"Deja Vu" and Other Google Trends: The Week in Review, Redux

Dead or just taking a nap?

This is the first part in a two-part installment and the only part coming today. So click twice to make up for the lost hits.

The more things change the more… blah, blah, blah. You know the rest. Look, I hesitate to use “blah, blah, blah” as an attention-grabber in a post you already stopped reading, but dammit, this is getting ridiculous. Here’s where we stand as of May 21, 2009. Tell me if any of this sounds familiar.

LeBron’s coming off of a second round playoff exit. The Celtics are suddenly the best team in the league. The Lakers are on a death march to the Finals. Kobe’s got a chip on his shoulder. I’m a year away from graduating. The Rays are great. The Braves aren’t. Brett Favre is retiring, maybe. The Spurs disfigured Steve Nash. “Iron Man” is a hit. “Sex And The City” won’t go away. The market is in the first throes of a freefall that everyone insists isn’t happening. “Credit crisis” owns the headlines. Microsoft is at 28 and change. Incumbents are s***ing themselves. 

By all means, stop me if you’ve heard this before. 

I’ve seen the future, Casualtists, and it looks a hell of a lot like the past – May ’08, actually. I know how this all plays out, and unless you’re Kevin Garnett, it totally sucks to be you. Just telling you right now: wait till GE hits $4 and then buy. And stay away from the banks and autos altogether. 

"ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!"

Deep breath, and a quick note: if you’re reading this from a position of power, I will totally work for food and beer. Let’s do this.

On Monday, Marlins shortstop Hanley Ramirez jogged after a live ball that he accidentally kicked into deep right field. All runners scored on the play. Afterward, Ramirez blamed his bruised shin for not running hard, but I think he was probably just weighed down by that $70 million contract. 

In Hanley’s honor, I’m phoning this paragraph in. Not sorry about it either. 

During Friday’s cameo on “Friday Night Lights,” former Texas Tech coach Mike Leach accosted coach Taylor at a gas station with some awkward psychobabble about pirates and sword-swinging. I’m not really sure what the point of Leach’s inclusion was other than to garner some, “Hey, that’s Mike Leach…” reaction. I will say, though, that “FNL” writers have always been big fans of foreshadowing, so lookout for the “Taylor Locks Vince in an Electrical Closet” episode. 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNQ6AvVpWcg]

As previously reported by Sports Casualties, rumors circulated through Bristol Monday that LeBron James would only sign a deal as part of a package with Kentucky coach John Calipari. 

Michael Jackson actually tried this when he signed with Epic… “Hey guys, you get me AND Tito!”

On Monday, the Euro hit a four-year low – the Euro being injured German soccer captain Michael Ballack, not the currency. In case you missed it, Ballack, a star in places that matter less than the U.S., will miss the World Cup because of a gimpy ankle. I predicted great things for Germans two weeks ago, so chalk it up to the SC Jinx. Sorry, Mike.

In further soccer news (seriously), star Frenchman Thierry Henry, 32, signed with the MLS’s Red Bulls on Monday.

Enjoy growing old in New York, Thierry. Worked out great for Willie Mays, Randy Johnson and Brett Favre. 

Shea: where legends go to die.

As you may or may not know, Monday was Bryan Holt’s first day working at local St. Pete station WTSP. Though I have little insight into his day-to-day activities other than “I work with hot babes,” I can tell you for certain that he’s already better at TV than Joe Morgan. 

Keep it up, Bryan. You do SC proud. 

In the first game of this week’s Red Sox-Yankees series, New York rolled out a starting outfield of Randy Winn, Brett Gardner and Marcus Thames, or as it’s more commonly known, “the best platoon $196 million can buy.”

In non sequitur news, are we 100 percent sure that Bucs QB Josh Freeman isn’t the forbidden lovechild of “Coming to America’s” Darryl Jenks ?

Like son…

…like father?

Or, for that matter, that Texans linebacker Brian “Needle” Cushing isn’t the forbidden lovechild of Yankees slugger Mark Teixeira?

Like son…

…like father?

Turning to the collapsing financial sector, Warren Buffett’s Berkshire Hathaway Company dumped shares of Gannett Media on Monday to raise capital for the acquisition of Burlington Northern. Apparently Buffett sees more potential in railroads than in the newspaper industry.

In related news, My Future is having a panic attack. 

On Sunday night, Rima Fakih became the first Arab-American to be crowned Miss America. Hours later, Rima Fakih became the first Arab-American Miss America to be outed for stripper photos. 

Fakih is from Michigan, which means my friend PK, an Ann Arbor grad, was wrong: they aren’t all heavyset white people. 

On a sad note, metal pioneer Ronnie James Dio passed away Sunday at the age of 67. His loss was mourned everywhere by people with bad tastes.

The National Football Post’s Mike Lombardi reported Monday that NFL teams are only interested in former Raiders QB JaMarcus Russell if he switches positions. Just for the record, I was kidding when I said JaMarcus has a bright future at left tackle.

But don’t tell Raheem Morris. This could be fun.

To reality TV, Chad Ochocinco was booted off of “Dancing With The Stars” this week, leaving Olympic skater Evan Lysacek, UF babe Erin Andrews, and singer Nicole Scherzinger as the three finalists. No further news. Just wanted to point out that I nailed the Final Four back in early March. Lysacek is my champion. Andrews second. Mark it down.

And last, but certainly not least, rumors spread this week that Cavs guard Delonte West is bagging Gloria James, and son LeBron found out as much just before game 4 of the Celtics series. This would both explain LeBron’s epic collapse in game 5 and Delonte’s dead legs.

Kevin "The Mediator" Garnett

Knowing West’s more carefree demeanor – he once misplaced a shotgun in his guitar case – the conversation probably went something like this:

‘Bron: “Did you do it?”

Delonte: “Hell no… Do what?”

‘Bron: “Are you having an affair with my mom?”

Delonte: “(*pensive silence*)”

‘Bron: Delonte!

Delonte: She told me it was a different James! My bad, King.

Still, if true, this shouldn’t surprise anyone. Delonte’s always been known for his ability to penetrate. 

In conclusion, pay Andre Johnson.

- Robbie

CNBC Fab 5 Pics: Drury-Regan Edition

In the interest of full disclosure, this post is designed to drive search engine traffic and fill space. If you come in with low expectations, you could be pleasantly surprised. 

Well friends, I come to you with mixed feelings about the week that was. On the one hand, the Braves have won three straight in bottom-of-the-ninth fashion. The latter two came via a 2-out Heyward double and a Brooks Conrad walk-off slam to cap a 7-run comeback, respectively. Atlanta’s back over .500, which means I can start watching baseball again.

On the other hand, the market’s on the brink of a Louganis-style nosedive, and I’m pretty sure that the credit clusterf*** currently swallowing Europe is the same exact thing we were dealing with in the summer of ’08. All the major averages are now down for the year, and the S&P is off a full 12 percent from 2010 highs. Everyone’s talking “correction,” which is basically another way of saying, “Take all the cash you have left and put it under your mattress.”

