The 10 Best Songs of 2010 (According to Me)

Since this is really a sports music blog at heart, I thought it only appropriate to dedicate my last post of 2010 to my 10 favorite songs of the year, as selected by me the writer. While I can’t promise you these are the best songs of the last 12 months – I haven’t heard all of them – you can reasonably conclude, given my impeccable musical vernacular, that they are at least in the ballpark. Unlike most posts, I’ve actually done a thorough bit of research on what’s to follow. Plus, I like to think I’m up on what the kids are listening to these days (i.e. not the Smashing Pumpkins/Soundgarden/Pearl Jam/any of my favorite bands).

Now if we could only get a little drumroll going…

*DRUMROLL*

Nice.

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Vanishing Cream – The Fresh & Onlys The Fresh & Onlys wrote a lot of songs about disappearing even before they hit relative indie stardom with that coveted 8.0 Pitchfork rating. It was “Play It Strange’s” “Waterfall” that gave the San Fran psych-rockers the national exposure they so deserve, but I’d take this Kinks-meets-Bond-Theme garage jam over their hazy acid-eater cuts any day. I especially love the mod-London back-up vocals, but like the most potent rock ‘n roll, the band’s real power lies in its ability to confront insecurity and helplessness with raging guitars and an eff you edge.

Monster – Kanye West ft. Nicki Minaj (Explicit) It’s telling that Jay-Z’s turn on the mic constitutes the “weak” moments of a stone-cold classic six minute stretch in which the self-proclaimed “Bad bitch that came from Sri Lanka” puts shame to a who’s who of rapper contemporaries. Rick Ross is on. Kanye is on. But gangsta Barbie “it” girl Nicki Minaj laps them with a spitfire mind-f— that is at once hysterical and sinister, self-deprecating and packed with enough in-your-grill audacity to make Lil’ Kim blush. Needless to say, she’s both owner of the year’s best verse and the reason I started cursing.

I Can Change – LCD Soundsystem James Murphy would be this generation’s David Bowie if he wasn’t such a hopelessly romantic schlub or poor dresser. Then again, if he wasn’t penning sappy electro-pop anthems about groping aimlessly for true love, he wouldn’t be James Murphy, and there would be no LCD Soundsystem, and we would all be the worse off dancing to generic plasti-dance tunes by Daft Punk and, um… David Bowie. And that would truly suck.

Girlfriend – Ty Segall I don’t know much about Ty Segall other than he’s a chill best coast bro from San Francisco who specializes in trippy, lo-fi rock ‘n roll and high-octane guitar riffage. I’m a particular fan of the latter, especially when it’s a) played at ear-bleed volume b) paired with (warning: hyperbole coming) the most swaggering, cocksure groove since Summer of Love-era Stones and c) matched by boasts about getting to use your girlfriend’s car “cuz she don’t mind NUTHIN’!”

Becoming A Jackal – Villagers Wide-eyed and gorgeously melancholy in a way that only a literal interpretation of jackal transformation can be. Stripping away all the anecdotal tales of fresh meat-chewing and preying on souls reveals an achingly beautiful tune about the value of simply having somebody who listens. The 60′s-tinged baroque pop instrumentation gives the song a haunting, old-world feel sounding not out of time, but uniquely timeless.

Floating Vibes – Surfer Blood Hard to believe five guys from West Palm Beach can produce music dripping with this much airy SoCal goodness or such knowledge of shifting tides for that matter. Truth is, effortless pop hooks and instantly memorable guitar lines render origins irrelevant. “Floating Vibes” is universal – in its breezy melodies, in its chiming guitar ring, and in its general lyrical sentiment. Songs about wishy-washy relationships and pending breakup just have an innate “been there” feel to them, no?

Younger Us – Japandroids If kids in 1976 grew up on Japandroids and The Hold Steady instead of Springsteen, I’m convinced the current crop of boomers would be just as well off and a hell of a lot cooler to boot. “Younger Us” works as both a visceral celebration and longing reflection of youth, or more specifically, doing stupid shit. It’s an unholy racket of drums ‘n guitar made from two guys who know the difference between emotional and emo, childlike and childish. Hard to find an unabashedly anthemic cut about screwing around in chic indie circles, but songs that make you think, “I’ll never get old and I’ll sure as hell never be like them” fit the bill.

Helicopter – Deerhunter I can’t recall ever hearing a song that better taps the chilling dichotomy between death row resignation and the euphoric daze of tranquilizing drugs. Bradford Cox, warped genius that he is, for this track inhabits the psyche of a female (sex?) slave wishing away her last days of hell on earth, and that “Helicopter” comes awash in gurgling electronic pangs, breathy vocals and dreamily melodic power chords makes the tale of inevitable disposable all the more unnerving.

Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains) – The Arcade Fire The world-beating Canadian collective’s first all-out dance track transforms “The Suburbs” from a world-weary elegy on aging and stagnation into a exultation of hope for a better future. Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” is the obvious touching point, but that sleek disco romp exists a hollowed-out mannequin to the warm-blooded, teary-eyed, scream-in-the-dark-’cause-you-just-can’t-take-it-anymore dance paean of “Sprawl II.” The Arcade Fire’s always done catharsis better than anyone, but stacked against “Wake Up,” “No Cars Go,” “Neighborhood #3” and all the rest, this one – in context – just might trump them all.

Hell Of A Life – Kanye West (Explicit) Leave it to the most egocentric rapper on the planet to upend his own genre and drop the year’s hottest rock track in the waning moments of a 70-minute hip-hop masterwork. Kanye’s beautiful, dark, twisted fantasy rolls on with this fantastical scuzz rocker about – among other acts of debauchery – banging bride’s maids, getting hitched in bathrooms, and strutting red carpets with your porn star wifey. A driving synth riff, operatic keys, a hook lifted from Sabbath’s “Iron Man” and all other manner of studio wizardry endows each over-the-top conceit with a surrealistic quality suggesting that this is indeed Yeezy’s fantasia. We’re all just living in it.

