Monday, June 30, 2008

Boston Sports Tonight!


Red Sox v. Rays, 7:10 pm. The Sox make the switch from Minute Maid to Tropicana -- more vitamins! -- to kick off a series with the Rays, those scrappy sons-a-bitches who managed to gain a half-game lead on us thanks to our Texas suckitude this weekend. Tempers flared in memorable fashion last time these two teams collided, and with Grade-A Jackass James Shields (5-5, 3.76) on the mound for Tampa Bay tonight it's likely that hostilities will continue. Baby-faced stringbean Justin Masterson (4-1, 3.43) looks about as dangerous as Big Bird on Ambien, so hopefully he'll have enough common sense to keep out of the bullshit. Meanwhile, Akinori Iwamura better have found himself some gat-damn full-body Kevlar because that dude just cannot get a break from nasty slides at second. It's no secret that I love me some Evan Longoria, but I'm getting pretty sick of the Rays and their crap. We've got 3 divisional series (plus one with the suddenly hot Twins) before the All-Star Break, which means an opportunity to head into the break with a solid lock on first. STARTING TONIGHT. Boom!

Frivolous prop bet of the night: Someone is going to get punched.

Serious prediction of the night: No, seriously. Someone is going to get punched. Probably Iwamura, in fact. He's like the straight man in an old-timey pie-throwing slapstick short, where everyone around him keeps throwing pies and then ducking and he's always the one who winds up taking a pie to the face. Except instead of "a pie to the face" it's "a cleat to the groin."

Hey, remember in game 1 of the NLCS last year when Justin Upton plowed into Kaz Matsui at second base (and the sky grew dark with flying garbage)? Is there... there can't be... some kind of insane MLB-wide conspiracy to eliminate all second basemen of Japanese descent? Is... oh god! Someone get Tad Iguchi on the phone! NO ONE IS SAFE!

/is kidnapped by Bud Selig's thugs
/re-emerges a decade later, babbling about the importance of interleague play and the irrelevance of a salary cap in the post-steroids era

2 + 2 = 5

Saturday, June 28, 2008

That Poor, Poor Woman....

Hooker Wins 100-meter Qualifier in 10.76 Seconds

/used to run track

/knows what these women have to do to compete at an elite level

/knows her last name isn't her fault

/respects her achievement

/never broke 11.9 in the 100M himself

/shouldn't go there

/must resist easy joke

/resistance is difficult

/resistance is futile

/resistance crumbling

/resistance gone

In second place, at 10.79 seconds -- a pimp screaming "WHERE'S MY MONEY, BITCH??????"


Weekend Breakfast with the Hysterics


As we all wake from our alcohol induced stupor you might have missed the following last night:

* Mothra returns!!! Against the hapless Houstron Astros our Japanese overlord dominated the Astros over 7 innings and only allowing two hits at Enron Stadium. JD Drew theOverpaid, overrated THE BEST PLAYER ON THIS TEAM supported Mothra with a three run home run. Sox win 6-1. Can I send out a public challenge to any one in Red Sox nation that is reading this blog? Please stop throwing all of your all star votes behind guys like David Ortiz and Jason Varitek, who are marginal all stars this year and please VOTE IN JD DREW. He doesn't suck, he isn't over paid, and the argument could be made that he is the MVP of this team.
/End rant

* Patrick Carpentier won the pole at the NASCAR car race in NH. I have no fucking idea what that means, but it sounds like its a big deal. Also the race was postponed because of slippery track conditions, this being a prime example of why I will never get into car racing. I would much rather watch slippery conditions, hell let these guys race on ice.

*Ana Ivanovic was upset at Wimbledon by 133rd ranked Zheng Jie. Again I don't give a rats ass about tennis but it gives me an excuse to put up this picture.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Boston Sports Tonite!


Red Sox at Astros, 8:05 PM
It's "Fierce Historical Rivalries" weekend in The Abomination That Is Interleague Play!!!!! Mets/Yankees! Nationals/Orioles! Sox/Astros! The Sox begin an epic 10-game road trip tonight in Houston, once again placing their long-standing hatred of the oil industry and the space program in stark contrast with the Artists Formerly Known As The Colt .45s' long-standing support of English colonization and tea taxation. Expect at least 30 fans to be seriously injured in the resulting ruckus. Your pitching matchup tonight: Mothra (8-1, 3.46) vs. former Major League pitcher Runnymeade Runnydiarrhea RunDMC Runelvys Hernandez (0-0, 0.00), who was just called up from the minors after undergoing offseason Tommy John surgery.

Frivolous prop bet of the night: OH MY GOD -- THAT'S SHAWN CHACON'S MUSIC!!!!

Serious prediction of the night: Jerry Remy refers to Minute Maid Park as "Enron Field" at least once during the broadcast.

Coming tomorrow (probably): The Pimp's mid-season report on the Sox.

Goodnight, Peepaw Will.....

As many of you (i.e. all of you) who read this blog probably already know, today is Will Leitch's last day holding the title of "William Prince of Interblogs, Editor of Deadspin, Protector of the Balls, Guardian of the Order of Nibbles, and Protector of Bissingeria". Since we at Mass Hysteria -- Deadspinners all -- are nothing if not slavishly imitative hit-whores, we (and by "we" I mean "I") thought it would be appropriate to pen our own little sendoff to our beloved emo editor.

Yeah, we're sort of the new kids on the block here, and therefore our tribute will sort of be the equivalent of us pretending to be grown-ups at the kid's table, while the KSK guys sit at the "real" table, get drunk, and start molesting each other's rectums. But we'll give it a try nonetheless.

I came to Deadspin through Defamer, Gawker's LA-themed gossip blog, which I still frequent out of a sense of adopted-homesickness. Hence, I wasn't there at the beginning beginning -- Deadspin had run "in the background", unlinked but accessible, for a couple of months prior to its "official" launch via link posts on all the Gawker sites. I stayed because Will, although it's often lost in the shuffle, is actually a gifted writer, with a light, conversational style that's both literate and easy to read. And eventually, over time, Deadspin formed into a little enclave of like-minded cretins and retards like myself, where everyone got to be one of the cool kids every once in a while. And then, like amoebae frissoning into copies of themselves (note to self: check and see if that actually means what you think it does), some of these like-minded cretins came together outside of their little Deadspin community, in order to form a more perfect destruction of the mainstream media's view of the internet. And then came the spankings. And the oral sex.

Wait, that didn't happen. What the hell was my point again? Oh yeah -- the point is, Will was always the touchstone for us, showing us how to do things the right way, and giving us spinoffs a little linky love every now and then. And now he's off to the New Yorker, where hopefully he will be able to handle the beatings and the sodomy after Roger Angell decides to defend his position of Alpha Male against the threatening newcomer.

So good luck, Will, and may Barbaro guide you on your golden path to becoming a totally obnoxious New York intellectual. And don't think for a second that you can bring your Enos Slaughter-loving Cardinals crap back to Fenway any time soon....


/you can bring your Cardinals-loving crap back if you want

One last word, though -- Simmons was totally wrong. This picture -- which will haunt me until the end of days -- says one, and only one thing:

"My James Spader Fan Club turned out to be far less popular than I anticipated."

Good luck, Will!

/dick joke

Breakfast with the Hysterics


Your trusty football editor returns to his post today and wants to clear the air on his disappearance. I was not in rehab, or recovering from a sex change operation, or anything to do with transvestite prostitutes. Work has just kicked my ass lately, and yes my job does involve macaroni art and four square. So prepare for more shoddy grammar, obscure references that only I will get, and two scoops of daily fiber with your morning breakfast

Hop aboard for herpes!