A lone word of advise, Casualtists: buy bonds… I think our “V”-shaped recovery is about to turn into a “W”. 

Of course, there’s a silver lining to every cloud, or in this case, two silver linings: CNBC’s Trish Regan (the brunette) and Mandy Drury (the Bond girl). In case you missed it, here’s a brief, SC-exclusive checkup on two of the best (and most smokin’) anchors in the business. Lucky for you, there’s an inverse correlation between Dow performance and hotness.

This is your CNBC week in review. Enjoy.

Saved the best for last, no?

- Robbie

Your Move, LeBron

"LeBron, come to Jersey... No, seriously."

A bunch of future professionals had their fates decided Tuesday night by the fluky whims of a couple dozen ping pong balls. John Wall has no say in employer. He will go to Team X – probably Washington –  and he will like it. LeBron James, on the other hand, can go wherever he wants, do whatever he wants to do. The King is bound only by his own impulses and those of the people around him. Believe it or not, he doesn’t have to go to Chicago or New York. He doesn’t have to sign a 6-year deal. LeBron holds the cards.

Which means some crazy sh*t could happen.

A couple things you need to keep in mind as we kick off this free agency battle royale. We’re dealing with a bunch of guys in their mid 20s. One of these guys – LeBron, The Alpha Domino – still makes decisions under the watchful eye of old high school buddies. This in itself is not a sound foundation for logical outcomes. Now factor in the rumors – Coach Cal’s packaged deal, Momma James’ dalliance with Desperado West. And consider that James wants very much both to change the rules of the game and secure a pending legacy…

LeBron once said that his main goal was to become a global icon. He tried to turn pro in 11th grade. He scored 3800 points before he could legally shoot gin and juice. The man is not normal, and should we expect normal things from him this summer, we could end up like Mike Dunleavy on a golf course in March: totally blindsided and wondering how we got here. Will he ink a big deal with one of the oft-speculated players? Probably. But here are some of the other options.

Batsh** Scenario #1: LeBron to Cleveland… For a Year

The consensus speculation surrounding LeBron’s possible return to Cleveland entails the 6-year-max offer that would earn an extra $30 million over the life of the deal. This is Dan Gilbert’s main bargaining chip – only the Cavs can pay the extra cash. But if you set aside money for a second, the reasons why ‘Bron would give it one more go in Cleveland are many. The best of these is that the Cavs are one of the teams (Chicago, Dallas) most equipped to win next year. We saw that they’re not a champion as currently constituted. But now Shaq’s off the books and his fat ass is out of the lane. Gilbert would splurge for a Bron-approved front office, a coach that plays to his team’s strengths (read: RUNS!), and key pieces via the O’Neal money.

Plus, Cleveland would know without a doubt that this is its last shot, which means LeBron pressures the guys making the decisions to pull out all the stops. And, of course, there’s also the guilt factor: the guy’s got a whole offseason to think about whether he wants to destroy the state of Ohio. He has a conscience. He also knows that a title would erase the memories of that epic stinkbomb in game 5 of the Celtics series and secure his legacy in the process.

Perhaps the biggest consideration, though, is one still a year off. The potential labor lockout after next season could make an ugly summer for ‘Bron if he doesn’t play his cards right. Think 50 win season in New York; second round exit; long, brutal months wondering if his team can turn himself, Bosh and a bunch of nobodies into a legit title contender. On the other hand, pushing free agency back a year would be both an opportunity to see where the chips fall and an impetus for players and owners to make a deal. You’re telling me a roving LeBron/Carmelo ’11-’12 combo wouldn’t be enough to light a fire under the league’s ass? Come on. Cuban would fold in a heartbeat.

Batsh** Scenario #2: LeBron to Newark

Plastic balls dealt the Nets a major blow on Tuesday when the lottery once again screwed the worst team in the league. That Wall/Lebron duo ain’t happening, and from the wounded-puppy-dog look on his face during the post-raffle interview, no one was more devastated than John Wall himself. The Nets will instead take the third guy on the board, most likely forward Derrick  ”Not John Wall” Favors.

Still, if there’s one thing I learned from “Air Force One,” it’s that you underestimate Russian mobsters at your own peril. Enter Mikhail Prokhorov, the most simultaneously riveting/terrifying Eastern European sports figure since Ivan Drago. Just days after formally purchasing the Nets, the 6-foot-8, widow-peaked gold tycoon guaranteed that his dynasty in the making would be in the playoffs next season and win a title no later than year five. The guy’s ballsy. He commands respect. He’s bold. And he’s worth $13.4 billion. All parts of a winning formula. Inheriting a 12-win club… maybe not so much.

LeBron or not, New Jersey will look like a different team next year. They have only $26 million committed to the $56.1 million cap and a vacant coaching spot, which means Prokhorov could surround The King with free agent talent, John Calipari, Beyonce/Hova, AND some seriously awesome Dodgers throwback unis. Should LeBron sign elsewhere, expect a hit on David Stern before the end of the year and a potential communist uprising in Hoboken.

Batsh** Scenario #3: LeBron to Big D

This one’s actually quite conceivable and probably not getting enough pub. Would you be surprised if one of the highest-profile owners in sports attracts one of the biggest stars to one of the biggest cities? You shouldn’t. Mark Cuban basically turned All-Star Weekend into a wine-and-dine recruiting trip for all the guys without a home. He said, with Jerry Jones’ OK, that he wants to play several future home games in Cowboys Stadium… and thinks he’ll have enough fan support. Hint hint, LeBron. Dallas has the money, too, and could use Erick Dampier’s coveted expiring contract as part of a sign-and-trade. They’d also have to part with some young guys (Rodrique Beaubois?) and cash, but would still be an immediate title favorite with the Dirk/Kidd/LeBron pairing.

If you’re James, you get to play A) for one of the best owners in the league B) in an uptempo system for a historically offensive-minded franchise and C) with your Olympic mentor Jason Kidd (oh, and Dirk, your Scottie). You know Cuban will spend whatever it takes to make your team a perennial contender. Plus, you move to the West in the midst of a power shift. You won’t have to deal with Dwight Howard, you won’t have to deal with the Bulls, you won’t have to deal with Dwyane Wade. You got an aging Kobe, an aging Nash, an over-the-hill Duncan, the gimpy bodies in Portland… and that’s it. Utah will splinter and Melo’s moving East.

This makes sense to the point I think it could actually happen. The only thing larger than LeBron? Texas. Match made in hardwood heaven.

Batsh** Scenario #4: LeBron to New York… with Wade… and Bosh

But wait, you say, the Knicks don’t have the cap space to offer three max contracts. You’re right. They don’t. Nike, on the other hand, prints money and probably wouldn’t be averse to putting a few (million) bucks to a good cause – in this case, resurrecting basketball in Manhattan. Of course, this is a Bill Simmons’ exercise in unsubstantiated fact and rumor… and exactly what we’re dealing in.