Honorable Mentions: Crash Years – New Pornographers, Heaven’s On Fire – The Radio Dept., Dark Fantasy – Kanye West, I Want The World To Stop – Belle & Sebastian, F*** You – Cee-Lo Green, Suburban War – The Arcade Fire, Stylo – Gorillaz, Slow – Twin Shadow, King Of The Beach – Wavves, Tell ‘Em – Sleigh Bells, Where I’m Going – Cut Copy, Janelle Monae – Cold War, Robin – Dancing On My Own, Fever Dreaming – No Age, Flash Delirium – MGMT, Angela Surf City – The Walkmen, Walk With Me – Neil Young, Infinity Guitars – Sleigh Bells, Boy Lilikoi – Jonsi

Merry Christmas and happy Kwanzaa.

- Robbie

The NFL: Fluent in Apologies

Dear Kellen: On second thought, you were right.

We’re sorry that one of our referees wrongfully called back your touchdown catch due to a phantom offensive pass interference call. Yes, we know it was at a crucial moment of a game that probably lost you a playoff berth. This letter will have to do.

Sincerely,

NFL

That’s a rough estimate of the letter that the Tampa Bay Buccaneers received in the mail this week from the league. It’s nothing new for the Bucs and it’s nothing new for many NFL teams.

In a season where officiating has often been lambasted, the NFL has admitted vital issues. Tampa Bay offensive coordinator Greg Olson said that this certainly isn’t the first “we’re sorry” letter that the Bucs have received this season.

“They apologized,” Olson told the St. Pete Times. “We’ve had a number of those this year. It’s real discouraging. We’ve played some tight games, but you can’t have those kinds of mistakes. It’s disappointing, obviously. Now, it wasn’t the only play in the game, but it was a critical one at a critical time.”

He also went on to say that the letters are something that coaches are not supposed to publicly discuss.

Now, believe it or not, I’m not writing this for the sole purpose of bitching about officiating. Every fan of every losing team can usually find something that the refs did that they didn’t like. I still get angry when I think about the Bert Emanuel Rule 11 years later.

The fact is, referees should be held to a higher, more public standard or the league should stop pretending that so much is expected out of them. Apology letters are absolutely pointless and a symbol of everything that is wrong with the relationship between teams and referee crews.

For players, coaches and fans, it is difficult to understand and it should be. Teams have media requirements and players get burnt at the stake of community opinion for every single mistake that they make.

But referees, a group of guys with a giant impact on every game, get to keep this strangely anonymous public reputation. Make a mistake and there are few immediate consequences.

Referees don’t have to face any cameras or sit in front of a room of 30 blood-thirsty writers. Coaches and players get fined if they openly denounce them in any way. At the most, we hear about these awkward and useless NFL letters that we’re technically not even supposed to hear about.

A quick Google search tells us that NFL officials currently earn between $42,295 and $120,998 per season depending on experience and position. That’s not a bad going rate for 21 days of work. It also does not include playoff pay and is a significant rise from the pre-2001 strike numbers when some officials made as little as $24,825 and most held day jobs.

Day job: Mr. Universe

The pay is less than other pro leagues but that is rendered incomparable when you add up days on the road and the amount of games.

So there’s no question that NFL referees are now professional referees of the most popular sport in the United States. It’s time that they’re treated as such.

Bad calls are brushed off in press conferences because they have to be. Coaches are quick to say “Well, the call isn’t what hurt us. It was this…” And that’s fine and often necessary.

While the pass interference call in Sunday’s game took a crucial six points away from the Bucs at the time, their loss was also aided by a ridiculously conservative two-minute offense that settled for a field goal while in striking distance. Good teams don’t lose to the Detroit Lions because of one bad call.

But all too often, the refusal to blame the game on an official means letting them off the hook completely. Of all the stupid letters that the NFL has sent out this year, how many have resulted in anything happening to an official? How many officials have stood toe-to-toe with a head coach and adamantly defended a call that they knew was wrong as soon as they made it?

Exhibit A

Referees have reached a comfort zone where they know that consistently bad calls aren’t the end of the world.

Why can’t we review penalties? Because it would undermine the integrity of a group that has done little to earn our trust?

Where the need to be professional isn’t always there because we rely so much on the media for our opinions and sound bites, and referees have no obligations.

It’s why there was no backlash on the referee who told Aqib Talib [and I quote] ”You play like a pussy,” after Talib approached him to dispute a teammate’s pass interference call. We didn’t even get to know the ref’s name, much less how that had anything to do with a call against Myron Lewis that would also later be determined as incorrect.

The only word to describe a letter that says “Hey, we screwed up your game but there’s nothing we can do about it now,” is frustrating. There’s no reason to send these letters. They’re nothing more than proof that the NFL has no idea how it wants to handle officials.

It’s an amateur way to hold guys accountable without really making them accountable at all.

We should expect more from the premier organization in U.S. sports.

-Bryan

Ryan Putting His Best Foot Forward

Sexy time.

New York media went toe to toe with Jets head coa…

Jets coach Rex Ryan gave new meaning to “pes dispenser” when…

On Tuesday, Rex Ryan played footsie with New York me…

Is Michelle Ryan a philander, or just fond of phalang…

The topsy-turvy New York Jets may have a new achilles hea…

It’s virtually impossible to begin a post of this nature with the smorgasbord of bad puns and ped-allusions at a juvenile smartass’s disposable, so for the sake of time management, let me just start with this: Rex Ryan likes him some feet.

And I likes me some Rex Ryan, the early Christmas gift that just keeps on giving.

If you haven’t heard the “news,” allow me for a moment this Perez Hilton-worthy privilege: Coach Ryan’s wife Michelle may or may not have posted fetishist videos on the interwebs of playtime with her dainty lil’ feet as narrated by tubbo-hubby/cameraman Sexy Rexy.

In a word: delish.

