Bleep The Mets

Posted on November 18, 2010 by Larry Bowa

New York, New York: it’s my kinda herpes sore.  That’s right, Jethro Tull — lock your doors, drink your whiskey, and hide your grandmas, because L-Bow’s back with a deeeep bend for The City That Never Sleeps Without Bedbugs Crawling All Over Its F*cking Face.  In case you happened to miss the biggest f*cking sports story since Brett Fav-ruh decided to show his real comfortable dong to the latest and greatest set of Grade-F sideline funabgs, yours truly is all but ready to make the New York Metro-POLE-itans respect his g*ddamn authority!

That is, if the A/V club in charge of the Mets’ short bus I mean front office makes the right decision and hires my buddy Terry Collins as their new (and future World Championship-winning) manager.  It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if those bookworms couldn’t find a way to derive the square root of “leadership” divided by “player’s respect” to the power of “ruling the motherf*cking clubhouse with an iron f*cking fist.”  Knowing those morts, they’ll just bring on some spineless keyboard jockey to hold all their punchcards and dial up their modem, all while Oliver Perez slaps EL KICK-O EL ME-O signs on his back.  It’s too bad Tampa Bay’s soooo in love with that goofy hornrimmer of theirs; he’d probably fit into the Mets’ back*sswards algebra like the square root of my BALLS.  But I guess badmouthing your potential employers might be seen as bad etiquette; mea f*cking culpa.

So you may be asking yourself as you peel back the cellophane from yet another sad-as-sh*t TV dinner, who in the f*ck is Terry Collins & what’re his fancy-pants qualifications?  Well, how about the fact that he’s a g*ddamn man that won’t take any sh*t from some know-nothing milllionairess about PT or BP or XYZ or STFU? There’re rumors out there that he was getting cr*pped on by his players while working with the Los Angeles Angeles of Los Angeles in the City That’s Not The City of Stupid-*ss Angeles.  And you know what?  That’s a GOOD thing.  It’s called a job, for f*ck’s sake, not a frilly little imaginary tea party with Mr. Rumplemires and Little Bunny Hopperd*ck.

Newsflash to all you basement-living knob-washers out there: when you’re brought on as a Major League Baseball manager, you’re not there to be the players’ best friend.  You’re there to put a cleat right up into their championship-wanting *sses.  You’re there to make sure that the overpaid fatso with the RBIs actually gives himself a hernia running out a pop-up in a 20-3 blowout.  You’re there so that the oh-so-special nineteen-year-old phenom knows the burn that comes with throwing 140 pitchers through 6 tough-as-sh*t innings.  You’re there to make sure everyone stays in line: the beaners don’t take a siesta, the brothers don’t holla back wit gats & their posse (what WHAT), the rice-cookers leave their chopsticks at the dojo, and the honkies don’t hide their mutual fund statements in their playbook.  And you gotta do all this while keeping those mouthbreathing pre-school dropouts in the media from rubbing one out on your career during your press conference.  No offense to my good buddy TC, but if I had to pick a guy I’d want managing my team (that wasn’t me), it’d be Billy F*cking Martin.  The only sh*t that beautiful f*cker ever took was on a toilet.  But, since William wrapped his d*ck around a coffin a long *ss time ago, & no one has the stones to give yours truly another shot (chickensh*ts), TC is the next best thing.

Especially when he’s got a fiery little World Series winner in his back pocket.  (I mean me, sh*tbags.) In case you forgot, I’m the toughest son of a b*tch to ever put on that sissy little pink-red-striped Philly uni, and I’m part of the reason those cheesesteak-eating c*ckpunchers only had to wait twenty-plus years between World Series titles.  Sure, Schmitty had the dingers, and Carlton had the crazies, but I had the g*ddamn cojones to make those f*ckwits play as a team.  And even though I’m “only” going to be a third base coach — yeah, and Dick Cheney was “only” the Vice-President — I know what needs to be done in order to make the New York Mess a bona-fide contender.  At least, I know what I’d do if I had any control over who the f*ck I could play.

First of all, if you’re Canadian, then you’re not playing baseball for me or TC.  Jason Bay could turn into Jason F*cking Voorhees next year for all I don’t care; he can take his 40 HRs, and his 90 RBIs, and  sashay his poutine-loving *ss back up to Saskatchewan with all the other moosehumpers.  Try working the conversion rate on that, you f*cking Mountie. Speaking of being un-American, anyone south of the USA that doesn’t want anything to do with being a charitable piece of sh*t can go take a burro ride back down to Taco Town.  I don’t care if you had prior engagements or cancer or if your f*cking legs fell off while washing your g*ddamn truck.  If you’re gonna pretend you’re a team f*cking player, then you gotta do things with your f*cking team. And for all you hyper-sensitive little d*cktowels out there that think I’m being some racist piece of sh*t about all this: f*ck you and learn to read.  I don’t have a problem with you not being from America; I have a problem with you not wanting to be from America.  And if there’s something more American than giving your time to show some respect to the people that keep us safe from getting falafel’d, it’s gotta involve a grilled burger, an ice cold PBR, and a lit cherry bomb my high school ex-girlfriend’s mailbox.  (Special delivery for Lisa “Loose Lips” Maretti!  Yeah, maybe you’ll suck on THAT!)

