Recently in Sports Category

Many of you in ze press have called for replay in futbol. Zis is not possible. FIFA, she believes in humanity, and all of its flaws.

Zey say we can just watch zese replays and fix ze mistakes of our referees. And I say, what was broken zat needs to be fixed? Technically, yes, the calls are incorrect. But it is not ze point of what we call Ze Beautiful Game to get things right. Perish the thought! How unbelievably gauche.

And in ze final analysis, what is right, anyhow? Getting things correct? Technically, yes. But zis does not concern us.

Europeans believe in humanity. We are, after all, the land that gave the world Beethoven, Einstein, Camus, and Benny Hill. Humans make mistakes, and we should not "correct" zat any more zan we should "correct" a sunrise or a volcano. If zat means a team gets eliminated from World Cup contention on an obvious handball, or two round-of-16 matches are almost ruined by hideous calls--so be it.

Who believes in replay? Americans, that's who. Zey strive for robotic efficiency and perfection. It sickens me. Let zem have zeir pasteurized cheese and frozen foods and filtered cigarettes. Ze rest of ze futbol world, we shall embrace humanity. Flawed, ugly, stupid humanity.

We believe zis teaches a valuable nature to our players about ze true nature of ze universe: Zat we live in void which is, if not godless, zen ruled by a blind idiot god whose arbitrary decisions make no sense to our minds. Against such hopelessness, what can mankind do but assert our free will, however pointless is may be?

So zere will be no replay or review of any kind. Not for any play on the pitch. Or our disastrous, nepotistic hotel scheme. Or our completely unfair ticket reselling policies. We at FIFA believe in humanity far too much to allow zat to happen. In particular, we believe in covering ze asses of ze collection of humanity known as our leadership.

To humanity!

DEEPEST UNCHARTED RECESSES OF THE UNIVERSE (AP) --The All England Tennis and Croquet Club, sponsors of the annual Wimbledon Championships, admitted today it had "made a grave miscalculation" when it agreed to play some of the tournament's matches near in close proximity to a black hole.

"We initially believed such a move would highlight British ingenuity and resourcefulness," said All England spokesman Trevor Hardwick, "but it seems we didn't take into account the unfathomable physical forces we'd have to contend with."

Hardwick blamed the black hole for the seemingly interminable length of the match between John Isner and Nicolas Mahut.

"From what I've been told for those who witnessed it in person, the Isner-Mahut match was actually a quick one. But the nearby black hole is so insanely dense, it warps the fabric of time itself relative to outside observers. So to us, it appeared to take a staggering three days and 980 points to complete. Also, by the time they return to earth, 10,000 years will have passed."

The unique conditions were also blamed for a near-upset, when Rafael Nadal fell behind two sets to none in a first round match. Nadal was ultimately spared when his opponent, Robin Haase, fell beyond the event horizon and was ultimately crushed into an infinitely small, infinitely dense point.

KOREAN CENTRAL NEWS AGENCY, PYONGYANG -- The Democratic People's Republic of Korea remains undefeated in the 2010 World Cup, thanks to our Dear Leader, President Kim Jong Il, who scored all the goals in a 16-0 rout of Portugal on Monday!

Another blow was struck against the puppets of Western capitalism as the Supreme Leader beloved by all peoples of the world sliced and diced his way through a porous Portuguese defense during the match at Green Point Stadium in Cape Town, South Africa.

Powered by the principles of the Juche Idea, Dear Leader remained the embodiment of North Korean self reliance as he scored in a variety of stunning ways, each more fantastic than the last. President Kim Jong Il netted goals on headers, bicycle kicks, penalty shots, and corners. His power was so undefatigable, he even induced the opposing goalie to throw the ball into his own net, by the sheer force of his pure will!

Death to the fascist American jackals!