* The NBA draft happened last night, and well no one seemed content with their picks. OJ Mayo was traded along with the Manatee that was Antoine Walker for the great white dope Kevin Love. Richard Jefferson was traded for YI Jianwhatever. Derrick Rose went #1 and will return to the mean streets of Chicago, while Michael Beasley will be in M-I-A. The HAHAHAHAHA New York HAHAHAHAHA Knicks drafted Danillo Gallinari.

* The Celtics selected a great character player in JR Gidden, who was thrown off of Bill Self's Kansas team after repeated violation of team rules. Hey he could be Len Bias, or he could be a stronger James Posey... after we won the title can't we give Ainge a little bit of slack? In the second round the Celtics traded a bag of money for the rights to Bill Walker and his shoddy ACL's and some large guy from Turkey who won't be around for a few years.

* My boy Brian Runge was suspended by MLB for bumping Mets manager Jerry Manuel. What kind of backward ass world is this where umps bump managers? I can't wait for the day when CB Bucknor choke slams Ozzie Guillen.

* Shawn Chacon was released by the Houston Astros after beating the crap out of General Manager Ed Wade. So let me get this straight: if I pummel my boss I could lose my job?

Thursday, June 26, 2008

NBA Draft Liveblog

1. Derrick Rose – CHI – If Rose is Chris Paul Version 2.0, then who gets to play the David West Memorial “frontcourt guy whose stats become inflated due to a superior point guard? I'm thinking Aaron Gray. And why in God’s name did they let Stephen A. Smith do the personal interviews again? It makes no sense to reward these kids, on the happiest day of their young lives, by being yelled at by a retarded man.
2. Michael Beasley – MIA – Look kids, the next Derrick Coleman, and I don’t mean that in a good way. Maybe it’s just cause I don’t trust a guy who always looks like he’s sleeping. Also, I 'm glad to see that New Era is rolling out the “Hideous Collection” of hats this year. Meanwhile, Pat Riley looks like his cat just died.
3. OJ Mayo – MIN – Now playing the role of OJ Mayo: Farnsworth Bentley, minus the umbrella. Seriously though, this guy’s going to be an absolute star, especially now that he can start accepting financial gifts without fear of NCAA recourse.
4. Russell Westbrook – SEA – This pick was dumber than a retard bus going backwards on a one-way road. It was dumber than Lamar Odom in reading class. It was dumber than the plot to the new Indiana Jones movie. With the fourth pick, you probably should get someone who can shoot or dribble, especially if he’s going to be playing the point. It’s like they’re purposefully trying to give Kevin Durant a heart attack before he turns 25.
5. Kevin Love – MEM –My roommate just saw Love and said “hey, look, K-Fed.” So he’s got that going for him. Brian Cardinal has also gotta be fucking psyched that he has someone to go to the movies with. As opposed to Mike Conley and Rudy Gay, who will spend the rest of the season screaming “catch up motherfucker!”
6. Danilo Gallinari – NYK – AHAHAHAHAHA. Knicks fans are shitting all over Big Cock, and he made it even worse by stumbling through his interview. Here’s hoping that Gallinari embraces the boos and turns into a 70’s style foreign wrestling villain, singing the Italian national anthem while attempting to spit on the US flag. There’s an 83% chance he’ll be mugged within the next two weeks.
7. Eric Gordon – LAC – Nice to see that the kid who played Webster is going back to Los Angeles, no matter how much Stephen A. tries to convince us that he’s a “bad man.” Yeah, bad for a first grader. And between Gordon, Al Thornton and Corey Maggette jacking up shots, Elton Brand may be currently filming a hostage video to get himself out of LA.
8. Joe Alexander – MIL – I wasn’t sure about this pick, until I saw someone holding a sign that said “Joe Alexander – Vanilla Sky.” God, I really don’t ask much of you, but can you please make this nickname stick?
9. D.J. Augustin – CHA – Huh? I know Raymond Felton isn’t exactly a world-beater, but a 5-10 guard isn’t exactly what this team needs. Michael Jordan must have bet someone that he could fuck up a team worse than the Wizards. Though I must say, it is funny to see Brook Lopez cry like he’s watching one of his hundreds of Disney movies.
10. Brook Lopez – NJN – Nenad Kristic, Josh Boone, DeSagana Diop, Yi Jianlan, Sean Williams and now Lopez? It’s like the Nets are purposefully accumulating players over 6-10 who possess little to no ability to score a basket in the NBA. Good luck with alllll that.
11. Jerryd Bayless – IND – Bayless is a great value pick, and he can sit behind TJ Ford and learn the position until the time comes when Ford falls on his head again and becomes John Graziano. Bayless’s all-white ensemble is also our leader in the clubhouse for Suit of the Night. NOTE later traded to Portland
12. Jason Thompson – SAC – A bit of a stretch here, as the Kings probably could have traded down ten or so spots and still picked up Thompson. He’s big, strong, and may get stabbed by Ron Artest. By the way, Rider’s most famous alumni: Digger Phelps.
13. Brandon Rush – POR – If Kansas loses the national championship game, Rush is a second-rounder. Let’s hope he doesn’t drink himself out of the league like his brother JaRon. Good thing nobody’s ever picked up a substance habit in Portland. NOTE later traded to Indiana
14. Anthony Randolph – GS – It’s nice to see the Warriors reach out to the country’s anorexics by picking Randolph. Dude makes Manute Bol look like Oliver Miller.
15. Robin Lopez – PHO – Shaq’s going to dunk on this guy so much during practice that he may actually be able to tell us exactly how Shaq’s ass tastes. A horrifically stupid pick, especially with Donte’ Green on the board. Mama Lopez looks like every elementary school art teacher ever.
16. Marreese Speights – PHI – Speights goes to the GREATEST UNIVERSITY EVER, WAAAY BETTER THAN YOURS though I’ll admit I could be somewhat biased. (You guys are going to absolutely hate my Gator-centrism during football season) Speights’ potential is absolutely off the charts, and if his nasty habit of sometimes “being really fucking lazy” can be broken, the Sixers will have themselves a helluva power forward. Worst case, he’s better Jason Smith or Shavlik Randolph.
17. Roy Hibbert – IND – Hey, look kids, it’s the black Bryant Reeves! That should go well.
18. JaVale McGee – WAS – McGee has a 7-6 wingspan, which means he can high-five two people who are standing very far away from each other. I just asked, and my girlfriend won’t let me name our first child “JaVale.”
19. J.J. Hickson – CLE – “Must Improve: Work Ethic.” Sure, because that'll keep LeBron in Cleveland past 2010.
20. Alexis Ajinca – CHA – This guy couldn’t average more than five points per game in the French league. Charlotte had two picks in the first round, and somehow made their team worse. Thank God that Diabetic Counterculture Hero Adam Morrison will be making his triumphant return this year, leading to the Bobcats to victory that will in no way involve premature tears. And that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I own two Morrison jerseys.
21. Ryan Anderson – NJN – This guy looks like the entire starting five for Lynnfield High. the way, this was the Mavs’ pick from the Jason Kidd trade. Has a trade ever negatively affected both teams involved as much as that one? Also, Darrell Arthur’s mother should not be wearing that shirt – it’s like her arms just went swimming. Speaking of sweat, my taint was just registered as national wetland.
22. Courtney Lee – ORL – Lee is the fourth player with a girl’s name to be selected tonight, behind Brook, Robin and Alexis. Actually, he may be the fifth, as I’m not sure what the hell “Danilo” means, or whether “Marreese” is actually gender-neutral.
23. Kosta Koufous – UTA – In the fine tradition of Greg Ostertag and Mark Eaton, Koufous will fill the role of “awkward and immobile Jazz center.” He also looks like he’s 12 years old, which is roughly the fifth time I’ve seen a player’s picture tonight and thought “wait, how the hell is he old enough to be drafted by the NBA.” God I feel old.
24. Serge Ibaka – SEA - The last basketball player I remember being named Serge was former UNC center Serge Zwikker, who was Dutch and useless. This Serge is from the Congo, so I don’t think they’re related.
25. Nicolas Batum – HOU – JESUS CHRIST THEY ALL LOOK LIKE CHILDREN! AND ITS MAKING ME HATE MYSELF. This one happens to be a French child with no handle that happens to play the same position as Tracy McGrady. Chances are we won’t be seeing him in the US until he’s at least old enough to grow facial hair.
26. George Hill – SAS – Nice to see someone from IUPUI drafted in the first round. If you turn IUPUI into a word, it sounds like “Eweey-Pooey.”
27. Darrell Arthur – POR – Apparently he has some sort of kidney problem, which may be related to his mother’s sweaty giant arm problem. ESPN mentioned that she was a truck driver, but they happened to forget that she was also the World’s Strongest Man:
28. Donte’ Green – MEM – Not to be confused with former Celtic Dontae’ Jones. That Dontae’ set the bar by playing 15 games in his career, but this Donte’ may be slightly better.
29. D.J. White – DET – Between Jason Maxiell, Antonio McDyess, Rasheed Wallace and now White, the Pistons have won the award for “frontcourt you’d least like to make angry under any circumstances.” Joe Dumars isn’t building a team, he’s building a bodyguard rotation.
30. J.R. Giddens – BOS – Giddens already has something in common with Paul Pierce – both were stabbed outside of bars. Giddens apparently a giant douchebag and was kicked off of two separate college basketball teams, so I suggest they immediately lock him in a room with KG and let Garnett beat the shit out of him until he promises to behave.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a taint to air out.