Think about it. The Knicks divide their $30 million of cap room amongst LeBron, Wade and Bosh and then Phil Knight splits the difference in the form of the biggest marketing campaign in the history of civilization. Call it “The Holy Trinity.” Slap it on the side of the Empire State Building. Create a sixth borough. Call it “Wade County.” Turn “Bosh” into a verb. Buy LeBron an actual throne. You get the point.

(*wakes up from dream*)

- Robbie

The Sad State of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Yes, it’s May, and I’m already complaining about my Bucs. Get used to it.

Monday was the first day of organized team activities, or OTAs as they are more commonly titled, for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.This is usually a time when die-hard fans of a team get at least mildly excited about the upcoming season. The team that will play out the 2010 season is finally all on the field together, rookies and all. Some early if not premature power rankings are already out. Familiar faces are back on the news. 

Nobody is excited in Tampa. 

Yes, the Bucs won two out of their last three games in 2009. One of them was even against the eventual Super Bowl champion New Orleans Saints, the first team in NFL history to lose to the Bucs during the regular season and go on to win that year’s Super Bowl. However, it’s hard to argue that these wins were not the full season equivalent of scoring 14 points in the final quarter of a game that you’re losing 42-0. The phrase “mop-up” comes to mind. It is also tough to argue that these victories did anything for the team besides crushing my dreams of reading “Suh” on the back of a red jersey in 2010. 

The Bucs also had an efficient 2010 draft in terms of their team needs. Michael “Left-Eye” Clayton likely won’t be around Tampa much longer, so two new receivers were brought in to take his place and possibly start this season. One of those receivers, Mike Williams of Syracuse, said in an interview that it was a very new experience for him. 

Woah, what happened to UCONN?

“The speed of the game is crazy. You catch the ball and you’re used to running 50 yards up field. Now everytime you catch the ball, it’s like BOOM, a corner is right there in your face.” Uh, yeah. Go Big East.  

The Bucs were looking for a way to rid themselves of fan-favorite veteran Chris Hovan, so they drafted two defensive tackles. Both of which will likely be starters come August.  

Unfortunately for Bucs fans, the Bucs did not draft any safeties until the sixth and seventh rounds, meaning that Sabby ”what just ran past me” Piscitelli will still be offering plenty of free passes this season.

This is a Buccaneer team that is very different from what fans had previously grown accustomed to. This entire Raheem Morris/Glazers with no money era is very different from what fans had previously grown accustomed to.The Bucs are now officially a low-budget, small market team trying to fight their limitations with cheap youth. But their limitations are not out of necessity, they are out of a circumstance that can be blamed completely on ownership. 

The Bucs’ much heralded “franchise” was once their defense. A dominant unit that was the envy of the league. Now the Bucs are led by coach Raheem Morris, a happy-go-lucky, in-over-his-head position coach who uses the word exciting like Ari Gold drops f-bombs. A large part of his excitement on Monday was directed toward Josh “Tito Jackson” Freeman, the Bucs’ second-year starting quarterback who Morris said is “our franchise” on Monday. 

Morris in a rare moment of 2009 glory.

The equally smiley Freeman noted that he is “light years” ahead of where he was at this time last year. I’m guessing this means that he is now qualified to be a third-string quarterback for a competitive team.  

Luckily for Freeman, he has Morris, the man who once led the defense of his Kansas State Wildcats and has a relentless man-crush on Freeman, bad curly afro and all. Not so luckily for Freeman, left tackle Donald Penn is not attending these offseason workouts because of a contract dispute. I’m no expert of offensive lines, but I did see “The Blind Side,” so I know that a pissed off left tackle is not a good thing.  

Contract dispute or not, sitting out of OTAs was once not accepted in Tampa. Training camp was where you made a statement if necessary. OTAs were your first opportunity to become a team and usher in the new rookies. Yes, these workouts are voluntary, but they were once not treated as such by veterans like Warren Sapp and John Lynch who policed players that didn’t make the late spring trot over to One Buc Place. One of my favorite sound clips of all time was Sapp blasting Keyshawn Johnson for being the only Buc to miss OTAs. “He was never one of us,” Sapp said. 

"You so tough? Put jersey on!" Please come back, Warren.

But like everything else, policies have changed.  

It’s a new day in Tampa Bay, and this time that’s not a good thing.  

-Bryan

The Curious Case of Jarrod Saltalamacchia

Big name, big talent, big breakdown.

I hope this is worth your while. It took me 20 minutes just to spell the title correctly.

We all have our white whale. For some, it’s cracking the four-minute mile. For others, it’s the elusive hole-in-one. Jarrod Saltalamacchia just wants to have a game of catch.

The Texas Rangers’ starting catcher on opening day, Salty tweaked his back two games into his should’ve-been breakout campaign. Now he’s sequestered in Triple-A Oklahoma City, looking to regain his form. And his mind. 

Funny how things work. The one-time can’t-miss prospect now can’t hit his pitcher on return throws to the mound to save his life. He’s got a laser lock for the 128-foot toss to second and hits first from home in his sleep. But 60-feet-6-inches is to Jarrod Saltalamacchia what “Saltalamacchia” is to a poor speller. Impossible. 

Best case, he short-hops the other half of his battery or shoots a dribbler up the diamond. Worse case, he’ll lollipop a moonball into center field, poignantly reminding that all those wasted hours of Little League back-up drills weren’t wasted hours at all. 

Indeed, the most simple of a catcher’s tasks has for Salty morphed into a cruel exercise in airmail and head games. With runners on base, he occasionally walks the ball to the mound, which would be laughable if it wasn’t so damn sad.

“I don’t know what else to do,” OKC manager Bobby Jones told MiLB.com. ”It’s a shame.”

Coaches tirelessly tinker with arm angles and release points, but that Jones and company already speak of the recently afflicted backstop as a lost cause suggests that mechanics aren’t the issue. Instead, people close to the situation whisper that most dreaded of four-letter words: Salty has the yips. 

Walking it off.

It shouldn’t have happened like this for the 25-year-old potential has-been. Atlanta’s first round pick in the ’03 Amateur Draft, Saltalamacchia had the world wrapped around his hulking forearms and the clubhouse hype to match. John Smoltz and Chipper Jones would describe him as an original prototype, like the young catcher’s brief call-ups were glimpses into a game-changing future.

“Salty’s awesomeness cannot be contained by the confines of a regular-sized name,” reads his Baseball-Reference.com page.

By 20, he was a wunderkind destroying Class-A Myrtle Beach. His .314 average, .912 OPS, 35 doubles and 81 RBI in 129 games set the Braves’ front office abuzz and earned him a top-2o prospect ranking from Baseball America. He continued to rake at Double-A Mississippi and committed only three errors in 372.2 innings behind the plate during his first year in the Bigs.

This season the poor guy speaks to the press like a recovering addict, knowing full well that his “condition” is much like a NASCAR driver with an inability to turn left. 