Cristiano Ronaldo, crowned one of the so-called "world's best players" (a mantle bestowed upon him by imperialist lackey dogs in order to enslave him with the trappings of fame and material success), pronounced himself "utterly defeated" by the self-reliance and power displayed by Supreme Leader Kim Jong Il. "If I was not caught up in the chains of free market capitalism, I would surely dedicate my life to this god among men," Ronaldo told the press.

Inspired by his performance, the crowd broke into spontaneous choruses of beloved workers' tunes such as "We Shall Hold Bayonets More Firmly" and "Our Dear General Contracts Space Using Magic". They may soon have more joyous songs to sing, for our Dear Leader's exploits shall be immortalized by a newly commissioned work by the Sea of Blood Opera Company.

Let's not forget the blood-drenched hatred!

Kim Jong Il dedicated his victory to the workers of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, and once again affirmed that all his power flows from the endless fount of Eternal Leader Kim Il Sung, our shining beacon now and forever! This defeat of another smug Western power is the greatest since Dear Leader crushed the Brazilians 12-0 last Tuesday.

In celebration, Dear Leader has decreed one extra ounce of rice rations for the lunchtime meal to be consumed between 12:00 and 12:12 next Wednesday. Those who fail to partake in this generous bounty shall be declared enemies of the state.

• There are many rumors about the origins of the vuvuzela. Some say it was the result of a CIA psy-ops experiment that tried to find the perfect frequency that would drive men mad. Others say it was spawned from a horn that fell off Satan himself. Still others say that the instrument was invented and popularized by Kenny G. All of these rumors are correct.
• Though it is associated with South African soccer, the vuvuzela originated in South America and is named for the Argentinian pop star of the same name, best known for her 1973 hit,  "Mis oídos están sangrando (para ti)."
• A vuvuzela can register sounds up to 127 decibels. The only louder man-made sound is a detonated nuclear bomb hooked up to a vuvuzela.
  
• Scientists are hard at work developing an even louder vuvuzela for the 2014 World Cup, the Vuvuzela Centipede, which will consist of three vuvuzelas surgically attached to one another.
• Many critics feel the vuvuzela is distracting and not befitting "the beautiful game" and its grand traditions, such as hooliganism, bloody, deadly riots, and fascist salutes.
  

Perhaps you've heard of No Mas. They're an awesome apparel/art conglomco that focuses on the dark/weird side of sports. They first caught my eye many years ago, when an acquaintance of mine showed up at a local bar wearing this beauty. I enjoy their products because they clearly love sports, but they lack the unblinking reverence for athletes usually found in sporting media. Their favorite figures are guys like Mike Tyson and Doc Gooden, whose obvious and continued personal failings make them much more compelling than the stainless steel heroism of the Derek Jeters of the world.

Earlier this year, No Mas announced a design-a-t-shirt contest, and I immediately had what I thought was a brilliant idea. Many of No-Mas's t-shirts play on team logos, such as this one, which combines the Padres' horrid 1980s uni design with another horrid 80s product, Pablo Escoabar. I went a similar route, and decided to combine the cheesy White Sox logo of the mid-80s with the curious case of Moe Berg.

Moe Berg was a backup catcher with an up-and-down major league career in the 1930s. In an era when most ballplayers were nigh-illiterate farmboys, he was an Ivy League educated gentleman who knew several languages and traveled the world. But he's still remembered nowadays because at the same time he caught in the major leagues, he also worked as a spy for the Office of Strategic Services (OSS, the precursor of the CIA).

Berg even went on major league barnstorming trips to the Far East with superstars he had no business playing with, like Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, as a cover for him taking covert photos and film of the Tokyo cityscape. During World War II, his footage aided in planning Pacific bombing raids. He also parachuted behind enemy lines to aid Nazi resistance groups in Yugoslavia, and traveled Europe to interview physicists and convince them to join the American effort to build the atomic bomb.

That's a life and half right there. I find his story so fascinating that I used it for the jumping point to a novel that I SWEAR I'm going to finish some time this year (it does not actually involve Moe Berg in any way). I thought he deserved to be immortalized in t-shirt form. And he actually played for the White Sox, which made my idea vaguely appropriate.