Just when you thought A) the Jets had finally weathered a season’s-worth of commotion and B) the book was closed on Great Sports Stories of 2010, Ol’ Faithful drops a holiday bombshell that trumps all other contenders on sheer LOL value alone.

Even the straight-laced, hard journalism reports prompt fits of fifth grade laughter. My favorite line, via ESPN: “To be honest, and I get it, I know you need to ask and all that stuff,’ Ryan told reporters when asked if the situation could snowball into a distraction. ‘But it’s a personal matter and I’m really not going to discuss it, OK?’”

Ha! “Snowball into a distraction” – as if your 350-pound, shit-talking head coach releasing a fetishist video of him and his wife in the biggest media market in the world isn’t already a distraction.

The corresponding ads are priceless, too.

Wonder if "NFL Women's Apparel" includes socks...

As Tony Kornheiser would say, ESPN needs to fix its Google Machine.

The only thing I worry about at this stage is whether, just two years into his head coaching career, Ryan has already set the comedic genius bar too impossibly high. I mean, can you imagine if Dylan had released “Blood On The Tracks” (i.e. his foot fetish video) right after “The Freewheelin’” (i.e. his “Hard Knocks” appearance)?

How can Ryan possibly sustain this breakneck momentum?

Then again, maybe said behavior is just what we should come to expect from Gang Green – you know, Ryan sticking a big old foot in his mouth.

- Robbie

UCan’t Compare

Good enough to stand on her own.

The University of Connecticut Lady Huskies are a fantastic group of female athletes and, on the whole, very likely the greatest women’s basketball team to ever grace the hardwood.

UConn and its shoot-from-the-hip, take-on-all-comers head coach Geno Auriemma deserve all the praise and accolades worthy of a group who routinely drill hapless opponents by 30 points and a knock to the ego. They perhaps deserve any more credit for besting the also-deserving men’s Huskie team in Google Page Rank.

However…

Comparing them to John Wooden’s 10-time champion UCLA Bruins men’s squads is like comparing a fine Ghiradelli truffle to a box of Publix chocolate ice cream or “Sgt. Pepper” to a late period Madonna single. Each entity has its own unique merits, but equating the two does a disservice to all parties and quite frankly – ahem, ESPN – makes reasonable people assume you’ve been blackmailed with unseemly pictures of Steve Levy.

In the decade leading up to UCLA’s legendary run of 10 titles in 12 years, eight different schools won national championships, including the Lucas/Havlicek-led 1960 Ohio State Buckeyes, Bill Russell’s San Francisco juggernaut, and a 2-time champion Cincinnati program that had been largely built on the stardom of recent grad Oscar Robertson. Point is, the competition was chockfull of future NBA stars, many of whom would go on to define the very trajectory of professional basketball. A host of these programs staked their claims to greatness on the iron-sharpen-iron west coast, where a relative historical no-name like Seattle University actually went on to produce more pro players in the ’60s than any other team.

Whereas the WNBA continues to flounder, existing a lesser career alternative to professional leagues overseas, men’s professional basketball in the ’60s and ’70s flourished amid a cutthroat, two-league battle to secure the cream of the college crop. UCLA’s run from ’64 to ’75 corresponded with an NBA-ABA bidding war that ultimately transformed the former into a legitimate national pastime when the associations merged in 1976. In effect, then, the UCLA-dominated college game sustained not one pay-per league, but two – and this at time when owners were pulling out all the stops to land premier talent.

Breaker of streaks David Thompson

The current women’s game simply doesn’t have the equivalent Major Leagues attracting talent to the college level. Superior female athletes play basketball, yes, but they also play volleyball and softball and lacrosse, because really, when’s there’s no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, what’s the difference?

All of these arguments of course speak to the issue of parody, an essential element of competitive balance that the women’s game lacks in spades. Nobody in her right mind believes the Lady Huskies belong in the same gym as the Bruins, or any men’s squad for that matter. Juxtaposing a women’s team with a men’s team is a pointless endeavor on par with comparing the respective careers of Edwin Moses and Secretariat because, you know, both ran.

Still, ESPN, and big media in general, insist on measuring Connecticut’s tremendous feats against those of a higher being, and upon deeper inspection, the analogies only serve to dwarf the former’s historic achievement. Rebecca Lobo and Doris Burke will not tell you that the women’s game is more top-heavy than Pam Anderson; or that the national runner-up has failed to score 50 points in the title game 3 of the last 4 years; or that only 13 different programs have EVER won a championship.

If the poor Wizard had only known – known his 10 titles and 88-game win streak would be so flimsily sacrificed at the alter of Title IX. He’d no doubt take it all in-stride and with an unparalleled strain of class: say nothing of the drastic differences in competition, or of the considerations that differing tourney formats entail, or of the bass-ackwards “gentlemen’s agreements” that only furthered men’s parody by limiting all pre-mid-’60s teams to three black players.

John Wooden, bless his humble soul, would not utter a word of anything resembling the above. He’d probably just say, “Congratulations, Maya Moore. You are just great at what you do.”

And, really, that should be enough.

- Robbie

10 Soundgarden Songs to Hear Before You Die

L to R: the singer, the guitarist, the bassist, the backbone

Soundgarden, simply put, was one of the very best bands of the 80′s and ’90s, grunge or otherwise. A potent distillation of Zeppelin, Sabbath and post-Ramones American underground, Seattle’s favorite purveyors of hard-edged metal were dark, apocalyptic, and above all, heavy as all Hell. I’ve been waiting for a cold snap and bad moon to hammer this one out. Today will do just fine.

Let’s do this.
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Hands All Over: A song to play at max volume when you feel like headbanging, running through a wall or just breaking sh*t. The riff sounds a bit like the one from Nirvana’s “School,” which is none too surprising given a lot of the late ’80s grunge cuts riffed on the same lurching guitar lines. Not a lot of bands would make a push for the metal mainstream – as “Louder Than Love” clearly is – with a song claiming “Gonna KILL your mother” as its lead refrain, but that’s the kind of sinister animal SG was. And yes, Chris Cornell owns this cut (as he does almost every in the band’s catalogue), but it’s lead guitarist Kim Thayil’s rumbling composition that sets “Hands” apart from Cornell’s other vox-shredding workouts. Axl probably shat himself the first time he heard this.

