You’ve Been Good to Me 305: A Bittersweet Week In Review

Damn. Just when things were starting to get fun.

I’m pretty sure that the friends I’m referencing in the following paragraphs don’t actually read this blog. If I find out they do, SC’s renown will only further go to my head. I see no downside… Bryan’s recap is already up. Somebody said it was “brilliant.”

Help me out here. On the Bro Code Moral Ambiguity Scale, where does “Feigning Interest In Bravo Reality Show to Impress Girls” rank among the following vices?

- Saving the last Blue Moon for yourself when the fridge is stocked with Busch and Coors Light.

- Refusing to pull out into the intersection to make a left on a green light, even though this is a typically female tactic.

- Compromising wingman duties because, dude, “she’s super hot.”

- Ordering any kind of flavored vodka without a Sports Guy-approved code name like “Orange Hammer” (aka “mango Smirnoff spritzer”).

- Bringing your buddy to a salsa club to score smokin’ Latin women even though you know for a fact that he’s way out of his element and has a 60/40 chance of either disastrously botching some Spanish pickup line or straining a hip.

- Refusing to fork over a [platonic] girlfriend’s phone number to your bro friend, but only after implying she’s way out of his league.

- Putting “everything in quotes” to save “indie cred” even though bros don’t know what “indie/hipster” means.

- Growing hair super long for “mad alt” girls, alienating short-haired friends.

I’m asking because Thursday may or may not have been premier night for the new season of “Project Runway,” and I may or may not have been roped into watching said premier on the largely false, 5-year-running premise that I actually enjoy this show.

(*hordes of readers leave and never come back*)

Sorry. Had to get this off my chest. There was a party involved. Might have been secretly awesome.

In other, more trashily Italian news, our favorite guidos have invaded South Beach (via “Jersey Shore: Season 2″), which means it’s prime time for me to beeline it back to Gainesville where my Hipster people are. You know, lest I see the Snooki Monster in a swanky restaurant in The Grove/forever lose taste for Miami nightlife.

Btw, if Snooki and Alex Rodriguez ever “hooked up,” the human race would spawn the first perfectly orange being.

Crossing fingers for glowing orange human.

Note to future bloggers: don’t “blog” when you’re “drinking/listening to Animal Collective” in less you want to come off like a “D-bag.” Might have started four paragraphs ago. Gonna keep it anyway.

Back to G-Vegas… I already have plans to throw a massive pre-semester, Mid-60′s themed “Mad Men” party, in which I throw down cheap scotch (via Johnny Walker Black) with friends while listening to “Rubber Soul” in a skinny tie. This sounds like a swell time. Good call, Nancy. And Hilary, who I believe had the idea first.

Anyway (via lazy transitions), I’m heading back home on Thursday so I can hit up my indie people at The Atlantic on the best dancing night of the week. Think neon colors/YYYs/American Apparel/Virginia Slims/organics (via to offset ill health effects/guilt of smoking).

Proto hipsters

How are you liking my use of “via” and “quotes” (via canned imitation of this blog)?

Modern hipsters (aka my kind of people).

Want to say a fond farewell to The 305, Coral Gables, my high school bros, hot Latina women, The U, my college bros and my two bffs. You’ve all been good to me and I’ll miss you dearly. I’ll also remember you when I’m super famous (via keeping an “ironic blog”/being “most alt voice in blogosphere”).

Here’s what I will miss

Local Publix

Here’s what I won’t miss

Local pastime.

Thanks for hanging with me through those last five or so paragraphs of in-jokes/”irony speak.”

Let’s talk sports/save my “bro cred” via “doing this.”

__________

The Dallas Cowboys made preseason waves Sunday when first round pick Dez Bryant refused to carry veteran Roy Williams shoulder pads after practice.

Apparently Bryant only follows the orders of guys who caught thirty-nine balls last season.

Williams was angered by Bryant’s perceived lack of disrespect, but to me, his beef seems shortsighted. Bryant will already take most of Williams’ playing time next season – he wants him to take his pads, too?

A position that suits Williams well.

Cool out, Eleven. And be glad you’re still getting your hands on something.

Said Bryant’s mentor Deion Sanders of the incident, “(*slips Bryant more cash under table*).”

On Monday, Bryan Holt hero Matt Garza threw the first no-hitter in Tampa Bay Rays history and the…

… (*doing math*)…

… (*reaching for calculator*)…

… (*damn, hits wrong button*)…

… I dunno. There’s been a ton of ‘em this season.

Last weekend, the Marlins Chris Coghlan tore his MCL while pieing Wes Helms in a post-game celebration, dealing a major blow to all the guys, like me, who had AJ Burnett in their “First Guy to Blow Out Knee With Shaving Cream Pie” pool.

Thought it was a lock.

On Wednesday, Pulitzer Prize winner Buzz Bissinger guested on Bill Simmons’ “The B.S. Report” to remind everyone that he’s still A) a Pulitzer Prize winner and B) an a-hole.

Said Bissinger, “[insert something cantankerous + I won a Pulitzer].”

Buzz also asked Simmons if he feels writers have a “finite number of words in them,” a dead giveaway that he’s never actually read Bill Simmons.

During a busy week on ESPN’s “Outside the Lines,” CNBC’s Darren Rovell suffered a faulty satellite connection Monday, prompting host Michelle Bonner to skip over him several times during their steroids discussion.

Luckily for Darren, he usually shares a stage with Amanda Drury. He’s used to audiences ignoring him.

Distraction.

Sticking with “OTL,” the program’s investigative reporting revealed Sunday that food vendors at stadiums in Florida have the highest percentage of “critical violations” in the entire country… which will explain why I’ll get violently sick the first time I see the Heat in person.

On Thursday, former NBA star Stephon Marbury, 33, agreed to stay with the Chinese Basketball Association’s Shanxi Brave Dragons for another three years. Hey, the guy gets paid in moo goo gai pan. Can you blame him?

During Manchester United’s 5-2 blowout of the MLS All-Star Team Wednesday, Man-U midfielder Tom Cleverley did this…

… inspiring a bad joke that practically writes itself.

Also on Wednesday, Broncos QB Tim Tebow signed a deal with underwear maker Jockey. Time to play LOVES IT!/HATES IT!

Jim Palmer: Loves it!

Jesus: Hates it!

And finally, USC football coach Lane Kiffin and UCLA coach Rick Neuheisel guested in-studio for several ESPN programs Wednesday.

Bristol custodians spent that night cleaning up b*llshit.

I’ll take an Orange Hammer. Peace.

- Robbie

Teammates: An Unfocused Look at the Past Week in the World

Google Image Search: "Teammates"

It’s a time of transition, Casualtists. Hold on tight.

