Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Aaron's Long Road to 714

Except for the city by the bay America seems united in its opinion that Barry Bonds passing of Hank Aaron’s homerun record is a travesty to baseball.

Sportswriters look back to the night when a Hank Aaron line drive to left field cleared the wall and landed in Braves’ reliever Tom House’s glove as a simpler time for baseball, when the country rose as one and saluted the new homerun king.

He did it without the taint of steroids, or loud declarations of cheating.

No Hank Aaron was no cheater in 1973. No, in 1973 Hank Aaron was something much worse than a cheater.

Hank Aaron was black.

Years pass very quickly, both now, and then. Aaron surpassed Ruth’s record 27 years after Jackie Robinson broke into baseball. 27 years ago, John Lennon was killed, the United States defeated Russia in Olympic hockey, and Saddham Hussein began a war with Iran. 1980 almost seems like yesterday, and in 1974 a black man walking on to a professional baseball field for the first time also seemed like yesterday.

In 1955 Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat in Montgomery Alabama jump starting the Civil Rights movement, 19 years before Aaron hit his bomb. 19 years ago the west was slapped in the face with pro-Islamic terrorists when Pam-Am 103 exploded over Lockerbee; Russia withdrew from Afghanistan leading to the country becoming a training ground for said terrorists, and Ben Johnson was caught at the Olympics using a drug called “steroids.”

In 1965 the Voting Rights Act passed leading to riots in Selma Alabama, Watts, Detroit and Newark. Nine years later Ruth’s record was history. Nine years ago two students entered Columbine High School and killed 13; John Kennedy Jr. crashed his plane and died; and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban was published.

In 1968 Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated causing riots in several cities. Six years later Aaron hit 714. Six years ago was 2001.

We are a country still haunted by 9-11 and Columbine; still in sorrow over JFK Jr’s death; still fighting a war on terror that began 19 years ago in the air over Lockerbee; and our country is at war because of the actions of a tyrant 27 years ago, and fondly remembers a hockey team.

As Aaron dug in the box to face Al Downing in 1974 all the race related drama that faced the country for the past 27 years was as fresh as the day Robinson stepped on to the field. There were some who had always supported the rights of black men, some who had changed, and a lot who hated them, and the focal point of that hatred was the black man who was about the break the record of the country’s most famed athlete, Babe Ruth.

It was only 13 years earlier that the country turned on a white man, in a Yankee uniform, Roger Maris, when he broke Ruth’s single season record, but that was partly because, if someone had to break it, and it came down to Maris or Mickey Mantle the popular choice was Mantle.

As the 70’s began the country seemed to come to terms that the record would falter, and like Mantle v. Maris there was Aaron v. Mays, with the graceful, exuberant “Say Hey Kid,” being the popular choice. But his knees crumbled and old age crept in, leaving Aaron alone climbing towards the summit.

Aaron chased the record throughout the 1973 season, but fell one short of tying, and then had to literally survive the winter (he had told friends he was afraid he wouldn’t live to see 1974) while being besieged by racist hate mail and death threats.

It was a winter of discontent for Aaron and the nation, embroiled in Watergate, the kidnapping of Patty Hearst, and the cancellation of the Brady Bunch.

Mark McGwire’s pursuit of Maris’ record was a carnival with his plump son acting as batboy and family in the stands. Aaron’s children were no where to be found, one in college, two in private schools being guarded. Security at the ballpark wasn’t what it is today, and each time Aaron walked to the plate, six years after the deaths of King and RFK, he had to wonder if someone was on the upper deck with a rifle looking down at him.

Even after 714 was safely in the bullpen, between second and third, there was one last threat, as he heard footsteps behind him, and looked to see two white men next to him, who reached up, and patted him on the back as the crowd cheered.

If people think that Bonds is facing pressure now, he had no idea the pressure Aaron was under, because Aaron was hated for what he was, not the decisions he had made.

Sportswriters look back on Aaron now and mention the threats he received but never look at the overall mood of the country at the time he broke the record, never really capture the hatred, the fear, the common use of the names he was called.

Hank Aaron may not hold the homerun record, but now, years past, we realize what he went through, and what he accomplished, and when he walks down the street people say: “There goes a man.”

Barry Bonds, not for the color of his skin, but because of his choices, may never hear those words.

Gore Hopes Sons Arrest Start of Pattern

First published and edited by http://www.pugbus.net

MEMPHIS, Tenn. - Former Vice President Al Gore announced today that he believes the guilty plea entered by his son, Al III, on Monday is the kick-start the Gore family needs to become an American political dynasty like the Bushes and the Kennedys.

Mr. Gore's son, 24, pleaded guilty to two felony counts of drug possession, two misdemeanor counts of drug possession without a prescription, and one misdemeanor count of marijuana possession. The charges stemmed from his early July arrest in Orange County, California, where he allegedly was driving one hundred miles per hour in a Prius.

“In today’s political climate you can’t hope to be the country’s first family without a number of arrests and deaths,” said the elder Gore. “The Kennedys have a huge head start, and the Bushes a healthy advantage. All I’ve got so far is an elder sister who died of lung cancer in 1984, but with this guilty plea, which sounds pretty darn impressive to me, we have thrown our family’s hat into the ring.”

A source close to the Gore family said the vice president hopes his three daughters—Karenna, 33, Kristin, 20, and Sarah, 28—will put their shoulders to the wheel. Indeed, said the source, Gore family strategists have already met with Kristen to encourage her to have an affair and subsequently a child, preferably with a reality show star “of questionable ethnicity.”

The Gores have also been putting pressure on newlywed daughter, Sarah.

“Whenever I talk to my parents, it’s always ‘why can’t you be more like Lindsay, why can’t you dress like Britney?’” she said. “Every time I go to our family’s vacation home, I get up in the morning and my underwear is missing.”

A Gore family spokesperson said that Sarah is “just being rebellious,” but the Gores fully expect her to be photo-
graphed naked in an alley with a needle in her arm by Christmas.

“Nothing could make a dad happier,” the former vice president sai

Monday, July 30, 2007

The Death of Michael Vick

Notes from an Alternative Universe

It was Christmas Eve 2006, and Atlanta Falcons Head Coach Jim Mora had seen enough. His Falcons had lost, at home, to the Carolina Panthers, 10-3.

His franchise player, Michael Vick, did pass the 1,000 yard rushing mark during the game, but there was nothing else noteworthy about his performance.

He had been unable to move the offense. With 3:40 left to play they got the ball back and Vick led them to the Panthers 34 yard line. On 4th and four he dropped back to pass, found a man, but didn’t elevate the pass, and it was slapped to the ground. They got the ball back with 14 seconds left and Vick promptly threw an interception. He finished the game 9-20 for 109 yards and two interceptions and Mora, whose job was on the line, had seen enough of his “star” quarterback.