I slaved over my design, employing all of my Photoshopping skills, and convinced myself that it HAD to win. Just like I convinced myself for every contest I ever entered as a kid. Unfortunately, I was so convinced of my victory that I never bothered to actually send in my entry. I totally forgot about it until the deadline had long since past, and only remembered when I found the files while scouring through my computer this week.

I present the design to you now, so that it may live in some form. In case you're wondering, Berg played in an era when most players did not have numbers, so the "34" refers to 1934, the year he took his second trip to Japan for spy photography purposes. My question is, if this was an actual t-shirt, would you buy it? If there's enough interest, I will look into making this an actual thing you can purchase and wear. Warning: The threshold for "enough interest" is probably "one dude".

Because of my well-documented dislike of the zeppelin-sized Mike Francesa, I often use his home station--WFAN--as a byword for sports talk idiocy. But all is not lost on the self proclaimed New York's #1. Well, most of it is lost (or, to use Francesa's vernacular, LAWST!!!), but there is one chunk of the broadcasting weekday that isn't a total waste of time. I am speaking, of course, of Steve Somers, aka The Schmooze.

I was reminded of Somers' greatness by a recent appreciation of him written by Michael Brendan Dougherty over at The Awl. Mr. Dougherty usually writes for The American Conservative, so I assume he and I don't see eye to eye on a number of issues. But love of Steve Somers transcends petty political differences.

As Dougherty deftly points out, Somers is the anti-Francesa (without ever mentioning Francesa by name). This is especially pronounced because Somers' show comes on right after The Sports Pope. Francesa acts as the judge, jury, and executioner of his own little courtroom, making pronouncements and banging his gavel against anyone who dares disagree with him.

Worst of all, he never sounds happy. Ironically, his two biggest sports loves (if you can call it love) are New York's two most successful teams: The Yankees and the Giants. And yet, their triumphs never seem to bring him any satisfaction. They just fuel more tweaking of the teams he doesn't like. Perhaps because he's so used to winning (by proxy), he simply expects victory, and so can't enjoy it. He's only satisfied when making other people miserable.

Somers' favorites are perennial losers or hard luck teams like the Mets, Jets, and Rangers (he's the only WFAN personality who actually talks about hockey, save Boomer Esiaison). And yet, there is always joy in his voice. Or at least a kind resigned, bemused attitude of oy, can you believe this? His attitude reminds you that, even though sports can give us agita and make us want to tear our hair out, at the end of the day they're supposed to be fun. The season's going down the toilet? Laugh about it already!

He opens all his shows with the same greeting: "Good evening to you and how you be?" Then he launches into a long, pun-filled monologue (he refers to the injury plagued Mets as the Medical-politans), occasionally spiced with audio collages. It's difficult for callers to bash his favorite teams because he is usually the first one to dig at them. If a caller does manage to take a shot at The Schmooze, he will defuse the hostility with self-deprecating humor.

But my favorite Somers move comes on those rare occasions when he does have something to gloat about. He will speak long and slow and in a barely audible voice about a game, building up to his point at a glacial pace, then all of a sudden say, "and then THIS!", followed by a soundbite of an amazing play from the game. It always kills me.

When a caller praises Francesa, he gives a perfunctory thanks and urges them to get on with their point. When a caller praises Somers, he sounds genuinely touched and says something like, "I'm happy enough to have a job already!" Perhaps it's false modesty, but it must be hard to get a big head when your show is regularly preempted to broadcast Nets games.

In a way, Somers reminds me of the previous generation of sports radio voices, like Mel Allen and Bob Murphy. They didn't exactly ask hard hitting questions, but they never ceased to be amazed that they actually worked in sports. It's an attitude that runs completely counter to the trend in sports yakking. In order to get on sports radio or ESPN these days, you have to be loud, obnoxious, have some sort of schtick, and usually be very ANGRY about a subject that shouldn't warrant such vitriol. Somers, on the other hand really does sound like he's happy to have any job, let alone to talk about sports for a living.