I feel ill-prepared to properly write this Week in Review. I just don’t feel ready.

And no, it’s not because there’s a million things running through my head or that just over three weeks away from school starting, I have the same exact living arrangements as the Gainesville Rasta (a homeless guy) or because “The Price is Right” is currently on my television, a show that always has the quality of making me feel like I’m at my grandma’s house.

I feel ill-prepared because I am unable to discuss the single television program that kind of put SC on the map. I still have not seen the season two premier of “Jersey Shore,” and it is killing me.

The anticipation of seeing The Situation, Snooki and the gang, wreck the city that Robbie Hilson loves so dearly fills me with joyful wonderfulness.

Run like hell, Hilson.

However, overriding that extreme disappointment is the fact that this is the first WIR that I will be writing on the new site. I never got to write an introduction to our latest epicenter of awesome as Robbie did, so I will sorta do so now.

Ever since we first began rambling on a generic WordPress blog, it has been our goal to get a place of our own. A place where our wildly entertaining, mildly offensive ways can roam freely. A place where we can [I mean not like we're just in it for money or anything but...] sell ads to help pay off the massive bar tabs that come along with being a student at the University of Florida. A place where we can have a favicon (Google it).

We’re able to do this because we have somehow gathered a pretty decent following, a thought that still baffles me.

As always, thanks for stopping by and please keep reading. We need you now more than ever.

Let’s do this.

Saturday brings about the MLB trade deadline, a time of year that is only surpassed in unnecessary hype by the NFL Draft. I find it to be a glaring coincidence that just last weekend I was watching men’s slowpitch softball, and now there are rumors that the Rays could be bringing in Adam Dunn.

The future for The Big Donkey.

The biggest move made this week was the Phillies’ acquistion of pitcher Roy Oswalt from the Houston Astros.

My favorite part of the trade was listening to ESPN explain why Oswalt will work so well with a brand new team in Philly.

“He’s one of the most individual-minded players that I’ve ever met, so he should have no problem with a new team in Philadelphia.”

Translation: He’s pretty much a selfish prick that doesn’t even really know that he has teammates, so why the hell should a trade matter?

I hate the trade deadline, I really do.

There’s so much hysteria and pressure to make some monumental move to the point that if you don’t make a move, you’re dead in the water to every anaylist in Bristol.

Sure, there are a couple of successful examples. But there are also plenty of Jason Bays and Xavier Nadys, guys that were pumped up by the media but never made that big of an impact.

Media outlets need things to talk about to fill out their daily schedules. The trade deadline gives them hours to break down every miniscule aspect of a midseason trade and gawk at the “big names” that could be changing hands.

Sticking with baseball, Matt Garza reportedly rewarded each of his teammates with a bottle of Crown Royal Black for their participation, or lack thereof, in his Monday no-hitter. This is my kind of pitcher.

Stupid cool.

The bottles obviously came in Crown’s trademark velvet bags, each adorned with a personalized message. Strong work by Garza on crushing all of the Mexican/tequilla stereotypes.

Bill and Hillary have suppposedly found some poor bastard to marry Chelsea off to, a marriage that will be documented in a big special and watched by dozens on CBS’ “Early Show.”

On the dark side, the groom has to spend the rest of his lifea few years with Chelsea. But on the bright side, I’m sure Bill is throwing a badass bachelor party.

The Party Starter

LeBron James had a big time in Vegas last weekend. It was reported that he had planned a large party himself, but got nervous that it wouldn’t be the coolest party in town and instead joined forces with Diddy and Kobe at the Venetian.

You know, for support.

Congratulations, Buck Showalter! You’re now officially the manager of the worst team in baseball!

Oh, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. You have plenty of young talent surrounded by gritty, hard-working veterans like Miguel Tejada and Ty Wiggington.

Nevermind.

In honor of the X-Games, I have switched to spray deodorant for the weekend so that I, a simple man, can perform a double-pits-to-chesty every morning when I first wake. I’m also drinking an alarming amount of Monster and Red Bull.

You know, because jumping motorcycles doesn’t shorten your life enough, you might as well load up with some canned heart attacks as well.

Need...more....energy.

Stephen Strasburg is possibly about to be shelved for the remainder of the season if he is not “feeling 100 percent.” In other words, you can go back to your normal routine  of avoiding the ballpark, DCers.

I watched “She’s Out of My League” for the first time on Monday night. Very funny movie. My favorite part is when the main character pulls a Rick Pitino.

Enough with these unrealistic movies.

Moving onto soccer [segue: check], Diego Maradona was fired as the [soccer word for head coach] of Argentina this week. Hilson now officially has less than zero interest in soccer once again.

If you ever wondered how bad the MLS sucks, take all of the best players in the MLS, pit them against a Manchester United team that is lacking most of its star power to post-World Cup hangover and see what happens.

If your guess was a 5-2 ManU victory, then you are absolutely correct.

Oh yeah, did I mention that concession stands at pro stadiums are way dirty? Especially at the stadiums that I tend to frequent. (I have to keep my journalistic integrity and source Bryan Holt with that story. He did a wonderful job.)

Have a good weekend. Make up drinking games to Summer X. Watch the Rays take on the Yankees and try not to faint at the site of a sold-out Tropicana Field. Summer is almost over. Freaking take advantage of it.

Do it.

-Bryan

A Day in the Life of the 2010 Cincinnati Bengals

HBO was a year late.

It’s an early Sunday morning in the fall. The birds are chirping, NFL stadiums are preparing for business, Green Bay Packer fans are already drunk.

All is right in the world… Except in Cincinnati.

7:30 AM The day begins for quarterback Carson Palmer. He wakes next to his lovely wife Shaelyn prepared for a big day on the field. That’s when he gets the call.

7:50 AM Groggy and frustrated, Carson races to some remote house near the University of Cincinnati campus to pick up his brother Jordan and new best friend Jordan Shipley. He finds the two stretched out amidst a piling of good-looking women. The younger Palmer is still trying to explain the concept of RunPee.com to one particularly dazzled coed. Shipley is simply doing Shipley kinds of things. In other words, being awesome.

8:10 AM Carson is able to shuffle the two out of the house and drop them back off at their respective houses. Shipley writes an entire country CD, kills two deer and catches three championship bass on the way home.

Action shot.

8:45 AM Chad Ochocinco wakes up and gets on Twitter to make sure that his legions of followers know that he is awake. He then makes sure that a bottle of Pepto-Bismol has been placed in the locker of each defensive back on the opposing team.