Searching With My Good Eye Closed: Lunges forward with a fluid groove recalling mid-’70s Sabbath, but with an aural crush and offhanded virtuosity that musically limited, subtlety-bereft outfit couldn’t possibly pull off. Ben Shepherd detunes the hell out of his heaving basslines, but the heavy swell of low end owes to Thayil’s Gibson with bottom E ratcheted down to a throbbing B. This perhaps goes without saying, but Cornell’s “TO THE SKY” banshee wails in the final turbulent fadeout taps into some primal animal call only the great Robert Plant has past replicated.

Big Dumb Sex: A cheeky, distastefully done parody song ridiculing the excessive, highly stylized hair band culture of the late ’80s. Almost startlingly vulgar and definitely takes on more than hint of irony given Cornell’s millennial turn as a high fashion model for John Varvatos. But damn, I just don’t have the balls (no pun intended) to leave a riff THIS crushingly awesome off a list heavy on metal. Play loud if your roommates have a sense of humor, and raise a toast to Beavis and Butt-Head while your at it.

Pretty Noose: A cocksure, swaggering monster. By the mid-90s, Cornell could spit out these radio-ready psych-metal anthems on a whim, and in fact had refined and streamlined his songcraft to the point that onetime-wingman Thayil struggled to get a single song on the band’s final (66-minute) disc. Of course, that Shepherd’s “Down On The Upside” compositions outnumbered Thayil’s 6-to-1 (deservingly, I’d say – see the immaculate Eastern-tinged power ballad “Zero Chance“) couldn’t have sat well with a man whose acid-fried guitar leads were just an album ago a focal point of the band’s presentation. Tensions reached a head and the group disbanded in early ’97, but not before dropping this dimepiece of a single. To attribute the chorus – “And I don’t like what you got me hanging from” – to the pressures of superstardom and major record labels would be cliched, cynical… and probably spot on.

Mind Riot: Penning a requiem for a fallen friend is a daunting task to begin, so that “Mind Riot” succeeds on that front and as an exorcism of personal demons speaks to both Cornell’s emotional fortitude and the enormous depths of his songwriting talents. The meditative Eastern overtones portend the next album’s “Head Down,” the vaguely optimistic chorus riff perfects a dark-light motif introduced earlier in “Outshined.” That Thayil and Cornell, on top of everything else, tune each string to a variation of E just seems like showing off. If I was limited to a word… catharsis.

Burden In My Hand: It’s a testament to both the band and A&M Records that “Down On The Upside’s” two lead singles were also its hands-down best songs. I’d give “Burden” the slight edge over “Pretty Noose,” if only because the effortless melody is one of Cornell’s best and most memorable. Played back-to-back with a metal dirge like “Ugly Truth” or “Slaves And Bulldozers,” “Burden” captures Soundgarden’s jarring stylistic evolution from post-Sabbath sludge rockers to world-beating alternative radio godheads. The track’s also notable in that its steadily building wave of guitar-heavy jangle-pop crests not with Cornell’s trademark wails, but drummer Matt Cameron’s machine-gun fill at 4:24. Do not pass up the iconic video, as it is, per usual with this band, a visual spectacle of the highest order.

Slaves And Bulldozers: A shrapnel-laced corrosion that keeps coming and coming until Thayil’s puncturing guitar fits are chewing out your earhole. Cornell’s hellion bark once again fronts the aural pummeling, but “Slaves” exists a collaborative achievement of four on-point musicians who’s collective desire it is to tear you a new one. The riffs are massive, the bass crawls are menacing, the drum work is as forceful as ever, and the staggering vocal track – arguably Cornell’s most register-alteringly furious – is nothing short of mystifying. In short, this is a f*cking limo wreck set to music.

The Day I Tried To Live: The product of an unstoppable heavy metal juggernaut at the very peak of its considerable powers. I’d be willing to concede that the band never before or after approached the soaring doomsaying highs on display here, and I make such a statement with Cornell’s unhinged squall at 3:39 in mind. He’s able to make “Should’ve stayed in bed” sound less like a detached lament than the unholy meridian of all things fear and loathing. Add to his performance the strutting downbeats of the Cameron/Shepherd battery, the spine-chilling intro (“I woke the same as any other day… except a voice was in my head”), the Billboard-assaulting melody, and the wildly inventive video and you’d be hard pressed to find another track that musters a fraction of “TDITTL’s” sheer alt-rock appeal. I hope my neighbors like this song.

Beyond The Wheel: From the band’s unimpeachable debut long-player “Ultramega OK,” “Beyond The Wheel” serves a vehicle by which Soundgarden takes all their heaviest tendencies – Thayil’s sludge riffing, Cameron’s crashing hands of god, Cornell’s otherworldly holler – flush them through a demonic siphon and emerge with a piece of deliberately-paced heavy metal so pure in sound and spirit that it’s shame the rest of the genre didn’t just die on the spot. Seattle had an axiom to describe moments as this: total f*cking godhead.

Jesus Christ Pose: Heavier than Pearl Jam, darker than Alice In Chains, crammed with more thoughtful intricacies than the entire Nirvana canon, “JCP” represents the towering apex of Soundgarden’s collective powers, both in instrumental prowess (the spectacular polyrhythmic thrust is Cameron’s crowning achievement) and pointed lyrical acumen – of all the castigating reproaches of holier-than-thou hypocrisy, this is the most acerbically piercing. Avoid listening to the part beginning 4:49 if you’re alone or scared of the dark. There’s not a doubt in my mind it’s the siren song of the apocalypse.

- Robbie

Cliff Lee and The Deal That Revolutionized Professional Sports

Cliff Lee: Game-Changer

For many, December 13, 2010 is a day that lives in infamy.