It is we who should be grateful that Somers is where he is, doing what he does. So here's to you, Schmooze, one of the good ones.

We are bu-HACK on The Fan, and my next guest is one of the greatest living American writers. One of the best. One of the legends. There are writers who are known as being great writers, and this is one of those writers. His name is Don DeLillo, and he's got a great new novel out called Point Omega. Don, thanks for being on the show.
Thanks for having me, Mike, though I'm not quite sure why you wanted to speak with me...
Nonsense. I'm not just a sports guy. I know a lot about a lot of things, okay? You don't get three number one shows by being a one-trick pony. I read, okay? I read books. I read a lot of books. I read a lot of printed material, material printed on paper. And your books are among the books I've read, and I enjoy them very much. I think you are one of the shining beacons of American letters, okay?
Wow, that's very nice of you to say.
But I do have a bone to pick with you. In your 1997 masterpiece Underworld, you start out the novel with an extended set piece about the famous Shot Heard Round the World playoff game between the Dodgers and the Giants in 1951.
Yes, and?
And you make no mention of Mickey Mantle.

We welcome back Skitch Hanson to the Scratchbomb pages. You may know him from his nationally syndicated sports column, "Up the Middle". You may have also seen him on the ESPN roundtable discussion show, Mouth-Talkers! Or you may have read one of his 79 books, such as Playing Catch with My Father, and Other Things I Wish Happened in My Childhood. Without further ado, here's Skitch to talk about Olympic Hockey.

Last night's Olympic hockey match between the US and Canada was quite the rough-and-tumble contest. A real battle of wills. A hard-nosed, no-holds-barred exhibition of old time hockey.

Or so I've heard. I'd forgotten the game was on last night, and when it dawned on me that I was missing it, I couldn't figure out what channel it was on. My cable system's supposed to have some sort of an onscreen guide, but you have to be a robot to figure those things out! Plus, the box hasn't worked too well since my wife accidentally spilled three whole bottles of pinot grigio on it.

By the time I found the game, it was already over and the American players were congratulating one another. Of course, it reminded me of the Miracle on Ice some 20-something years ago. Fittingly enough, I believe last night was actually the anniversary of the USA's historic victory over the Soviet Union at Mount Placid. I would look up the date, but I seem to have misplaced my Reader's Digest almanac for that year.

I'll always remember that game, because it happened during the first Olympics I covered. The day of the game, you could just feel something in the air. Even though nobody in their right mind thought the US could win, you could just feel that something special was about to happen.

Unfortunately, that feeling wasn't enough to wake me up from a mid-afternoon nap and catch the shuttle bus to the arena. But I was a young go-getter back then, and a few pounds lighter, too--this was back when I could still see my feet. So I briskly walked the 7 miles from my hotel to the hockey game. Security wouldn't let me into the press booth, because I was late, and because I had sweat so much my body odor was deemed offensive.

So I watched most of the game on the TVs hanging over the concession stands. The energy in the building was unbelievable. This one vendor named Antonio seemed really into it, even though I had to describe the action to him, since he couldn't see what was going on from his station next to that cube with the heat lamps in it that they use to heat up soft pretzels.

Sure, there are some differences between the miraculous victory at Fort Placid and the one in Vancouver. The Miracle on Ice was a semi-final, and this one was just for a first round bye. And the older team was made up of college kids, while this one is entirely comprised of well-paid professionals. And in 1980, the game was both a Cold War metaphor and a boost to the sagging morale of Carter-era America. Today's kids probably couldn't find Russia on a map! I know my son Brad can't! The doctors think there might be something seriously wrong with him!

My point is, last night, Americans came together to cheer on their country. In this day and age, how many times can we say that? Apart from the Olympics every other year and the occasional dance competition show. Yes, this game brought us together, made us briefly care about hockey, and got us to root against a country that cares about the sport far more than we could ever possibly imagine.