He gathered his staff in his office and shut the door. “I think we have to do something about Vick,” he said tossing a ball in the air.

“Do you want to bench him?’ asked Quarterback coach Bill Musgrave.

Mora shook his head. “No, if we do that we are just going to create a quarterback controversy, I was thinking of something more drastic.”

“You can’t mean cutting him?” asked offensive coordinator Greg Knapp.

“I was thinking something a little more permanent,” Mora said. “What do you think about killing him?”

The two other coaches looked at each other stunned. “You can’t mean it Jim?” Knapp said. “You can’t kill a man over a football game.”

“Why not?” Mora asked putting down the football, leaning forward, and crossing his hands. “We own him, we have a contract saying it. He’s our property and we can do whatever we want with him.”

Musgrave rubbed his chin. “It’s crazy Jim, but it just might be brilliant too.”

“How do we do it?” Knapp asked.

“He’s in the hot tub now,” Mora whispered. “Maybe Bill could sneak in, grab a hold of his feet and hold them until he drowns.”

“All right,” Musgrave said. “But remember, we’re all in this together.” The other men agreed.

Mora and Knapp waited in the office, then they heard a splash, and could hear Musgrave yelling and grunting, and then heard a huge splash, and the sound of wet feet on the floor. Musgrave entered the office and tried shutting the door but Vick was right behind him. “What the hell you trying to do, kill me?” he screamed.

“Relax Michael,” Mora said. “We were just testing your reflexes, it’s an ancient Chinese method of gauging strength and agility and you passed.”

“Danm fool was trying to kill me!” Vick said.

“Ridiculous,” Mora said. “You’re our entire franchise Michael, we’ve known you since you were a little rookie pup, you think we would be so heartless that we would kill you after one bad outing?”

“I suppose not,” Vick said. “But no more of these Chinese tests, just keep your hands to yourselves before my agent brings you all up on charges.”

Vick stormed out of the office. “He’s stronger than he looks,” Musgrave said. “He almost kicked my teeth out. Well, at least that’s over with.”

“Nothings over,” Mora said. “Enjoy the holidays men, I’ll see you the 26th.”

After practice on the 26th the coach hatched another plan. They would get Vick alone in the Mora’s office, lift him over their heads, and slam him to the ground.

“Isn’t that kind of what happens to him every game?’ Musgrave asked.

“Yeah, but never by three middle aged men,” Mora said.

Mora called Vick into his office to say he wanted to apologize again about the near drowning incident when Knapp grabbed him around the waist and Musgrave tried to get a hold of his feet and lift him. Vick kicked Musgrave in the face knocking out three teeth and then slammed Knapp against a wall causing him to slump down and turned with a cocked fist to Mora.

‘Excellent Michael,” Mora said as his two coaches lay lifeless on the floor. “This kind of intensity, this fighting for your life, this is what you need to bring to the field. You fight like this every Sunday next year no one will be able to deny you an MVP award.”

“You people keep your paws off me!” Vick said and stormed from the room.

Musgrave gathered his teeth from the floor. “This is only a set back,” Mora said.

“Forget it Jim, I’m out,” Musgrave said. “And I am pretty sure that I heard Greg’s spine snap so I ’m going to take him to the emergency room.”

“Fine,” Mora said. “You want something done, you get it done yourself.” He then sat behind his desk as Musgrave struggled to carry Knapp out of the office.

The next day, after practice, Mora told Vick he needed to speak with him. He apologized for his assistants’ actions, and said they would both be fired. Then they spent the next two hours drawing up plays for an offense that would feature the quarterback’s skills.

By the time they were done the locker room was cleared out. “Why don’t you grab a shower,” Mora said.

Vick left the office, stripped, and grabbed his shower essentials. Mora watched him, then reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out an electrical cord. He then went to the quarterback’s locker and took the huge boom box that had annoyed Mora all year. He plugged in the extension cord, and slowly crept to the shower. When he got near he plugged in the boom box and The Baha Men began to play.

“What’cha doing with my music?” a naked, lathered Vick said as Mora appeared at the shower opening.

Mora smiled. “I can’t tolerate losers Mike, nothing personal, but if you don’t win, I’m not wasting my time training you, feeding you, or providing for you.”

“Wait!” a panicked Vick said. “How about keeping me around for breeding purposes. I’m a great specimen. I could give you hundreds of winners.”

“Losers don’t breed winners Michael, sorry.”

“But wait I got a rape stick at home…” and then he screamed. Mora had tossed the radio in, electrocuting the star quarterback.

As he lay dead in the shower Mora placed a call to Musgrave who returned. They wrapped Vick in towels and put him in the trunk of Mora’s car.

They drove to Mora’s house and dug a hole in the back yard. There was another skeleton already there.

“Who is that?” Musgrave asked.

“Bobby Herbert,” Mora said. “Now keep digging, and remember, we did nothing wrong, he was just a piece of property that didn’t work, like a vacuum cleaner, he’s wasn’t anything useful, like a dog.”

A sweating Musgrave nodded in agreement.

The Last Wrestler

Between innings of the Mets game Monday I switched to the USA Network to check out what was happening on “Monday Night Raw.”

For most of my life I had been a wrestling fan, starting as a boy, watching syndicated wrestling programs on Saturday mornings, and occasionally making my poor father take me to the Roseland Ballroom to see a live show. After one match my cousin and I both were able to give Chief Jay Strongbow a pat on his sweaty back as he walked from the ring, and excitedly held our palms up to show our fathers, swearing we would never wash them again, and then were promptly marched to the Men’s Room to wash our hands.

In my teen years I kept in touch with wrestling like it was an old neighbor who had moved away, bits of contact here and there, nothing sustained.

In my early twenties I was working for a local newspaper when my friend Ron got me hooked on wrestling again before the first Wrestlemania. Over the next two decades wrestling was always the first topic of conversation with us. We attended the first King of Ring event at Sullivan Stadium, becoming so intoxicated we lost the car in the vast parking area and barely made it home; we saw the second Wrestlemania at the old Providence Civic Center on a wide screen where the largest black man either of us had ever seen was seated behind us, and when his kids wanted refreshment he hunted down the vendor, dragged him to his kids, and asked us “You guys want anything?” “No sir!” we said. The second King of the Ring was held there as well and we watched the secretary at the radio station where we were working scream and yell like she was at the 7th game of the World Series. “Does she know?” I asked. “Oh no she thinks it’s real,” Ron answered. The last event we attended was with my son, a Royal Rumble, where, when Bret Hart was declared the winner, I came out of my seat and cheered, having momentarily turned into that disillusioned radio station secretary.