Boston Sports Tonight!


Nothin' doin' tonight, sexies. Sit back and savor the distinct old-man-ball taste of last night's win over the Diamondbacks. Maybe catch up with your significant other or spend some time with your kids. Or if you're like me and have neither of those things, go out and get faced. WOO! Either way, we all have a night off before the Sox head to Houston for a series with the Astros and Lance Berkman's Bat Of Destiny. Speaking of Houston, by the way, what we have to do to convince the MLB that every season needs to include some sort of "Juice Wars" where the Rays and the Astros square off at their respective juice-themed parks for the title of Supreme Juiciness? The promotional possibilities are endless.

Apologies all around, by the way, for some less-than-Hysterical slacking off lately. Life happens, you know? But the surgery went well, and although it's going to a while before my twin and I are used to living separate lives, I think in the end it'll be for the better. I'm still kind of pissed off that she got the good kidney, though.

Enjoy the night!

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Boston Sports Tonight!


Red Sox vs. Diamondbacks -- Already In Progress The abomination that is interleague play comes to an end tonight -- at least as far as Fenway goes. It's a battle of age vs. even more age as Tim "I'm the Timmy who doesn't suck right now" Wakefield takes on professional Big Bird imitator RanDeE Johnson.

College World Series Game 3 -- Fresno St. vs. Georgia (Already In Progress)
PING PING FUCKING PING!!!! You mean that instead of watching the Sox/Diamondbacks game, I could be watching inferior players playing the same game at a lower level, except it sounds like a retarded 4-year-old playing with a tuning fork? And it's all set among the glorious meat-based ambiance of Omaha??????? WHERE DO I FUCKING SIGN UP???!?!?!?!?111!?

Discussing Tomorrow's NBA Draft -- your home or local watering hole
I mean.... when your team has the chance to draft #30 in a what is generally regarded to be a weak and shallow draft..... that's going to just DOMINATE sports talk!

Frivolous Prop Bet of the Night
Randy Johnson kills a pigeon with a fastball; is immediately traded to Wimbledon for Rafael Nadal and a racquet-stringer.

Serious Bet of the Night
Youkilis is lifted from the game before it ends. Gawd, that's a WIKID shinah youse got theah, pally!

Why I Couldn't Give Two Shits About The College World Series






Why You Should Care About NASCAR

With this weekend's NASCAR race taking place in New England, I asked my NASCAR-loving friend Kevin to provide me with reasons why I, or anyone from here, should give even half a shit. Here was his response:

I'll give you 7 reasons you aren’t interested in Sunday’s NASCAR race in Loudon:

1) It is so easy you could do it. When was the last time you took a highway exit ramp at more than 50mph? More than 40mph? Never? Suck my balls on this one; try to actually imagine taking those turns at 100mph, with other cars 1 foot to either side of you. Now do it on ice, because they don’t race on the grippiest of tires.

Now replicate that 1000 times. Don’t crash either. You can cost yourself, and your team hundreds of thousands of dollars in winnings. Last year’s winner got $240,000. Dead last, 43rd place got $68,000. And each car costs about $150k-$200k to build. So there’s that to think about as well.

2) You don’t like football. How does this relate to racing? I wrote a paper once in high school about why people love football so much. My theory was that people enjoyed the enduring possibility of a big exciting play happening – Moss catching a 20yd out pass on 3rd & 19, Purple Jesus breaking away for 40 while deftly avoiding HGH junkies hell-bent on asserting their manliness to him, or Joe Theisman’s leg snapping like your girlfriend after you pull the “Whoop’s wrong hole” – routine. Who gives a shit about Antowain Smith running 2 yards into Damien Woody’s ass? I theorized that you watch to see something dynamic happen.

In racing, there are of course spectacular crashes, and even occasional fights between drivers post-race. But the real thrill is watching two drivers racing for position, knowing that the slightest mistake leads to crashing, money lost, and pissed owners and sponsors who fork over up to $20mil per year, not to have their logo end up in a scrap heap. It’s that on-the-edge excitement that we watch football and why I love NASCAR.

Another note – If Albert Haynesworth steps on you during a game, and you vow revenge for the next time you face him, when will that be? If you’re in the NFC, your best bet is the Super Bowl, otherwise it’s “see you in 4 years”. In NASCAR, revenge is a close as next week.

3) You don’t like Tailgating, cookouts, alcohol, or friendly people. If this is you, check into a mental hospital, you may be the next Manson. Football tailgating is for pussies who get up early on game day and have a cookout from 8am until kickoff. A portion of NASCAR fans tailgate for an entire week, and then continue after the race into Monday or Tuesday.

NASCAR races are giant parties, where everyone is friendly, willing to share some food or beer, and chat you up, even if you can’t understand them because they forgot their dentures that morning. If you find the right family / group / Dukes of Hazzard duo to park next to, you may get a treat of some of the best BBQ you’ve ever tried.

I’d be remiss if I neglected to inform you that once its race time; the racetracks allow you to bring in your own beer (that’s right – you have the option of not paying $6 for watered down Bud Light). Everyone is happy at NASCAR. Drunkery aside.

4) You have better ways to spend a Sunday. Beach going – the race is outside in the sun – check. Cookouts – check. Drinking – check. Mattress shopping – 1-800-Mattres (leave the last “s” off for savings) – check. Exploring New England – have you been to Loudon yet? No? I didn’t think so – check.

5) You don’t like “people-watching”. First, you’re a liar. Second, you have no idea what you are missing: America, Confederacy, America, Camouflage, America, Tattoos, Tattoos of America, Lynyrd Skynyrd, America, unashamed fat people, America, the catwalk in Paris’ worst nightmare, America.

I've had two different friends attend races with me who had never been before, and both are itching to go back solely because of points 3 and 5.

6) You don’t know who to root for. This is simple, as NASCAR is a giant marketing vehicle. Pick your favorite soul crushing, mega-conglomerate that you purchase from and go from there – Budweiser, Mountain Dew, Home Depot, Best Buy, M&M’s, Little Debbie (yummy snack cakes), Target, or Bass Pro Shops (don’t laugh, Patriots Place has one, and its apparently the largest outdoor goods store around). There’s even a Kotex sponsorship for the ladies in the lesser Nationwide series.

