Category Archives: Sports

Rocky Rhodes: Flogging Some Dead Horses

Grant “Rocky” Rhodes is America’s oldest living sportswriter. He first rose to prominence in 1917, when he thumbwrestled Ty Cobb into submission to settle a bet between Babe Ruth and Al Capone. In 1958, for reasons that remain murky, he stole Paul Hornung’s Heisman Trophy and dared the quarterback to retrieve it; Hornung did not accept the challenge. His weekly sports column, “The Cat’s Pajamas”, appears in 7000 newspapers nationwide when not bumped for “Hints from Heloise” or “Funky Winkerbean”. Today, he graces Scratchbomb with his nine decades of sports wisdom to comment on an exciting weekend of athletic action.

rocky.jpg

May 5 will be the best damn day in sports in a long, tired time. Both The Sport of Kings and The Sweet Science will hit the town in their Sunday best, even though it’s a Saturday. We’ve got the Kentucky Derby and the Floyd Mayweather/Oscar de la Hoya fight. Nothing could keep me away from either event, except that I’m not allowed away from the assisted living facility for more than six hours at a time.

Plus, I can’t fly to either event because my doctor says a pressurized airplane cabin just might crush my hips to a fine powder. So I’ll have to park myself in front of the TV in the common room and hope no one wants to watch “Touched By An Angel”.

Of course, you snot-nosed punks out there won’t watch either of these epic battles. You’ll tune in to the NBA playoffs or the NHL playoffs or some damn baseball game or something. Fine, go ahead. We don’t need you. You wouldn’t know a real sport if it spit in your eye.

I know what you’re gonna say: I know plenty about football…, and I’m gonna tell you to shut your ugly girly mouth. If you think football’s a real sport, I’ll eat my fedora, and that damn thing hasn’t left my scalp since LBJ was sworn in.

Football players wear pads. You know who else wears pads? Women. And I know this isn’t a politically correct thing to say nowadays, but women are no good at nothing. Except for one thing, and you red-blooded fellas know what I’m talking about.

That’s right–making pot roast.

My judgment of a Man’s Sport is this: Can I smoke a cigar while watching it live? By that definition, only two sports qualify. Boxing and horse racing, end of story.

You kids raised on ESPN wouldn’t know this, but boxing and horse racing were once among America’s most popular spectator sports. A 1937 poll in Collier’s ranked them second only to baseball, and way ahead of golf, hoop-hitting and stick-retrieving. It was a more innocent time, when people didn’t need video games or fancy coffees to entertain themselves. No, they were fine with the simple spectacle of two grown men smashing each other’s faces to a bloody pulp.

Boxers used to be enormously influential. Back in my day, the biggest show on the air was Chesterfield Presents Joe Louis! Radios all across the nation tuned in every Wednesday night to hear Joe punch stuff for 90 minutes.

Horse racing was even more important. Why, Tennessee sent a horse to Congress in 1942. I think Senator Hot-to-Trot could’ve run for president, too, if he hadn’t broken a leg climbing the Capitol steps.

So what happened? Everything happened. Television. Dope. Hippies. Jane Fonda. Designer jeans. Boy George. Pasteurization. Godzilla. Ralph Nader. President’s Weekend. Lawnmower races. The concept of flight. Bran muffins. Eve Arden…

Christ, I lost my train of thought.

My point is, boxing and horse racing aren’t just sports for old men. After all, auto racing’s more popular than ever, and there’s no damn difference between NASCAR and a horse race. Except the horses are made of metal and have internal combustion engines and run on gas instead of oats and synthetic hormones. But in both sports, the “vehicles” are driven by tiny, angry men with enormous egos.

As for boxing, since when did punching go out of style? Look at all this crazy ultimate fighting that’s on TV all the time. Hell, if it wasn’t for UFC, Spike TV would just be a Pros vs. Joes marathon followed by a Deep Space Nine marathon. If young folks today will watch two tattooed freaks kick each other on basic cable, why won’t they watch a non-title
welterweight boxing match on pay-per-view for only $60?

If getting old has taught me anything, it’s that everything gets worse every god damn day. And yet, I still hold out hope that boxing and horse racing will return to their heydays as the premier sports in this country. Tastes ebb and flow. Things once consigned to obscurity can hit the big time once again.

They once said that newspapers would die, thanks to the fax machine. Now, the fax machine is deader than vaudeville and the newspaper is bigger than ever! Records were supposed to disappear once “blank tapes” were invented, but last time I checked, people were still dropping their hard-earned cash on LPs. There’s no reason boxing and horse racing can’t follow the same glorious road back to the top!