We rarely missed a pay-per-view, even after I was married, but slowly I stopped ordering them except if I could convince my wife that she would be entertained, which, she rarely was.

But still we watched “Monday Night Raw.” Most of the memories I have of that time were the comedy bits. Mick Foley bringing out Mr. Socko to visit Vince McMahon at the hospital; anything Foley and The Rock did; any Rock or Austin promo. The matches could be exciting as well but for me it was everything surrounding the matches.

We knew, and accepted, that it wasn’t real. The majority of entertainment wasn’t real, so we saw no problem. What we also knew, but accepted less truthfully, was that these people who entertained us, were dying.

The first was David Von Erich, a wrestler for World Class Championship Wrestling in Dallas, a hot promotion in the early 80’s owned by David’s father Fritz, who had five wrestling sons. When David died, they played a song called: “Heaven needed a champion.” Three years later when his brother Mike committed suicide we said: “Heaven needs a tag-team.” By the time brothers Chris and Kerry committed suicide it was no longer funny.

We were watching the pay-per-view in my living room when Owen Hart, a member of another famous wrestling family, fell to his death when a wire that was to lower him to the ring from the rafters snapped, making his heart explode when he landed. As they rushed him from the ring Ron and I expressed optimism that he was alive, but my wife, a former medical professional, said if they removed him that quickly he was dead. It had only been a few months earlier that Ron had come over for another pay-per-view to state that Brian Pillman wouldn’t be wrestling, dead in his hotel room.

These first deaths were the beginning gusts of a foul wind that was about to blow.

When I was a boy wrestlers worked in one of dozens of regional territories across the country staying in one multi-state area for months, and then moving to another territory. Today, with their only being two major wrestling promotions, one dominant, wrestlers travel throughout the world, with no off season to spend with family or heal injuries.

When I was a boy there were wrestlers and there were body builders, but Vince McMahon, owner of the WWE, built his empire around Hulk Hogan, with his huge arms, legs, and steroid supply. Without the impressive body you could no longer survive in the business, unless you wanted to take insane risks diving from twelve-foot ladders or twenty-foot cages through tables. Under McMahon you either needed the steroids to build your body, or other drugs to heal the wounds incurred because you had to compensate for not taking steroids. Add that to endless travel, little family time, lots of available wine, women, and drugs, and the results became predictable.

Ron and I both stopped closely watching wrestling when we turned 40. Maybe it was maturity; maybe the product had grown stale. We both still followed the sport through internet sites and newsletters, and during that time we saw the number of wrestlers who worked for Vince McMahon during the Wrestlemania Era who died grow to include: Louie Spiccoli, Crash Holly, Chris Candido, Adrian Adonis, Yokozuna, Leroy Brown, Eddie Guerrero, Davey Boy Smith, Vivian Vachon, Terry Gordy, Rick Rude, Miss Elizabeth, The Big Boss Man, Earthquake, Dino Bravo, Curt Henning, Bam Bam Bigelow, Junkyard Dog, Hercules, Andre the Giant, Big John Studd, Hawk, Dick Murdoch, Mike Awesome, Sherri Martel, Uncle Elmer, who, along with Pillman, Hart, Kerry Von Erich, and the recently departed Chris Benoit means heaven needed a 30 man royal rumble.

It was Benoit’s face, along with his wife Nancy and son Daniel that I saw in the left hand bottom corner of the screen as a repeat of one of his matches played on Monday night. I soon learned that the three were dead, and the show would be a tribute to his career. And I thought of writing this, about Chris Benoit being “The Last Wrestler,” because he was the last wrestler I wanted to watch, the last I cared about, and the last I would have thought would kill his wife and child.

The logical side of my brain was whispering: “How did all three die?” The WWE had a pay-per-view the night before where Benoit was scheduled to win a championship, so if it were a car accident the news would have broken then. Home invasion? Carbon monoxide leak? Fire?

Before the end of the night I had what I already knew confirmed, the only scenario that made sense was a murder-suicide, which was as impossible to believe as if Derek Jeter had done the same, some other guys, sure, but Benoit?

He killed his wife on Friday, his son on Saturday, and himself on Sunday, living with rotting corpses for 48 hours. It is the sickest, saddest, most despicable of crimes, and we have to ask, what could drive a man to do such a thing?

My answer: The job. The steroids to keep the body up, the pain pills to be able to move, the constant travel, the available drugs, the impossible strain on a marriage, the violence performed every night, it may have been more than all this that put their lives in his hands, but I have to believe the job was the weighing factor.

Vince McMahon is a brilliant promoter. Two weeks earlier he had crafted a storyline around his own demise, and had wrestlers pretend to give him tributes as they did for real to Benoit on Monday night. They did the ten-bell salute for McMahon, something, both Ron and I, ironically having gotten together alone for the first time in a year, in between the staged and real deaths, agreed was in bad taste.

Vince McMahon knows how to make money. He also knows how to issue denials, as his WWE website quickly did when it was surmised that steroids could have played a role in Benoit’s murdering his wife and child. What he doesn’t know, or refuses to admit, is that no one who is not a leader of a fire department, police force, or commander and chief of the armed forces, should lose 30 employees before they are 65, and claim their hands are clean.

McMahon’s most brilliant move was to announce that wrestling is entertainment and not a sport, thereby taking the state athletic commissions sanctioning rights away. He can trot anyone out in any physical condition on a multitude of controlled substances and no one can do anything about it.

Well maybe the deaths of the Benoits can change that. It’s time for athletic commissions to work with licensing boards so someone other than the guy with the most to gain is testing to see if his performers are capable of doing the matches they are paid to do. Maybe USA Network should institute its own drug testing for the WWE or walk away from their contract. It can get a 3.9 rating somewhere else. It can’t claim its hands are clean if they continue to fill McMahon’s coffers while his employees and now their families die around them. As should the cable companies who broadcast the Pay-Per-Views. Someone not named McMahon needs to keep these men and their families safe.

I am not waiting for any of this to happen. But I do believe that wrestling, unlike Benoit’s wife and child, will die a natural death, due to the rise of UFC, people’s disgust with McMahon’s practices, or just the stale and boring product that the WWE keeps forcing down its fans throat.

This is still titled “The Last Wrestler,” not for the original purposes, as a tribute to Benoit, but for my hopes and prayers that someone will step in to see that he is the last wrestler to harm his family, to harm himself, to be taken away by those he loved, and to take away those who are loved, way too soon. Just let him be the last.

Rest in Peace Chris Benoit.

Burn in Hell Chris Benoit.

I don’t know which. But I do know which I wish on Mr. McMahon; that is easy.

Between innings of the Mets game Monday I switched to the USA Network to check out what was happening on “Monday Night Raw.”

