in a bit and say the bleachers have the hottest chicks in baseball regularly in attendance. But even with a new Cubs stadium they’d still be there. They are really the only good scenery at Wrigley. This photo is a pretty good sample of that talent that is out there.

Other that that, enjoy your crappy beer, your crappy view behind the pole in front of you, the crappy man operated scoreboard, the crappy team on the field and the crappy celebrity led 7th inning stretch that nobody cares about anymore.

Oh, and cut the vines off the outfield wall. This isn’t an Ivy League campus.