And while I don’t expect the front office to exit their server rooms long enough to talk to the little people down on the front lines about what should be done with the team roster (their f*cking loss), I do have one suggestion that they’d better f*cking heed: bring back The Natural. That’s right, I’m talking about my favorite MLB player that’s not David Wright or David Eckstein or some other dipsh*ts not named David — Jeff THE M*therfucking Francoeur.  And when (not if) he comes back to the blue and orange and whatever other ugly-*ss colors they want to throw in there, I’d make damn sure that TC played him 24-7-365. When you got a guy like Francoeur that wants to play so bad, why not just play the dumb son of a b*tch?  Given how many no-talent mopes take up roster space that don’t want to be out there on the field, you’d think teams with half a brain in their sack would be running over orphaned kids with cancer to get a little Francouer in their life.

Watching him over these last few years, with all his teams treating him like a f*cking goofy-looking child molester, it makes me wanna choke some motherf*ckers.  He’s the type that’s going to do his best when he’s out there day in and day out.  Francoeur’s not one of those “athletes” that just falls off the sh*tter hitting .350; he’s gotta get reps on a daily basis in order to get himself up to speed.  Get that kid moving, and he’ll be able to carry your team for days on end!  And the rocket arm on that f*ck!  Just give the kid some security with a long-term contract and a guaranteed spot in the starting line-up, and he’ll give you 162 of the best games you can ever hope to get from a guy with his set of skills.  And he’ll do it with a smile that’d make every dentist in the tri-state area pop a boner that’ll rip their f*cking pants clean off.  He even got to the World Series, for f*ck’s sake.  That’s more than most of the overpaid sh*tstains  on the Mets can say.  Postseason success like that doesn’t just grow on the underbelly of a f*cking whale.

So yeah, with a little bit of luck, and a whole lotta L-Bow, the Mets might actually not f*ck up their shot at making it to the post-season.  For once.  Of course, I’m still waiting to hear from those d*ckholes.  Yeah, don’t forget to carry the one when you’re adding zeroes to my offer sheet, Mr. Einstein.  Quality merch like me’s not going to be on the market for long, ladies.  Operators are standing by; give a guy a f*cking call already.  And maybe shake TC’s bush a little, too.

Longtime Yard Work / Jockish contributor Larry Bowa was once a finalist to compete on  So You Think You’re Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?

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Cow(herd)abunga!

Posted on November 17, 2010 by Jason Alexander

First of all, congratulations to Colin Cowherd on his sitcom development deal with CBS.  I’ve never had the pleasure of listening to Colin on the radio for more than a few minutes at a time, but from what little I’ve caught of his endearing shtick, I’m sure he’s got the right attitude to be as successful in television as he’s been on the radio.

As some of you might know, I’ve been on both ends of the success spectrum when it comes to television, so I know what it’s like to be the talk of the town as well as the dick on the dial.  In addition, I had the pleasure, however fleeting it was, to play a real-life sports pundit personality of sorts in my star vehicle (coincidentally enough, a CBS show) Listen Up! It’s a shame that me and all those other wonderful and talented folks in the cast and crew weren’t able to fully do justice to the wit and wisdom of radio and print pundit supreme, Tony Kornheiser.  That said, I feel that experience gives me an insight into what Colin and his team of producers need to keep in mind to make their show as successful as other CBS staples like Bleep My Dad Says, Mike & Molly, and the upcoming reality smash Arranged Marriage. I honestly have more advice to dole out than I know what to do with, but since this is the internet, and I know you all have porn to surf (ha ha ha), here’s a quick and dirty three-bie to mull over.

1) How do you get to the top of the Nielsen ratings? Catchphrase, catchphrase, catchphrase!

It might seem a little crass, but it’s more than a little true.  After all the Emmys get put away in storage, and after the DVD boxset residuals dwindle to a pittance, and after Hollywood stops stunt-casting you as hackneyed versions of your most famous character, your catchphrase will live on.  If I had a dollar for every time I thought I heard someone yelling, “Serenity now!” or “George is getting upset!” at me from across the street or from the other side of a restaurant, I would be too busy dealing with my stock broker to bother writing this blog for a mere twenty-five cents a word.  That rhere’s even a Catchphrase section (though a somewhat skint one, all things considered) on the Wikipedia page for Bob Patterson, another short-lived sitcom of mine, says more than I can about the power of the well-chosen word.

If you want to stick to the ribs of John Q. Channel-Changer, you have to come up with a pithy catchphrase or twelve that will keep those itchy clicker fingers at bay.  In Colin’s case, given his show’s based around sports talk radio and his family life, something related to athletics and the homestead would probably be appropriate: “I’ve got your touchdown right here, [insert wife nickname here];” “Nothing but the back of my hand;” “As cool as the other side of our pre-nuptual agreement.”  The possibilities are endless.  And given Colin’s play-on-words for his real-life radio show (The Herd), another similar bit of wordplay in naming its fictional counterpart could open up all sorts of possibilities.  I’m partial to The Dude Ranch, as history’s proven time and again that cowboy metaphors are always a comedic goldmine.  Along similar lines: The Bro-down Hoe-down, The Bucking Stops Here, Barn-Burners, and so on. These are just suggestions, of course. As with any artistic endeavor, you have to go with your gut (and depending on who’s in charge, the whims of some know-nothing focus group that won’t let you do succeed as anything besides being George Costanza every time you walk out in front of the camera like some sort of performing monkey waiting for the old man to turn the crank and say, “Let’s go, monkey! Time to dance for your peanuts! I said DANCE, you stupid monkey! SHAKE WHAT YOUR MOTHER GAVE YOU, COCO!”)

(But I digress.)

2) You say “controversy,” I say “cha-ching!”