9:00 AM Ocho finishes his McDonald’s breakfast, which was of course delivered. That’s when he turns on the local news channel and sees Terrell Owens in his driveway doing sit-ups. Concerned about keeping the promised carpool going, Ocho gathers his belongings and heads over to his new bestie’s house.

9:15 AM Ocho and T.O. sit down for a relaxed conversation. They talk about the weather, today’s game and how damn confusing that “Inception” movie is. But producers from each of their reality shows come in and inform them that the conversation needs to be more interesting.

So they wonder aloud the whereabouts of fellow carpool member Adam “Pacman” Jones. They decide what touchdown celebrations they will orchestrate today. They then fake a fight in order to draw more attention from the press.

9:30 AM Carlos Dunlap is politely waken up by a night stick tap on his window. He is parked in the middle of a four-lane highway, has a fresh tattoo of Pacman’s face on his right forearm and a $1,000+ bar tab receipt in his left pocket. He is a complete mess but only gets a warning and a “go get ‘em” pat on the back from the cop.

Cincy Police > Gainesville Police.

Haters

9:40 AM Chris Mortensen has his first major update of the day. Pacman Jones is reportedly missing. No one knows where he is, and Roger Goodell has no comment on the issue at this time.

 9:55 AM TMZ reporters get an urgent phone call from one Drew Rosenhaus. “T.Ocho” is en route to Paul Brown Stadium and he would like them swarmed for publicity. TMZ acts interested for a second before admitting that they have no idea where Cleveland is located.

10:15 AM Carson Palmer arrives at the stadium, quickly followed by T.Ocho. The three exchange awkward black guy/white guy handshakes and pretend to be best friends.

10: 25 AM Andre “Bubba” Caldwell arrives at the stadium. He’s from Tampa.

10:40 AM Next to arrive is the carpool of Andre Smith and new WR Antonio Bryant. Smith tears his ACL upon stepping out of the car. Bryant rushes over to T.Ocho, asking them why they haven’t been answering his calls. They ignore him.

11:00 AM Most everyone else is now inside the stadium. Shipley and Little Palmer have decided to forego participation for the day with the knowledge that they wern’t seeing the field anyways. They instead prepare to watch the game from a blonde-littered suite.

Dynamic Duo: Somewhere in the middle of this.

11:12 AM Chris Berman makes his first kind of awesome reference to the Bengals game, but I’m the only one who will admit to liking it.

11:13 AM Keyshawn Johnson responds/speaks/ruins my day.

11:30 AM Marvin Lewis pops a handful of Vicodin, takes three shots of vodka, checks everyone’s status with their parole officers and wonders how in the hell he got put in charge of this group.

11:40 AM After a thorough check, Brian Leonard reassures himself that he’s the whitest guy on the team.

12:00 PM Rey Maualuga and Dunlap share super funny drunk driving stories as they take the field for warm-ups. Maualuga sees Charissa Thompson prowling the sidelines and decides to go all Erin Andrews on her.

12:10 PM T.Ocho shrugs off warm-ups to carry out a midfield dance routine that the crowd goes wild for. Carson Palmer looks at the ground and shakes his head as if to say”it’s going to be a long damn year, but it better pay off.”

12:30 PM Pacman freaking Jones pulls his car into one of the stadium’s tunnels. Stepping out of the passenger side is Tank Johnson. The two open the back doors to reveal…… [suspense]…… Roger Goodell. In the biggest “good guy goes bad” turn since, uh, Hulk Hogan LeBron James, Roger Goodell has been behind these two the entire time.

From L to R: Pacman, Goodell, Tank

All three pull out guns and threaten to bring hell upon Paul Brown Stadium, but T.Ocho is able to sweep in and save the day. The NFL’s new favorite duo has fought off trouble and helped defeat a corrupt leader. That can only mean that it’s time for one thing…

Gratuitous T.Ocho?

1:00 PM Kickoff.

-Bryan

Roy Oswalt Is On Your TV

Like me, Roy has too much time on his hands.

I’m going to let you in on my deepest darkest secret… from this morning. Upon waking and groggily stumbling to the kitchen for my daily Folger’s fix, the first thought that popped into my head was, “Unless somebody important died, I have nothing to write about today.”

(*crossed fingers*)

On a somber note then, I’d like to pay homage to the life and times of both Jack Tatum and Lorenzen Wright, both of whom passed yesterday, thus narrowly losing out on their own posts to men’s softball and freak injuries, respectively. Negative points, Hilson.

It probably says more about our effed-up news cycle than my irreverent disregard for the dead that Astros pitcher Roy Oswalt is not only the lead story on Thursday’s “SportsCenter,” but something of a poster child for Bristol Gone Awry.

Given “College Football Live’s” round-the-calendar airing, you’ve probably already noticed ESPN’s artificial creation of “news.” Something about the dog days of summer, though, really drives home the fact – for me, at least – that what we assign [sports] importance to is by and large a product of World Wide Leader programming. Same goes for politics and CNN/Fox News/MSNBC, indie music and Pitchfork, pop culture and “Chelsea Lately,” etcetera etcetera.

Chelsea with tiny Mexican BFF.

Case in point/evidence of agenda setting: this weeks “big” stories…

1) Cowboys’ rookie receiver refuses to carry Cowboys’ washed-up receiver’s pads after practice. The two beef. John Clayton finds work for a 587th consecutive day.

2) A-Rod continues not hitting home runs.

3) Over-the-hill loudmouth receiver – not the one playing for the Cowboys – signs a 1-year, $2 million contract with one of the most historically inept franchises in NFL history.

4) A fan wearing a Heat LeBron Jersey gets showered with $8 Bud Light at a hostile Progressive Field in Cleveland. Random Indians fans now without hope AND sh*tty beer.

Stay classy, Cleveland.

5) Just breaking: Redskins fat man fails conditioning test.

Now there were other ones (this is my bone-throwing to Bryan Holt and the 98th no-hitter of the season), but I think you see my point – American soccer sucks that I, like the rest of you, am a little sheep following the likes of Chris McKendry off a steep cliff of sports culture irrelevance.

Which brings me back to Roy Oswalt, who’s quickly proving himself the FLAVA FLAV of the month – hijacking many a “Baseball Tonight” largely based on successes long passed. He’s 14-18 over the last two seasons and wants desperately to get out of Houston, but also seems to revel in the fact that he has his team by the balls via Veto powers.

Somebody get Roy a giant clock/sombrero.

The lesson here as always: don’t give no-trade clauses to aging divas with a history of nagging injuries.

I had little respect for Oswalt to begin, and that he appears headed to Atlanta’s hated rival Philadelphia doesn’t help. I have even less respect, though, for the fabricated stories ESPN continues to shove down my throat in the interest of filling slow news days.

Now excuse me while I turn my attention to more important things.