On that most ominous of Mondays, free agent ace Cliff Lee picked up his Blackberry, placed a Collect Call to Rangers GM Jon Daniels and proceeded to tell him news that will reverberate through the very foundations of professional sports – perhaps for all eternity.

“I’m sorry,” said Lee, “But I’m taking this lowball offer from the Phillies. I will tighten my belt. I will apply for food stamps if I have to. But I am settling for 5 years, $120 million. I want to win. And I want to win in a city with great fans.”

The immediate aftermath of Lee’s landscape-altering decision unfolded in a series of sharp and dizzyingly unpredictable episodes: George Steinbrenner rolled over in his grave, Braves fans lit themselves on fire, gold futures jumped 15 dollars, Yankees GM Brian Cashman’s head exploded.

“New Yorkers will remember this as the day the Earth stood still,” said a headless Cashman via email.

Indeed, the fallout of the “The Decision: Part Two,” as it’s now being called, figures to deal a greater blow to the cash-flushed Yankees than their financially strapped opponents. New York offered $20 million more  ($50 if you believe the Post) and an additional year. By snubbing the Bronx, Lee has severely weakened the death grip of a franchise that, up until now, assumed it could simply buy players by outbidding the competition.

"I know how to stretch a dollar." ~ Cliff Lee

A “new normal” is upon us, and it is now all too clear that money means nothing to people like Lee. If Sprewell’s “I need to feed my family” was the rallying cry of the recklessly extravagant Oughts, Lee’s “My kids will just have to go to public schools” is a maxim for a new generation – one that’s felt the pains of evaporating IRAs, shopping at Winn Dixie, and now, a $120 million star pitcher.

Some even speculate Lee might’ve accepted $119 million. Said ESPN baseball analyst Jayson Stark, “It’s quite possible he might’ve accepted $119 million.”

To understand the magnitude of someone of Lee’s stature passing up $20-50 million on the open market, one must first grasp the time-tested tenets of inflation. When superstar pitcher and home run specialist Mike Hampton signed with the Colorado Rockies for $121 million at the turn of the century, it was widely assumed by financial experts – among them, Alan Greenspan – that the One Billion Dollar Athlete was not just a real possibility, but a foregone conclusion.

This notion was somewhat undermined by the Giants purchase of Barry Zito for a mere $126 million in 2006 and then further blunted that same year when the Astros could only muster $12.5 million for a half season of Roger Clemens.

But in 2007, the Boss stepped in, rescuing a tradition of excess by re-upping a 33-year-old third baseman with a history of steroid abuse for 10 years, $300 million.

"I roll my cigars with Benjamins." ~ Alex Rodriguez

For a second time in the span of seven years, the rarified 10-digit paycheck seemed a mere formality. And so the wide eyes of a sporting nation turned to Lee, the golden-armed unicorn who would bring his talents to South Bronx for amounts hitherto unknown.

That Lee turned his back on a fundamental American principle ushers in a new paradigm in which monetary compensation exists both an outdated vehicle for negotiation and the bulwark of an obsolete way of thinking.

“Capitalism’s just not for me,” Lee said in an abbreviated statement.

The former Ranger’s “less is more” mentality has already taken hold in MLB front offices to the point that even proponents of a salary cap and revenue sharing are beginning to admit that neither is necessary anymore.

“When a consummate competitor like Cliff Lee is not only content, but downright happy, with $120 million, small market clubs like ours are given a radically different lease on life,” said Royals GM Dayton Moore. “The real question now is: how low can you go? Is Zack Greinke worth 600 grand? We’ll see what happens. Are we crossing our fingers? Sure, we’re crossing our fingers. But let’s just say we expect Christmas to come early this year for KC fans.”

Others were not as enthusiastic, and in fact, the backlash from members of the Players Union’s “old gaurd” has been swift and biting.

“Glad I got mine,” said Yankees pitcher CC Sabathia, while teammate Alex Rodriguez described the deal simply as “horsesh*t.”

Ex-Blue Jays closer B.J. Ryan, when reached for comment on his compound in Siberia, said the contract “borders on communism” and that “it’s not a coincidence the Phillies wear red.”

(Many leftist activist groups have since endorsed Lee’s decision, offering communal housing free of charge should he run out of money before his deal expires.)

Just four days on, the sports world is already grappling with the repercussions of the Lee signing, but assessing the full consequences of “The Deal” is likely a job for economists and baseball historians of a future age.

Still, as of December 17, 2010, it is safe to say that we’ve come to the following irrevocable verdict: this is the end of greed, this is the end of money, and this is very possibly, too, the end of baseball as we know it.

- Robbie

Five Ways I Would Change Bowl Season

Because this should never happen.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I LOVE BOWL GAMES. I love [almost] everything about them. The strange match-ups, the constant flow of football on my television, pretending like I know every tendency of every star player even though I have never seen half of them take a snap.

But much like the 2007 Patriots, the bowl season isn’t quite perfect. Here are five adjustments that will never be made, but should be made anyways.

Please get Pam Ward away from my precious bowl games.

I’m no sexist, but Pam Ward is a terribly annoying woman with a very small brain. One of the most important parts of bowl season is the illusion produced by ESPN that every one of these bowl games is very, very important. NO! MIAMI (OHIO) HAS TO WIN IF THE MAC WANTS TO STAKE ITS CLAIM AS THE GREATEST CONFERENCE IN GODADDY.COM BOWL HISTORY!

It’s this illusion that kind of makes you care even though you know its not true.THOSE POOR KIDS FROM TROY! THIS IS ALL THEY HAVE TO PLAY FOR! It’s kind of like watching pro wrestling as a little kid (or a 21-year-old).

Well nothing, and I mean nothing, makes a game seem less important than hearing Pam Ward sign on as the play-by-play commentator. Everything about Ward’s voice just screams “Eh, I don’t really need to watch this.” She could announce the Rose Bowl and make it feel like a mid-season slugfest between Florida Atlantic and Arkansas State.