“It’s just an everyday battle that I’m working through,” he told NewsOK after a recent outing that included 5 errant throws in the first inning alone.

He insists that the shoulder numbness from last year is gone and might be inclined to use offseason rib-removal as an excuse if he wasn’t hitting .343 in the 18 games since his demotion. 

Perhaps Saltalamacchia foregoes throwing altogether and transitions to DH. After all, it took former Cardinals pitcher Rick Ankiel a change of position to rid himself of Ricky Vaughn-like loss of control and confidence. Plus, the guys who gut it out at the same position usually do so at the risk of life-altering humiliation and permanent stigmatism.

Just look at Chuck Knoblauch or Steve Blass. The former is a four-time All-Star second baseman, rookie of the year, and multiple World Series champion who’s primarily remembered now for his flabbergasting inability to throw the ball to first.

The latter has a disease named after him. 

While Knoblauch could at least blame the mind-effing pressures of the Big Apple, Blass’s fall from grace was at the time a unique case study in WTF? In 1971, the Pittsburgh pitcher goes 15-8 with a 2.85 ERA and finishes World Series MVP runner-up for the champion Pirates. In 1972, he improves to 19-8 with a 2.49 ERA and finishes runner-up for the Cy Young. 

The following year, the ERA balloons to 9.85, he walks 84 guys in 88.2 innings, hits 12 men, throws 9 wild pitches. He’s out of the league by early ’74 at the age of 32. 

As far as catchers go, the most obvious parallel is Mackey Sasser, the former Met who developed symptoms similar to Salty after a 1990 collision with Atlanta’s Jim Presley. Sasser is now a high school coach with years of psychotherapy under his belt and a tendency to uncork the occasional batting practice headhunter. 

Mackey Sasser, head case.

You can go down the line. Go to other sports. This kind of thing usually doesn’t end well. Eric Bristow still suffers “dartisis,” Charles Barkley still sucks at golf, Chuck Hayes still makes the free-throw line his own personal hell…

For now, Jerrod Saltalamacchia says he’s working on it. At this point, what else can he say?

- Robbie

Gainesville's Gonna Get You, Sucka

Like these guys, I'm going to be ridiculous and offensive.

Look, I’m for stealing as much as the next guy. You need only survey Sports Casualties’ heavily-pirated image collection to discern as much. But, dammit Gainesville, get a hold of your freaking crime before I start writing chastising posts about your petty thieves and lazy-ass police officers. 

Oops. Too late.

Now I’m from Miami, so I know what it’s like to have to steer clear of shady back alleys or any locale with a “historical” designation. I’m looking at you, All Streets South of Red and 64th… 

Laundromats and sunny public parks, on the other hand, should be fair game for, uh, you know, non-mugging. So you can imagine my surprise over the weekend when I narrowly avoided not one, but three surefire encounters with gruesome death.

Okay, slight exaggeration. But I did part with a few bucks and chased wildly after some dude who absconded with my favorite Gator cap. The following is a dramatic reenactment…

__________

Thursday night brought with it both the promise of hipster glory on downtown Main Street and the nagging suspicion that foregoing another laundry run would result in rampant mold growth. With the fate of my gym shorts hanging in the balance, I packed up the decaying basket of threads in my closet and headed down to the laundromat at 16th Ave. and S. Main. The one next to the Gun and Pawn.  

Upon my arrival at this institution cleverly named “Laundromat,” I pop some coins in a washer, load my finest undershirts, sequester myself at an empty corner table and nod my head to the classic sounds of Ludacris’ “My Chick Bad” blaring from a chromed-out Impala in the parking lot. 

Out front.

I then proceed to whip out my iPod (bad move) and my laptop (worse move) to knock out an hour of homework while my skinny jeans shrink to perfection. It was about this time that a rather gigantic, rather unkempt man descends upon my carved-out workspace armed with the pickup line, “You look like a blessed man.”

Oh shit.

We get to talking. I’m a grad student. He’s on the road to enlightenment. I’m just trying to do my laundry. He hates Cuban people (“all racists”). I say, white people aren’t so bad, right? He’s says he’s half white, so no, we’re okay. I pack up my books. He eyes my backup and asks if he’s bothering me.

“Hell no!” I say, as the blood drains from my fingertips and my cheeks go pale. I freaking love talking to huge, homeless, deranged men! How are the wife and kids?

Why, you ask, didn’t I just grab my stuff and bolt? Great idea, but his shirtless white-trash friend with a jagged scar running the length of his torso was a serious impediment, especially since he was leaning on my chair from behind. I’m pretty sure this dude was a Hell’s Angels vet and probably responsible for half the deaths at Altamont. So… mmmmm… gulp? 

The friend.

He asks me if I have any money, to which I say, “Wish I did, sir.” To which he says, “Not just a few bucks?” To which I run through all the possible scenarios of me escaping this predicament by kicking someone in the nuts.

He asks again. I fork over the cash in my wallet (all small bills, about $4 that might’ve looked like more in wad form), say nice to meet you, nod to Hell’s Angel and half-run to my car out front. Came back an hour later for the wet clothes.

Luckily, my fragile psyche was nothing that a sweaty night of indie dancing and cheap beer couldn’t repair. Plus, LeBron went down in flames hours later, so I was more fixated on eating crow than anything. By Friday night, I was making the impossibly humid trek from sorority row to Midtown, otherwise known as Land ‘O Hepatitis and Freshmen. 

Midtown.

About three or so minutes into my unassuming walk, I run into a young lad with his fair share of ‘roid acne, backward hat, collared shirt and the hypodermic needle still poking out of his plaid shorts. I nod, as any normal person would when passing another on a sidewalk. 

Taking my nod as an attempt on his life and quite obviously threatened by my imposing 5-foot-10-inch stature, he stops dead in his tracks… “WHAT ARE YOU LOOKIN AT!?!”

Huh?

“Yeah, you know I’ll kick your ass, fa****! Keep walking!”

Dude, just because I’m an attractive male with long hair, tight jeans and prone to wear sunglasses at night doesn’t mean I’m gay.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Of course, I didn’t say that. Hell no. I put my head down and kept walking. Fast forward to Sunday afternoon where I’m doing non-gay things like jogging to angry rock music and thinking about girls. In particular, I’m circling the loop in Tumblin Creek Park right across the street from my apartment.

Since it’s only 110 degrees, I take my hat off so I can get skin cancer on my forehead, too. I toss it against a park bench lining the pond and keep running.

And then I stop and whip a U because, at this point, I’m pretty fu**ing pissed.

Hadn’t gotten 50 feet before one of the guys “napping” under the pavilion hopped his bike, raced to the bench and took off with my most cherished piece of Gator Nation. I yell. Run after him. Mentally prepare for my future “60 Minutes” special: grad student stabbed over $20 cap… He says he didn’t know it was mine. I say, yeah, the hat fairy could’ve left it there.