In today’s world of streaming webcasts and pixelated phone pics, it’s not enough to be funny and charming and photogenic.  You have to have a quality about you, a certain “je ne sais quoi” that no one else has.  In other words, as Derek Jeter says in those car commercials, you need an edge.  CBS is known for airing shows with an edge, from the gritty forensics of the CSI franchise and their countless other cop dramas, to the extra-curricular shenanigans of Two and a Half Men co-star Charlie Sheen.  A quick click of the Google machine shows that Colin’s no stranger to controversy; after all, it’s hard to thrive on the radio if you’re not willing to mix it up, even if it means sounding like you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about at all.  As most folks in show business know, sometimes a foot in the mouth is worth its weight in gold, and having this sort of real-world material to cull from will undoubtedly help the showrunners get things off on the right foot.  I can see a show where Colin’s stand-in — let’s call him Steve Stallion — is a sports-savvy Archie Bunker, a no-holds-barred man’s man that’s not afraid to speak his mind on anything and everything,  whether it’s what the President should be doing to privatize Social Security or who should be the New York Giants’ starting quarterback.  (Of course, I have to imagine that CBS will do everything in its power to use the show as a platform to promote the NFL; as a wise man once told me, if you got it, beat it into the ground like it owes you money.)

3) It’s  a small world after all, so cast carefully.

It never fails: so much work goes into fine-tuning the concept of a show, tweaking its set design, polishing its writing, and picking the perfect leading man, that the rest of the cast is filled merely as an afterthought.  As you might imagine, shows like these suffer as a result.  Believe you me, I know whereof I speak.  I’m guessing Colin and friends are leaning towards a more traditional-looking cast for this sports-centric chuckle hut.  And as you might have guessed, when I use the word “traditional,” I mean “attractive,” and I mean “white.”  Yes, it helps draw in a certain desired demographic if you cast some fetching young buxom things as Steve Stallion’s spunky and rebellious teenage daughters, and include a slightly older doppelganger as Steve’s equally fetching wife.  And this might work, for a while.  But you have to remember that we are living in a global community nowadays.  The distance between Bangor, Maine and Bangladesh is only as far as a tiny move of your computer mouse. You might grab a few more 20 to 30 year olds in Middle America if you cast your Lisa Kudrows or your Loni Andersons, but you’re missing out on bigger, and spicier, pieces of the pie.

Why not have Steve be married to a feisty and exciting African American woman named Shantelle?  Why can’t Steve adopt a wide-eyed Turkish orphan with the love of American sports? Why not have Steve’s next door neighbor be a fun-loving devout Muslim? These minor little tweaks open the doors to so many places, both in the world and in the writer’s room; the jokes with Sanjeet or little Fyvush trying to pronounce athlete’s names just write themselves!  And I’m not just talking out of my Jenny Craig-ercized backside on this United Colors of Benneton jive: on Listen Up!, the amazing and talented Malcolm Jamal-Warner was cast as my ex-athlete radio-show co-host.  I’m sure that, if the show lasted more than one season, Malcolm’s ethnicity (coupled with his Cosby Show cred, as well as the Jerry Maguire Malcolm and I were cultivating) would have been a boon for the show’s continued success across all color barriers, including that most important of colors: green.

But enough about me, and enough about my advice.  I could go on and on about what I’ve learned through my long and storied career as an actor and entertainer.  But if there’s one more tip I could share, whether you’re an up-and-coming media mogul like Colin or just a regular guy working the 9-to-5 to make ends meet, it’s this: always land on your feet, even when you fall flat on your face. Until we meet again, America!

Actor / producer / entertainer Jason Alexander is currently looking for a publisher for the sequel to his first book, Act Without Acting, entitled Act Live Without Living Acting.

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The Kid Gloves Are On (Underneath The Kid Gloves)

Posted on August 31, 2009 by David Raposa

Joba Rules Joba Rules Joba Rules.  I imagine even diehard denizens of the Yankee Universe are sick of the continuing refinement and rejiggering of the Joba Rules.  They were initially put in place to keep notorious bullpen bully Joe Torre from shredding Joba’s golden arm in the pursuit of World Series glory.  They’ve since been amended and/or rewritten in the service of making the transition from hard-throwing closer-in-training to well-rounded starter as painless as possible.

What this meant going into 2009 was limiting Joba’s usage to around 150 innings pitched. Entering yesterday’s start agains the Chicago White Sox, he was at 130.2 IP. With over a month, and approximately six starts for Joba, left in the regular season, that would mean he’d reach his cap if he simply pitched into the 6th inning every start. Faced with this dilemma, the Yankees’ initial plan was to start Joba less frequently going into October.  After deliberating for a day or so (give or take a handful of hours), they’ve instead chosen to start Joba regularly and limit his innings on a start-by-start basis so that he’ll be able to ease into a bug-free post-season.

Hence, yesterday’s White Sox start, wherein young Joba allows two runs in three innings and finds himself riding the pine after a mere 35 pitches.  If anything, it was by far his most efficient short start of 2009 — before Sunday, Joba started six games where he’s thrown over 80 pitches and left before the game’s been deemed official.  It goes without saying that being young, injury-prone, and averaging 20 pitches per inning is no way to go through life as a major league starting pitcher.  Ironically (and I think, for once, I’m using the damn word properly), it’s that maddening ineffciency that, in addition to giving the “Joba no start; Joba setup Mariano” crowd plenty of axes to grind, it has allowed Joba to avoid hitting his inning cap.