I don’t know which bowl games she’ll announce, but I just know she’ll be at one or maybe two or maybe even three of them. I can’t imagine the terror. Chris Spielman’s IQ drops when he hears Pam Ward talk.

AND SHE’S A COLD-HEARTED MONSTER!

Enough of the SEC vs. Big 10 bowl games.

We get it. It’s the college football recreation of the Civil War. North vs. South. Speed vs. Brawn.

It makes a fun storyline for one bowl game per year. But right now, three of the SEC and Big 10′s better second-tier bowl games are all against one another. I can only tolerate these games for so long. Swap one of them out for the Pac-10, who has awful bowl tie-ins. Give a conference champion from a smaller conference a chance to play against a mediocre SEC or Big-10 team. Anything would work.

An Outback Bowl between say Boise State and either Florida or Penn State would be excellent. It would beat the hell out of bringing in two fan bases who have absolutely zero enthusiasm for playing in a bowl game that they view as purgatory. The Outback Bowl, Capital One Bowl and Gator Bowl are bland every single year. But more on that later.

Play games on Christmas Day.

You know why New Year’s Day has always been traditionally loaded with bowl games? Because it’s a holiday in which everyone is too hungover to do anything but sit on a couch and watch football. With that I present to you, Christmas Day.

Not so much for the hangover reason but more for the fact that there is absolutely nothing to do on Christmas Day after somewhere around 11 A.M. Christmas Day is Christmas Morning followed by 12 hours of sitting around and staring at the presents you got.

In other words, it is the perfect time for a day chocked full of meaningless college football games. The void was once filled with the Blue-Gray Football Classic which allowed us to watch the best players from the worst teams trot around and trade helmet stickers. But now that space is empty and cold.

Any team that is playing a game around Christmas time is already going to be on the road instead of home anyways. Why not make them play on Christmas Day? The sanity of my afternoon depends on it.

Put bowl games in places people actually want to go.

Shreveport, Louisiana; Detroit, Michigan; Boise, Idaho; Mobile, Alabama; Albuquerque, New Mexico; El Paso, Texas.

These are all cities that will host a bowl game this season.

WHY!?!?!?!?!?!

Yes, I know that for some of these places, a bowl game is the largest economy boom they see all year. And I know that it should be in the good old American spirit to help uplift these perennially crappy locales. But I will never, ever, ever willingly travel to any of these bowl games. And I don’t think that I’m alone.

Make no doubt about it, every bowl game not named the BCS National Championship Game is technically meaningless. The national exposure is nice, the paycheck for showing up is significant and there is some mystique in the older, more established bowl games. But that doesn’t change the fact that these are mostly frivolous exhibition games and they should be treated as such.

A bowl game should feel like a fun reward and that is not accomplished in Boise or Detroit. Yes, these games are there to make money for themselves and the participating schools. But people are going to watch on television no matter what and that will make sponsors happy enough. Every school has a few old guys that will easily donate as much money as you’re going to make for dragging sad 18-year-olds to the land of Terry Bradshaw.

Send another game or two out to Hawaii. Trade Albuquerque for another game in Vegas. The Elian Gonzalez Bowl at the future Marlins’ Ballpark has a nice ring to it. Another game in San Antonio would be cool. I’m sure theres a 120 x 53.3 yard patch of grass somewhere in the Keys where you could throw something together.

This could work.

A bowl game is supposed to be a vacation unless you’re playing for a crystal football. Treat it like one.

Dear bowl games, stop regurgitating the same product over and over again.

I can only speak from personal experience on this one. I am a fan of an occasionally elite SEC team that from time-to-time has very mediocre seasons. When they have one of said mediocre seasons, they typically play in a bowl game that is very close to me. In other words, I have sat through more Outback Bowls and Citrus/Capital One Bowls in person than I care to admit.

And they are the same exact thing every damn time.

For the Outback Bowl you get a few pre-game sky-divers which is kind of cool followed by the most horrendous flyover that you have ever witnessed. A group of “Red Baron” planes. Every single time. It’s like a giant slap in the face to the U.S. military and the typical awesomeness that a traditional flyover represents.

But then they also provide you with a wonderful halftime show where they take what seems like 500 sucky high school bands from all over the country, throw them all on the field together and watch them try to put together something, anything that sounds like music. The result makes you wish that you were deaf and living in a time before the invention of hearing aids. Rinse and repeat. Every damn year.

But at least the Outback Bowl halftime show has something of a disclaimer that it’s going to be terrible and chaotic.

Each year, the Capital One Bowl puts on something that it bills as the “All-American Halftime Show.” Oh yes, it’s just as horrible as it sounds. There’s bad Blues Brothers impersonators, a bad Elvis impersonator and America’s greatest collection of awkward dancers. And it never changes. Ever.

It’s like a Super Bowl halftime show if every credible musician in the world went on strike at the same time, and Roger Goodell gambled away all of the production funds.

Oh, and the Citrus Bowl still holds the title of worst stadium on the Planet Earth. It looks like someone was given the task of building a low-budget high school stadium for a school of 75,000.

Just freshen things up. It’s all I ask. Some of us are dumb enough to come back more than once.

Happy Bowl Season!

-Bryan

New R.E.M. Get Excited.

Badasses R.E.M.

R.E.M. – Discoverer

I think we can all agree that R.E.M. is the best American alt-rock band of all-time (hell, let’s just say it: the best American band. Period). This is an objective fact – like saying the sky is blue or the crazy white girl sitting next to Spike Lee at MSG tonight has enormous breasts.

And though the Hilson roots with Peter and the Mikes harken back to my days as a wee tot singing “It’s The End of The World As We Know It” to Miss Chong in her barber shop in Marietta, I’m perfectly willing to admit that R.E.M.’s post-Bill Berry output is a hit-and-miss affair, and further, that Around The Sun is a half-assed abortion on par with “Godfather 3,” the last four Weezer albums, the Boca Burger and all the other bad-idea-on-paper, bad-idea-in-reality calamities of yore.