And if boxing and horse racing don’t make a comeback, you can bite my wrinkly ass, America

NL Preview with Skip “Wheels” Slater

Skip “Wheels” Slater spent 17 years in the major leagues, and holds the record for getting picked off first base in more different uniforms than any other player (23). He made headlines in 1983 when the Atlanta Braves offered his services to any other team at any professional level in return for a bag of balls and a bottle of Neat’s foot oil; they found no takers. After his involuntary retirement, Slater spent several years as a baseball analyst for ESPN. He was fired from his post in 2003, when, during a “Baseball Tonight” segment, he called John Kruk “dumber than a shit-stained pair of drawers, with three times the stench”. Since then, he’s lent his unique perspective on the game to everyone from USA Today to the Shop-Rite Pennysaver. Scratchbomb is pleased to present his National League preview.

Slater’s 1975 Topps card, now a rare collectible because every kid who found it in a pack of 1975 Topps threw it out.

Most baseball “experts” like the superstars. The big home run hitters. The fireballing pitchers. They tell you that these are the guys who win games.

These experts are bald-faced liars. There, I said it. These men (and the occasional woman) are liars, and whenever I meet one of these guys, I never hesitate to give them a knuckle sandwich right in their lying mouths. Some people might call that “hot-headedness” or “criminal assault”. But I always remember what my pappy said: “You catch someone in a lie, punch ’em right in the face. Then go run and hide in a ditch somewheres.”

No, the guys who really win you ball games are the scrappy little players. The guys who drag bunt in the 9th when their team’s down by 6 runs. The guys who sprint to first after they’ve been plunked in the hip. The guys who are frequently used as coasters for the other players’ Gatorade cups. These players might be tiny and weak and injury prone and possibly asthmatic and sometimes they’re albino. But they leave it all out on the field, every time they run out of the dugout on their tiny, scrawny legs.

I know this because I was one of those guys. During my career, I was never the fastest guy on the field. Or the biggest. Or the tallest. And I almost never hit a home run. Or even a double. And I didn’t hit for average and I didn’t draw too many walks either. And a lot of times, pitchers would throw straight at my helmet ’cause they thought it was funny to watch my puny little body twitch around in the dirt.

But I was willing to do anything to help my team. Go up to the plate and take a pitch off my ribcage? You got it, skip! Play right field when Boog Powell was too hungover to stand up straight? No problem, coach! Lay down in field and act as second base during an equipment shortage? Just go ahead and paint me white!

I hear a lot of these stat-head types talk a lot of crap about this kind of player, saying they’re a sentimental waste of a roster spot. Thing is, these are the same eggheads who made up a crazy new stat called VORP: Value Over Replacement Player. It’s supposed to measure the worth of a player versus that of an average player at that position.

Two can play at that game, fellas. If you’re gonna measure a monster home run hitter or a strike out king against an average player, then you can do the same with my kind of player, the scrappy little go-getters who make the most of the tiny drops of talent God has given them. My premise is, when a squirt like Joe McEwing bats .250, it’s as impressive as when a regular player hits .300.

Of course, I needed some hard evidence, and I ain’t too good with math. So I went over to Cal Tech with my old buddy Joe Morgan. We kicked down the door of the statistics department and gave ’em all wedgies and locked ’em in the lab until they came up with a fancy new stat that would prove what I’ve known my whole life: a tiny, scrappy player is
actually worth more than what his seemingly measly statistics say he’s worth.

The basic formula we came up with is this:

[(height in inches + average number of annual trips to the DL) *
(dirt accumulated on uniform in cubic centimeters + bunt attempts)] /
[years spent in minors + positions played at least twice at the major league level]

This gives us a player’s Graduated Resident Intensity Tally, or GRIT. The average major leaguer has a GRIT of 0. Superstars like Albert Pujols or Roy Oswalt have negative GRITs, because their enormous natural talent precludes any need to employ GRIT-heavy metrics. And of course, players like Darin Erstad have huge GRIT levels, because it takes 100 percent of their total effort to equal about 65 percent effort from the average player.

Running this metric on all the players in the National League, I’ve determined that the following teams are the ones to watch this year:

NL East: Philadelphia Phillies
Yeah, they got the reigning MVP, and Chase Utley’s good if you like a young second baseman who can hit to all fields. But the real difference maker on this team will be third baseman Wes Helms. He’s a gritty, gutty, blue-collar player, not like all those other fancy white-collar third basemen in this division. Then there’s pocket-sized outfielder Shane Victorino, who can zip around the bases on those rare occasions when he reaches safely. And of course, they have Aaron Rowand, a fantastic player who could have led the league in GRIT if he hadn’t broken his face against an outfield fence so early in the season. A never-give-up and never-think-things-through attitude–that’s what wins you championships!

NL Central: Milwaukee Brewers
Jeff Suppan is my kinda pitcher. You watch him throw and you wonder to yourself, How in the hell can this junk get people out? And yeah, sometimes he gets lit up like a Christmas tree, but GRIT says he’s good for at least 7 Wins When His Team Scores 8 Runs Or More. Craig Counsell looks like he’s taken a few liners off his face, and I like players who make me look like a matinee idol in comparison. I also like guys who are sons of ex-major leaguers, and the Brewers have two of them (Prince Fielder and Tony Gwynn Jr.). That’s a lot of gritty genes right there!