Happy “Shore” day. GTL, y’all.

- Robbie.

Men in Tights: A Clusterf*cked Midweek

Much like this post, Coghlan's celebration did not end well.

This is the first in a never-ending series of posts designed to turn SC into a real blog, as opposed to the incendiary web mag it is as heart. Scroll until you find a headline that interests you.

Because coherent ideas are a lot like Andre Dawson seasons (the couple good ones mask the fact that most suck), but incoherent ideas are more prevalent than pigeon sh*t at a Kings of Leon concert, I’ve decided to forego the typical thousand-word, single topic rant in favor of a grab-bag approach to the single dullest week in recent memory. Evidence of boredom: I was actually forced to watch men’s softball on Saturday. This is true.

Men’s slow-pitch softball actually exists.

And if such a “sport” wasn’t already [sexually] confusing enough, it turns out that the home runs actually count as outs after each team goes yard ten times. The game then turns into a finesse contest wherein our weekend warriors showcase bunting skills, poke opposite field singles, and discuss not having girlfriends. Insert your own joke about small ball(s) here.

Said kind of dink-’n-dunk offensive strategy does little to prevent these seven-inning exercises in overcompensation from lasting a short eternity and, in fact, the game I was watching produced no fewer than 59 runs and some dozen opportunities to partake in solitary scotch drinking.

Now I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you about the afternoon’s undisputed highlight – the solitary scotch drinking one Rusty Bumgardener’s towering 400-plus foot, scoreboard-clearing shot to centerfield. You probably know Bumgardener as the expansion Florida Marlins’ very first American signee. I know him as a 6’6″, 30-something mongoloid in tights. Walking hormone or not, the man can rake, and his awe-inspiring home run was nothing to scoff at… to his face. He’d break you in two, and then probably offer you a pair of tickets to an off-Broadway showing of “Cats” as restitution.

Bumgardener showing off for the ladies.

In the interest of journalistic integrity (right…), I should probably mention that all this happened in the second-annual “Border Battle” between USA and Canada. The latter country prevailed 30-29 in the neighbors’ most riveting confrontation since The Great One dropped gloves with Neal Broten.

Broten: Got 99 problems but 99 ain’t one.

While looking back on the chain of events that had turned my weekend into something out of a Bravo marathon, I got to thinking about other depressing things – namely, former Marlins great Andre Dawson’s Hall induction – at which point, I asked myself

Why the hell is Andre Dawson in the Hall of Fame?

When I heard last year’s news of his election, I just assumed some attention-whoring prankster had thought up a Hall of Fame (for Surly Pricks), pitched the idea to Ashton Kutcher, and then tipped off an embittered former teammate.

Greatest. Punk’d. Ever.

But the Hall of Fame? Cooperstown? I had no idea. So needless to say, Sunday’s induction ceremony offered fresh fodder for fans of common sense to pick apart Dawson’s yawner of a career. My father, for one, writes:

“While his stats are impressive and probably legit, what is the HOF thinking putting Mr. Sunshine in with 438/.277? Don’t 500/.300 mean anything anymore?”

He then suggested I quote him more often, amid veiled threats to “cut me off.”

Just kidding.

They weren’t veiled.

But the elder Hilson raised several good questions and his use of “Mr. Sunshine” perfectly describes a man who mysteriously parlayed his OJ-like charm into a Marlins public relations job. Add Hawk to the “Jim Gray Memorial List of People Who Probably Have Pictures of High Ranking Officials with Farm Animals.”

Only known smile.

Personal distaste aside, I can’t find many numbers – career or otherwise – that validate The Hawk’s inclusion. That historians cite injury problems in rebuttal doesn’t help matters. The man was hurt all the time – in his 17 starting Big League seasons, he failed to reach 140 games seven times.

He was a regular Ichiro when it comes to walks, never topping 44 in a season (for a power hitter!). Likewise, his career .323 on-base % ranks him in a tie for 146th among all other HOFers with Al Spalding.

Spalding was a pitcher.

Dawson’s career totals impress [upon you the fact that he shouldn't be in the Hall of Fame]. Over 21 seasons, he managed 438 HR, 1591 RBI, 2774 hits, a .279 BA, and an .806 OPS, Hall ranks of 21st, 25th, 40th, t-118th and t-95, respectively.

For perspective’s sake, there are roughly 130 position players in Cooperstown and Harold Baines, not in Cooperstown, finished with more RBI and hits and posted a higher batting average, OBP and OPS. He’s also a nicer guy.

On a random note… Bert Blyleven, everybody!

As for my dad’s “legit” assumption… Let’s play Spot The MVP Year

1984 (Age 29): 17 HR, 86 RBI, .248 BA in 533 AB

1985 (Age 30): 23 HR, 91 RBI, .255 BA in 529 AB

1986 (Age 31): 20 HR, 78 RBI, .284 BA in 496 AB

1987 (Age 32, contract year): 49 HR, 137 RBI, .287 BA in 621 AB

1988 (Age 33): 24 HR, 79 RBI, .303 BA in 591 AB

1989 (Age 34): 21 HR, 77 RBI, .252 BA in 416 AB

1990 (Age 35): 27 HR, 100 RBI, .310 BA in 529 AB

Hawk never topped 32 HR in any year before or after ’87. But hey, I’m not accusing him of anything. It’s quite possible the Wrigley wind was blowing out the entire season.

Dawson did lead the league in hit-by-pitches four times, though, which reminds me

Baseball players invent new ways to hurt themselves.

I’m looking at you, Marlins outfielder Chris Coghlan of “Tearing MCL While Celebratorily Pieing Teammate in Face” fame. In case you missed it, Coghlan blew out his knee while planting a plate of shaving cream in the mug of walk-off hero Wes Helms Sunday. Though worthy of a dozen “Humble Pie” headlines, Coghlan’s 6 to 8 week injury doesn’t even qualify as this season’s most flukily embarrassing injury. That honor belongs to Anaheim’s Kendry Morales, who broke a leg overzealously stepping on home.

"Walk off" averted

For your sadistic pleasure, I ranked my other favorite freak injuries, taking into account A) stupidity B) severity C) flukiness and D) humiliation factor… 1-10 scale (scores in parentheses).