If nothing appeals to you, then root for Dale, and you’ll instantly be everyone’s friend. Root for Jeff Gordon, and you take your life into your own hand. Fuckers.

7) You don't want to try something new. Maybe you don't like NASCAR because you are close minded, and unwilling to experience something new, and that god forbid might be entertaining on some level. 5 years ago, I was in your shoes, was given free tickets to a race, and experienced NASCAR in person, far from what can be portrayed on TV.

Right as the cars are pacing around the track before the start of the race, you’re experiencing the calm before the storm; you can feel the anticipation in the air that you and 110,000 of your friends have waited all year to witness.

Finally the cars come off turn 4 and the green flag waves. Instantly, 43 drivers each sitting atop an 800 horsepower machine, and close enough to barely walk between the cars, slam their gas pedal, and with a roar and rumble unlike any train, rollercoaster, or jet, come screaming past you. You witness 20 feet away from you, what a blur moving at over 130mph actually looks like. The ground shakes so much you feel it through your bones. Testosterone and awesomeness defined.

Your Mass Hysteria editors are terrible people

Sent at 10:30 AM on Wednesday

GHABBY,Y~!: is it sick of me to wish that lester would have faced doug davis last night instead of masterson so we could have the Battle of the Cancer Guys?

we are a couple of fucked up puppies


futuremrsrickankiel: omg
I'm truly saddened we did not get to experience that

i'm clearly going to hell

futuremrsrickankiel: no no because they don't STILL have cancer.
you're fine

GHABB,Y~!: they could have one of the jimmy fund kids throw out the first ball

futuremrsrickankiel: we are fucking terrible people.

karma's a bitch

Breakfast With the Hysterics

It feels like a cheese blintz sort of day...

*Game Two of the Bronson Moss First Base Extravaganza went better than the first, as the Sox came back in the eighth to beat the D-Backs 5-4. Cap' Varitek broke out of a 1-31 slump with the deciding single, though a pessimist (or Rob Deer) would point out that he's now only 2 for his last 32. Chris Smith got the win, being the person with the most boring name to earn a win for the Red Sox since The Other Greg Harris. Pedroia hit his seventh homer, and is probably taking gorilla steroids. Captain Underbite Youkilis did return in the ninth as a defensive replacement, so Moss's days at first may have come to a close, though we'll remember them warmly.

*Last night was also Jerry Remy Night at Fenway, as they've apparently run out of players and now have to resort to dedicating a night to a guy with a career .328 SLG. Seriously though, congrats to Remy for 20 years in the booth, and congrats to his publicist, who hopefully worked out a deal for a percentage of Remy-related product profit. Remy's a lot of things, but at least he's entertaining as hell.

*Loudon may be in danger of losing one of their NASCAR races if they don't get a huge crowd this Sunday. And if those people don't have NASCAR races to go to, then they'll run amok in our cities and towns, poisoning our children with their jorts and inappropriate yells of "Daaaale." So please, if only for our children, go to Sunday's race. I won't be going, because, well, I walk upright and have visited a dentist in my lifetime, but please, by all means, you should attend.

*The Bruins re-signed DEF Mark Stuart to a two-year deal, at $1.3million per. The B's also traded for minor league defenseman Johnny Boychuck, (is that Yiddish?) who spent last year with Bret Hart's Calgary Hitmen. No word on whether he's a sharpshooter.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Boston Sports Tonight!


Things to watch out for tonight:

(1) Rain
(2) Snakes
(3) Doug Davis

Red Sox v. Diamondbacks, 7:05 PM
It's Jerry Remy Night at Fenway! Get your official Jerry Remy Night T-Shirts at! You know, it's a quality product, Don... Mike and Lefty and Shlomo and all the other folks who work so hard to maintain the website have really outdone themselves this time with these shirts.... The folks down at RemDawgs on Yawkey Way really seemed to enjoy them. And Byrnes hits into an unassisted triple play, Pedroia fielding the liner himself. But back to the T-shirts, Don....

CanAm Baseball League: Quebec at Brockton, 7:05 PM
Ici, c'est maintenant! Les Quebecois, ici! Avec les battes et les balles et l'equippage de sport! Ou est la jeunne fille Amalie Benjamine? Oh la la! Ca, c'est bonne! J'ai desire de sauter ses os... plus longtemps! Avec les thrustes grandes! Um... arretez.... Qu'est-ce que c'est cette poste encore? Un joue de base-balle sur le Broquetonne? Va! Maintenant! Avec les battes! Et les peltes d'beaverres! Vive la Nouvelle Angleterre!

WNBA: Houston vs. San Antonio, 9 PM (ESPN2)
Some free advice: this game would be a good place to hide if you're on the run from the Mob.

Tuesday Storytime! - The Walmart Exlax Story

This is the first of what we hope will be weekly installments of Tuesday Storytime!, where we will step away from sports for a moment to regale our beloved readership with a true and interesting story. If you happen to have a story that you think would be perfect for Tuesday Storytime, please don't hesitate to send it along! I wrote the following in while in college in FL during 2003, and, sadly, it is 100% true:


This morning I awoke in a state of greater nausea than any human has ever encountered, save for Courtney Love's OB/GYN. The usual buffet of Tums, Pepto and Ginger Ale weren't doing the trick, and I am far too delicate a flower to pull the Tracey Gold Special. No, I figured to quell my nausea, it would be best to just get the shit out of my system. Literally.

So, riding the churning waters of nausea's digestive ocean, I made my way to the local Eckerd Drug store, in search of Extreme Measures. Few were to be found. Then, my eyes fell upon a certain box, one that may as well have contained a bright yellow DANGER sign. A disappointing sigh left my lungs, and, much like when they had to kill Old Yeller, I realized that I had no other choice.

I grabbed the box of Ex-Lax, and brought it to the counter, hidden of course under a bag of cough drops and a Kit-Kat, lest anyone behind me in line gain pleasure in the news that I'd be spending my day acting as a human fire hose. To speed up the process, I also procured a Moe's burrito, known worldwide for its cleansing powers. Still horrifically nauseated, I return to home and immediately took the recommended dosage of two tablets. The package told me that I was supposed to take two per day, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I then sat in my chair and waited for the inevitable "Rumble in the Jungle."

Two hours passed. No Rumble. No Jungle. No nothing. And of course it's not like I could go anywhere, because I knew that the second I left my dorm, that familiar bubble will hit. Isn't this stuff supposed to work quickly? Meanwhile, I'm still feeling like it's my first trimester. Something must be done. I looked at the box, examined my nauseous state, and made the executive decision to take two more Ex-Lax.

3pm came. Certainly now, after taking TWICE the recommended dosage, my system will be cleared. Right? 3:30. Notihng. 4:00. Not even a rumble. 4:30. Still nauseous, no exit in sight. 5pm. NO POOPIE. 6pm. NO POOPIE! WHAT THE FUCK?

Dinnertime struck, and being a diabetic, I have to eat at regular times or face even greater consequences than nausea or whatever this Ex-Lax would provide. So I ate, figuring maybe adding something to my stomach would either quell my nausea, or at the very least, jostle something to get the floodgates open. Right? I ordered Chinese takeout (that'll work for sure!), and consumed it post-haste, hoping to jostle the Colon Gods.

7pm now. I was getting gravely concerned. I hadn't gone eight hours without going to the bathroom in the past three months, and NOW, after FOUR ex-lax, I CAN'T GO???? I stare at the box. It taunts me a little bit, especially its warnings of "do not take more than two in a day" and "Do not take if you are a breastfeeding baby." I then make the fateful decision to turn four ex-lax into SIX. For you Math majors, that's three times the recommended dosage.
But it got even weirder. 8pm. No dice. Nine o clock...nothin...Ten? Not even a wet fart!

