Them's Fightins Words

Aaron Sorkin, one of my all-time top 5 writers, once borrowed some words from a very smart man in his brilliant comedy series, Sports Night. Those words- "As if it matters how a man falls. When the fall is all that is left, it matters greatly." After these words were borrowed, and thusly elaborated on, the character, Jeremy Goodwin, a very quixotic man, pointed out that the Phillies had been down by 8 since the 3rd inning and it was the best game the show had to report on.

Tonight I learned just how appropriate those words were and how much the Philadelphia Phillies exemplify their meaning.

Down by a score of 7-1 in the 5th, the Phillies, it seemed, were on the unkind end of a routing. But, as I should have learned in my 21 years on this earth, things are never uninteresting in the city of brotherly love. By the top of the 9th the Phils found themselves down by only two, with long-ball hitter and fan favorite Ryan Howard at the plate, representing the go-ahead run. Sure the often-criticized slugger grounded out and the game ended. However, that's not the story.

The story lies in how the Phillies got to that point. It started with Gregg Dobbs, a class act and a pinch hitter extraordinaire, who hit a single up the middle to start a potential 9th inning rally. Next Carlos Ruiz, one half of the backstop corps for the Fightins, stayed in the box and worked out a walk to put two men on for the top of the order.

After a pop out by J-Roll, who has been leaving his team in a lurch when it comes to clutch situations as of late, it brought to the plate the Flyin' Hawaiian. Shane Victorino, who, I would like to think, wanted to atone for not seeing a dropped third strike quick enough. After hitting a long hopper off the mound, Victorino showed why he's become a very popular player. H-U-S-T-L-E. Pure and simple. He legged out a hit to load the bases for his team, sending the tying run to the plate.

Mr. Goodwin would have been proud to watch what transpired next. Chase Utley strolled to the plate and what followed was a battle of epic proportions. Jonathon Broxon, the closer for the Dodgers, started the All-Star 2nd baseman out with three sliders, down in the zone. Utley fouled each off behind him, swinging for the fences and staying alive in the at-bat. It has been rumored for a while that his hip has been giving him problems in the box, during this particular trip to the plate he may have been battling pain, but he was definitely battling Broxon's heaters.

After throwing sliders that clocked in at 88 mph, the big-man on the mound switched to his 99 mph fastball, only to have that fouled off by his opponent. After a slider dropped off the table for ball one, Utley had his best cut of the at bat, crushing one down the first base line with home run distance, but foul again. Finally he looped a single into left field, in-front of the most anti-Philly player in the league, Manny Ramirez.

So what did it matter how the Phillies fell? To players like Dobbs, Ruiz, Victorino, Utley and Howard, it mattered enough to give it all they had in the last inning of a game that no one really thought they'd win. While the Fightins may fall, they do not fail their fans.

Twisted Wrister pt. 2

“I thought you were going to try to sleep in.” Aleia said as she pulled at the down comforter that she had draped over herself to brave the cold.
“Yeah,” he said. With an annoyed tone he had extended the ‘y’ sound. Wiping his brow with is right forearm Kent looked only out at the lawn where the ball ended up.
“I was turning and shifting all night. I can’t shake that game. Baby-”
“I know.”
“Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yes.”
“Hunny…”
“Drop it!”
“Listen,” she said as she bounced up and down in a vain attempt to keep warm. “you can’t take this out on me. You know that, right?”
He thought for a while. Columns of visible breath formed from his nostrils as they flared with each exhale. Kent relaxed his muscles and dropped his arms to his side. The stick fell from his right hand onto the ground. He spit angrily at the street near where it lied. His jersey, without his pads on, hung loose off his body; the sleeves especially were long enough to cover any skin, had the gloves not been there to interrupt it. “I’m just so fucking tired. I know…I’m sorry…it’s just that…”
“I know.”
“How can you know?! You don’t understand at all.”
“Well, you know what I mean. I can sympathize.”
“I’m not looking for your sympathy, sweetie.”
“Well then what are you looking for?”
He didn’t say anything for a while.
“It’s just that it’s only been like what two and a half weeks?” she said looking at him with glassy eyes.
“So…?”
“So! So you lost your goddamned hand! Don’t you think you should be taking it easier on yourself?” Kent threw down his right glove and started to tug at the sleeve of his jersey revealing his bandage. “I didn’t lose it! Its right here! The things just useless that’s all. I can still play damnit!” he said. As he held up his right arm the sleeve fell to around his elbow, “There’s no use in crying over it. My life hasn’t changed and that’s all there is to it.” He skated away and retrieved the puck from beside the net.

Twisted Wrister pt. 1

“Hey! Hey, and Gooooooood Morning! It’s 7:34 in the AM and its time for the, HONK! HONK! Traffic Fix with Freddie Ferguson. Freddie what da ya got for…”

He slowly raised his head and turned his shoulders to terminate the din that had interrupted his slumber. His right arm jutted out from under the sheet and swung at the clock radio sitting next to his bed. Swinging and missing three times, Kent then sat up. With his left hand he took the clock and threw it across the room.