Just kidding. I took my cap, put my head down and kept walking.

__________

Now I’m quite aware that a string of bad luck briefly shaking me from a cubby hole of privilege and leisurely academia doesn’t prove that Gainesville cops suck epically or even merit a blog post. And, yeah, I know that most people have it way worse and that I’m a pampered baby and yada, yada, yada. But just for the record, here are the G-Ville po-po tactics that drive me to highlight their suckiness after getting near-robbed by chain gangs and homeless dudes.

1) You can always tell that somebody’s ventured 5 mph over the speed limit when a fleet of souped-up Dodge Chargers with raging sirens shoot down three lanes of Archer Road pushing 80 in a 45. Those would be the officers on too much caffeine, with too much horsepower and not enough to do. You’re gonna kill somebody.  

NASCAR-sponsored squad car.

2) Following up on No. 1, the campus police – UFPD – without fail travel in packs of two or three for simple traffic stops. You know, in case some buzzed frat kid rocking a .08 pulls a bazooka out of his trunk. And for the love of bike lanes, please slow down. There’s no need for 40 in a 20 zone. You’re gonna catch that scooter doing 23, I promise.

3) “Hey, that delinquent cabbie might have one too many intoxicated bar goers in his back seat. GET HIM!” But seriously, cop, if you yank one kid out of the taxi and slap him with some bull**** fine, he’s probably not gonna pony up for another cab. He’s either going to end up alone in a haze or catching a ride with somebody who’s just as drunk. Come on guys, we already have roam towing screwing us. Now you’re just piling on.

4) You can count on at least one Alligator front page per semester dedicated to a police horse’s assault on a hapless student or vice versa. Hmmm… maybe your towering, 2,000 pound animals call attention to themselves on a crowded street at 2 a.m. on a Thursday. Maybe you could stick to bikes? Maybe I wouldn’t step in a huge pile of horse crap once a month?

5) The GDP produces this fantastic scare-tactic of a TV show called “Police Beat,” which is basically episode after episode of crashing house parties to harass drunk people and end the bright futures of underage drinkers.

6) They’ve arrested half our football team.

Poor Carlos.

7)[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bVa6jn4rpE]

Don’t tase him, bro. Okay, tase him. He totally deserves it.

I’m sort of half-kidding, cops. I know you’re not really talking about the new Dunkin’ Donuts on University as you pick off unsuspecting bikers for wearing earbuds. But, come on. Wake up. My best hats are at stake. 

Clancy Wiggum, UFPD

- Robbie

Friendship and PEDs: An Unfocused Look at the Past Week in the World

What are you gonna do, BROTHER?

It’s like a Week in Review, except it’s on Saturday. My apologies for the sleepless hours that I have caused you as you await my presence. To read Robbie’s far more insightful take on the week, click here. It gets bonus points for being on time.

Yes, in contrast to popular belief, I am alive and well, fellow Casualtists.

On Friday, I became the Terrell Owens of sports blogging when I tore apart the foundation of Sports Casualties by not publishing my weekly immediate nostalgia in a timely manner.

I know what you are thinking. “Oh Bryan, I bet you were too busy out doing great humanitarian deeds.”

While I would love to come to you with stories of visiting children’s hospitals or feeding the homeless or helping restore a Third World county (and by Third World country, I mean Philadelphia), I cannot honestly give such a story. Instead, I spent my Friday at the Country Throwdown Tour at the Ford Amphitheatre in Tampa. If you’re looking for a more apt description, think Vans Warped Tour with boots, Jack Daniels and Copenhagen.

I would give a more in-depth analysis of the event, but my mom gave me the “You know possible employers might be reading this site” speech the other day. Let’s just say that I spent the day in a land of Confederate flag bikini tops, twangy music and no deficiency of good times. I also may or may not have met a girl who was wearing a camouflage hat that read “Hardcore Carnivore.” In other words, in was a great day.

But enough about Redneck Warped Tour. Let’s do this.

On Thursday, the Boston Celtics continued their somewhat surprising playoff run by defeating the Cleveland Cavaliers to eliminate the Cavs from the playoffs and officially begin the era of LeBron James hysteria. When asked about what he thought the next step for King James would be, Kevin Garnett yelled “ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE,” further cementing the common theory that Garnett possesses a three word vocabulary.

I personally think that James will surprise everybody and make the jump to a town just waiting for a star to embrace. Yes, the Erie BayHawks are a possible option, and with a new television deal with Versus, the NBA D-League could surely use a famous face.

Insert King.

It is the playoff time of year for basketball which also means that it is the time of year when the NHL makes it blatantly obvious that their product is far superior. On Wednesday, I watched the Montreal Canadiens and Pittsburgh Penguins face off in Game 7 of their Eastern Conference semifinals series.

By all accounts, it wasn’t anywhere close to being a classic game. The Canadiens won rather easily 5-2 and there was seldom a doubt that they would win the game. However, there was an electricity about the action that kept me invested in the action. The crowd was wild, the hits were hard and the skating intense. The NHL’s playoffs are seriously some of the best action in sports. I’m sorry, NBA, but I’ve never been hooked into watching the entirety of a 30-point game because I felt like your players were giving it their all. Hockey wins the Spring to Summer playoff run.

Tiger Woods removed himself from The Players Championship on Sunday because of a neck injury. Reports have since surfaced that Woods has a bulging disk in his upper back that may require surgery. The highlight of this is of course the fact that we get to hear reporters stumble over the words as they try to not let “bulging disk” sound inappropriate over the next couple of months.

Houston Texans linebacker Brian Cushing won the Associated Press Defensive Rookie of the Year award again on Wednesday when a revote was held after he had been stripped of the title for testing positive for performance enhancing drugs. The revote sparked a media uproar as some questioned why Cushing could be rewarded for anything after testing positive. It also sparked an uproar from World Wrestling Entertainment CEO Vince McMahon when he saw pictures of Cushing and pondered why he’s not in sports entertainment.

Former teammates, roommates and besties, Scott Kazmir and Bossman Junior Upton had an awkward moment when they faced off for the first time as opponents on Tuesday night. During the obligatory pre-pitch stare down, Upton and Kazmir both began smiling and had to step out to compose themselves.

Awww

“I was trying to look the other way, look up in the stands and focus on something else,” said Kazmir. Always a good approach when facing a batter. The two would later go on to stay up extra late, order pizza and have a raging pillow fight.

Speaking of Upton, a commercial aired this week that left me looking into the Rays’ marketing schemes a little bit. Today, the Rays are on Fox’s nationally televised game of the week. In order to get people in the stands and not look like fools in front of America, the Rays are holding a post game Nelly concert.

Now concerts are not unusual for the Rays. They hold claim to the largest season-long concert series in the majors. However, every time that concert happens to be a rapper, Upton gets the title of promoter. LL Cool J, MC Hammer, Nelly: B.J., B.J., B.J. 