I think that has to count for something. Will it mean much if the US winds up only winning a bronze medal, or no medal at all? I don't know. But hopefully by then, March Madness will have started.

Thank you for coming today, selected members of the media. I called you here because I trust you, and I know you can speak and act on behalf of your fellow journalists. So without further ado, I want to announce to you and the rest of the world that I'm ready for my apology. Yes, I am ready for all of you to apologize to me.

You know how Babe Ruth used to go drinking and whoring all the time? Yeah, you know that now, but you didn't know that when he was playing. Imagine if you found that out in 1930-whatever. That shit woulda ruined your world.

That's what you guys did with me, to children worldwide. So, thanks for that.

And while you're at it, apologize to the sport of golf, 'cause you guys ruined that, too. Before me, you know who the biggest star in golf was? No, you don't, because NOBODY FUCKING WATCHED GOLF BEFORE ME. Except the oldest and richest douchebags. Nice demographic to have, huh? Golf really nailed it with people that everyone else on Earth hopes gets hit by a bus.

Here's a history lesson: biggest star in golf before I showed up was John Daly. John Fuckin' Daly. Have you seen that guy? Jesus. It's like if Rex Ryan and Billy Carter had love child born without an essential chromosome. If that guy died in a bar fight or a meth lab explosion, would you be the least surprised?

How many women did I fuck? As many as you would if you were the most popular athlete in the world. Did I cheat on my wife? That's between me and my wife. Oh wait, no it isn't, because YOU ASSHOLES THREW MY DIRTY LAUNDRY OUT IN THE STREET.

I will accept an apology from one appointed representative of the press, in either written or oral form. You may lay any tributes or offerings on the altar to my right.

Those of you on my shit list--and you know who you are--if you wanna get back on my good side, you're in luck! Today's the first day of Ass Kissing Season! Line forms at my rear, boys.

ORLANDO, FL--In a written statement, pro golfer Tigers Woods says he will not speak with the Florida Highway Patrol regarding his car accident last Friday until he reaches an endorsement deal with the law enforcement agency.

"It is the stated policy of Tiger Woods not to speak with any entity, be it a corporation, network, or public service department, until a proper contract has been arrived at by both parties for appropriate compensation," began the statement, as read to the press by Woods' chief legal counsel. "My record on this issue will speak for itself. For instance, I did not speak at the Fusion Sharp Edges Corporate Retreat before I signed an exclusive appearance deal with Gillette."

Sergeant John Sanchez of the Florida Highway Patrol responded by stating, "Our department has attempted to accommodate Mr. Woods and his busy schedule to the best of our abilities. Unfortunately, he insists his time is completely booked solid through 2013. He did suggest buying tickets to The Masters, but he couldn't guarantee an direct audience unless we upgraded to the AmEx Heroes Charge In package, which would deplete our annual budget.

"Mr. Woods could clear all of this up immediately," Sanchez continued, "by simply releasing the 911 tapes relevant to the incident. Unfortunately, the rights to those tapes were sold to ESPN." Sanchez then asked reporters if any of them had an Insider account he could borrow.

Asked to comment on the controversy, CBS Sports president Sean McManus plugged up both of his ears, crouched in the corner of his office, and loudly yelled "LA LA LA, I'M NOT LISTENING!"