For most of my life I had been a wrestling fan, starting as a boy, watching syndicated wrestling programs on Saturday mornings, and occasionally making my poor father take me to the Roseland Ballroom to see a live show. After one match my cousin and I both were able to give Chief Jay Strongbow a pat on his sweaty back as he walked from the ring, and excitedly held our palms up to show our fathers, swearing we would never wash them again, and then were promptly marched to the Men’s Room to wash our hands.

In my teen years I kept in touch with wrestling like it was an old neighbor who had moved away, bits of contact here and there, nothing sustained.

In my early twenties I was working for a local newspaper when my friend Ron got me hooked on wrestling again before the first Wrestlemania. Over the next two decades wrestling was always the first topic of conversation with us. We attended the first King of Ring event at Sullivan Stadium, becoming so intoxicated we lost the car in the vast parking area and barely made it home; we saw the second Wrestlemania at the old Providence Civic Center on a wide screen where the largest black man either of us had ever seen was seated behind us, and when his kids wanted refreshment he hunted down the vendor, dragged him to his kids, and asked us “You guys want anything?” “No sir!” we said. The second King of the Ring was held there as well and we watched the secretary at the radio station where we were working scream and yell like she was at the 7th game of the World Series. “Does she know?” I asked. “Oh no she thinks it’s real,” Ron answered. The last event we attended was with my son, a Royal Rumble, where, when Bret Hart was declared the winner, I came out of my seat and cheered, having momentarily turned into that disillusioned radio station secretary.

We rarely missed a pay-per-view, even after I was married, but slowly I stopped ordering them except if I could convince my wife that she would be entertained, which, she rarely was.

But still we watched “Monday Night Raw.” Most of the memories I have of that time were the comedy bits. Mick Foley bringing out Mr. Socko to visit Vince McMahon at the hospital; anything Foley and The Rock did; any Rock or Austin promo. The matches could be exciting as well but for me it was everything surrounding the matches.

We knew, and accepted, that it wasn’t real. The majority of entertainment wasn’t real, so we saw no problem. What we also knew, but accepted less truthfully, was that these people who entertained us, were dying.

The first was David Von Erich, a wrestler for World Class Championship Wrestling in Dallas, a hot promotion in the early 80’s owned by David’s father Fritz, who had five wrestling sons. When David died, they played a song called: “Heaven needed a champion.” Three years later when his brother Mike committed suicide we said: “Heaven needs a tag-team.” By the time brothers Chris and Kerry committed suicide it was no longer funny.

We were watching the pay-per-view in my living room when Owen Hart, a member of another famous wrestling family, fell to his death when a wire that was to lower him to the ring from the rafters snapped, making his heart explode when he landed. As they rushed him from the ring Ron and I expressed optimism that he was alive, but my wife, a former medical professional, said if they removed him that quickly he was dead. It had only been a few months earlier that Ron had come over for another pay-per-view to state that Brian Pillman wouldn’t be wrestling, dead in his hotel room.

These first deaths were the beginning gusts of a foul wind that was about to blow.

When I was a boy wrestlers worked in one of dozens of regional territories across the country staying in one multi-state area for months, and then moving to another territory. Today, with their only being two major wrestling promotions, one dominant, wrestlers travel throughout the world, with no off season to spend with family or heal injuries.

When I was a boy there were wrestlers and there were body builders, but Vince McMahon, owner of the WWE, built his empire around Hulk Hogan, with his huge arms, legs, and steroid supply. Without the impressive body you could no longer survive in the business, unless you wanted to take insane risks diving from twelve-foot ladders or twenty-foot cages through tables. Under McMahon you either needed the steroids to build your body, or other drugs to heal the wounds incurred because you had to compensate for not taking steroids. Add that to endless travel, little family time, lots of available wine, women, and drugs, and the results became predictable.

Ron and I both stopped closely watching wrestling when we turned 40. Maybe it was maturity; maybe the product had grown stale. We both still followed the sport through internet sites and newsletters, and during that time we saw the number of wrestlers who worked for Vince McMahon during the Wrestlemania Era who died grow to include: Louie Spiccoli, Crash Holly, Chris Candido, Adrian Adonis, Yokozuna, Leroy Brown, Eddie Guerrero, Davey Boy Smith, Vivian Vachon, Terry Gordy, Rick Rude, Miss Elizabeth, The Big Boss Man, Earthquake, Dino Bravo, Curt Henning, Bam Bam Bigelow, Junkyard Dog, Hercules, Andre the Giant, Big John Studd, Hawk, Dick Murdoch, Mike Awesome, Sherri Martel, Uncle Elmer, who, along with Pillman, Hart, Kerry Von Erich, and the recently departed Chris Benoit means heaven needed a 30 man royal rumble.

It was Benoit’s face, along with his wife Nancy and son Daniel that I saw in the left hand bottom corner of the screen as a repeat of one of his matches played on Monday night. I soon learned that the three were dead, and the show would be a tribute to his career. And I thought of writing this, about Chris Benoit being “The Last Wrestler,” because he was the last wrestler I wanted to watch, the last I cared about, and the last I would have thought would kill his wife and child.

The logical side of my brain was whispering: “How did all three die?” The WWE had a pay-per-view the night before where Benoit was scheduled to win a championship, so if it were a car accident the news would have broken then. Home invasion? Carbon monoxide leak? Fire?

Before the end of the night I had what I already knew confirmed, the only scenario that made sense was a murder-suicide, which was as impossible to believe as if Derek Jeter had done the same, some other guys, sure, but Benoit?

He killed his wife on Friday, his son on Saturday, and himself on Sunday, living with rotting corpses for 48 hours. It is the sickest, saddest, most despicable of crimes, and we have to ask, what could drive a man to do such a thing?

My answer: The job. The steroids to keep the body up, the pain pills to be able to move, the constant travel, the available drugs, the impossible strain on a marriage, the violence performed every night, it may have been more than all this that put their lives in his hands, but I have to believe the job was the weighing factor.

Vince McMahon is a brilliant promoter. Two weeks earlier he had crafted a storyline around his own demise, and had wrestlers pretend to give him tributes as they did for real to Benoit on Monday night. They did the ten-bell salute for McMahon, something, both Ron and I, ironically having gotten together alone for the first time in a year, in between the staged and real deaths, agreed was in bad taste.

Vince McMahon knows how to make money. He also knows how to issue denials, as his WWE website quickly did when it was surmised that steroids could have played a role in Benoit’s murdering his wife and child. What he doesn’t know, or refuses to admit, is that no one who is not a leader of a fire department, police force, or commander and chief of the armed forces, should lose 30 employees before they are 65, and claim their hands are clean.