Now I was getting very annoyed and painfully nauseous. I had eaten two meals, taken six ex-lax, and yet the TP roll on my desk was sitting there, virginally unused, and the latest Sporting News lonely and unread. So, nauseous, tired, and frustrated, at midnight, I decided to go to Wal-Mart and get some milk and some Ny-Quil, to aid in sleep. Also, it should be noted that the DeLand Wal-Mart is the BIGGEST WALMART IN FLORIDA!!! And for a state south of the Mason-Dixon, that must mean that it's "pretty friggin huge."

So I hop in my car and start making my way towards Wal-Mart. And of course, almost as scripted, only THEN do I start to feel my first digestive rumble. And a second rumble. And a third, And VERY QUICKLY, my stomach is bubbling, rumbling, twisting and twirling as if I have a colonic centrifuge in full gear. But by this point I've gone too far. "Oh Shit" is all that can escape through my lips as I pull into the SuperGiantHugeMassiveMega Walmart Parking lot, and waddle into Capitalism Gone Wrong, reasoning "Okay, I'll just pick up my milk and NyQuil, and safely make it home, where I can rocket pure evil out of my colon without offending Wal-Mart shoppers." I pick up my basket, and waddle on down to get my milk, which is in one corner of the Wal-Mart complex. Earthquake-like rumblings are coming from my bladderial region now, and by this point the waddle has turned into a sliding saunter. I grab my half-gallon of moo juice, and start looking for the NyQuil.

Now I'm convinced that my friendly, blue-vested Wal-Mart employee must have seen the vein popping out of my forehead and the strained look on my face when I asked her the simple question "Where is the pharmacy section? I need some NyQuil so I can sleep." How did I know she noticed my expression? Because, with the look of sympathy that one gives to a girl who just watched her dog get run over, she removed a map (a map!) from her pocket, and pointed to the bottom left corner of that map. "You are here," she sympathetically remarked, and, in a cruel twist of fate, pointed to the top right corner of the map, which was roughly FIFTY MILES AWAY and said "the pharmacy is there." I sighed.a great, burdensome sigh that's subtlety could have been easily picked up by Helen Keller. I can make it. I can make it. I can make it. Just a little farther. Past the scores of Kathie Lee Sweatshop Clothing. Past the racks of Oprah Magazines. Only a little farther. Past the auto section. Just a bit more. Past the eyeglass center (WHO THE FUCK BUYS EYEGLASSES AT WALMART? AAAHHH!) Finally, I found the pharmacy section, and the same wave of relief that washed over Columbus when he discovered the New World came over me. Triumphantly, I picked up my NyQuil, and turned around to ring up my goods when......

Sweet Jesus. It hit, and with furious vengeance. And while this story would probably have been funnier if I had soiled myself inside the Wal-Mart, I am proud to say that I ran with Jesse Owens-like speed to the Restroom, and LAID WASTE to their comode. I expelled with the violence and fury of a NASA launch roughly everything I'd eaten since the Carter administration. I may or may not have cried. I courtesy flushed FOUR TIMES. Surprisingly however, I didn't make a mess, every missile reached its target, and I cleaned up and washed my hands for a good five minutes, checked in the mirror to make sure all of my body parts were still attached, as I felt like I had just birthed a hurricane.

I emerged from the bathroom, soaked in sweat, shaking, and feeling very cold (of course, I had lost about ten percent of my body weight in the process), and returned to the scene of my dropped NyQuil. I picked up my basket and what was left of my dignity, and then, wobbly-kneed, checked out my items. The counter girl attempted to strike up conversation with me, but I was in a state of shock, and able to only mumble unintelligible noises. I grabbed my purchased items, returned to my car, and drove home relieved and a little dizzy.

I slept better that night than I had in weeks.

Breakfast With the Hysterics

Guess I'll be your substitute teacher today while HazelMaesLandingStrip makes gimp bracelets and learns the doggy paddle. Indubitably!

*Haren defeats Beckett in Battel of Pitching Empire. Pussy-Tearin Haren (let's see you fuckers come up with a name for the guy, and don't give me D-Har either) allowed two hits over seven innings, as the Diamondbacks upped their alltime record at Fenway Park to 4-0. Which would be of concern if they didn't play in the NL West and we saw them more than once every six years. Of greater concern was the fact that Captain Underbite took a ball off the face during warmpus and had to leave the game, forcing Bronson Moss to play first for the last four innings. I'd make fun of Youkilis, but I suffered a similar injury during my baseball career. However, I was eight years old at the time, and the giant wad of Big League Chew in my cheek softened the blow. Moral of this story: Youk should fill his mishapen maw with shredded bubble gum out of a pouch.

*Former genie Shaquille O'Neal was filmed dropping some mad phat beat rhymez (can you tell that I don't listen to much rap?) on Most Valuable Rapist Kobe Bryant. I would pay $29.99 per month for a television station that just filmed Shaq 24 hours a day. There is no cooler athlete on the planet, at least now that Wilt Chamberlain's penis has died. "Kobe, tell me how my ass tastes." Pure poetry.

*Don Imus said something racist. Again. Vince McMahon staged his own death. Again. An annoying ex-NY Giant was hired by a television network. Again. Wow, wake me when something unique happens.

Monday, June 23, 2008

Boston Sports Tonight!

Settle in, everyone. It's nothing but baseball from now until September. I hope you like hot dogs and pointless game delays... for example, when Jason Isringhausen takes 35 goddamn minutes to throw a pitch.

Red Sox v. Diamondbacks, 7:05 pm. This pitching matchup tonight is hot like fire! It's strictly personal, but ever since Brandon Webb started sucking it up for my roto league and Dan Haren rocketed me from 10th to 5th of 20 in my H2H league, it should be obvious which Arizona Ace is currently my favorite. Haren (7-4, 3.26) will face Josh Beckett (7-4, 3.87) as the Sawx look to reassert themselves in interleague play. Maybe it's their matching smirks and facial hair, but I kind of feel like Josh Beckett and Dan Haren would get along really well. Maybe they can go out for frosty chocolate milkshakes after the game or something.

Also I think it's totally fair and reasonable that we get stuck playing the goddamn Diamondbacks so the Mets and the Yanks can have their yearly circle jerk in whateverthefuck borough they play in now.

Frivolous prop bet of the night: Stephen Drew becomes infuriated when his older brother JD attempts to win a spot in Pi Beta Alpha for the likeable but chubby Justin Upton. Sparks fly as Stephen is forced to choose between his friendship with the "cool kids" (Micah Owings and Chris Young) and his loyalty to his brother!

Serious prediction of the night: Beckett's been less dominant this year, but I feel like he's going to rise to the occasion and toss a solid 7 innings of 2-run ball tonight. Maybe the Chin Fairy will even come and leave a chin under his pillow while he sleeps so he won't need to resort to that aggressively-groomed facial hair thing that guys do when they have no bone structure.

Curt Schilling: Hall of Famer?


If Schilling was hit by a bus right after the '04 World Series, he may have gone down as one of my favorite Sox pitchers ever, despite only pitching one year with the team. At the age of 37, he was first in the AL in wins and K/BB, second in ERA and third in strikeouts. AT THE AGE OF 37. And while everyone remembers his Game 6 performance against the Yankees, they tend to forget that he threw six scoreless innings against the Cardinals in Game 2 of the World Series with that ankle tendon sheath even worse than it was a week earlier. He was unstoppable in the regular season and clutch in the postseason, and his "open to the media" nature was, at that time, a novelty and therefore not annoying yet.

Unfortunately, my view of Schil has since been tainted, (heh, taint) mostly because he a) has been repeatedly hurt since then and b) doesn't shut the fuck up about anything, ever, at all. Granted, he had a solid-but-not-great '06 and looked fantastic in the playoffs last year, but my memories of Schilling from '04 through '08 will mostly center around thoughts of "oh no, not again" whenever he opened his mouth or ended up on the DL. With the notable exception of Barry Bonds, I don't think I've ever had a harder time differentiating my off-field dislike with my on-field respect as I have with Schilling over the past few years, and because of that, I'm somewhat embarrassed to admit that my first thought when I learned of his (unofficial) retirement was "Finally, now maybe he can move out and we won't have to listen to him anymore." Conversely, if he had retired in '04, I'd be lighting candles in front of Fenway Park and crying.