“F&$#!” He shouted as he ran his left hand through his hockey player cliché hair and scratched the back of his neck. He had slept in his jersey and jeans not because he was too tired, or because he wanted to cut down on the time it took to get ready in the morning, but because those are the clothes in which he felt most comfortable anymore. His normally well-trimmed goatee was scraggly at best. There were small bags under his eyes. He yawned and rubbed his chest as he got up from his bed.

As he descended the stairs in his nearly empty house he treaded lightly so as not to wake Aleia. She was too tired to travel back to Philly last night and so she slept in his bed tossing and turning all night next to her man.

He poured himself a protein shake and drank it slowly while taking his gear out of his bag.

“Damn street skates!” he said as he did up the plastic straps with his left hand. His actual hockey skates were of no use to him now. Rolling slowly towards the door he put on his gloves and helmet. Letting the door slam shut behind him as he left, Kent threw down the bright orange puck and began to skate down his driveway into the cal-de-sac, even though he knew it would be of little use to him. The street was too worn and debris riddled for anything, let alone a small, chipped, brightly colored plastic disc.

The net was still set up from the night before. His brothers had been playing until it was time to go over to their grandmothers. The metal posts collected dew and shimmered in the morning sun. He picked up a ball that his brothers left on top of the net and threw it down the street. Skating as fast as he could after it, Kent caught up with the dirty pink sphere and overtook it. While the ball slowed Kent picked up speed and began to dart from side to side in the street, eventually skating up the hill and reaching the main road.

Turning and riding the bank down into his street Kent began to skate toward his house and the goal. After he banked the ball off the curb to himself he began to stickhandle down Spruce Lane. Fighting the ball the whole time Kent could move it from left to right with a moderate pace, nothing like what he could before. Dragging it behind him and almost loosing it twice he began to grit his teeth and skate harder. Finally the challenge was too much as when he tried to maneuver around a leaf he lost control completely, letting the ball roll aimlessly until its travel was halted by the curb.

“S*%&!” he muttered to himself. Skating to the curb to retrieve his escaped orb, he took his lower hand off his stick and swung at the ball violently with his stick in his right hand only. As he swung the stick hit the ground, missing the ball by a good six inches, but his follow-through flung it out of his glove onto the lawn of a neighbor. Stepping heavily in his skates Kent sunk into the wet grass as he retrieved his Sher-Wood P.M.P. with Ray Bourque curved blade. That stick was the one he used to win the scoring title for both his high school and the Junior Flyers.

When he got back onto the street his wheels were wedged with mud and blades of grass. Stomping to dislodge the clogged sod, the echo of the pounding of hard rubber wheels against cold and damp pavement reverberated through his small and quiet community. Ready to make his approach, Kent spit, slapped his stick on the ground and took off towards goal.

His movements were frantic. The ball bounced over some errant gravel and his stick caught slightly in a crack causing him, nearly, to lose all semblance of balance. Brute force, not grace took over as he trudged on into where his brothers had drawn the slot in chalk, a face-off circle to each side. He wound up for a slap-shot as he began to coast towards the left circle, he always loved to move the goalie to his right and shoot high over his blocker to the near side, top shelf. Usually it would be a quick flick of the wrist and the shot would sail past the shoulder and into the twine, but this morning he was angry, thoughtless and frustrated.

The shot was moderately paced and four feet to the left. The grunt that Kent let out while shooting told anyone who was witness to it that it was forced and labored. Frustrated, he hacked at the post. The metallic clang rang stridently through the all but silent suburbs.

Stuck in a rut...

So I've been pretty lax on the blogosphere lately. Can't really come up with a good topic right now. Hopefully something more interesting will come along soon but for now, you're going to have to make do with me posting my works of short fiction. Enjoy, any and all comments are welcome and encouraged. Thanks!

Sideshow Gary Roberts

Inexcusable. That's all it was. Flat out inexcusaable.

Gary Roberts, an elderstatesmen of the NHL and a member of the Pittsburgh Penguins, took a pot-shot at Johan Franzen of the Detroit Red Wings in the later stages of game 2 in the Stanley Cup finals. Everyone in the NHL knows that Franzen has been suffering from concussion symptoms since game 1 agains Dallas in the Western Conference finals. The shot, sure it was weak and just an idiotic move by a desperate veteran seeing his team fall into a 0-2 hole in the highest level of play the NHL has to offer, was simply inexcusable.

Intent to injur is a phrase that is found numerous times in the NHL rulebook. It, when determined by the referee, can result in the ejection of a player from the game. I don't understand why these rules were not inforced in this particular instance.

A couple of years ago we saw Todd Bertuzzi, a powerhouse forward and a great player, punch a player in the back of the head, again not very hard but damage was done, he was ejected from that game and suspended for quite a while by the NHL and Gary Bettman. However, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that no such action will be taken against the graying Gary Roberts.