Now that I’ve established my critical neutrality, I can tell you in full faith that this new MP3 is, for lack of better descriptors, shit hot.

Looks like the “we’re back, bitches,” amps-cranked rock ‘n roll of Accelerate gets another go on the forthcoming long-player Collapse Into Now (March 8 – mark your calendar), and that the first sound you’ll hear from that album is a big, flush Eastern-tinged electric guitar lifted wholesale from Monster’s “You” excites me enough to write a sentence this long.

After a few semi-shouted Stipe verses – think “The Wake Up Bomb,” but with the tiniest bit of age-attributed vocal strain – “Discoverer” really takes off about a minute in with a massive hard rock riff introducing the chorus. I could take or leave the Talking Heads-y “DISCOVERER!” refrain, but the one-word post-chorus works on an album opener/statement of purpose-type level… And, yeah, I’m gonna be mouthing “DISCOVERER!” as I try in vain to fall asleep tonight.

Stipe’s rousing delivery upgrades the bridge from mere placeholder, as he sounds not unlike the thirty-something who sang about rocking bootcut jeans, getting drunk and singing along to Queen. And really, this is what I’m looking for in my rock stars.

Concluding with the anthemic firepower the first 120 seconds promised, “Discoverer,” on the whole, seems to have found its way from a particularly guitar-happy ’95 rehearsal and, should you spend the next 3:31 wisely, deep into your earhole.

- Robbie

Will Muschamp Can Talk

... And talk and talk and talk and talk.

Will Muschamp was officially introduced as the head football coach at the University of Florida on Tuesday evening. If he’s half as good at coaching as he is talking and storytelling, the Gators should be just fine. Let’s take a look.

[Read everything to yourself in a thick southern accent. It will make your experience more realistic.]

“The expectations at Florida are winning championships. And believe me, I understand that, and I understand what you’ve got to do to be successful in that situation.”

Okay, you have my attention. Continue.

“You got to get a degree. I’m going to emphasize it. If our kids don’t want to get their degree, they don’t need to be here. If they’re not going to go to class and act the right way, they don’t need to be here. There’s a certain thing that I’m going to refer to as ‘The Florida Way,’ and that’s the way they need to act and that’s the way they need to represent our university.”

A bit idealistic. You’re telling me you’re not going to bring in a lightning fast kid from Pahokee because you know damn well he has no plans of playing more than three years of college football so that he can move on and make more money than his family ever dreamed of? Of course, it’s the right thing to say, but this is the SEC and this is Florida. Most kids on a scholarship here have the ultimate platform to get to the NFL if they live up to expectations.

Now Muschamp grouped this with one of his many great stories of the night. It was about having to cut a 24-year-old with two kids and no back-up plan during his year as a defensive coordinator with the Miami Dolphins. Muschamp said that player cried in his office because he had nothing to fall back on, and he doesn’t want to see the same thing happen to his players.

“There’s nothing more frustrating to me then to see a young man make a poor choice and somebody said, ‘He must be a bad kid.’ He’s not a bad kid. He made a poor choice and decision. So we need to do a great job of conditioning our players to make good choices and decisions.”

Ah, the Bobby Bowden school of discipline. TRANSLATION: Chris Rainey will be a very important part of the 2011 Gator football team.

“Nothing’s going to be done, in my opinion, right now before the bowl game as far as coaches that are going to be hired, retained, whatever. Right now, I’ve got absolutely no timetable with that.”

Something tells me this actually means “nothing will be made public as far as coaches until after the bowl game.” Regardless it’s the classy and respectful move to give Urban Meyer a proper send-off as head coach without any assistant controversy. Enjoy Christmas, Addazio. Something tells me you won’t be living it up too much come Jan. 2.

“And I can tell you this right now: As long as Will Muschamp is the head coach of the University of Florida, Urban Meyer is going to be involved in this program. And I’ve invited him to the weight room, I’ve invited him to the practice field, I’ve invited him to the meetings and whatever he wants to do.”

Yes, this adviser role has been talked about by Foley, and under the current situation, it’s the right thing to do. As long as Urban Meyer is not employed somewhere else, he should have the right to a major say with this team.

On the other hand, as long as there are guys that Meyer recruited on this team, it can be a sketchy deal even though I’m sure Meyer will be appropriate and step out of the way. Way different power totem, but it feels like a bit of Pat Riley syndrome. What happens when Muschamp gets mad at a player and they run over to Meyer to talk about it. Just seems uncomfortable.

“We’re going to be a pro-style attack both offensively and defensively. As far as special teams is concerned, I feel like our players will be exposed to cutting-edge schemes to make sure that they show their abilities. If they want to play on the next level, they certainly can have those opportunities.”

If this was a Facebook status, I would be the corny guy that asks why there isn’t a “love it” button. I love everything about bringing a pro-style approach to Gainesville. It’ll be good for recruiting. Admit it, it was going to be tough to keep top-caliber running backs coming here when we’ve shown that backs only get six or seven carries a game and are never showcased.

Playmakers get utilized more. Coaches can tell players, “Hey, come here and we’ll get you ready for the NFL.” It’s a win-win. The spread offense is great for teams that can recruit more speed than talent. It can play as a great equalizer when one team is at a sufficient talent disadvantage. [See Boise vs. Oklahoma, USF vs. Auburn, Appalachian State vs. Michigan]. But when a team has all the talent in the world, the gimmicks of a spread and especially a spread option almost appear to get in their way.

The Gators offense is full of great players. Let them show it.

“But I think the best coaches out there, they look at their roster and they evaluate who they are at this time.”

Another great note. The biggest complaint about Addazio is that he refuses to adapt to the offense that he has in 2010. I dedicate this quote to him.

“As a football team, I want to be known as a blue-collar, overachieving unit. We’re going to recruit good players here, but they need to take the talent they have – what God’s blessed them with – and stretch it to the potential that they’ve got… We will be a physically tough football team. And it’s not something you talk about; it’s something you live your life with.”