Now, whenever the topic of young starters and inning caps is broached, it doesn’t take long for the Verducci Effect to get mentioned.  As he explains in this 2008 article from Sports Illustrated:

It’s like training for a marathon. You need to build stamina incrementally. The unofficial industry standard is that no young pitcher should throw more than 30 more innings than he did the previous season. It’s a general rule of thumb, and one I’ve been tracking for about a decade. When teams violate the incremental safeguard, it’s amazing how often they pay for it.

[...]

In 2005 and ’06 I found 17 pitchers I defined as at-risk of the YAE. None made it through the next year without an injury or a higher ERA. Ten of them broke down, the most seriously hurt being Francisco Liriano, Gustavo Chacin, Adam Loewen, Scott Mathieson and Anibel Sanchez. Eleven of them had worse ERAs, by an average of about a run and a half. Remember, it’s a general rule; there are exceptions, the superlative Justin Verlander being one.

The list of exceptions, they are a-growin’, and it’ll take one hell of an out clause to explain them away.  A list of potential at-risk pitchers, compiled by Beyond The Box Score’s Peter Bendix and RotoAuthority’s Tim Dierkes, whose workloads in 2007 and 2008 fell within the Verducci Effect parameters for the 2009 season, includes John Lester, Chad Billingsley, Tim Lincecum, Jair Jurrjens, John Danks, Clayton Kershaw, and, um, Zach Grienke.  Of course, the list does include ’09 lost causes like Ervin Santana and Manny Parra, but the efficacy of this theoretical spitballing is spotty at best.  Not that I’m the first one to figure that out — back in 2006, when Verducci first went public with his findings, The Hardball Times’ Dave Gassko debunked them using a more thorough statistical approach than yours truly, and came to the following conclusion:

Pitchers who see a large increase in workload are more likely to continue to be successful than those who don’t. It’s important to remember that correlation does not mean causation—just because throwing a lot more innings than a pitcher ever has before is correlated with future success does not mean that managers should be riding their young pitchers hard—but it does imply that Verducci’s argument is incorrect, and there is absolutely no reason that we should expect these [Verducci Effect] candidates to do worse because they’ve overworked.

Now while the Yankees are presumably not just taking last year’s numbers and adding thirty, the emphasis on innings pitched rather than pitch count (or even the types of pitches thrown) puts the Joba Rules in a less than favorable light.  It’s the same sort of approach that made the 100-pitch plateau some sort of starters’ Rubicon that only a select few could cross unscathed. These sorts of restrictions are good as back-of-the-napkin guidelines, but going from that to simply applying them in any and all cases is just as bad as ignoring any safety precautions and letting 20-year-olds throw 200-pitch complete games every third day.  (And, yes, I’ve been a Baseball Prospectus subscriber for over five years now, thanks for asking.  If you’re looking for the Cliff Notes’ version of their well-worn mantra, you can read this discussion between Bill James and SI’s Joe Posnanski about Nolan Ryan and the Rangers’ newly-instituted organizational philosophy regarding starting pitchers, as well as the 100-pitch threshhold.)

At any rate, all this hand-wringing, in Joba’s case, won’t matter in a couple of weeks — the Yankee brass is on record stating that they want to make sure that Joba’s ready to go deep into games when the post-season rolls around (and “the training wheels are off,” as MLB.com’s Bryan Hoch puts it in the Joba article linked to in the 1st paragraph).  Come next year, Joba will be treated like any other starter.  Unless he continues to throw upwards of 100 pitches in five frames or less, a la inefficiency expert Scott Kazmir.  Then it’ll be time to handle with care and take heed of these wise words from Baseball Prospectus contributor Rany Jayazerli:

Throwing is not dangerous to a pitcher’s arm. Throwing while tired is dangerous to a pitcher’s arm.

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Another Open Letter From Billy Wagner

Posted on August 27, 2009 by Billy Wagner

Hard to believe it’s been nearly a year since my last open letter.  A lot’s happened since then, including exactly what I said would happen to the Mets after I went to the DL.  Just like in 2007, they got chumped by the Phillies.  Again.  Then they signed K-Rod and even traded for that J.J. Putz to try and replace what I bring to the table.  And everyone knows what happened next.  I guess it’s good that the Mets decided to just give up before the summer finished.  Gives their fans something better to do with their time.  I’m not saying that New York (and their paychecks) wasn’t good to me, but going to an actual contender with a legitimate shot at a World Series?  The Shake Shack ain’t that great, know what I mean?

So let me set some things straight while I’m here.  First of all, thanks to Jonathan Papelbon for getting his head on straight on what me coming to the Red Sox means.  And “thanks” for being willing to help with my “transition” to the American League, but I’ve been pitching longer than you’ve been stupid, Paps.  Only help I’ll need is in finding the clubhouse and the post-game spread.  Unless something’s changed in the past 10 months, the mounds are the same, and the distance to the plate is the same.  The strike zone might be changed, but that’s because umpires don’t know the black of the plate from my black ass.  This AL / NL thing is just nonsense — ain’t no one that can hit a high 90s fastball if you know where to put it, I don’t care which league you’re in or what you got yourself pumped up on.  If anyone’s gotta adjust, it’s the Junior Circuit to good old Billy Wags.

As for all you comedians trying to compare me to Eric Gagne, there’s ain’t nothing to compare.  I am 100% pure red-blooded American through and through, like Johnny Cash or Lee Greenwood.  And everyone knows that limey turd Gagne was 100% juiced-up overrated French Canadian candyass.  Ain’t no surprise that his saves went down and his ERA went up as soon as MLB started to police that steroid nonsense.  Knowing that slapshot-loving clown has a ring despite pitching like a fat Oliver Perez, while all sorts of players actually worth one goddamn (including myself) ain’t got a damn thing just … well, it just pisses me off, is what.  If you so-called fans got out of your mom’s basement and knew anything about anything, you’d know that I’m gonna give all that I got and then some when Tito gives me the ball.