In the Eastern Conference finals we saw Evegeni Malkin throw a blatant elbow to the head of Danny Briere and nothing came of it.

We've seen Pittsburgh begin to take runs and try to step up their pathetically (lack of) physical play late in games they can't win. The only time the Pens decided to play with guile and brovato was when the Flyers were blatantly beating them in Game 4 of the Eastern Conference finals. There is a precident, we saw it in game 1 as well. I can only imagine that it will get dirtier as they get beaten more and more.

I don't understand how in the highest level of competition and the national stage, players the likes of Malkin, who is learning the ropes and playing with youthful passion and exuberance, and Roberts, who knows better than to let his emotions run his actions like that, can be forgiven for their actions. What has to happen for the NHL to stop looking the other way? I hope that it isn't the loss of a great player.

Maybe I'll be dead wrong, and beilieve me I'd like nothing better than that, and the NHL will suspend Roberts for the remainder of the Playoffs and a few games to begin next season. One can only hope.

What counts doesn't

Tonight I watched the Philadelphia Phillies take on the Washington Nationals in a great 1-0 game that went down to the wire. But it illuminated one of the major gripes that I have with professional sports. I've worked for LVC Sports Information before so I know what kind of stats are kept for every sport possible (well any sport that LVC plays), and I realized pretty quickly, and my bosses agreed for the most part, that the stats don't mean squat. Sure they're kept for a reason but its the wrong ones.

Cole Hamels, the number one pitcher for the Fightin' Phils, pitched a gem of an outing. He went seven innings without giving up a run and sending 11 batters back to the dugout after three strikes. His work was the main reason that the Phils won that game. However, he got a no decision for the contest. To me, and I'm sure many others, that just is not right.

The man worked his butt off and threw a great game with so much pressure on him. In a 0-0 game a pitcher cannot make one mistake. Hamels was blowing smoke passed these chump on the Nats, and he doesn't even get a stat for it. Sure he gets the 11 Ks but a guy can pitch 11 Ks and still lose the game 6-0. Stats deserve to be kept, but they also deserve to hold weight.

Another Philadelphia example of how big stats a great player does not make is the future captain of the Philadelphia Flyers, Mike Richards. His yomen-like play and his work ethic make him invaluable to the orange and the black but they don't earn him any room on the score sheet half the time. Sure he scores some goals and gets a bunch of assists, but no one keeps stats on "great defensive plays made by an offensive player" or "hustle plays that resulted in a scoring chance or the halting of a scoring chance for the opposite team". This is probably because they would be abbreviated GDPMBAOP and HPTRIASCOTHOASCFTOP which would not fit on most score sheets. Long acronym jokes aside, what really counts in sports is so often looked over for the big plays.

Home runs mean so much more than big catches at the wall that save a game. Goals mean more than blocked passes during penalty kill situations. TD catches mean more than sacrificing yourself to block for a crucial first down. Sorry, but I don't watch enough basketball to come up with a good one for that sport. Maybe dunks mean more than saving a ball from going out of bounds by throwing it off the ankles of your opponent?

Anyway, my point is that stats and even awards have just gotten to the point where they mean so much more than the small plays that make the game so exciting and thrilling to watch. MVP has become a means of rewarding players that make the most money and get the most stats. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that Sidney Crosby will get the Conn Smythe when it more obviously belongs to a guy like Brenden Morrow who put his team on his back. Crosby played well, yeah sure, but w/o Malkin, Gonchar, and Staal he'd be nothing and the team would not be in the finals. Baseball is different, they get it right more often than not. But their stats like wins, losses, saves and no decisions just don't make sense to me.

We need to start making sports about the aspects, players and plays that make them great, again. I'm not blaming ESPN, I'm not blaming salaries and sponsorships and corporations. I'm not really blaming anyone. All I'm saying is that we need to keep our eyes off the stats and keep them on the game.

Screwy Stewy-- Alone in the bleachers

My colleague and friend Matt had the following to say about the Flyers this season. I think it's a pretty accurate assessment of the woes of certain Flyers fans. I feel his pain and keep him company.

"The Philadelphia Flyers' season has come to an end. It lasted 17 games longer than most expected, and has shown us that we have a great future to look forward to. But I'm disappointed. Why am I disappointed? Is it because we had a 10 game losing streak? No. Is it because we squeaked into the playoffs? No. Is it because we needed 7 games to beat Washington? No. Is it because we were beat in 5 games by Sid the Little Kid and Stolen Russian? Nope, not that either. I'm disappointed because through each of these heartbreaking times, I found myself in a sea of orange and black bleeding alone. Others barking "They suck!" "Typical Flyers!" and "Its over" all around me while I leave the TV on until the final whistle despite others asking me to change the channel and accept it. Flyers fans, how can you demand your team go out there and play themselves dead, how can you demand they sacrifice themselves and their pride, when you don't even have the pride to sit by them and watch. Grow some balls, Flyers fans, I'm tired of being alone in the bleachers."