10) John Smoltz, Atlanta Braves: Not much to see here. SC favorite Smoltz burnt himself ironing. We’ve all done it. Not while wearing the shirt. But we’ve all done it. Smoltz vehemently denies the incident, adding yet another wrinkle… (S9/SE2/F3/H8)

9) Joel Zumaya, Detroit Tigers: 6-foot-3, 210-pounds, fragile enough to strain his forearm playing video games. “Guitar Hero” strikes again. Now some kid in his mother’s basement thinks he’s athletic enough to play pro baseball. He’s probably right… Scores big humiliation points for its extended stay in the news. (S6/SE4/F7/H8)

8) Tom Glavine, Atlanta Braves: My Bravos had multiple contenders for this very spot (Ryan Klesko once hurt himself picking up a lunch tray), but this one just sounds really funny. Glavine broke a rib yacking up airplane food, prompting the following exchange. Trainer: “Tom what happened?” Tom: “I barfed too hard.” Don’t lie. You’re in tears right now. (S7/SE2/F8/H7)

7) Terry Mulholland, Minnesota Twins: Hey Terry, watch out for that sharp pillow feather. It could poke you in the eye. You could miss your next start. (S4/SE5/F10/H6)

6) Ken Griffey Jr., Seattle Mariners: The competition heats up. Junior got himself into a pinch back in the day when he, um, pinched his testicle putting his jock strap on. The rogue cup cost him a game. Insert “balls of steel” joke here. (S6/SE4/F8/H9)

5) Carlos Perez, Montreal Expos: In a rush to get to the stadium on time, Carlos broke his nose after crashing his car trying to pass a bus… The team bus. (S9 SE7 F7 H8)

4) Vince Coleman, St. Louis Cardinals: VC stole 110 bases during the ’85 season, but couldn’t outrun the Busch Stadium tarp machine prior to game 4 of the NLCS. Vince was doing warm-up stretches. Tarp snuck up on him. Swallowed his leg. Never saw it coming. Missed the ’85 World Series. (S5/SE8/F10/H8)

3) Steve Sparks, Milwaukee Brewers: In a scene straight out of “Major League,” the knuckleballer tried to tear a phonebook in half in imitation of a motivational speech he saw hours before. Steve dislocated his shoulder. (S10/SE8/F7/H8)

2) Kevin Mitchell, NY Mets/SF Giants: The only man who garnered consideration for two separate incidents, Mitchell deserves the 2 spot as a sort of Career Achievement Award. As a Met, he paved the way for Glavine by straining a rib vomiting. But it was his donut mishap back in 1990 on which he built a legend. Kevin missed four days of spring training when he bit down on a rock-hard Krispy Kreme he’d over-microwaved. Conflicting reports cite a cupcake culprit. (S10/SE6/F8/H10)

Svelte.

1) Glenallen Hill, Toronto Blue Jays: Anybody who’s seen “Arachnophobia” as a 5-year-old can relate to a frightening spider dream, but Hill got so worked up over an 8-legged nightmare that he smashed through a glass table before falling down a flight of stairs. Lands the top spot on logistics alone. (S2/SE7/F10/H10)

Bonus) Milton Bradley, San Diego Padres: As if it’s not bad enough having “Milton Bradley” on your birth certificate, the journeyman outfielder was also born with the stupid gene. Milton tore his ACL while being restrained by manager Bud Black during a heated argument with first base umpire Mike Winters. The lesson here: respect your authorities. (S10/SE10/F10/H10)

Have a safe Wednesday.

- Robbie

Matt Garza

Greenies be damned. We The Rays finally did it.

There are days when I want to look into sports in a very deep manner. There are days when I really want to examine why things happen on the field. There are days when I am pessimistic.

Today is definitely not one of those days.

Over a period of roughly 11 months, I saw my favorite baseball team finish on the dark side of no-hit performances three times. Two of those were of the perfect game variety, while one of them was about as un-perfect of a no-hitter as one can get. The latter is the eight-walk, 149-pitch adventure tossed by Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher Edwin Jackson in June.

Edwin Jackson, you ask? Ugh.

Yes, the same Edwin Jackson that once played for the Devil Rays and then the Rays. The same Edwin Jackson that I once watched give up five runs and get pulled from a game against the Padres without registering a single out.

For some reason, I remember that night clearly. I was sitting in the section 119 loge box at Tropicana Field, and I began cheering for Jake Peavy when he took a no-hit bid into the seventh inning. Emotionally numb from supporting a team that was a perennial bottom-feeder, I was desperate for any glamour that the game could offer.

Per usual, the Devil Rays disappointed me that night when Carl Crawford hit a single to ruin the moment.

But it was nights like that that make me appreciate nights like Monday even more. On Monday, Matt Garza threw a no-hitter against the Detroit Tigers. He became the sixth fifth player this season to accomplish the feat and the first pitcher in the 2,039 game history of the Rays to do so. There have been four thrown against the Rays in that same time span.

The night was yet another reminder of just how much things have changed over the past three years.

For Garza, it was a reminder of how much things can change on a start-to-start basis. Just six days before his no-hitter against the Tigers, Garza gave up seven earned runs and four homers to the Baltimore Orioles. On June 12, he surrendered seven runs to the Marlins after facing 14 batters in just 1 and 1/3 innings. An early season dark horse Cy Young candidate, he now simply utters the words “roller coaster” when asked how his season is going.

But the term “up-and-down” doesn’t just describe Garza’s season on the mound. It accurately portrays his career and his life in general.

In a pitching rotation full of composed, laid-back characters, Garza is the unpredictable loose cannon. He’s been named MVP of an ALCS. He’s fought his catcher.

The best of times...

Even during the no-hitter, the crowning moment of his career, he was uncertain and frustrated that he did not have his mechanics down. Of the 120 pitches that he threw, 101 of them were fastballs due to the fact that he did not feel comfortable enough to change things up.

He went through his pitching motions repeatedly with a balled-up towel in between innings in the batting cages below the first-base seats. He asked pitching coach Jim Hickey for nervous advice. Advice that Hickey started refusing to offer after the sixth inning.

When the Rays brought Garza in at the beginning of 2008, they were met with a legitimately crazy man. Pitchers are usually weird, but Garza surpassed them all. He paced the mound, he yelled at himself and could become rattled at the simple site of a routine hit. Manager Joe Maddon arranged a relationship between Garza and sports psychologist Ken Ravizza. The counseling helped Garza, but he still remains one of the quirkiest and most high-strung pitchers in baseball.

The Garza roller coaster continues off the field. He took a pregnant girlfriend to his senior prom, and welcomed his first child into the world just days after graduation. But graduation meant the demands of being a student-athlete in college, and the new father spent the majority of his time at Fresno State contemplating whether or not he even wanted to play baseball.

While Rays’ poster boys James Shields and Evan Longoria tend to charities that deal with orphans and cancer, Garza has worked for teenage pregnancy advocate groups alongside Hayden Panettiere and Bristol Palin.

L to R: Crazy bitch, Matt Garza, crazy bitch

Garza was only a second inning walk away from being statistically perfect on Monday night. But the night seemed too perfect anyways.