Some of you might be worried because of my rep as an outspoken clubhouse type, and how that’s gonna unsettle the Boston clubhouse.  Well, excuse me for having a goddamn opinion.  And correct me if I’m wrong, but I vaguely remember a similar sort of outspoke type coming to Boston about five years ago.  And all he did while speaking his mind and calling a spade a spade was win you folks two world championships.  Now tell me who in Red Sox Nation has a problem with Curt Schilling?  Yeah, I might put my foot in my mouth once in a while, but that’s only because I like kicking ass!  And this ain’t some namby-pamby game of Go Fish we’re talking about here — this is baseball, where you gotta kick some ass to get what you want.

Do I want to be the closer instead of a set-up guy?  Hell yeah — that’s what I’ve done all my life, and getting demoted sucks.  Lemme ask all you 40-hour work week folk the same question. Let’s say you’re forced to leave your current job, go somewhere else, and take a paycut.  You wouldn’t be happy with that, right?  Well, it’s like that with me.  Except without the paycut.  And my job’s about the same.  But that ain’t the point!  The point is that it’s hard to change, and you gotta want to do it.  I’m willing to do what it takes to get Boston another World Series, and as long as no one screws it up for me, then everyone’s gonna get along just fine.

Boston Red Sox non-closer Billy Wagner hates the Facebook Farmville app.  Hey, it’s on his Wiki page, so it has to be true, right?

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Is Signing Your Fancy-Pants Draft Pick Something You Might Be Interested In?

Posted on August 27, 2009 by Hollywood Agent Bob Ryan

Let me set the scene for you.  You’re an up and coming sports franchise that’s coming off an awful, terrible year.  Flop after flop after flop.  Maybe not flops as bad as Popeye or Ishtar, but close enough to give you some palpitations and night sweats — something like Jade or Silver, let’s say.  Real stinkeroos.

But you have one consolation to keep you warm through those awful off-season nights: a high-ranking draft pick in your upcoming amateur draft.  A top 5 pick.  Maybe even the number 1 pick overall.  If only there was a draft in Hollywood after you crapped your pants!  ”Sorry you couldn’t get Vinnie Chase for your Ramones biopic, Bob.  You can have Rachel Weisz and Kate Winslet for your Henry & June remake, though!  Good luck, and give my best to the missus!”

So now you’re thinking big, with your fancy high draft pick.  You’re thinking about some hotshot kid coming out of the cornfields with Bob Feller’s fastball and Don Drysdale’s bedside manner, or some seven-footer from the projects with the hands of Nathaniel “Sweetwater” Clifton handle and speed of Walt “Clyde” Frazier.  Did I tell you that I set up Walt Frazier with both Pam Grier and Peggy Lipton after the New York premier of Deep Throat?  True story.  Hell of a three-way, from what I heard.  Through the walls, that is.  Peggy asked if I wanted to tag along, but you know what they say.

Anyway, so you’re hot to trot over the next big thing, and Draft Day comes, and you get your man!  Or your woman, if that’s the way you swing — it’s the 21st century, folks , I don’t discriminate.  You’re ready to start printing commemorative jerseys with their name emblazoned on the back, and championship tickets and bobblehead dolls and all sorts of high-priced low-cost memorabilia.  But there’s one thing standing between you and your dreams: The Motherfucking Agent.

Though, as you might have guessed by some of my anecdotes, most of my expertise is in the field of film making, I can say without any doubt that sports agents are cut from the same shit-stained money-grubbing cloth as their counterparts in the entertainment industry.  But that doesn’t mean they’re difficult to deal with, if you know what you’re doing. What if I could tell you that I have three easy to remember tips on how to deal with these agents that will get you everything you want and next to nothing they or their clients want?  Is that something I could interest you in?

First lesson, and sometimes the most important: it’s OK to play hard-to-get.  Think of all the times you had a girl you were sweet on gave you the cold shoulder or, even worse, hit the breaks right when you were getting to the good parts.  Believe it or not, sex and business go hand in hand, and not just because you’re bound to get fucked eventually!  If you show too much interest in whoever you’re pursuing, that person’s bound to use that to their advantage. But if you pretend you’re not interested, and are pursuing other options, that might prick up their ears and give you the upper hand.  I came this close to getting Harrison Ford on board for a series of Remo Williams films using this strategy, and it would’ve worked if it wasn’t for that cocksucker Spielberg and that other son of a bitch Lucas.  But I digress – George and Steve are great guys, and Raiders turned out to be an alright popcorn flick.  If you like that sort of thing.

My second piece of advice: never budge.  This might sound similar to the “play hard to get” advice I just gave in the last paragraph, but it’s not!  When I say “never budge,” I’m talking about when the negotiations are getting down and dirty, and the sweat starts flying, and the guy on the other side of the table is trying to tell you that his guy is worth about ten times more than you’re willing to pay.  Look at what just happened with the Washington Nationals and the kid they drafted, this Stephen Strasburg.  (What is it with Steves being pains in the tuckus?)  Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t they talking about Strasburg getting FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS just a few months ago?  And then folks were all up in arms about how they’re not willing to sign the kid?  And now they get him for only fifteen million?  That’s a thirty-five million dollar savings, which is coincidentally what I would’ve brought Hudson Hawk in for, back when it was MY baby.  Did I tell you I taught Joel Silver everything he forgot?