However, I'll try to cast aside my off-field bias of him for this argument and try to simply discuss his on-field accomplishments. The "Is he a Hall of Famer" discussion will also be an interesting one, if only because his regular season numbers don't exactly blow you away. He finished with 216 wins, tied with Charlie Hough and less than Jerry Reuss, Dennis Martinez and Davis Wells. He's tied for 379th in career ERA. He never won a Cy Young, or finished better than 10th in MVP voting. He only appeared in three All-Star games (though he was selected to six). Baseball Reference lists Kevin Brown as the player he's most similar to, and you won't see anyone arguing Brown's HOF candidacy.

Of course, what might get Schilling in are his postseason numbers, which have been absolutely spectacular. (10-2, 2.23 ERA, nearly 5-1 K/BB ratio) But El Duque's postseason record is 9-3, Mike Stanton's postseason ERA was 2.10, and Derek Lowe won three clinching games in '04. None of these players are getting in to the Hall of Fame. Postseason numbers alone won't win you a plaque in Cooperstown, bloody sock or no.

Look, Schilling did some awesome things for the Sox in his time here, especially in the postseason. I just think that the Legend of Curt Schilling has vastly outreached his actual accomplishments, and that talk of him as a Hall of Famer is somewhat ridiculous. Let's remember him for exactly what he was - a very good pitcher who came up huge in the playoffs and during the '04 regular season. Nothing more, nothing less.

Friday, June 20, 2008

Wrestlers of Yore: Paul Diamond


ESPN Classic, in what can only be described as “a gift for me and probably no one else,” has been airing 1980’s AWA telecasts. Currently, they’re on about 1988 or so, which means one thing, and one thing only:

Fantastic Mullets!

That strapping young lad is Thomas Boric, better known to wrestling fans and Vegas hookers as "Paul Diamond.” Boric was born in Croatia, but emigrated to Winnipeg (fun fact kids: if ever asked where a 1980’s wrestler came from, guess “Canada” and you’ll be right about 70% of the time) as a teenagers. An avid soccer player, Boric earned a scholarship to Old Dominion as a goalkeeper, and ended up playing two years in the now-defunct NASL for the Tampa Bay Rowdies. The Rowdies uniform was the first of many ridiculous outfits that Boric would wear in public:

After the NASL folded, Boric went to Boris Malenko’s (father of Dean Malenko) wrestling school, where he was a quick study. He took the name “Paul Diamond” and started wrestling in the Texas All-Star promotion, as part of a tag team called the “American Breed.” Mind you, Diamond was Croatian and his partner Nick Kiniski was Canadian, so the promoter must've had a different sense of what "American Breed" specifically meant. Diamond later tagged with a young Texan named Shawn Michaels, though nobody knows what ended up happening to that guy.

Diamond moved to Memphis to work for the CWA and teamed with Japanese import Pat Tanaka to form the tag team “Badd Company.” (Shockingly, their entrance music was the song "Bad Company") The duo immediately clicked, as the bigger Diamond (6-1, 230) matched with the smaller Tanaka’s quickness and martial arts-based offense. Diamond and Tanaka would win the CWA Tag Team championship four times in the next four years, establishing themselves as one of the country’s top non-WWF tag teams. They were signed in 1988 by the AWA, keeping the gimmick of Badd Company, but picking up Diamond Dallas Page as a manager.

Badd Company defeated the WWF-bound Midnight Rockers in 1990 to win the AWA Tag Team titles, belts they would keep for the next year. During this time (which is currently being aired on ESPN Classic), Badd Company was the clear tops of an otherwise putrid tag team division, which included the Top Guns (who?), Russians Soldat Ustinov and Tijoe Khan (maybe the two worst wrestlers ever) and the Guerreros (Chavo Sr. and Mando). Badd Company was one of the company’s featured attractions at this time, spurred by the greatest wrestling outfits in history:

And let me tell you, those outfits are even better on TV. Tasselled zebra-striped spandex pants with mesh on the sides that exposed just-too-much asscheek. Long, flowing mullets. Big-haired strippers walking them to the ring. Tanaka even wore a karate belt, for no apparent reason. They were pretty much everything wonderful about America in 1988.

Tanaka would eventually sign with the WWF in 1990, forming the Orient Express with Akio Sato. However, Sato would quickly leave the promotion, leaving the Orient Express one Oriental short. Rather than choose from one of literally thousands of Asian wrestlers, the WWF instead decided to call up the 230-pound Croatian Diamond, and have him work under a mask as “Kato.”

But being a white guy playing an Asian guy wasn’t the most embarrassing gimmick that Diamond would have in his WWF career. That’s because he would eventually play…a Martian! Yes, in 1992, Diamond was asked to play the role of Max Moon, a wrestling Martian. The gig was initially abandoned by Charles Ashenoff (later known in WCW as Konnan), but Diamond apparently fit the ridiculous costume:

Max Moon lasted for about a year before Diamond was released by the WWF. His biggest victories came against Rick Martel and the Repo Man. Diamond was released by the WWF in 1993, and has since opened up his own wrestling promotion in Huntsville, AL. It is not known whether he kept the zebra-striped pants or the Martian outfit.

Everything Old Is New Again

Happy First Day of Summer / Tenth Day of The Managers Of Poorly Performing Teams Screening Their Phone Calls Carefully!

Well lookie here.... the Jays What Be Blue have fired manager John "Gibby" Gibbons, and immediately replaced him with.....

Cito Gaston.

Really? That's your move, J.P.? Cito Gaston?

I'm sure his first moves as manager will be to sign Jimmy Key, George Bell, and Lloyd Moseby. And Ernie Whitt, of course, who.... wait, they just fired Ernie, too?

AAAAHHHH!!! TEMPORAL DISTORTION!!!!! Data, tell Geordi to prepare to reset the shield generators to emit a chronoton field on the alpha wavelength on my mark.....

Oh, and the Sox open a six-game homestand against, per my schedule, "STLAZ". But interleague play is an abomination against nature -- the ethical, moral, and social equivalent of anally raping a veal calf in its pen -- so I refuse to comment on it. That Drew fellow continues to play well, incidentally.

And hey -- Mothra's back!

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Scenes from the Rolling Rally

Mass Hysteria representative Get Him A Body Bag, Yeah! is on the scene for the Rolling Rally downtown today... the rest of us are stuck at work because the corporate fat cats need to make their money. THE PROLETARIAN UPRISING DRAWS NIGH! Anyway, since I can't be part of the action, here's a clip of Paul Pierce acting like a Japanese tourist with his backpack and camera. Note that he never once puts down the championship trophy to take a picture. This might be the most adorable man on the face of the planet.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Baby's First Riot!


I was fortunate enough to be the lone Mass Hysteria representative out by the Garden last night. I did indeed pound a few beers, and I did indeed join the roaring masses that congregated outside the arena to bask in the glow of Celtics magic. The tale is related below... please note that a BIT of creative license has been taken in order to make it more entertaining. Be forewarned: this story contains nothing of any actual interest scenes of graphic violence.