McMahon’s most brilliant move was to announce that wrestling is entertainment and not a sport, thereby taking the state athletic commissions sanctioning rights away. He can trot anyone out in any physical condition on a multitude of controlled substances and no one can do anything about it.

Well maybe the deaths of the Benoits can change that. It’s time for athletic commissions to work with licensing boards so someone other than the guy with the most to gain is testing to see if his performers are capable of doing the matches they are paid to do. Maybe USA Network should institute its own drug testing for the WWE or walk away from their contract. It can get a 3.9 rating somewhere else. It can’t claim its hands are clean if they continue to fill McMahon’s coffers while his employees and now their families die around them. As should the cable companies who broadcast the Pay-Per-Views. Someone not named McMahon needs to keep these men and their families safe.

I am not waiting for any of this to happen. But I do believe that wrestling, unlike Benoit’s wife and child, will die a natural death, due to the rise of UFC, people’s disgust with McMahon’s practices, or just the stale and boring product that the WWE keeps forcing down its fans throat.

This is still titled “The Last Wrestler,” not for the original purposes, as a tribute to Benoit, but for my hopes and prayers that someone will step in to see that he is the last wrestler to harm his family, to harm himself, to be taken away by those he loved, and to take away those who are loved, way too soon. Just let him be the last.

Rest in Peace Chris Benoit.

Burn in Hell Chris Benoit.

I don’t know which. But I do know which I wish on Mr. McMahon; that is easy.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Stuck at 754

First posted at Big Dave on sports

The aged batter took one more practice swing and tried to ignore the lightning bolt of pain cracking down his spine and the constant ache in his knees. He held the bat by the knob, and pressed the top into the dirt, using it like a cane, as he started to walk to the plate, his right leg, nothing but bone on bone, dragging behind him, the dust settled by a persistent rain that had begun the second he peeked his head out of the dugout.

“You suck Bonds!” a man shouted. There were boos. Always boos. He wondered if they knew how much effort it took just to make it to the plate if they would still boo.

They would.

Because they knew it was their last chance, and his. Word had been “leaked” from the Commissioners Office before the game that he had tested positive for illegal substances a third time. A lifetime ban was awaiting, and this at bat, this final at bat, in the Bronx, on a cold, rainy September evening, would be his last chance.

He made it to the box, and looked down at the uniform, Kansas City written across his chest. Kansas City. He had once been a God.

He tried to dig in as much as his tired old bones would allow. Kansas City. The only team desperate enough to sign him hoping fans would come out to see him hit one more dinger. Few had, and those that did hated him, for being old, for being hurt, for being him.

He didn’t know the Yankee pitcher, he didn’t know anyone anymore, but his pitch came in flat and steady, and he said a quick prayer that just one more time the swing would be back, and he began to turn his large body, and there was no pain, no stiffness, he was 39 again, and when the wood hit the ball he felt it, felt it into his shoulders, and he knew, as the ball rose into the dark sky, knew that somehow he had finally done it.

They say at certain moments in a man’s existence his entire life flashes before his eyes. But as Bonds slowly began to jog to first base, looking up into the starless sky as the ball disappeared into the darkness, not his entire life, but the last three years, flashed before his eyes.

He had once been the Greatest Show on Earth. His every at bat scrutinized, as he sat at 754, on the cusp of Aaron. The first two homerless weeks the stories were about a slump, but when it passed into a month, the word was no longer slump. It was Curse. The Curse of Hammerin’ Hank. Every game, every at bat, it grew worse.

He fought with his teammates, flattening Matt Morris. Bruce Bochy threatened to suspend him. He laughed. “I’m the only reason they’re coming out,” he boasted. But they were no longer coming out to cheer; now they were coming to boo. He could barely move in the outfield, and with the Giants fading in the West the only answer was a trade to the American League, to the Yankees. Barry Bonds would wipe Aaron’s name from the record books in the house Ruth built.

He killed the ball his first two weeks in the Bronx. But he couldn’t get the damn thing out of the park. Until that day in Fenway, with the Yankees chasing down the Sox, picking up five games in the last eight days, and Schilling, oh how he hated Schilling, threw a fat pitch, and Bonds, sent it to right field, high, towards that Pesky Pole, named after another Red Sox choker. He lifted his arms in the air, he had caught Aaron, had shut up Schilling, shut up the obnoxious Sox fans. The ball hooked around the pole, twenty rows back. He slapped his hands and headed towards first where an Umpire, turning towards those hick fans, yelled: “Foul!”

Foul! Gods do not hit foul balls! And the Idiot was grinning at him, as if to say he knew it was fair. Bonds stopped, hands spread out. “What the hell was that!” he screamed. “Get your ass back to the plate!” a high-pitched voice to his left whined. He turned. Schilling, jawing at him. Schilling. He began walking towards him, the fat lying bastard. The Umpire got in the way and Bonds’ hands came up, on to the Ump’s shoulders, on to his neck, and he felt his hands squeezing, all the rage, the frustration, put into his powerful hands, squeezing. He heard voices, felt hands on him, even Papi, grabbing him around the waist, pulling back like a bull. He let go, the lazy Ump slumped down. Torre grabbed him. “What are you doing?” he screamed. “That bastard took my homerun!” Bonds said. “I don’t give a damn about your homerun we need this game!” Torre said. Guys like him.

Two cops came to take him from the field. He peeled off his arm protector and chucked it into the stands. Hit some kid. Shouldn’t be sitting there. Can’t get away from a piece of plastic how is he going to get away from a screaming foul ball? Foul ball. That was no goddamn foul ball. Cashman was waiting for him. Told him to take his stuff with him. Yeah, whatever. He left before the game was over. Got outside. Some of the hicks were leaving the park early. Staring at him like he had three heads. “What you lookin’ at?” he asked. He stopped a cab. He, Barry Bonds. In a cab! He climbed in. He said the name of the hotel. “The Yankees are staying there,” the hick cabdriver said. “Did you hear what happened at the game?”

When he got home there was a message from his agent. The Commissioner had suspended him for 75 games, into the 2008 season. Yeah, I bet he’s been dying to do that.

But then he realized he was free to work out the way he wanted. He called his trainer, told him they were going to start a new regimen; all he needed was one team, one at bat. He could come back in June like Clemens. No spring training, no cold weather. He smiled to himself. This couldn’t have worked out better.

He trained daily, ducked the media, and posted on his web site that he was getting stronger and looking to come back. In February there was a message from his agent. He needed to get drug tested. “I’m not on any team. How they going to test me?” He was told the Yankees had never relinquished his rights.

BONDS TESTS POSITIVE FOR STEROIDS: The headline as big as if he shot the President. The Yankees released him. No team would touch him. All his money was going out, to lawyers, child support, ex-wives.