Uh, Tebow, is that you? Tough is a beautiful word when you’ve watched your defense get tossed around all season. Muschamp also referenced the fact that the SEC is a great conference because of elite defensive lines. The Gators defensive line? Not elite.

on coaching in the NFL

“But the tough thing is in the NFL there’s only 32 teams, okay, so the turnover ratio in that league is about two or three years for an assistant coach.  And I don’t want to live in San Francisco, and that’s not any offense to anybody from San Francisco.  But I’m from the south and I’m not going much west of Texas and I’m not going much north of Tennessee with my family.  So that eliminates now about eight teams, so if those teams aren’t open, you’re in a bind.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, a SEC football coach.

“I have great memories since my dad had Florida season tickets for us in the north end zone, which was not the north end zone it is now, I can assure you of that.  We walked right off the street and we walked down.  But some great memories of a 17 to 9 victory over USC and watching Wilbur Marshall play outside backer about as good as you can play and watching Charlie Pell circle the field when it was over.  Watching James Jones make a one‑hand catch against Miami, and he was inbounds, I do remember that.  All the Miami fans make sure he was inbounds.”

Florida Gator history lessons brought to you courtesy of Head Coach Will Muschamp.

on considering coming to Florida as a walk-on

“Funny story, when Coach Spurrier was the coach here, they told us to come down for the unofficial visit, and so we came down here, and we waited for awful long time in the football office and nobody showed up.  He was 2‑under at the turn.  So I guess we didn’t get a chance to see him.”

OBC: Recruiting juggernaut.

“Obviously getting back to Gainesville is a lot of fun.  My two brothers Mike and Pat.  We have had a lot of good football games at 1122 Northwest 22nd Street off 8th Avenue in Gainesville, Florida.  Mike was Wayne Peace a lot, Pat was Tyrone Young and I was Tony Lilly, on the back end there for all you Gator guys that know a lot about the Gators.”

The stories and history lessons continue. In Muschamp’s rapid-fire 20-minute introductory speech, he probably talked more than Meyer did in his six years as coach. Is it good, bad or does it not really not matter at all? The latter is probably true.

Spring practice is getting closer and closer.

All quotes courtesy of OnlyGators.com and GatorZone.com.

- Bryan

With Golden, Miami Settles For Bronze

Looking the part

When I think of the new Miami Hurricanes head coaching hire, I think first of Temple and the 65-zilch thrashings that got that program expelled from the middling Big East Conference back in the day. This has nothing to do with current realities, but it is – if only due to childhood nostalgia – what I think of first.

I’m then reminded of the 1963 Jimmy Soul pop hit “If You Want To Be Happy” with the iconic lyrics: “If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife.”

The University of Miami embraced said maxim, as it’s done since the turn of the century, by hiring a man that was cheap (about $2 million per), easy, and sensical – ex-Owl Al Golden turned around a flailing program and, perhaps more importantly in the eyes of the “U” administration, did so with a healthy Academic Progress Rating.

If the high-profile rumored candidates were the buxom ladies you hang on your arm at a red carpet, Golden is the broad-shouldered gal who has dinner on the table on time and with a 6-pack of Bud on hand so you can drink yourself to sleep after a long day of work.

He won’t leave us because this is the best job he’ll ever get (unless Joe Pa dies, in which case he’ll probably get a better job). He’ll console us in defeat with an articulate optimism, a rare solace which the surly Shannon could not provide. He’ll dress nicely all the while…

I want to cry.

Again, this visceral reaction has nothing to do with the actual facts (well, maybe a little – more in a moment), but more with the idea the once mighty Hurricanes had to settle for a man whose most intriguing quality is his phonically arresting surname.

Gotta admit, “Golden” has a ring to it. It is, in short, a headline writer’s wet dream.

Miami Ushers in Golden Era

‘Canes Golden in Route of FAMU

Bronze Trophy in Hand, Harris Has Golden To Thank

With Golden, Miami Settles for Bronze

If I was a Gators fan, I would be weary that my head football coach has no head coaching experience. If I was a ‘Canes fan, I’d be be weary that my head football coach got his head coaching experience at Temple.

Having discarded a perennially 8-4 type, Miami brought in another 8-4 leader with the assumption that – in a head-to-head match up – South Florida talent will prevail over much better competition by two to three wins per season. In other words, the university presumes Golden, whose biggest career win is a 2010 home victory over a 1-1 Connecticut squad, rectified the Temple program, not because his hiring happened to coincide with a move to the Mid-American Conference (Akron, Buffalo, Directional Michigans), but because he is a really good coach, and more, that Temple post-expulsion was measurably worse than its new crop of opponents (Toledo, Ball State, Directional Michigans).

This is a problematic leap to make. Yes, Golden inherited an 0-11 team. Yes, I’d make better grades if you kicked me out of college and made me repeat middle school.

Golden won 8 games this year. He lost his last two to Midwestern powers Ohio and Miami, the latter a lopsided 23-3 outcome in front of 13,000 people. A Wikipedia passage summarizing Temple’s ’07 season concludes, “The offense also improved from 118th to 113th, but it was clear that Temple’s defense, despite their incredible youth, was the heart of their team.”

He has never won a bowl game. His lone 9-win season began with a loss to FCS rival Villanova. His out-of-conference victories have come, almost without exception, to military academies.

Now “they” – my father, the CanesTime board, Kool-Aid slurpers – say that he’s a “relentless” recruiter. And they would say this, if only to grasp at straws and if only because “actually, he kinda dogs it on the recruiting trail” isn’t a phrase that’s yet entered the Young New Hire lexicon.

Golden’s only 41. Unlike Will Muschamp, he’s at least run something. He’s not Randy Shannon. He’s an enthusiastic talker, studly at a presser, a hard worker, a very sharp dresser.

And he scares the hell out of me.

Coach Golden, welcome to the University of Miami. We have five national titles and consider 8 wins a disaster. We also have an empty stadium and a full fridge of beer. If you could, bring me a Bud. This is gonna be a rough night.

- Robbie