It’s not the same with the rock or country groups. Evan Longoria doesn’t get stuck hyping every pop rock band that comes to The Trop. Nobody makes Wade Davis or Jeff Niemann plug every single country band that helps the Rays jack up attendance to the 30,000 mark.

So mix it up, Rays. Poor Bossman Junior doesn’t need to be your official hip hop spokesperson. Jason Bartlett walks up to Young Jeezy and has steps shaved into the side of his head, have him do one or two. Imagine that, a white guy that likes Nelly!

Come see Nelly! I mean, the Rays.

The New York Jets reported this week that they are in significant danger of having some home games blacked out on television this fall due to attendance issues. It sounds like they need some good old-fashioned promotional ideas. Mark Sanchez $1 hot dog Sundays, Rex Ryan foam finger day, discounts for Twitter followers of Santonio Holmes. You’re welcome.

Today is the running of that horse race that isn’t named the Kentucky Derby. One thing is certain, and that’s that the people who run the other horse race that’s not named the Kentucky Derby will be pulling hard for Super Saver to retain the relevance of their event.

AND NOW…(drum roll) 

WHY I HAVE WRITER’S BLOCK: The Never-Ending Saga 

In no specific order, and with no real explanation, this is my weekly look at some of the things that kept me distracted while I was trying to write. 

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=haHlFA_bDkI&feature=player_embedded#!]

Rojo Johnson: Future Houston Astros bullpen great.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6XRdDsOAZ0]

Extreme writer’s block.

Tweet of the Week 

Because too much television makes you fat and undesirable, but too much Twitter just makes you unproductive and socially awkward. Follow SC on Twitter, the awesomeness of your life depends on it. 

Today, I use Tweet of the Week to share some semi-breaking, semi-surprising news. Pat Burrell has just been designated for assignment by my Tampa Bay Rays. In his place, Hank Blalock has been called up from Triple-A. Pat has been quite a target since he arrived in St. Petersburg. He took up a huge chunk of salary on a small market team, and hadn’t been very productive. The following is the take on the transaction that was retweeted and responded to by @RaysIndex.

@RaysIndex only if your team’s fate involves sucking RT @poochmagee: #Rays DFA Burrell. There’s an open roster spot on my beer league team. Fate?

Cold.

Enjoy what is left of your weekend.

-Bryan

"Tipping Point" and Other Google Trends: The Week in Review, Redux

Your move, LeBron.

This is part one in a two-part installment. You know how “Baseball Tonight” is still “Baseball Tonight” in the middle of the afternoon? Yeah, the “redux” stays. Bryan will get here when he gets here. He’s either shopping for slacks or drinking Jack at a country music festival. I’m leaning toward the latter.

There are some things in life that you just can’t prepare for. Case in point, at the time of writing, I’m in a total frazzle as I wait the next 10 or so hours to see how the entire future of professional basketball plays out. Will LeBron win? Will he lose? Will he stay? Will he go? Is he the next Jordan? Is he the next Malone? Is he as good as I think he is? Does he have the fire? Does he even care?

These are the questions chiseling away at America’s collective sports conscience at 1 p.m. on Thursday afternoon, and I for one have no answers. So instead of chewing off the rest of my already blunt fingertips, I’m going to give LeBron-o’-Mania a rest for a bit and turn to a topic that has become very near and dear to my heart: smokin’ babes… You’ll appreciate both this metaphor and the segueway.

You know how the truly great ones are able to lift the game of their teammates? They have this synergistic quality that makes everyone around them better? Well CNBC’s Wonder from Down Under Mandy Drury has singlehandedly transformed Trish Regan from a borderline all-star into a shoe-in, first ballot Hall of Famer. Before Monday, the day of Drury’s permanent arrival on U.S. shores, we were essentially watching Pippen’s career unfold sans-Jordan. No longer, friends. You are witnessing before your very eyes the rise of a transcendent dynasty, and personal inspiration Larry Kudlow is it’s Jacksonian overseer. 

Here’s your Thursday morning proof of greatness and the debut installment in the running series, Fab 5 Pics. As far as I know, this constitutes the first instance in SC’s illustrious history in which we have taken our own photos. So I would like to thank my father, without whose purchase of my flat-screen TV and HD package, none of this would be possible. Enjoy.

Bad day for the market, good day for Erin.

Trish Regan and Amanda Drury with the Luckiest Man in the World.

Come on. Really, Larry? Really?

Now to less important matters…

On Tuesday, phenom outfielder Jason Heyward returned to the Braves lineup after missing a week to a groin injury. The Destroyer proceeded to score six runs in his first two games back against Milwaukee. In a related story, the Braves swept the series and the recently maligned Bobby Cox remembered how to manage.

This week in Free Agent-palooza news, the Miami Heat unveiled a website that gives fans tips on how to sway Dwyane Wade to stay in Miami. I’m of the opinion that this should have gone up years ago, and included something along the lines of…

Go to games.

On Sunday, Tiger Woods withdrew from the Players Championship with a neck injury. Reports state that he hit his final drive a paltry 269 yards. While doctors expect his neck to be okay, they say that his psyche is on life support and are unsure if his pride will ever recover.

I was actually going to live blog last weekend’s “unofficial fifth major,” but being a straight male, I was far too distracted by busty brunettes to keep any focus.

Great rack, Phil.

Look, since Mick lets himself go after every Masters victory, is it too much to ask that the defending champion present him with a Green Jacket AND a sports bra?

In other news, I have absolutely zero idea who won the Players. Though I can tell you it wasn’t Tiger and it wasn’t Phil. 

My Adamant Disinterest in the Likes of Lucas Glover and Robert Allenby: exhibit A for why golf is in deep sh*t.

Turning now to new media, the recent rash of superstar bumps and bruises has spurred many a reclusive body part to come out of the woodwork to speak his mind on Twitter. LeBronsElbow, for instance, registered two weeks ago and already has almost 11,000 followers. Though neither HeywardsGroin nor NashsEye has come forward yet, don’t be surprised if BrettFavresIndecisiveNature and GregOdensPenis make a cameo before the end of the summer. 

In non sequitur news, are we 100 percent sure that Dana White isn’t the forbidden lovechild of Andre Agassi?

Like son…

…like father?

This week the Obama administration revealed in conjunction with the C.I.A. that the unsuccessful Times Square bomber has ties to the Pakistani Taliban. With the possibility of further racial profiling looming, I urge you, Casualtists, to treat your local Kwik-E-Mart clerk with the utmost respect.

A trailer for “Marmaduke” aired during Sunday’s new episode of “The Simpsons,” and let me tell you, nothing says blockbuster like George Lopez and talking Great Danes.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IkOPtcJ8E88]

For fans of canceled late-night shows. 

Also on Sunday, Oakland A’s pitcher Dallas Braden threw the 19th perfect game in history against the Rays, this just weeks after a heated verbal spat with Yankees slugger Alex Rodriguez. SC’s immediate reaction via Twitter: “SUCK IT, A-ROD!!!!!”