He kept working out, until he was picked up by the St. Paul Saints, where he was the perfect teammate, helping the young players, hitting a homerun every nine times up. They started talking about The Comeback. And soon he had offers, for real money. That Epstein kid from the Sox had come to see him, said the right things. He would hit the homerun that swept away Aaron in the city where Ruth had first gone yard. And he would stick it to those Yankees.

He played left field his first game. He pulled a muscle going after a ball. But he didn’t say anything. It left him with no power, he was soon 0-16, and the media and fans were all over him. He grounded out to first to end a game and never left the box. The fans let him have it over that one. He smirked, shook his head. Yeah, like running would have made a difference. In the locker room Schilling was doing what he always did: talking, when he said they would be a better team if certain guys could check their ego and run out grounders. Barry was up, walking towards him, asking him what did he say. “Did I mumble?” Schilling asked. No, but he would be. Bonds hit him with a right in the jaw and down went Schilling. Cameras filmed it, him standing over Schilling. That was sweet. Of course he was suspended, and then released.

In January the Pirates contacted him. They had hired Jim Leyland to manage. Dusty Baker and Felipe Alou were coaches. They wanted to bring him back home. Yeah, to hit his last where he hit his first in a city that loved him. In spring training he was polite, funny, telling everyone he just wanted to contribute. They had sold out the park for opening day. They would retire his number while he wore it. He would finally get the respect he deserved. And when they asked him to fill a cup he was more than happy. They would find no steroids in him.

“Human Growth Hormone?” he asked his agent. “When did that become illegal?”

“The last bargaining agreement,” his agent said. “I told you what they would be testing for.”

The Pirates cut him. No team wanted him. Everyone said this was the end of Barry Bonds.

What he needed was a team more desperate than he was, and he found it, in Kansas City. The Royals weren’t likely to win 40 games, barely drawing half a million fans. On September 3 he was signed by the Royals but asked for one week back home before he played.

And then he took everything he could find, steroids, HGH, medicine to dope his blood. He was going to get his homerun. For the first nine days his hardest hit ball was to the warning track in front of those funky fountains. When they tested him he knew his time was limited: two games, one game, one at bat, one swing.

But all it took was one swing, and he had shown it, slowly running towards first base, watching the magical sight of the white ball against the dark sky sailing so high, and then to accent his accomplishment a lightning bolt, cracking out of the sky, then seemingly exploding into a fire ball falling quickly back to the field.

A fireball. A fireball! A ball on fire! His baseball: on fire, falling back to the field. Three years ago he would have stopped, to curse the fates, to kick the dirt, but this man, who once thought himself a God, now sought the last refuge of all scoundrels, to run!

His one leg trailed as he lifted the other and then threw himself forward. He looked toward the outfield where two guys he didn’t recognize stood over the ball. One reached down to pick it up then dropped it, waving his hand. The ball was on fire. Hot! Too hot to handle. Bonds continued to drag his tired body around the bases, across second base, when he saw Number 2, Derek Jeter, running towards the ball. At first Bonds thought he just wanted to see it, but then he realized, Jeter didn’t want to see it, Jeter wanted to get it and tag him out.

The spotlight hog! This was his moment! Barry Bonds! How many moments did Jeter need!

Jeter reached the ball as Bonds was approaching third gasping for air. Jeter kicked the ball into his glove. He would have to cover four times the area Bonds needed to cover if he was going to beat him home.

Bonds didn’t look at the third base coach. He was gasping for breath. He tried to dig in with his left leg and felt a pop, then burning pain. He began to stumble forward, and then ten feet from the plate he fell.

Jeter saw him go down. He was now at the edge of the outfield grass. Bonds was pulling himself forward with his massive forearms. Jeter saw the catcher at the plate but wasn’t surrendering the horsehide and he dove as Bonds, like a wounded bear, gasping, and growling, reached for the plate. His hand slapped down on it a split second before Jeter’s glove, the ball half out, melted into the leather, touched Bonds’ cheek, burning the signature on the ball into his skin. As he heard his skin sizzling, and just before the pain from his legs, and from his face, caused him to black out, he looked up into the Umpire’s face, who was jerking his thumb in the air, and yelling “Out” for all to hear, preserving the Aaron’s mark of 755.

He was in the hospital for a week. His legs were destroyed, his only hope artificial knees, plus his EKG was that of an 80-year-old man, and there were those spots on his lungs. But none of that bothered him as much as his face. There were two signatures on the ball. One Bonds’ own, which had been on the side burned into Jeter’s glove, the other, now, branded on to his face in perfect script, writ backwards, Hank Aaron, writ forwards, when Bonds looked in the mirror.

Bonds squeezed the pump for more morphine. On the TV they reported that Albert Pujols had hit his 74th homerun forever erasing Barry Bonds from the record books. So they took that away too. They took everything away except one, he thought as he drifted off.

He was still the guy who broke Schilling’s face.

Astronauts Allowed to Fly Drunk

First published in http://www.pugbus.net


NASA officials are investigating reports that astronauts were allowed to fly shortly after drinking alcohol and after officials were warned that they were inebriated and were flight risks.

Says one astronaut who would not be identified: “Of course we’re shit faced. You think anybody’s going up in one of those thinks without being cocked to the gills? Duh! They blow up!”

Investigators are looking into reports that NASA recruiting has been reduced to hanging out in bars and waiting for someone to get fall down drunk, then putting them in a suit and locking them in the cabin just before take off.

“We have to find either drunks or retards,” said one official. “And retards give lousy post flight interviews.”

Another unnamed NASA source said: “We can’t even figure out how to keep foam on the side of the shuttle, how are we going to find anyone dumb enough to go up in one of those things?”

This has been a problem for NASA since the 1950’s. In the words of renowned test pilot Jose Jiminez: “My favorite part of the trip is the blast off. Before I take off I like to have a blast!”

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Hilary Clinton Riled by Phony Campaign Song

First appeared in, and vastly improved by http://www.pugbus.net

CHARLESTON, S.C. – Democratic presidential contender Hillary Clinton became visibly upset during the candidates’ debate last night when a YouTube video containing an anti-Clinton message was aired briefly midway through the session.

Expecting to field a question submitted via YouTube video, Ms. Clinton grew distressed when she heard the following instead, sung by a young man in a Ricky Martin mask to the tune of "Livin' la Vida Loca":

“She's known for being compromised by bad boys and Iraqi wars. I feel for Al Gore; that girl made him fall. She let Vince Foster into her pants before he off’d himself. She's alienating supporters left and right.”

Debate moderator, Anderson Cooper, quickly replaced the offending video with one that contained a question about health care. After regaining her composure, Ms. Clinton answered the question.