My final piece of advice: don’t be afraid to walk away.  If the going gets tough, and nothing’s happening, then make something happen by doing the opposite of what they expect you to do!  Think about it!  When you have, juast as an example, some European kid that’s unwilling to “slum it” in the best country in the world and instead wants to play for some Spanish team until he’s old enough to vote, then you do what Robert DeNiro says in that movie about the mob — you fuck ‘em where they breathe!  You have some stuck-up football player wanting more than he’s worth?  Leave him on the sidelines and see how much his worth depreciates!  Let ‘em screw up their career — this only gives you leverage for when they come crawling back to you, asking for another chance.  And then you fuck ‘em again!  Show them what’s what!  Take those rat bastards to school and give them the old brown eye!  So to speak, of course.

Now it should go without saying that maybe if you follow my advice, you’ll find yourself on the ass end of an endless stream of ridicule from fans and media personalities, and some disgruntled mumblings from your superiors.  But that’s the way things go.  It takes a while for true genius and bravery to be recognized for the madness it looked like but actually wasn’t.  People thought Michael Cimino was an egomaniacal loon!  And maybe he was!  But what if I told you that this lunatic recluse with delusions of grandeur was responsible for some of the best cinema that Hollywood’s ever seen, and that you could be the sports world’s answer to him?  Is that something you could be intersted in?  Do I even need to ask the question?

Esteemed Hollywood producer Bob Ryan is currently developing a movie based on the popular Tumblr, Look At This Fucking Hipster.

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What The NFL Needs Now Is A Player Named Josef Witepaur

Posted on August 24, 2009 by David Raposa

Newsflash!  Folks spend a lot of money on their pets!  Even when the economy’s going sideways!  According to the American Pet Products Association (and this CNN blog post that references the APPA’s press release on this subject), 2009 spending on your favorite ball of fur and poop is on track to increase to $45.5 billion, over two billion dollars (or five percent) more than what was spent last year.  This includes all types of spending, including health care costs, supplies, and, of course, sports paraphenalia.  After all, next to spending upwards of $100 on a lifesize (or larger) "wall decal," what better way to broadcast your potentially unhealthy attachment to your favorite sports team than by forcing your four-legged companion to act as a one-pet street-team for said attachment?  Without shaving team logos into their hair, that is.  (Anyone trying to read anything racial into my use of Ron Artest in this case can go drop a grand on a cat condo.)

But wait!  Thanks to current events, your expression of fandom can also double as a provocative (or mostly unintentional) comment on a very sensitive issue.  I’m not sure whether Falcons fans have (or want) the opportunity to nostalgically bask in the Michael Vick era through their dog’s casual wear, but it’s a fact that Eagles fans can buy a Fido-sized jersey with Vick’s name on the back.  For those that cavort and canter every time the Eagles’ Super Bowl hopes go up in smoke (or down on the turf with an ACL tear), news of this merchandising opportunity is probably just another reason to keep on hating.  Though, as noted in the not-unslanted Daily News report on this "story," it’s just business as usual for the NFL:

"Like any other player, (customers) can obtain that name and that jersey if they wish," league spokesman Greg Aiello said. "As far as putting it on the dog product, [Vick]‘s working with humane societies, working to educate others on this issue, so we don’t see a problem."

The article goes on to note that the NFL does have a list of about 1100 words, names, and phrases that they will not put on the back of their customizable jerseys, dog-sized or otherwise.  Sadly for herpes fans and folks from a certain country, this no-go- list does include MEXICO.  Interstingly enough (and maybe just a little more important than this Vick-dog-jersey non-issue), it also once included a not-uncommon surname:

The league reversed itself and will now allow personalized jerseys to have “GAY” on the back. This decision came one day after Outsports printed an article about the policy. Previously, a person trying to buy such a jersey had it rejected with the words: "This field should not contain a naughty word." (this wording was changed in response to our story to "The personalization entered cannot be accepted."). Dan Masonson, a league spokesman, told Outsports that “there was no message there” to having “gay” on a list of 1,159 banned words. After being made aware of the issue, the NFL Shop will now allow “gay” jerseys, said Masonson. “It should have not been in the [naughty words] filter,” he said.

This decision seems to have less to do with any sexual orientation statement by the league and more with the fact that there is a player in the league with the last name Gay, New England Patriots rookie defensive back Randall Gay. Randall is the first Gay in the NFL since Ben Gay played for the Cleveland Browns in 2001. For example, Masonson said there was no discussion in removing “Lesbian” or other words from the list of banned words and he explained the league’s thinking: 

“The idea behind personalized jerseys is for a fan to put his or her name on the back or possibly a nickname,” Masonson said. It is not designed for political, social or other types of statements.  

Ah, 2005 — when men were men, Bush was Bush, football players were just unrepentant steroid abusers (occasional instances of  using an instrument to destroy an unborn child notwithstanding), and you could buy your pooch a customized Patriots jersey with BIN LADEN displayed proudly on the back.  God Bless(ed) The USA (But Now He Obviously Just Wants To Cheese Off Dog Lovers And Condone Homosexuality)!

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Question: Is FSI A Really Insurance?

Posted on August 22, 2009 by David Raposa

FSI being Fantasy Sports Insurance, of course, and answer: yes they can!  Can’t Stop The Bleeding contributor and grown-ass freelance writer (and yet another Official Friend of Jockish — e-mail me for membership info and rates!) David Roth just blogged about this particularly interesting and curious service.  In case you’re wondering where Roth stands on this hot-button topic, and are too lazy to click: “Anyone know where I could purchase some priority insurance? Or get a time-to-grow-the-fuck-up-little-boys policy?” Clearly he’s a big fan (and not just because he makes mention of the upcoming Patton Oswalt football drama, from the guy that wrote the thing about the guy that got Mickey Rourke that role as the bad guy in the new Iron Man flick)!