I got to the bar just a couple of minutes after the game started, because I am a girl and I like to do things like shower and try to look pretty before I go out was busy lifting weights so I'd be extra jacked and strong for the rioting. The line was crazy long but I managed to talk my way to the front. Hooray for titties! The bar was rowdy as hell and about 9,000 degrees, which meant lots of awkward sweating nudity. Everyone was pretty fired up from the get-go, but that 26-6 run at the end of the 2nd quarter really seemed to hammer home the notion that this shit was ours for the taking, and the "BEAT L.A.!" chants filled the air. Given that I was the only girl in a big bunch of dudes, there was pretty much no way I was going to be able to successfully run game on anyone without being mercilessly cockblocked, although all the guys in there smelled pretty awful from all the sweating so it wasn't a huge loss on my part. Midway through the 3rd quarter, the bar erupted in a massive makeout orgy. Sweet.

Anyway, the game came to its glorious conclusion and we all screamed our heads off for about 10 minutes, then closed out our tabs and strolled merrily out into the spring night threw our chairs through the windows and jumped through the holes, thirsty for Lakers fan blood. The top of Portland Street up by the entrance to the Garden had been cordoned off by a throng of mean-looking cops in full-on riot gear, so we walked politely down the street and out through the back beat the shit out of them and boldly marched on through, pausing only to spit on their lifeless corpses. Out in the streets, literally thousands of people were congregating in front of the Garden, screaming and high-fiving one another and erupting into baffling choruses of "FUCK THE YANKEES!" I shoved a few people around, I guess, but mostly steered clear of the mosh pit thing they had going on because I was wearing platform sandals my brass knuckles and didn't want to twist my ankle wanted to go find some real action. My friends and I walked swaggered back up towards Government Center as the crowds continued to stream down to the Garden, stopping once to high-five a couple of people flirt with a cop, who showed no interest in returning the favor turn over a car. Fuck you, car! Feeling a bit thirsty punchy, we decided to head to Dillon's and pound a few more beers before going home to chug water in a desperate, futile attempt to stave off a hangover and fall anticlimactically asleep start some shit with a bunch of punk-ass Lakers fans strutting around acting like their team didn't just get curb-stomped in a clutch game. As the toughest member of our group, I naturally approached the leader of the Lakers posse, who was wearing a Kobe jersey, thereby clinching his status as Huge Bitch. "The fuck you think you're doing here?" I asked him. He cowered in the face of my obviously superior strength; still, attempting to save face in front of his equally bitch-ass friends, he spat, "It's a free country, ain't it?" back in my face. Fuck that. BOOM! A swift haymaker to his jaw sent the punk sprawling and elicited a gasp of terror from his friends. As he lay on the ground, spitting blood and clutching his jaw, I calmly plucked a glass bottle up from the ground, smashed it on a nearby trashcan, knelt down by his prone body, and brought the jagged edge up against his quivering Adam's apple. "Don't you pull that shit around here," I whispered, watching the sweat bead on his forehead. "This is our house." Unfortunately, at this point the 5-0 showed up and decided to take issue with my DEFENDING MY TEAM'S HONOR I THOUGHT THIS WAS A FREE COUNTRY YOU FUCKING FASCISTS, so they arrested me. It's all good, though. I went down fighting for my team, the way it should be. FUCK YEAH CELTICS BABY!


In all seriousness, last night was incredibly special. I will never forget what it felt like to pour out into the streets and revel in the unbelievable energy and excitement of the green-clad multitudes around me. Last night was one of the greatest nights of my life, and it was simply glorious waking up this morning and remembering that my amazing Celtics had turned it around and brought home another gleaming green-and-white banner to hang from the rafters of the Garden in jail.

Five-Dollar Champagne Never Tasted So Good


Tonight was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Sure, the game may not have been competitive or dramatic, and the rest of the country may have shut it off in the second quarter, but I don't care. For me (and a select group of New Englanders, especially those under the age of 27 or so) tonight was better than any World Series. It was better than any Super Bowl. Those Red Sox and Patriots wins were sweet, but they were kind of like watching a cousin win the lottery. Tonight, conversely, was intensely personal. My five-dollar champagne has been sweetened with tears of joy.

For a full generation of Bostonians, being a Celtics fan has, until tonight, been a depressing exercise. Losses, poor personnel decisions and even deaths kept piling up, with no end in sight. Len Bias, Reggie Lewis and Red all died. Eric Montross, Kedrick Brown and Michael Smith were drafted. Rick Pitino coached. Those of us under the age of 27 had just resigned ourselves to this losery fate, hoping for lucky ping-pong balls in the lottery each year. But then this year occurred, seemingly out of nowhere. They played defense. They played better against top competition. They made clutch shots, and came back against seemingly insurmountable odds. I'll admit that I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, if only because it always has during my years of following this team. But it never did. Instead, they just kept winning, first in the regular season, and then in the playoffs. And now the Celtics are World Champions.

God that feels good to write.

Cue Gino


More to come.....

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Boston Sports Tonight!

Red Sox v. Phillies, 7:05 pm. Huh. Guess the Phillies forgot to read my preview from last night telling them that they suck, since they freaking stomped on us. Boo! Hopefully tonight will go smoother, especially since I hear Oldey McOlderson Jamie Moyer (7-3, 4.12) drinks his Metamucil religiously. ZING! Jon Lestahh (5-3, 3.43) will face the Phillies for the first time in his career tonight.

In other news, the Sox continue to drop like flies as Bartolo Colon is placed on the 15-day DL with a "back problem" following his start last night. Man, Wang and Colon are BOTH sore?! I... I... I just don't even know where to begin. ACK!

Celtics v. Lakers, 9:00 pm. There are no words I could possibly summon to adequately express the hugeness of tonight. My Celtics are standing on the brink of history, and that's that. 'Nuff said. In the wake of Game 5, there have certainly been some legitimate questions raised about the Celtics' ability to close this out -- the most notable concerning Kevin Garnett, who got off to a beautiful start in the 1st quarter and then seemed to fall asleep standing up (as pictured) for the majority of the game's later chapters. Indeed, Garnett's relative absence thus far in this, the biggest series these Celtics may ever play, has been baffling and frustrating to watch. However, to come down hard on Garnett for his apparent falling-off (remember that his "off game" on Sunday still involved 13 points and 14 boards) is to betray a real lack of faith in an athlete without whom Boston would simply never have had a prayer of being where it is today.

In a season in which the Celtics won 66 games, Garnett led the team with a whopping 36 win shares -- that's over 18% of total team win shares. His efficiency rating was an otherworldly +24.72. Above and beyond being a powerful producer, though, Garnett's presence on the court served as the spark that ignited the blazing swath that the Celtics were able to burn through the NBA this season. The fact that Garnett has played like a man possessed and struck fear into the heart of many a Boston opponent for nearly all of this season means that he is value added simply by being in the Garden tonight. I'd even go so far as to say that the outstanding games we've seen from Paul Pierce, Ray Allen, Leon Powe, and others are in many ways due to the presence of Garnett on the team. Pierce (I'll sing this song till I'm blue in the face) is THE best playoffs actor of our generation, and he's had some simply inspired performances from his supporting cast to help him along. That said, however, the fact that Garnett has been playing sub-par ball (for him) lately should not in any way tarnish the luster of what has been a truly MVP-caliber season in terms of both level of play and ability to inspire a team. Boston fans can and should be capable of a bigger sense of history than that. (COUGH COUGH BILL SIMMONS COUGH) The mere fact that the streets tonight will be aglitter with fresh green-and-white No. 5 jerseys should tell you all you need to know about how very important Kevin Garnett is to this win tonight.

Quite frankly, I think the Celtics are going to win this thing tonight, and Paul Pierce will finally take home the ring he so richly deserves. But regardless of the kind of game he brings tonight, let's not lose sight of Kevin Garnett, who brought hope to a fanbase marked by diffidence and self-loathing this past August, and who can and should go down in history as a man who changed the face of basketball in Boston.

Frivolous prop bet of the night: Jamie Moyer is fined for delaying the game in the 4th by attempting to return a "stale" pretzel to a Citizens Bank Park vendor. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN I CAN'T HAVE MY MONEY BACK YOU CONSARNED WHIPPERSNAPPER"

Serious prediction of the night: Celts. By 16.