Grandma Braden’s immediate reaction via ESPN, “STICK IT, A-ROD!!!!!”

Great minds, Grandma Braden. Great minds.

Amid rumors of his imminent demise, Tiger Woods’ swing coach Hank Haney resigned on Monday. The conversation went something like this:

Hank: “You can’t fire me. I quit!”

Tiger: “(*blank stare*)”

I, for one, haven’t seen a preemptive strike like this since President Bush invaded Baghdad.

Over the weekend, Mariners future Hall of Famer Ken Griffey Jr. allegedly slept through an 8th-inning pinch-hitting opportunity… further evidence that it is impossible to stay awake for a four-hour baseball game. 

Atlanta Hawks players this week planned to moon fans while spraying them with vinegar-filled Super Soakers. Instead the Hawks just played home games against Orlando.

Good luck on landing that max contract, Joe Johnson.

The Penguins and Canadiens played a game 7 on Tuesday, but NHL commissioner Gary Bettman has asked SC not to comment further for fear that we might draw attention to his sport.

ESPN analysts/noted white people Rick Sutcliffe and Dave O’Brien interviewed rappers Eminem and Jay-Z during the 4th inning of Wednesday’s Yankees-Tigers game. ESPN’s resident hip-hop historian Bill Plaschke was not in attendance.

Bill Plaschke: Straight Outta Compton.

What the hell am I talking about?

The state of New York this week floated the idea of default organ donorship for deceased citizens… So this means Tracy McGrady could be playing without a spleen next year?

And, yeah. I know LeBron lost. I’m crushed. Not as crushed as Cleveland. But crushed. Good luck Twenty Three.

- Robbie

LeBron's Vacant Throne

Get up, LeBron.

I hesitate to write anything about LeBron James’ recent struggles for a couple of reasons. For one, he’s still playing playoff basketball. Any contention that this Cavs-Celtics series is over at 3-2 is absolutely absurd to anyone that has followed Bron and seen what he’s capable of. You remember the 48 Special against Detroit. You remember last season’s buzzer-beating 26-foot bomb to edge Orlando.

I also tend to shy away from the LeBron discussion because I think evaluations of his legacy at this stage are ultimately moot. He’s 25-years-old. If he doesn’t win a title this year in Cleveland, he’ll win one next year in Cleveland. Or somewhere else. 

That said, I feel obligated to respond when I get called out for my unabashed Bron-hood with text messages like this: 

Have you ever even seen DWade disappear like this?… If everyone wants to crown this guy, then he needs to show up and not make bs elbow excuses… Btw at the beginning of series he only drove b/c his elbow hurts, now he only shoots b/c his elbow hurts, these commentators need to pick an excuse and stick with it. ~ Philip Kates, Delusional Heat Fan, Wednesday, 10:37 p.m.

Now, I’m of the belief that the LeBron-Wade comparison is a bogus one, a fool’s errand. LBJ has bigger fish to fry. When all is said and done, we will only be ranking him among the best players of his generation if said players are also among the greats of all time. Wade isn’t there yet. He may never be. That said… No. I’ve never seen D-Wade lay the kind of dinosaur egg that LeBron laid in what might be his Cleveland sendoff. He finished with 15 points on 3 of 14 shooting. Clanked his first seven shots. Didn’t get a bucket until 6:15 left in the third with the C’s already up 15. 

He got yanked for the final time with 3:58 left and down by 27. The Q booed. And LeBron shrugged at his coach and his teammates as if to say, didn’t think it’d go down like this. Wasn’t supposed to go down like this… Ain’t all bad, though. Got places to go, people to see, money to make.

It’s been real, Cleveland. Tell the Ghost of 1964 I say “peace.” 

Not as much fun as your first title in 46 years.

Can we blame back-to-back Houdinis on Bron’s gimpy arm? Is he really hurt? Perhaps. But that’s not a legitimate excuse for the all-timers. Kobe’s mangled claw of a shooting hand comes to mind, as does Jordan’s transcendent “Flu Game” in the ’97 Finals. MJ’s game 5 line: 38 points, 7 boards, 5 assists, 3 steals, 1 win, 1 case of severe food poisoning. LeBron is a physically freakish 6’9″, 275-pound monster. I’m no doctor, but I think he can tough out a bruised elbow. His 21 points in the first quarter of game 3 suggest that it doesn’t hurt that bad anyway. 

Aside from the elbow, the most ardent of King supporters – me – have a bevy of excuses they can throw out should Skip Bayless’ wildest dreams come true Thursday night. They go like this…

His team still sucks. Jamal Mashburn said on SportsCenter before the game 5 drubbing that Cleveland would be a lottery team without LeBron. I don’t think anybody with their full set of chromosomes seriously disputes this. The Cavs’ pair of 60-win seasons speak far more to LeBron’s quantum leap than Danny Ferry’s eye for talent. When The King is good, his teammates are good. When The King is bad, his teammates are bad. It’s as simple as that. There isn’t a guy on that team that can control an eight-minute stretch, let alone a full 48, when Bron’s game sours. He’s got no Pippen. He’s got no McHale. He’s not a Shaq to anyone’s Kobe or a Kobe to anyone’s Gasol. In all the “Hey, they got Jamario Moon!” talk, you forget that Jamario Moon is Jamario Moon. And that Mo Williams is Mo Williams. And that Shaq has tits. And that Bron’s wingman is a 33-year-old career sidekick who’s at the tail end of his prime and coming off a 19-win season.

His coach still sucks. I half-seriously asked Bill Simmons Wednesday night if Mike Brown was the antichrist. Good guy by all accounts. People seem to like him. He wins coach of the year. And before you know it, he’s dragging your season to hell. Brown’s never been confused for an offensive guru, but his adamant refusal to play small against quicker teams is flummoxing even for him. He’s got a stable of thoroughbreds and the best finisher in the game, yet insists on clogging his offense and defense with a walking man-boob, as J.J. Hickson withers away on the bench. In his five seasons in Cleveland, he still hasn’t come up with a better crunch time offense than the patented Clear Out For LeBron. Shameful. 

His agency is still free. I don’t really buy the too-many-distractions argument, but then again, I’ve never been openly courted by Jay-Z and Beyonce. The Bron recruiting blitz kicked into full gear last offseason and has since included cameos from every living rapper, a Russian billionaire, Spike Lee and, just last night, John Calipari. Yes, Coach Cal, the current Kentucky basketball kingpin/future Bulls employee was sitting courtside with LeBron’s agent. I don’t pretend to know what kind of pressure that puts on a man of The King’s stature. I do know the guy’s human. 

Bron's prospective entourage.

Fortunately, you’re not gonna have to stomach any of these cop-outs. Now is the time when the greatest of the greats step up and do special things. I fully expect as much from LeBron in games 6 and 7, despite his seemingly blase attitude. I think he cares, and I know he’s the best player on the floor. This is my guy. My wagon is hitched. 