But hold on there with your lofty judgements and hoity-toity standards, says Mouthpiece Sports’ Eamonn Brennan!  ”When I draft Adrian Peterson No. 1 overall in my Iowa league this year, I could plunk down an extra $10 or $15 and, if Peterson suffers some sort of horrific season-ending injury, completely recoop (chicken or pigeon? – ED) my $100 league entry fee. This is lovely and amazing, and I will probably do it. If only health insurance were this awesome.”  CIA dudes spidering the web for tube-flavored healthcare chatter, take note!  Though I will confess that my health insurance is in fact pretty awesome — I got the deductible back from my last physical after the Yankees moved Chien-Ming Wang to the 60-day DL.  Thanks, Blue Cross!

The Wall Street Journal article Eamonn links to has more than enough information about FSI, including the site’s genesis (fuckin Tom Brady!), the site’s underwriter (fuckin Lloyd’s of London!), and the site’s prospective future (fuckin $$$$$$).  But if your thirst for FSI knowledge still isn’t slaked, there’s this brief interview with Fantasy Sports Business Dot Com, wherein the site’s creators confess through omission that, while they did hire a website and software developer, they forgot to bring a copy editor on board to edit things like, for example, the title of this blog post, which I took verbatim from FSI’s FAQ. Because they pass on the savings to you!  Unless you luck out and draft an entirely healthy fantasy football team!  Then you’re fucked!

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Now Let Brian Bannister Blow Your Mind (Again)

Posted on August 21, 2009 by David Raposa

 As Tim Marchman wrote (in one of the blog posts I’m pilfering for this blog post): "To think about the arms God gave some of these clowns while leaving [Brian] Bannister with 86 mph…"

[A]fter reporters asked him why he got hammered he led off by saying, ‘Pitch/FX is telling me that my pitches aren’t sinking as much,’ then went on about how awesome Mark Buehrle is and referenced mysterious rules he has (which he apparently broke) that he won’t reveal for fear of giving batters advantages but involve set sequences in certain counts.

[...]

He mentioned this after I’d put my recorder away, by the way, but he also talked about how the central insight of DIPS theory is that the distribution of balls in play is random enough that you should position fielders according to range rather than according to where you expect the ball to go. He’s really not a guy who’s just talking about half-understood theories.

The more I hear & read from Bannister, the more I think he might be able to lay hands on Mark Prior and turn him into a 400-game winner.  Or at the very least show an all-hat no-cattle guy like Oliver Perez the difference between a ball and a strike.

[Brian Bannister should be your favorite player / Damn you, Posnanski! | TimMarchman.com]

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You Say Teixeira, I Say Mauer!

Posted on August 21, 2009 by David Raposa

Ed Price, August 19th:

Although all of those Yankee haters out there were enjoying the show early in the season, as the player with the biggest contract this side of Alex Rodriguez got booed during a slow start, the story has changed.

Take a look now. [Mark] Teixeira and the Yankees are soaring.

"He’s the best player in here," Yankees outfielder Johnny Damon told FanHouse. "He’s a Gold Glove first baseman. He solidifies the No. 3 spot. He hustles, breaks up double plays. He’s everything a team would want."

Tyler Kepner, August 15th:

Teixeira is the most productive player on the team with baseball’s best record. He leads the league in total bases and extra-base hits. He won two games in June with his base running (June 2, with a takeout slide, and June 12, after Luis Castillo’s dropped pop-up), and his defense has been off the charts.

Joe Posnanski, August 15th:

Never mind that there is not a single thing that Mark Teixeira has done as well as Joe Mauer this year. Not one thing. Never mind that Mauer’s batting average is 87 points higher, his on-base percentage is 59 points higher, his slugging percentage is 57 points higher, his OPS+ is 40 points higher and he’s a freaking CATCHER, and a good one, while Teixera’s a first baseman*.

*I was about to say, “and a good one” because Teixeira was an excellent defensive first baseman in 2008 by all the numbers. But did you know that he has a minus-UZR this year, and his Dewan plus/minus is way down?

Kepner, ibid:

I say [Teixeira's defense is] off the charts because I’m convinced there is no chart that accurately measures defense. The attempt is a noble one; defense is easily the most underrated ingredient in how games are won. But I don’t fully accept it.

People often cite Ultimate Zone Rating, a metric that tries to measure range and errors and how they affect runs allowed or prevented. But how can that statistic be valid when it says Teixeria has had a negative defensive impact?

Ken Davidoff, August 19th:

Teixeira has impressed both Yankees and their observers with his defense at first base, and yet his UZR for the season is -.8. In other words, according to the metric, his defense has actually cost the Yankees eight-tenths of a run this year.

So what gives?

"Two things may have occurred," [UZR creator Mitchel] Lichtman said. "One is that maybe he actually played about average first base for (120) games. That wouldn’t be unreasonable.

" … The other is measurement error. It could be that data for (12) games is maybe in error. That’s’ no big deal."

Mike Silva, Augusth 16th:

Joe Mauer is a great player. His overall numbers are slightly better than Teixeira, especially when you look at OPS and OPS+. The fact that the Minnesota Twins are under .500 should disqualify him immediately.