NL West: Los Angeles Dodgers
Now that the evil Paul DePodesta and his merciless spreadsheets have been banished, it’s good times in La-La Land! Juan Pierre is the scrappiest player on the Left Coast, and the fact that statheads despise his lack of OBP (whatever that is) only makes me love him more. The Dodgers also still imploy Olmedo Saenz, at great expense to their precious roster spots and daily meal allowances. And if I was Grady Little, I’d start gritty Mike Lieberthal over that young whippersnapper Russell Martin. Sure, Martin’s got more upside, but only Lieberthal can look so world-weary when he takes off his catcher’s mask to watch a double split the outfielders.

Wild Card: Cincinnati Reds
Here’s all you need to know: Ryan Freel talks to his imaginary friend while playing the outfield. That’s my kinda crazy. If that doesn’t convince you that this team is going places, take a look at that bullpen. Mike Stanton. David Weathers. Rheal Cormier. The list of grizzled, angry vets goes on and on! When I see a reliever go to the mound, I don’t wanna see some young hot shot like Jonathan Papelbon. I wanna see some guy who looks like his wife is on his ass to redo the kitchen, and his kids are begging him for money to buy some damn stupid thing, and the mound is his fortress of solitude against a world that’s
betrayed his youthful dreams. A team like this has gotta make the postseason, ’cause none of them wanna go home a month earlier than they have to.

Outtakes From Dick Vitale’s Voice Over Work On Ken Burns’ New Civil War Documentary

vitale.jpg“Okay, Mr. Vitale. The tape is rolling. You can start your reading whenever you’re ready.”

“First of all, I wanna say this is an honor. Doing voice over work for the
great Ken Burns. I mean, New York, The Civil War, The Brooklyn Bridge,
baby. You can’t beat that with a stick. It’s unbeatable, just like DiGiorno pizza. It’s not delivery, baby!”

“Thank you, Mr. Vitale. Now, whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay, baby, let’s do this! Civil War Part II! It’s awesome with a capital Appomatox, baby! We’re gonna make a Bull Run at another dozen Emmys! And lemme tell you, that violin theme song, whatever it’s called, that is undoubtedly the most moving piece of music ever written for television. If that doesn’t make you get all misty eyed, you gotta be made of stone, baby!”

“Okay, now if we could get to the script…”

“And my main man, Shelby Foote, with all of his poignant insights and Southern aphorisms. That man is a living legend. I’ve been around the block a few times, and lemme tell you: I’ve never seen a man who could drive home a bitter truth like Shelby Foote. He reminds me of another Southern gentleman: Coach K, baby! Never mind their late season
swoon–the Blue Devils are going to the Final Four! That’s right, folks, you heard it right–the Final Four is gonna be Duke, Ohio State, Florida, and Duke! I’d love to hear Shelby Foote’s bracket picks.”

“He’s dead. Please start your reading.”

“That’s a tragedy. Almost as bad as Syracuse not getting a tournament bid. I had Jim Boeheim over at my house and he had a good cry while we watched ‘Hoosiers’. Gene Hackman. Dennis Hopper. The quintessential sports movie. That high school basketball team coming back to win the state final, that’s a Cinderella story for the ages, baby! Kinda like how the Union stormed back to defeat the South. Ulysses S. Grant, baby! Grant and General Lee coming together to turn back the evil forces of Boss Hogg…”

“There’s a million things wrong with what you just said, but I’ll ignore all of them if you’ll just start your reading.”

“Listen up–I gotta mention my good friends at Boost Mobile. Sign up now for Dickie V’s Dipsy Doo Dunkeroo Bracketology Knowledge-y, and you can win tons of prizes. Hats. Shirts. Hats. More hats. It’s great! All you gotta do is text them your phone number so you can be harassed with messages for the next seven years, baby…”

“If you don’t start reading right now, I’m going to cut off oxygen to the sound booth.”

“Okay baby, let’s get rolling! Cue that weepy violin music, baby!”

“There’s no music. For the love of Jesus, please read.”

“*ahem* ‘My darling Melissa: Words can not express my longing for you. My pen trembles when I call to mind your alabaster skin, your soft amber curls, and the warmth of your smile. Know that you are in my thoughts every waking moment of every day. And know that when I lay my head down on a hard, unforgiving Army cot, the only thing that can soften the scratch of the canvas and bring on the sweet respite of slumber is to whisper your name. I feel it wrap around me as if I were an infant being swaddled and cradled to his sleep. Oh Melissa, would that I could promise to return home soon. Would that I could promise to return at all! But that is for Providence to decide. All I can do is pray that He shall see fit to return me to your arms. If He does not, then know that we shall see one another again in the sweet by and by. And know above all, that with my last breath, with my dying words, I shall utter but one phrase and be at peace:’ Coach K, baby!”

“The script doesn’t say that!”

“I know! I’m bringing my own Dickie V flavor to the material! It’s what the kids want!”

“Do any of you sound engineers have a taser?”