Like I said, LeBron will win titles. It’s a matter of when, not if. But his detractors will always justifiably point to a gaping hole in his Pantheonic resume should he fail to deliver in Cleveland. And if he leaves empty handed, we’ll ultimately remember these years as nothing more than wasted youth – a golden child lost, and memories of what could’ve been.

- Robbie

"Straight Outta L.A.": My Thoughts

Who doesn't love nostalgia?

Tuesday night brought us the 14^th installment of ESPN’s 30 for 30 documentary series. This one was “Straight Outta L.A.,” a film directed by O’Shea Jackson, better known to most as Ice Cube. The following is what some would call a review of it.

I was really looking forward to this edition of 30 for 30 ever since I first heard about it two weeks ago. I’ve been a huge fan of this documentary series. From “Small Potatoes” to “The U” to “The Trial of Allen Iverson” and “Run Ricky Run,” ESPN has consistently been able to show interesting and insightful films.

I cannot say the same about Tuesday night’s rendition.

Documentary films of this nature are meant to be subjective, so it should not have been too hard to predict the angle that Ice Cube, the piece’s director and narrator, would take. For him, the time that the Raiders played in Los Angeles was the most important period of his life. It was during the Raiders’ Los Angeles tenure (1982-1994) that Ice Cube got both his favorite football team in his hometown and his break in the music industry as a rapper.

For most, however, the Raiders’ tenure in Los Angeles was a rather unremarkable time. It was a period that made people question if any community in Los Angeles could successfully support a NFL team, whether it be in the inner-city or the suburbs of Orange County.

So it is laughable at times when Ice Cube makes the Raiders’ tenure in Los Angeles out to be a monumental era. Or when he ends the film by saying that the Raiders will always belong to L.A.

He obviously cannot really be blamed for this. If I was making a documentary about my Tampa Bay Buccaneers, it would likely make anyone who is not a fan of the team sick to their stomach.

But it is the frequent use of the word “real” that makes the subjective nature of this film a little deceptive to me.

For those unfamiliar with the concept of the film, Ice Cube sets out to link the Raider’s time in Los Angeles with the rise of “gangsta rap.” To Ice Cube, these two entities are synonymous. They each fueled the promotion of one another. The tendency of rappers to wear Raiders gear on stage made the football team more popular, and the edgy nature of the Raiders perfectly fueled the angry lyrics of budding rappers.

Ice Cube likes to say that the Raiders, unlike the then-Los Angeles Rams, represented the “real” Los Angeles. This is how he opens his commentary during the film, and it is a theme that he sticks with. He depicts Los Angeles as a violent and crime-ridden place, which in some parts it is. But are the areas that aren’t characterized by gang violence and murder not the “real L.A.?”

Ice Cube bashes the Rams for moving out of the inner city to Anaheim in 1980, accusing the team of trying to move as far away from African Americans as possible. But the Rams move capitalized on plenty of logical business decisions.

The Los Angeles Coliseum’s capacity of over 100,000 made it difficult to sell out games and combat the NFL’s blackout policy. At 65,000, Anaheim Stadium was a much more reasonable way of drawing important television revenue. Not to mention the move gave the Rams an opportunity to draw a thriving and expanding suburban community that heavily contrasted a more stale area that they were leaving.

The Anaheim Rams: Like Judas with shoulder pads.

Many people around L.A. speak of the Coliseum in an “Oh, that part of town” manner. Regardless of your idealistic dreams, this does not make for a good business decision in the billion dollar industry that is professional football. Just ask anyone who has ever tried to start anything substantial at Orlando’s Florida Citrus Bowl.

When the documentary concludes by showing the negative sides of a Raiders game at the Coliseum, Ice Cube fails to really comment on it. He shows clips of players talking about not letting their families attend their games and brawls breaking out in the stands, but he refuses to give in to the fact that this is why the Rams and later the Raiders left the “real L.A.”

He also does a poor job of connecting the relationship between his rap group, N.W.A., and the Raiders, a relationship that is supposed to be the entire point of the documentary. The entire film runs like somebody talking to two separate groups of friends and then trying to keep them apart so that they don’t really know about each other.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JjqTinl-VI&feature=fvst]

Theme song of the Raiders, according to Ice Cube. Edited version for the kids, my Mom and comedic purposes.

There are stories told about gangsta rap in decent depth and stories told quickly about the Raiders (about two seconds are devoted to the “story” of the 1983 Super Bowl team).

But when the two come to link, they leave viewers wondering, “Huh?”

Former Raiders’ defensive end Greg Townsend has one of the more enlightening moments in the film when he seems perplexed by the idea that the Raiders influenced or represented gangsta rap at all.

Townsend talks about how he was never in a gang, never owned a gun and wasn’t proud of violence. He pondered how anyone could say that a group like N.W.A. represented himself or the Raiders.

In fact no players or staff talked about much of a commitment to anything N.W.A. except for in merchandise sales. Even this seems like a shallow admission and not enough of a connection to spark a documentary. N.W.A. went into Raiders headquarters one day and asked for some Raiders clothes to wear on tour. The promotion-hungry Raiders gave them what they came for and that was about all of the documented direct contact.

Raiders’ officials did not know who they were or what they were about. Marcus Allen and Howie Long weren’t going out to Clubs with Eazy-E on Friday nights or getting VIP treatment from Dr. Dre at local strip clubs. This wasn’t anything like 2 Live Crew and the Miami Hurricanes. This was Los Angeles, and two very different groups of people both happened to enjoy wearing the same colors.

On the other hand, the always street savvy Bill Plaschke and some nerdy white “rap expert” in an orange polo were more than willing to shove links between the Raiders and gangsta rap down our throats for the entirety of the 51-minute long doc.

Original gangster and inner-city expert, Bill Plaschke.

Ice Cube also fails to mention that the peak of the Raiders in L.A. and the rise of N.W.A. did not occur at the same time. By the time N.W.A. made a name for themselves on the music scene, the Raiders were a below .500 team and were headed into the Mike Shanahan era that is so angrily discussed in “Straight Outta L.A.”

During this time, Ice Cube admits that the Raiders were no longer cool (read: they were losing). This led to a significant drop in fans, a giant reminder why there should probably never be a professional football team in Los Angeles.

Easily the most sickening portion of the documentary is Ice Cube’s sit-down interview with Al Davis.

After watching interviews with gang members that have committed numerous crimes in their lives, Davis still comes off as the film’s worst antagonist. As cynical and arrogant as ever, Davis carries the eery appearance of an ancient monster. Some would draw sympathy in a state like this, but Davis still has a way of generating disgust,

He really shows no commitment to either Oakland or Los Angeles. The Raiders do not belong to a city. They are the Raiders and they will play wherever the hell they feel like playing.

He even tells Los Angeles that “the door is always open” for them if they build a new stadium. With this, Davis further cements his legacy as the worst man in football.

Not just a handshake, a partnership.

-Bryan