BREAKING NEWS: Bruins announce plans to sign forward Blake Wheeler; offensive line to become 53% sexier


The Bruins announced plans today to sign Blake Wheeler, a strapping forward from Minnesota and former Golden Gopher. Due to the upcoming draft, the contract cannot be finalized until July 1, but Wheeler's agent confirmed that his client does intend to don the black-and-gold this coming season. Whee!

Wheeler, much like Bruins captain Zdeno Chara, is a monster, standing 6'4" and weighing in at 220 pounds. Deceptively fast for such a large skater, Wheeler led the Gophers in scoring with 15 goals and 20 assists as a junior last season. He was initially drafted by the Winnipeg Jets Phoenix Coyotes with the 5th overall (!) pick in 2004, but returned to the University of Minnesota after a year with the Green Bay Gamblers. After last year, Wheeler was "unable to come to a contract agreement" with Phoenix (read: DO NOT WANT) and announced his intention to become a free agent. With loads of NHL teams vying for him, he finally opted for the Bruins. AWESOME. FUCKING AWESOME.

Wheeler's finest moment as a collegiate athlete came last year in the final game of the Final Five tournament, when he slipped in the winning goal for a 3-2 overtime win against North Dakota. Watch how fast this kid moves:

Hot damn that's beautiful. I'm still not ready to drink any toasts to the Bruins' front office, but their commitment to developing young talent in recent years has been extremely refreshing (and is no doubt a big part of Wheeler's decision to sign with the Bruins). Along with playoffs standout David Krejci, defensive whiz kid Mark Stuart, and mega-badass Milan Lucic, Wheeler will join an impressive cadre of genuine All-Star talent just beginning to show its true potential. Although the transition from playing center on college ice to playing right-wing on NHL ice will no doubt be a tricky one, Wheeler's speed and high offensive IQ are sure to be immediate assets to the team.

The Bruins have yet to finish negotiations with either unrestricted free agent Glen Metropolit or restricted free agents Stuart, Dennis Wideman, and Petteri Nokelainen. Nokelainen is eh, but the other three (Metropolit in particular) were vital to the team's success this year and will hopefully stick around. Meanwhile, the Bruins look forward to their 16th-round pick in the draft in Ottawa this weekend... yippee!

Regardless of how that goes, the signing of Wheeler represents a big move for the Bruins, and I'm freaking psyched to see this kid in uniform. (Or, as per the following picture, out of uniform. Schwing!)

Oh, that Orange Line!


I’d never seen anything like it.

On Sunday night, I went to the Fours, hoping to be “in the shit” when the Celtics clinched the first championship of my lucid lifetime. Obviously they didn’t win, but the evening was not without highlight. Sitting across from me on the Orange Line to go back home was a visibly intoxicated Celtics fan in a Ray Allen jersey, about 18-years old or so, audibly yelling “BULLSHIT” every five seconds, while spitting on the windows. His friend, in a gray Paul Pierce jersey, nodded in agreement and then proceeded to pull out some rolling papers and pot. He then proceeded to break up said pot and roll a joint, which he and Spitball Sullivan then shared. In Public. On the T. These two goofballs then proceeded to walk up and down the aisle, offering up their joint. I’m not even kidding. They then proceeded to tell me (without prompting) that they had spent the night drinking under fake IDs, and that they stiffed the bartender at Beer Works. Lucky for me, they also got off at my stop, and the last I saw of Douche and Doucher, they were pissing in the parking lot of Oak Grove station, before hopping in a tricked-out F-150 and driving away erratically.

Pure class.

Yet, for some reason, witnessing the antics of Mickey and Sully O’Yahdood gave me comfort for tonight’s Game 6 at the Garden. Yes, the Celtics lost a game that they could have won. Yes, it was disappointing and possibly dangerous to let a Laker team this talented hang around for one more game. Yes, I’m concerned about the rash of injuries that’s seemed to pop up during this series. But there’s still no reason to lose your shit, stiff a bartender, and smoke a joint on the Orange Line. The C’s are up 3-2. The next two games are at home, where the C’s are 48-7 this year. The Non-Caucasian Three has looked quite Big this series, and there’s no reason to think they won’t keep it up tonight. Things, to paraphrase the Dude, are not Fucked here.

My prediction: Celtics 92, Lakers 85. And I can’t wait to see what the Orange Line will be like if that happens.

Monday, June 16, 2008

Boston Sports Tonight!

Red Sox v. Phillies, 7:05 pm. The Interleague Play Bus keeps on rolling tonight as the Sox swing by Philadelphia for an awkward 3-game series with Terry Francona's ex. While Tito and the Phillies are obsessing over their outfits and practicing their opening spiels in the mirror ("Yeah, you know, things are good, you know? Life's good. Friends are good. Uhhh how 'bout you? You look great by the way..."), the kerfluffle in the Boston sports media is that this series represents a potential world series preview. To which I say, if I may: horseshit.

There's no question that these Phillies are a decent team. With 41 wins, they're actually underperforming their Pythagorean winning percentage by a solid 3 games, and they've got Chase Utley's seemingly unstoppable bat powering a seriously tater-happy offense (their 100 home runs on the season put them at second place just behind the Marlins, and ahead of Boston by 16). Honestly, though, I don't think there's any way the Phillies are headed to the World Series this year. The only team in their division they can beat with any kind of regularity is the Braves, and as I understand it the Braves no longer actually have a single healthy pitcher besides Jair Jurrjejnjsj and are actually starting several adolescent giraffes instead. Moreover, in a season when so many other teams have made big moves and experienced huge returns on a few key investments (or, in the case of Bartolo Colon, key returns on a few HUGE investments. GET IT BECAUSE HE IS FAT), the Phillies are essentially the same team as they were last year. That team, you may recall, won 89 games, placed first in the NL East thanks ONLY to a monumental collapse by a division rival, and got swept by the (goddamn) Rockies in the first round of the playoffs. Granted, that was in a season where not a single NL playoffs team won more than 90 games, but the point is that the Phillies have done nothing this year to put them in the same league as the Cubs, the D-Backs, or even the Marlins besides starting Chase Utley and Cole Hamels on a regular basis. I simply do not see this holding up in the long run. Sorry, Phillies fans, but this team cannot and will not go the distance. Period.

Bold words? Perhaps. It's possible I'm just cranky because I lost my voice due to a combination of beer, cigarettes, and screaming "GUARD THE PERIMETER YOU HAVE TO FUCKING GUARD THE PERIMETER" at the TV in the bar I was at last night. Anyhoodle, this series should make for some decent watching, so tune in tonight as Cole Hamels (6-4, 3.27) and Bartolo Colon (4-1, 3.41) square off at Citizens Bank Park. Amazingly, the spotlight tonight may be on Julio Lugo, who has faced Hamels 3 times in his career and touched him for 2 home runs. Sweet!

Frivolous prop bet of the night: A suddenly sassy Coco Crisp gets into it with long-time jackass Brett Myers; the resultant hail of D batteries, Yuengling bottles, and bitterness due to years of frustrated dreams from the Philadelphia stands blots out the sun for several hours.

Serious prediction of the night: Ah, what the hell. This is LITERALLY the only time you will ever see me predicting something positive where Julio Lugo is concerned, so I'm going to go ahead and bet that he'll have a bang-up offensive night against Cole "Slaw" Hamels. Hell, maybe even a home run. CHERISH THIS MOMENT WHILE IT LASTS YOU BUTTERFINGERED PIECE OF DEAD WEIGHT

That's gotta hoit

Courtesy of those irrepressible pranksters over at comes this stellar headline:

I guess it wasn't just the Astros' pride that was injured in that 13-0 drubbing. It only saddens me that Colon wasn't involved somehow.