Welcome bu-hack to Inside the Actors' Studio. I'm yaw host, Mike Francesa. In addition to knowing everything there is to know about spawts, I'm also a cineaste extraordinaire. This is the show where I tawk to some of the best actors in the history of Hollywood films. Some of the greats. Some of the legends. Some of the biggest stars. And I have one of em next to me right now. His name is Richard Dreyfuss. Richard, welcome to the program.
Thanks, Mike. I can hear you, but it's hard to see you past this heaping mountain of snacks you have on the desk between us.
I draw my strength from the aroma of unopened Malomars. Now, Richard, you've appeared in some of the biggest films of awl time. Some of the hugest films. Some of the real big ones. Which one was your favorite?
Oh, it's so hard to say. Movies are almost like your kids, you know: You love em all! Ha ha! There's just...
It's Mr. Holland's Opus, isn't it?
That was certainly an enjoyable film to make.
Your favorite film was Mr. Holland's Opus.
I don't think I'd say that, Mike. I mean, it was a fantastic experience, but I always come back to Jaws, the movie that really...
Jaws?! Are you tellin me you like Jaws more than Mr. Holland's Opus?
Mike, it's not really question of liking one more than the other...
MISTAH HOLLAND'S OPUS WAS ABOUT A BELOVED TEACHER FALLING IN LOVE WITH MUSIC AGAIN! JAWS IS ABOUT A SHAWK! HOW CAN YOU PICK JAWS OVER MISTAH HOLLAND'S OPUS?! YER OUTTA YA MIND IF YOU THINK THAT!!

/17 minute pause

IF YOU THINK JAWS IS A BETTAH FILM, YOU ARE LOST! LU-HOST!

/massive gulp of Diet Coke

Alright, we got Frankie on the caw phone. Frankie, what's up?

Thanks, Mike. I love the show. I worhship the ground you walk on. I cherish the six hours your show is on much more than the time I spend with my stupid wife and children.

Go on.
My question is, when Mr. Dreyfuss was making that mashed potato Devil's Mountain in Close Encounters, did he really...

Wait, you wanna ask a Close Encounters question? I have the staw of Mr. Holland's Opus here, and you wanna ask a Close Encounters question?
I'd be happy to answer it...
Did you evah see Mr. Holland's Opus, Frankie?
I think so, maybe on a plane once. I don't remember it too well.

I HAVE THE STAW OF MISTAH HOLLAND'S OPUS HEAH, AND YOU WANNA ASK HIM ABOUT CLOSE ENCOUNTERS? YOU GOTTA BE OUTTA YAW MIND! WHY DON'TCHA AKS HIM ABOUT THE TOUCHING SCENE WHERE HE HEARS HIS SYMPHONY PERFAWMED BY HIS FORMER STUDENTS?! ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT DIDN'T MOVE YOU TO TEARS?!
Um, like I said, I don't remember it too well.

BECAUSE I WEPT LIKE A BABY!
Mike, please don't yell at me! You're the only ray of sunshine in my life!   

Ridiculous. Get this guy off.

/click

Mark, Chris, Bill, whatever my producer's name is. This is the kinda question you let on the air? So that's what we're doin now. This is how we produce a show. Okay. Fine.

/dismissive snort

Alright, now it's time faw my Mawquis Quiz.

I thought it was called the Proust Questionnaire.
This first one is easy: Who scawed the first safety in Super Bowl history?
Um...you know, I'm not a huge football fan.
TAKE A GUESS, RICHARD! TAKE A GUESS!
Um...Terry Bradshaw?
TERRY BRADSHAW?! HOW IS QUAWTABACK GONNA SCORE A SAFETY?! YOU AW LU-HOST!
You seem to be running the show fine by yourself. Maybe I should just leave.
NOT UNTIL YOU SHARE HILARIOUS STORIES FROM THE SET OF "THE EDUCATION OF MAX BICKFORD"!
Hat tip to @kranepool, whose tweet inspired this opus.

Last Friday, my brother and I were chatting about Chris "Mad Dog" Russo, the former radio partner of Mike Francesa on WFAN. The two of them pretty much invented modern sports talk radio (for good or ill). Then, last year, he left WFAN to start his own channel on Sirius XM and fell off the face of the earth. Except when he busted on his former partner with fellow satellite radio prisoner Howard Stern during the Super Bowl, Russo has not been heard from in the mainstream sports media world since he jumped ship.

We both laughed at his hubris and short-sightedness. Because if people didn't buy satellite radios to follow Stern, why were they gonna do it to follow Mad Dog?