Following the debate, Clinton campaigners blamed the staff of their closest competitor, Barack Obama, for the incident. Obama declined to make any comment.

Although CNN and YouTube, which co-sponsored the debate, claimed to have destroyed their copy of the offending video, an MP3 version of "Livin' la Vida Clinton" appeared on Hey!Tunes!, the Spanish version of iTunes, early this afternoon.

Below is the song in its entirety.

She's known for being compromised by bad boys and Iraqi wars. I feel for Al Gore; that girl made him fall.

She let Vince Foster into her pants before he off’d himself. She's alienating supporters left and right.

She'll make you leave your clothes on and stand waiting in the rain. She'll make you hate all women and leave your nuts in pain, like an ice bucket to your balls. Come On!

Uptown, downtown, midtown, she's no real New Yorka. She’s trying to keep the religious right down; she's no real New Yorka.

Her lips are devil red, her husband likes head from a porka. She will bring the country down. She's no New Yorka. Come On! She's no real New Yorka. Come on! She's no real New Yorka.

Woke up in New York City in a funky voting booth. She broke my heart after she got my vote. Now I know the truth.

She raised my taxes, and left my brother in Iraq. While he begs for water, she only drinks French Champagne. After she becomes President the country’ll never be the same. Yeah, she'll make us go insane.

Uptown, downtown, midtown, she's no real New Yorka. She’s trying to keep the religious right down; she's no real New Yorka.

Her lips are devil red her husband likes head from a Porka. She will bring the country down. She's no New Yorka. Come On! She's no real New Yorka. Come on! She's no real New Yorka.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

I Celebrate Myself and Gay Athletes

First posted at Big Dave on sports

Tyson Gay’s amazing weekend at Indianapolis, which ended with him breaking Michael Johnson’s meet record in the 200 meters at the U.S. track and field championships, was a victory just not for Gay athletes, but for Gay men everywhere.

Oh I don’t mean homosexual gay. Like most U.S. heterosexual males I couldn’t care less about track and field and had no idea Tyson Gay existed before this weekend, never mind his sexual preference. No, there are no homosexual athletes, only retired homosexual athletes; although, when I go to a Red Sox game and see an 8 year old wearing a “Jeter sucks, A-Rod swallows” shirt, along with me having to explain to a child that A-Rod swallows to keep from dying, it does make me question if there aren’t in fact homosexual athletes.

But I digress. Why I am here is to celebrate Gay men like Tyson and myself, men who were teased, harrassed and even beaten in school because their name has been adopted by the homosexual community, although I must applaud Tyson’s parents because if you have saddled your son with the last name Gay the least you can do is give him a bad ass first name like Tyson.

My parents did not name me Tyson, which I must give them credit for, because I was born in 1963, and if they had named me Tyson my name would have been interpreted as “Chicken Gay,” which may have got me the lead in the Broadway production of Roots, but not through the third grade.

My parents did not have many options in 1963: Clay Gay wouldn’t have helped. Even Liston Gay seemed more of an adjective than a moniker. So, you think, they settled on Ted, which is pretty non-offensive.

But no, no, no, dear reader, you see Ted is a nickname, and as nickname goes it’s not exactly Hurricane or The Big Hurt, but better than Broadway Gay. No my given first name is Edgar.

So my name is Edgar Gay.

Actually Edgar Amos Gay.

Actually Edgar Amos Gay III.

God blessed Tyson Gay with speed. He blessed me with nothing more than the ability to absorb an amazing amount of punishment.

Now, since I am the third, that means that there was an Edgar Amos Gay Jr, who was my father, and you would think that, having lugged this name through his life, he would not pass it on to his son, but during my mother’s pregnancy with me, in the 60’s, when couples did not go to therapy (they just didn’t speak) on the night my mother was to give birth to me, when she was drugged up and barely conscious, much like at conception, she called out to my father, what do you want to name him, and my father said: “Anything but Edgar,” and in her state all she heard was Edgar and here I be.

In the first five years of school my parents insisted I be called Edgar because, apparently, they hated me. But in sixth grade when I went to middle school I declared I would be called Ted, and when the teacher said is Ted Gay here I proudly said I was and all the kids laughed and said “What are you Gay?” and having lived a sheltered life I said I was, and then became aware that the homosexual community had hijacked my name. If your last name is Gay you need to be a runner, a fighter, or a great lover. I took those three pitches for strikes like Julio Lugo with the bases loaded and spent the next seven years being tormented.

What I hoped and prayed for was a Gay athlete, again, not sexual preference, but someone named Gay that I could point to and say: “See, he’s named Gay and he’s not a homosexual so why do you think I am?”

It wasn’t until I was 42 years old when the Patriots drafted Randall Gay out of LSU that I finally had a Gay athlete to look up to. As the season progressed, due to injuries, he moved into the starting lineup. When the Patriots defeated the Steelers to go to the Super Bowl I decided it was time to get myself a Randall Gay jersey.

I drove to the Patriots team shop in Foxboro and asked for a Gay jersey. “Don’t have one,” the man said. I then asked to order one. “Can’t do it, the NFL won’t allow it.”

In what is most assuredly a true story, I could not buy a NFL jersey with the name of a starting cornerback in the Superbowl on it because the NFL did not issue jersey with any “profane or offensive names” on them.

42 year of outrage could not be contained. I argued, I fumed, I wrote letters, but to no avail, a Randall Gay jersey was not to be had, although my sister did order a jersey with his number and got an underground sewing shop to put “Gay” on the back, but still the prejudice inflamed me.

The Patriots won that day, and Gay led the team with 11 solo tackles, although, I believe, the announcers could, according to NFL policy, refer to him only as “Unknown Patriots Cornerback.”

Although Gay had scored a victory for Gays everywhere I still was not satisfied and tried to get his jersey to be sanctioned by the NFL. I even went so far as to offer Reggie Bush $1,000 to change his name to Reggie Douchebag so I could hear Al Michaels say: “The punt goes to Douchebag at the 50, Douchebag cuts right at the 45, Douchebag has some room, Douchebag is in the clear, Douchebag is going to take it all the way! Look at that Douchebag go!” And John Madden would say: “I said at the top of the broadcast the Rams had to contain Douchebag. When you have an open Douchebag on the field that’s a big problem for a defense.”

I figured coming out of USC Reggie Douchebag’s jersey would be a big seller, but apparently even as a struggling college student he did not need my $1,000. He must have had income elsewhere. So my fantasy went unfulfilled.

I had hope with Rudy Gay when it looked like he would either lead U Conn to the NCAA title or be the first player drafted, but neither of those happened, and now he plays for the Memphis Grizzlies, and even someone as desperate as I will not wear a Grizzlies jersey.