For awhile – 5 and 2/3 innings to be exact – the game was a no-hit standoff. Tigers starter Max Scherzer walked plenty but didn’t give up a hit until Tampa native Matt Joyce stepped to the plate. Joyce hit a go-ahead grand slam that just barely stayed fair, took his curtain call and then allowed Garza to proceed with franchise history.

The hometown hero.

To make it even more special, Joyce’s grand slam came against his former team. The team that traded him in 2008 for Edwin Jackson. The same team that then traded Jackson to the Arizona Diamondbacks for, you guessed it, Max Scherzer.

Somehow, this all aligned to give Garza one of the greatest individual feats in team history (Wade Boggs did reach 3,000 hits as a D-Ray).

Never one to be short on words or emotion, Garza seemed to be in an apparent state of shock after the game. He remained far more composed than his teammates and kept repeating the same worn-out line about how staying up with the Yankees and making it to October was far more important than any of this.

Previous Rays who came closest to this feat include Dewon Brazelton, Tony Saunders and Jim Parque.

Yeah, times have changed.

-Bryan

Let’s Talk About "Mad Men"

Personal inspiration Donald Draper

In 1960s terms, eleven months is a short lifetime. Politicians have the longevity of pop stars, pop stars the longevity of a Lucky Strike smoke. These are turbulent times – times that are a-changin’ – and the guys calling the shots from the swanky high-rises presiding over Madison Avenue are at the forefront of it all. Last time we had a look at Sterling Cooper’s playboy product pushers, they were holed-up in a hotel room trying to make sense of an 11th-hour cut-’n-run agency launch.

The old Sterling Cooper was no more, replaced instead by a scrappy upstart hellbent on conquering the world one account at a time.

The way the mad men put everything on the line – an entire ad empire they had built from scratch – couldn’t help but foreshadow the all-or-nothing sacrifices on the horizon for their country as a whole. Equality, freedom, rock ‘n roll. These were things all within reach – there for the taking, but demanding of a giant leap of faith and a dogged trust that it would all pay off in the end.

A makeshift revolution.

Sea change was the law of the land in the dark winter of 1963. And if “no turning back” was the rule eleven months prior, then a year of violent protests and cutural upheaval only raised the stakes that much higher. We’re in November 1964. The ground is moving beneath our feet. Our society is on the brink of swallowing itself whole.

And Don Draper is still cool as hell.

AMC premiered the fourth season of its critically acclaimed “Mad Men” drama Sunday, and as you can probably already tell from my five paragraphs of unhinged, gratuitous buildup, my sole aim here is to add to this acclaim. Now we can sit here and argue the merits of last season’s 180-degree finale. I’ll even entertain the idea that there are better shows out there. But come 10 o’clock Sunday nights, there is no disputing this: no other hour of TV excels at making you feel like an unequivocal badass quite like this one.

“Mad Men,” at its core, explores the darkest nooks of the American Dream, where you can be anything you want so long as you keep the sordid means a secret. So as an identity thief, a ladies’ man, a serial adulterer and the sharpest guy in the room, Don Draper is this freewheeling world’s quintessential antihero.

Greed is good.

Draper, played iconically by Jon Hamm, is one of four partners at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce, but its his charisma, vision and off-the-cuff creative genius that drives the entire enterprise. Don is ruthless. He’s charming. He’s cunning. He’s a shark with a smile that buckles knees. He’s a cheat, a liar, an alcoholic with a pack-a-day habit. He’s more unshakeable than the slicked-back hairs on his own head. He’s the inspiration for a thousand “Dos Equis” commercials, the most interesting man in the world.

It’s no doubt with a mischievous smirk, then, that creator Matthew Weiner introduces the following season-opening wrinkle…

What if Don Draper has to work for it?

That question seems to be forthcoming episodes’ main premise (though it’s hard to tell anything from a 50-minute intro), as well as the truth-undermining foil that breathes new life into a plot that was very much alive in the first place. Don Draper is used to getting whatever he wants whenever he wants it. Now, for the first extended period in the show’s history, he’s an honest-to-goodness, I’m-not-just-saying-this-to-fire-you-up… underdog.

‘Scuse me. Just got a little shiver.

Along with fronting his sputtering upstart, Don’s also wading through the aftermath of a nasty divorce. Trophy wife Betty (January Jones) left him for a smarmy politician, and though nobody can fault her for cutting ties, her choice of seconds raises eyebrows – compared to Don, Henry Francis is a vanilla cupcake. Extra frosting. That he’s still living with Betty and the kids in Don’s house only makes me dislike him more.

Jones and Christopher Stanley: a match made in... the back of an Oldsmobile

The guy’s a lightweight, just like his childish arm candy.

At work, Don’s trying to recapture the confidence of Manhattan powerbrokers and the big money accounts his agency compromised upon Sterling Cooper’s dissolution. As an ad man, he’s also at the epicenter of a culture war splitting the nation into two equally passionate camps: prudish conservatives determined to uphold traditional values and an avant garde new-wave stubborn for change (Sound familiar?).

Don’s not one to compromise, so when execs for family-oriented Jantzen swimsuits balk at his risque “So well built, we can’t show you the second floor” pitch, he throws them out of his office, stopping just short of showering them with their own scotch.

“Mad Men” plays up the dichotomy between professional and private lives not just with its central character, but with his sidekicks as well. In the former walk, these characters pursue a singular vision of cutthroat capitalism; in the latter, they’re grasping at straws. Sunday kept at this theme, reveling in both Don’s hardline creative endeavors and the ass-backwardsness of his personal [con]quests.

Draper on a first date? Draper stuck on first base? Huh?

Good thing he’s got a smokin’ hot redhead on the side.

“Struggling” is not part of this man’s M.O., and because the premier placed its lead in so many uncomfortably foreign scenarios, I get the feeling that this could all be a season-long exercise in mojo rediscovery.

Don’s game. And he’s got serious help – Roger Sterling (John Slattery) plays Hef-lite debonaire wingman; Peggy Olson (Elisabeth Moss) provides creative spark, conscience and, ironically, balls; Joan Harris (Christina Hendricks) offers a cable show’s requisite drop-dead curves; and the rest of bunch is always up for a little plot-twisting horseplay.

Hendricks: goddess in the doorway.

In the hair-raising moments of the premier’s final sequence, Draper flips his charm switch, atoning for a botched newspaper interview by slyly talking up a reporter for the Wall Street Journal. Perhaps here we’ve witnessed act one in “How Don Gets His Groove Back.” But most certainly we’ve seen that “Mad Men,” even in 1964, is still the coolest show on TV.