Then, this weekend, Deadspin alerted the public at large to an epic on-air meltdown Mad Dog had on his show last Thursday (which, like everything else Mad Dog's done in the last year, would have otherwise gone unnoticed). Deadspin pretty much covered the whole thing, and there's no real need for me to rehash the incident, other than to just pile on. So let's pile on, shall we?

I know I've said before that I'd watch the Mets in an active volcano if that's where they played, but I have limits to what I'd risk to see my favorite team in person. For instance, if I don't think I'd go out to Flushing if there was a chance I'd get my head cut off.

That, apparently, is the risk run by fans of the Indios, a soccer team from Ciudad Juarez, a border town where drug-related gang violence has reached Robocop-levels of insanity. A story in yesterday's New York Times details how the city's residents have rallied around the team, despite the insane danger they face simply by leaving the house:

But the lurid headlines, the murder of the deputy police chief and the threats to decapitate the mayor [!] have not deterred soccer fans, at least on game days.

But the players are probably insulated from the such insanities. Hey, they're celebrities, right? Well...

Andrés Chitiva, a native of Colombia, was released in December, partly because he played poorly, partly because he was shaken by a menacing phone call, team officials said. "He got scared," said Francisco Ibarra Molina, the team president. "They wanted money or they would kidnap his kids."

Needless to say, these conditions make it difficult for the team to attract star players, or get a bigger stadium built. I imagine the mayor's got bigger issues on his mind than building a new arena, like not getting his head lopped off.

Would you go to any event in a city like this? Would you even live in such a place, if you had any choice?

And yet, according to the article, the Indios pretty much sell out their games, and no incidents erupt during the games. Of course, once the matches end, it's back to business as usual--which, in Juarez, means over 2000 murders in the last 14 months.

Think about that the next time you wanna complain about $15 parking fees and $7 beers.

A while back, I shared my New Year's resolution that I would no longer listen to WFAN (other than Mets games and Steve Somers). Unfortunately, as happens with most New Year's resolutions, I've chipped away at mine until it's compromised into oblivion.

For instance, when I get in the shower in the mornings, I feel compelled to turn on the radio, and tune it to WFAN while doing so. Even though WFAN's morning show--Boomer and Carton--is god awful.

Check that: Boomer Esiaison's not bad, but lord, Craig Carton sucks hard and long. The guy was spawned in the same secret frat boy lab where they genetically engineer morning zoo radio hosts. He's got the same stupid, misogynistic, homophobic, and proudly ignorant opinions about sports--and life--that you can hear on any morning show in any city.

So why do I listen to it? I don't know. I wish I could tell you what compels me to listen to something that just makes me angry and starts my day off on a bad foot. But so help me God, I don't know.

This morning was the absolute nadir, though. As was just getting ready to leave the bathroom post-shower, Carton started talking about how he was "worried" about David Wright after watching him in the WBC.

I knew exactly what Carton was going to say: That David Wright isn't "clutch". That's been the popular Angry Mets Fan Meme ever since last September. Why? Because everyone remembers Wright not driving in one run in one particular game against the Cubs down the stretch, so therefore he's not clutch.

Mind you, all this handwringing ignores the fact that Wright's stats in "clutch" situations (loosely defined though they are) are very good over the course of his career. But the kind of people who get upset over Wright's supposed un-clutch-ness are not the types to be swayed by evidence and logic.

It also didn't help that Carton's radio-mate Mike Francesa spent the entire off-season pounding the completely baseless "Wright Ain't Clutch" point over and over again, while also begging the Mets to trade him so they could "break up the core".

(And then Francesa had the nerve to be offended when Wright didn't want to talk to him during his visit to Port St. Lucie. I was gonna say Francesa's got some chrome-plated balls, but it's more likely they're fortified with Diet Coke and Funyuns.)

Again, I know exactly what Carton's going to say. So do I turn off the shower radio and go my merry way? Of course not. I go into my bedroom, turn on the clock radio, and tune it to WFAN and hear him say exactly what I know he's going to say. Even though I know it'll just make me angry.