Dayn Perry, August 20th:

The "MVP must come from a playoff team" line of thinking is an imported standard — one plainly at odds with the rules — and it’s time for voters to realize this fact. We saw this nonsense in the NL last season when any number of observers tried to pretend that Ryan Howard was anywhere close to as valuable as Albert Pujols.

So enough already. Voters, your instructions are unambiguous — the standings don’t matter when it comes to selecting an MVP. Even if that criterion were allowable, it would make no sense. This is baseball. You can’t let Peyton Manning throw the ball 50 times or give LeBron James 50 looks at the basket. A batter can come to plate only once every nine times, and a starting pitcher most often can take the ball only once every five days. To penalize Mauer because his teammates are worse than Teixeira’s is the depth and breadth of sloppy thinking. Oh, and it’s also against the rules

Rob Neyer, August 15th:

Maybe Tyler [Kepner] is right. Maybe if the ballots were due today, Teixeira would win. But I’m not quite convinced that’s true. And if it is true, I’m not convinced that it’s right.

Frankly, I’m worried that the baseball writers are already conspiring to rob Joe Mauer — for the third time — of an award that should rightly be his.

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Why My Dad Is Brett Favre, My Hero

Posted on August 21, 2009 by Breleigh Favre

My dad is a world famous Super Bowl Quarterback.  His name is Brett Favre.  A lot of people like to make fun of my dad for all sorts of reasons.  They like to make fun of the way he spells his name because it doesn’t look like it sounds.  They also like to make fun of him for being a good football player.  But my dad is more than a good football player with a funny spelled name.  He is a Super Bowl Quarterback and he is the best that has ever played the game of football.  According to the Internet he has a lot of records including consecutive starts by a quaterback, career touchdowns, career interceptions, career playoff interceptions, and career playoff losses.  Those are a lot of records that might never be broken.  And this is one of the reason my dad Brett Favre is my hero.

For most of his career, he played for a team in Wisconsin called the Green Bay Packers.  They like lots of cheese and beer in Green Bay, Wisconsin.  They also liked my dad a lot when he was playing there.  I was really little when he played for them for most of the time, but when I got older I learned from him about how good he was.  He won a Super Bowl with the Green Bay Packers when I was not even one year old, and this year he will win another one.  And maybe he can win more!  Heroes like my dad like to win lots of things like Super Bowls because that is what heroes should do.

Last year my dad played for the New York Jets.  They were not a good team according to my dad, but my dad helped them try to win a Super Bowl.  My dad tries really hard when he goes out on the field of battle.  Sometimes I have to watch between my fingers when he throws the ball because it’s so scary watching him play!  He likes to run around and make people miss him and then he throws the ball a long way.  Sometimes he has to get up and tackle people on the other team because they catch his ball which they shouldn’t do.  That’s also pretty scary!  A lot of people want to hurt my dad, because that is how you play football and win the Super Bowl.  When I get upset because people pick on me or I do bad on a math test my dad tells me that this is the way the world works and I need to pretend like it’s 4th down and the whole game is on the line and I need to air it out down field.  I’m not sure what this means but I know it’s really important.  This is one of the many important things my dad has taught me.

And now this year my dad will win a Super Bowl for the Minnesota Vikings.  I like their uniform the best out of all the uniforms I saw my dad in because I don’t like green too much.  Purple is a fun color because that is the color of grape popsicles and dried bird doo-doo.   I heard from some people that my dad once played for that team in Atlanta that had the guy that killed all the dogs who went to jail.  But he left there without winning a Super Bowl which is OK with me.  I don’t want my dad to win anything for a team that likes dog killers.  I don’t understand how you can want to kill a dog!  They’re so cute and furry!

Something else I like about my dad is that he likes to have fun.  When we play around in our ranch in Mississippi he likes to throw balls and roll around in the dirt and do lots of fun things.  One time his friend Peter King of Sports Illustrated was at the ranch and they were having fun together.  Peter King likes to give me copies of his books that he wrote when he comes over.  One of these days I’ll read them when I’m old enough!  Peter King and my dad usually go out to play some golf or hunt then when they get back my dad gave Peter King a noogie and a purple nurple!  See I told you purple was a fun color!  Then they laugh about it and had some beers afterwards.  I like giving my dad purple nurples and wet willies but he doesn’t do that to me because I’m a girl.

Finally I am happy that my dad is going back to win a Super Bowl but I was not crying like my dad said I was. What really happened is that my dad was planning on coming back the whole time everyone said he was retiring because of his shoulder.  And he told me that he was going to play a trick on everyone and tell them that it was my idea because it would be fun and he could get out of going to camp.  It would be like a big purple nurple to the world he said and I said OK.  I understand that.  I don’t like camp much either.  It’s always wet and cold and you have to sleep in a tent in a sleeping bag.  Tents are gross.

Sometimes my dad says it’s OK to lie about things when it makes other people happy.  And I actually lied a little too with my dad because even though Brett Favre is my dad and I love him I like it when my dad isn’t around all the time.  I get to watch Spongebob and iCarly on the TV because my dad isn’t around watching the NFL channel or ESPN or Spike.  And I get to call my friends on the phone because my dad isn’t hogging the phone talking to his friends like Peter King of Sports Illustrated about the Super Bowl and football.  And I can get my homework done without my dad wanting to play Nerf catch or XBox football all the time.  But I still love my dad because he’s my dad.  And that is why he is my hero.  Yay Dad!

Breleigh Favre is ten years old.  Her favorite football play is the one where you throw while falling down and the ball goes to the opposite side of the field and everyone on both teams try to catch it.

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