- Robbie

Stay here! You’re in the right place.

So you can tell by now that Bryan and I decided our WordPress.com site could no longer contain our awesomeness. And really, given said awesomeness, it’s a small miracle that we lasted on the old blog for as long as we did. [insert something humble] We owe a debt of gratitude to both you, the loyal reader, and to WordPress, whose servers admirably withstood Sports Casualties’ mighty surge of web traffic.

From here on out, SportsCasualties.com will be your primary destination for incendiary commentary via Gainesville’s two biggest blowhards. Please bear with us while we renovate/makeover/rearrange/redesign our new digs. And if you think the logo sucks, either 1) send us another one 2) make a valid suggestion or 3) take a hike. (Just kidding. Love all you bros out there… But seriously, unconstructive bitching is for… the internet, I guess. Nevermind.)

UPDATE: Disregard last two sentences. Our logo freakin’ rocks.

Hopefully I’ve found a way to remap the old domain by the time you read this. And if not, please take the time to make the extra clicks. It’s just a freakin’ click. Won’t kill ya. And finally, I promised Bryan that Sports Casualties would cover his fall semester beer tab. So add us to your Google Reader, follow us on Twitter, show us some love on Facebook and, most importantly, keep coming back. You will be a funnier person for your efforts. I promise.

Thanks again for all your patience. We can’t have the best blog without the best readers.

Was that last part too much?

- Robbie

Alex Rodriguez, PEDs and Baseball’s Rewritten Record Book

Celebration Day

Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez has 599 career home runs at the time of writing.

Roughly 18 years ago on May 3, 1992, Mets slugger Eddie Murray launched his 400th career home run in a 7-0 victory over Atlanta. This was a big deal. I know because I was there.

Unfortunately, neither my father nor his dashingly hansom 5-year-old son actually witnessed Murray’s historic blast due to my typically weak (for a preschooler) 5-year-old bladder.

I had to pee. We missed his at-bat.

I only vaguely remember this day, but know its details intimately as its an anecdote my father occasionally uses to impress friends – the best thing the Hilson family has to a “Good Will Hunting” moment.

Like “You missed Pudge Fisk’s home run? For a girl? You’re kidding me,” only:

You missed Ed Murray? For a Big Gulp? You’re kidding me.

Or something like that. Anyway, fast forward some 12 years when my father and I bump into an impeccably well-tanned Alex Rodriguez shanking golf balls a couple blocks up from our house.

It’s not every day that one encounters the “greatest living ballplayer” out in the wild (though, actually, this was the first of several run-ins – hell, the guy dropped in on my yearbook class), so my father approached this 6-foot-4 glowing mass of orange, said hi and dropped the Murray story in their few seconds of casual conversation.

Heroes of a young Robb Hilson, Members of 400/3000 Club

While I’m impressed with the symmetry of this story, young A-Rod was not impressed with HR 400. And why would he be? If you’re Alex Rodriguez, you’re interested in three things: tanning, aging pop divas and doubling the total of a number once thought to mean something.

Mr. 800, anyone?

I tell you these stories both to impress you via name-dropping and emphasize that 400 career home runs was a huge deal. And it was a huge deal in my lifetime. On that day in May, 1992, Murray became the 24th player in Major League history and the second active player (Dave Winfield, 411) to reach the once-momentous milestone.

Of course, the last two-plus decades have so altered baseball’s dynamics as to render these historically hallowed yardsticks inconsequential. The era-defining transformations read like this: diluted talent pools, shrinking ballparks, juiced baseballs, thinning air and – you may have heard – bigger, faster, stronger, more acne-ridden players.

For the sake of perspective, a startling 22 players have joined the 400 Club since 1997. Of the 128 players in history that have reached 300 career homers, 21 are still active and another 36 made their Big League debut after the 1984 season. Anomalies in this latter bunch include Steve Finley (304), Luis Gonzalez (354) and Greg Vaughn (355), along with household names Sosa, Bagwell, Canseco, Bonds and Green.

Shawn Green.

Performance enhancing drugs have become such a pervasive part of baseball culture that googling any player produces a “name + steroids” search option. They’ve directly produced staggering single-season figures that inspire WTF? double-takes and have more or less turned the backs of baseball cards into incriminating documents the products of look-the-other-way policies.

The Steroid Era transformed the likes of Brady Anderson (50 HR in ’96), Javy Lopez (43 HR in 457 ’03 ABs) and Brett Boone (37, 131, .331 in ’00) into Ruthian sluggers; vaulted McGwire/Sosa into the realm of legend; raised the red flag on any and all contract years; and greased the skids for that damning 162-game freak show that was 2001.

Brady Anderson, Au Naturale

Of all the laughably inane statistical aberrations of the last 20 or so years, my favorite by far is this: in 2001, Luis Gonzalez of eventual champion Arizona finished with 57 homers, 142 RBI, 128 runs, a .325 average, a godlike 1.117 OPS, 100 walks and 198 hits… and finished third in the NL MVP voting behind the following two he-men.

2. Sammy Sosa – 64 HR, 160 RBI, 146 R, .328 BA, 1.174 OPS, 116 BB, 189 H

1. Barry Bonds – 73 HR, 137 RBI, 129 R, .328 BA, 1.379 OPS, 177 BB, 156 H in… wait for it… 476 at-bats

That Rich Aurilia, Brian Giles and Phil Nevin all topped 36 homers and .940 OPS is notable in its own right.

Are you like me? Are you still dumbfounded by the above even though you recall these players and their superhuman feats all too vividly? Are you still shaking your head at the sportswriter-floated notion that the tinkered spacing on the ball’s seams inflated power output? Are you reminded by every 2010 no-hitter of this generation’s sans-chemicals offensive impotence?

Are you starting to talk yourself into Greg Maddux as the greatest of all-time? Are you starting to realize that he used a knife to kill men in a gunfight?

Or do you instead just look back on the golden years of your childhood and think, “Wow. Baseball was a total joke.”

Contrarians would argue that the Steroids Era is just part and parcel with baseball’s ever-evolving landscape – that the record books are no more or less valid now than when a bunch of fat, white guys took advantage of legalized racism.

You want to erase Barry Bonds? Fine. But replace him with Josh Gibson. Still other might argue that power statistics like RBI were never legit measures of success in the first place.

Ultimately the arguments stop and end here: Major League Baseball has forever sacrificed one of its most intrinsic appeals – the mythical lore of its records.

In short, baseball is no longer a numbers game. And it can never be again because many of its hallowed touchstones have been blown out of the water and permanently put out of reach.

Nobody will ever surpass 73 home runs in a season again, much less in 476 at-bats. And if he does, he will have done so dishonestly.