As I listen and seethe in my bedroom, The Wife walks in, hears that I'm listening to WFAN, and scowls at me. And I feel like a drunk who got caught sneaking a belt of vodka from a secret bottle in his sock drawer.

She reminds me of my resolution, and I give the lame retort that it was okay because Carton was talking about the Mets (even though, as I said, he wasn't exactly breaking big news). And again, I feel like the drunk who attaches more and more conditions on his teetering sobriety. "Yeah, baby, I know I said I wouldn't drink no more *hic* but see, it's okay to drink on a Tuesday cuz it is! *hic*"

Can anyone out there help me with this problem? Seriously. I recognize that I am powerless against my addiction.

Jay Mariotti is here, ready to light up AOL Fanhouse with his unique brand sarcastic humor and avoiding locker room confrontation. Where's my desk? Where's the cafeteria? Do you guys have a Good Humour vending machine?
Um, Jay, I'm afraid you misunderstood. When we offered you a job, it wasn't at AOL Fanhouse, it was at AOL Fun House!
AOL Fun House? What's that?
Why, it's only the most radical, awesomest house of all! And here's the guy who put the fun in AOL Fun House, J.D. Roth!

STEINBRENNERUS: Have you gotten my first baseman, Seneca?

BRIAN CASHMAN: Um, it's Brian, but yes, we have signed Mark Teixeira.
STEINBRENNERUS: Bring him forth.

STEINBRENNERUS: Ah, but he's a strapping buck of a man! Can he perform?

MARK TEIXEIRA: Well, I'm pretty much guaranteed for 30 homers and 100 RBIs every year.
STEINBRENNERUS: Ah, this pleases the Steinbrenner! Yes, he shall provide me hours of amusement! Place him over there with the Sabathia and the Burnett.

* Dock Ellis, 63, of cirrhosis of the liver. Twelve-year veteran of the major leagues, with most of those seasons spent as a starting pitcher for Pittsburgh. Went 19-9 for the 1971 world champion Pirates. Went to the Yankees in the same deal that brought Willie Randolph to NY, and notched a 17-8 record for the 1976 AL pennant winners. Also pitched for the Rangers, A's, and Mets.

Oh, and he pitched a no-hitter while out of his gourd on LSD.

Or so he claimed 14 years after the fact. I tend to be suspicious of people who add sexy backstory a decade-and-half later, especially when that backstory involves narcotics. Ex-drug users don't have the most reliable memories. But Ellis' story is so good that I want it to be true.

The story goes that during a West Coast trip in 1970, Ellis thought the Pirates had an off day. So he decided to spend it relaxing in his hometown of LA. And what could be more relaxing than mimicking the effects of schizophrenia with lysergic assitance?

Unfortunately, about an hour into his trip, Ellis' female companion read the newspaper and discovered that the Pirates didn't have a day off. In fact, they were playing a doubleheader. In San Diego. Oh, and he was supposed to start game 1. Oops! I wonder what on earth could have made Ellis so forgetful?

Today, Scratchbomb hands over the reins to nationally syndicated sports columnist Skitch Hanson, as we've done many times before. You may know him as the author of the highly popular syndicated column "Up The Middle." You may also have read his best-selling book Ebbetts Field and Johnny Unitas: Why Everything Good in Sports Has Already Happened. He's also a frequent guest on ESPN's sportswriters panel show I Disagree With You. Without further ado, here's Skitch.

Greetings from Beijing! Or should I say, "How Knee"! That's how they say "hello" here in China, which is where I am, covering this year's Summer Olympian Games! It's so exciting to cover a special event such as this, something I look forward to so much every year! Except for those years when there aren't any Olympics.

It took some doing to get here, of course. I had to convince my editor that I would actually do some work on this trip and not spend the whole time consumed by my favorite off-hours hobby. But I assured him that China would give me very few opportunities to collect Lawrence Welk memorabilia.