L to R: future home run champion, cartoon.

Which brings me back to Alex Rodriguez, a confessed cheater who stands on the precipice of 600 home runs and, at a day short of his 35th birthday, within striking distance of several all-time marks. Regardless of the surrounding fanfare or lack thereof, A-Rod’s next longball will be bittersweet in that it will remind us of the young man who, not long ago, was anointed baseball’s presumed savior.

Rodriguez would set the records straight – erase the taint of BALCO, Bonds, 762 and other ill-gotten gains. Instead, his 600 – as it will be with 700, 756 and 763 – will just re-emphasize the fact that the numbers mean nothing, and worse, that we’re still waiting for a historical restoration that may never come.

- Robbie

"Pimps" and Other Agents of Saban: An SEC-Bashing Week in Review

Victim Nick Saban

This one goes out to all you $5 mill-a-year coaches out there.

The No. 1 question that’s been on all our minds’ this week:

Is Alabama coach Nick Saban the antichrist, or just plain ‘ol satan?

In case you missed it, Saban turned SEC Media Day into a public forum for pimp flogging. But first, he called out agents for preying on naive 21-year-olds – tempting the innocent with “mad bank”/”ice”/”bling”/”rimz for Caddies” and, as a result, compromising their amateur statuses (a phenomenon with which his star player may or may not be familiar).

Presumably these youngsters have yet to learn the difference between right and wrong, making themselves prime recipients of – hypothetically speaking – a $100k under-the-table cash advance from a Jerry Maguire wannabe trying to do his employer proud.

"SHOW ME THE MONEY!"

“The agents that do this – and I hate to say this, but how are they any better than a pimp?” Satan said.

Saban said. Freudian slip.

In all seriousness, Nick – what the hell did pimps ever do to you?

Do tell.

Saban wasn’t the only exorbitantly-paid, super-conference ball coach calling out others for their “greed.” In fact, the Old Ball Coach and his long-term replacement Urban Meyer got in on the agent/pimp bashing as well.

Gamecocks quote machine Steve Spurrier of “Can’t spell ‘Citrus’ without UT” fame defended one of his players who allegedly attended a massive summer blowout on South Beach. I can neither confirm nor deny such an agent-funded party, but I can tell you that, since it’s going to rain tonight, I have to cancel my plans at The W with AJ Green.

Sorry, J. Hit me up tomorrow. Go Dawgs.

Spurrier said, rather benignly, that it’s hard to tell who’s an agent and who’s a runner these day. Yawn.

He added, “I think [arrests] are more common now because players are getting arrested for everything that in the old days they did not get arrested for. I can sort of remember back in our day, if you were out and something happened, they would say, ‘Can you get home? We’ll drive you home,’ to some of my teammates. They did not go into the tank that night.”

Ah yes, the tank.

Spurrier with non-criminal Tebow

Speaking of which, I’ve always been in the tank for former ‘Canes redeemer Butch Davis – the only head of a crappy, non-SEC team that made news this week. The North Carolina coach also has a pair of players allegedly involved with an agent, violations that resulted in an NCAA probe that he calls from “out of left field.”

After implicating UNC baseball’s left fielder, Davis went on to explain how rule changes that allow player/agent contact 18 months prior to pro eligibility have shaken the college football landscape.

Carolina is facing possible future sanctions.

On the bright side, Butch recruits like a maniac when he’s short on scholarships. I would know. Hope your track players can catch a football, Heels.

UM track scholar Santana Moss

And as mentioned, Florida’s own Urban Menace Meyer got in on the naughty-agent talk in a valiant, but unsuccessful attempt to deflect attention from the fact that he’s now dealing with a twenty-eighth rap sheet and a probable Sugar Bowl forfeiture.

Bottom line: NFL agents are taking college football down. These men are sharks, circling the young blood of the naive like…

… (*racking brain for appropriate analogy*) …

Well, think of them like big-time college football programs trying to recruit promising 16-year-old high school quarterbacks so they can feed their multi-million dollar amateur sports cash cow.

And with this I give you… The Week in Review. Enjoy.

_________

Saw “Inception,” Stephen Strasburg and Billy Corgan this week. Or as it’s known in the culinary world: Brilliance 3-Ways.

On Monday, former president Bill Clinton unveiled his “bucket list,” prompting the question: “There are things Bill Clinton hasn’t done?”

As you can imagine, Hillary was pissed.

Peace and love, dudes. Emphasis on "love."

Tour de France cyclist Andy Schleck vowed to take out race leader Alberto Contador after the latter took advantage of Schleck’s popped bike chain to capture the race lead.

The angered Luxembourg rider, who felt Contador should have stopped, vowed revenge, saying, “My stomach is full of anger.”

Actually, Andy, that probably has something to do with all the foie gras you ate RIGHT BEFORE STAGE 15.

On Tuesday, pitcher Jennie Finch announced her plans to retire next month, news that came as a huge surprise to casual sports fans.

You mean professional softball still exists?

Gratuitous Finch

NHL commissioner Gary Bettman blocked Ilya Kovalchuk’s record-breaking 17-year, $102 million deal with the New Jersey Devils this week. The league is citing salary cap violations in an attempt to conceal the fact that cyborgs will have long replaced left wingers by 2027.

In baseball news, Cubs manager “Sweet” Lou Piniella announced Tuesday that he will retire at season’s end to pursue a career in couples counseling.

Lou w/ bro Jim Joyce

CBS hinted Wednesday that former ‘Canes and Cowboys head coach Jimmy Johnson, 67, will participate in the network’s reality show “Survivor: Nicaragua.” We knew that Coach wanted to shed a few pounds, but isn’t this a little drastic?

It’s still unclear whether Johnson will be allowed to bring ExtenZe to the island, as natural male performance enhancement would presumably give him a competitive advantage.

Also on Wednesday, ESPN’s SportsNation reported a poll in which Kobe Bryant and Tiger Woods tied for America’s most popular athlete. On Thursday, a Mayan spokesperson reasserted “2012.”

On Thursday, disgruntled Hornets star Chris Paul informed his team he’d like to be traded to a contender. The only question now is: will he accept the veteran minimum?

Speaking of end of the world...

The McCourt divorce proceedings continued to worsen this week as Dodgers’ co-owners Frank and Jamie bitterly fought over who will get Manny’s bandana and who will take his lazy will.

And finally, Tiger Woods’ camp announced Wednesday that the star golfer lost a staggering $22 million in endorsements in light of his personal indiscretions.

Or, in glass-half-full terms, Woods – who hasn’t won a major in more than two years – kept about $90 million in endorsements in light of his personal indiscretions.

Keep up the great work, Beadle.

- Robbie