But now Randall is back from two years of injuries to be a factor in the Patriots’ defensive backfield, and hopefully Rudy is improving in Memphis so he can sign for a team that actually plays in the NBA, and now with Tyson making headlines in track and field, young Gay children will have someone to point to and say they’re not gay and neither am I.

And maybe someday the kids of the Smith’s and Jones’ who harrassed me will come home one day and say, “Daddy when I grow up I want to be just like that Gay guy!”

Then revenge shall be mine.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Barry Bonds Comes to Fenway

First posted at Big Dave on sports

It was a redemptive weekend for anyone north of Flushing after last weekend’s less than satisfactory ending of the Northeast’s favorite show, “The Sopranos.” First, with the reported news that David Chase, was lying in a Flatbush massage parlor, having his genitalia manipulated and brought to the edge of climax, when lights were shut off and he was left in the dark, leaving him to complain how unfair is to be “led to believe that there is going to be some big final payoff, to have dozens of hints dropped that you are going to get the ending that you deserve, and then boom! The lights go out and you’re left with nothing but disappointment.” Secondly, with the Yankees dominating the Mets, and thirdly, with Barry Bonds coming to Fenway with less magic than Shoeless Joe brought to Iowa.

It being Father’s Day, in between the Red Sox thumping of the Giants and seeing Bonds get his first Fenway homerun (oh the thrill!), the Yankees schooling the Mets, and quickly trying to speed through S.I.’s glowing tribute to Omar Minaya before he gets booted like a football off of Letterman’s roof, I spent the afternoon on the computer with my granddaughters Mackenzie and Emily (whose picture accompanies my blog), while Mackenzie searched Webkinz and Disney.com, Emily spun in the chair and then reminded me just how much a three year old’s stomach can hold as she projectile vomited over me like one of those spinning fountains in “The Girls Next Door.” Cost of the Father’s Day gift from your grandchild $8.99, wearing their lunch all over you, priceless.

I don’t think it was the spinning in the chair that caused her vomiting but the play of the Mets who got smacked, thumped and abused Saturday and Sunday by the streaking Bombers. As of Monday morning the only divisions the Mets would be leading are their own, the NL Central, and the NBA East.

The only black mark for the Yankees was that they lost the one game they couldn’t afford to lose. Roger Clemens is only worth the money and aggravation is if he wins, and he can’t win if you don’t get runs, especially against Oliver Perez, a guy the Pirates happily set adrift last season. Granted Perez has been reborn in Flushing, but your offense can’t put up a goose egg while Clemens is pitching. Still, Bronx-dwellers have little to complain about. A quick measure of people’s baseball IQ? If they told you in the last two months that the Bombers were done, their IQ is at the Paris Hilton level.

As for the Mets? Pray for Pedro, for the Braves and Phils to stumble just a little bit more, and for the Indians to win the AL.

And in Beantown, home of my alma-mater Emerson College, where Sam Presti, named general manager of the Seattle Supersonics, played basketball, making only the second time in my experience that Emerson, a communications and performing arts college, and sports were used in the same sentence; the first being when I went to school there and Denis Leary, a recent graduate, was contacted to play in an alma-mater softball game and was told “rehearsal will be Sunday in the park,” (don’t worry Sonic fans you will have the best uniforms and beautifully choreographed cheerleaders) the great Barry Bonds arrived.

This event let the largely Irish-Catholic print media in Boston do what they do best, rip apart a black guy. If you think this claim is unwarranted I suggest you pick up a copy of Howard Bryant’s “Shut Out” which chronicled the Boston media’s objection to the Red Sox being integrated, with Football Hall Of Fame writer Will McDonough being chief among the offenders. Athletes like Will Cordero, Mo Vaughn, Jim Rice, Ferguson Jenkins, Carl Everett, and George Scott were scorched daily during their stays in Boston. In the last ten years this venom has almost completely disappeared, but those raised at McDonough’s knee, like Dan Shaugnessey, who readers of Curt Schilling’s 38 Pitches will recognize as the “Curly Haired Boyfriend” can still rip apart a black athlete for supposedly cheating at baseball while giving a big pat on the back to white hockey coach Craig MacTavish for turning his life around after being convicted for getting drunk and killing a 26 year old woman. Somehow if MacTavish was a 6’2 black point guard from Georgetown, that story doesn’t get written.

Of course race isn’t the only reason this story gets written. While regular Americans watched McGwire, Sosa, and Bonds saying, “They have to be on something” the media hopped on the bandwagon. Their job was to find the truth, not dance in glee with each bomb. Now the media is backing off their culpability in the duping of America faster than Senators are backing off their voting for the war in Iraq.

In all Shoeless Barry coming to Fenway was less an event than centerfielder Dave Roberts, who, in 2004, did something no Red Sox player had ever done before. He stole a base. Since then he has had a golden ticket in Boston and the force of his cheers were ten times stronger than the boos received by Bonds.

Friday Bonds maybe hit one out, it went so high over the Pesky pole that one could only guess, and, since it was a road game, and he was Barry, it was foul.

On Saturday, in the eighth, with two on and no one out, Barry proved why he is not a Yankee by getting frozen on a third strike by Hideki Okajima with men on first and second and no one out. That moment wasn’t about Bonds but about the Sox wiggling out of a 1-0 game with the game’s best hitter at the plate keeping them from doing to Dice-K what the Yanks did to Clemens the night before, letting him die from lack of support.

Bonds finally christened Fenway on Sunday, sending a fat Tim Wakefield (who played with a much thinner Bonds in Pittsburgh, and for some reason has not put on the weight Barry has) knuckleball in the right field pen. But it was for naught as the Sox clearly have Matt Morris’ number, which is unfortunate because he pitches in another league, swept the series, and somehow gained a game over the weekend on the charging Yankees.

So Barry picked up and left Fenway making no more impact than Pedro Feliz, the Mets stumbled out of the Bronx wasted and wounded, and like millions of Americans at 9:00 at night my wife and I sat in front of a black TV screen hoping it would come to life and tell us how the Sopranos really ended.

Saturday, July 21, 2007

Cheney to Perform Bush colonoscopy

White House Spokesperson Tony Snow announced today that Vice President Dick Cheney would be in charge during President George Bush’s routine colonoscopy.

Cheney says he has it on good authority that there are biological bombs in Bush’s lower intestine.

He is hoping the colonoscopy will give him good aerial footage of the President’s intestines so they can remove any growths with pinpoint precision. The Vice President said that he is looking forward to shocking and awing the President’s anus, by penetrating his open Southern boarder, and ramming Special Forces through the hole until the region is clear of unfriendliness.

Reportedly the Vice President is as excited about cramming a tube up the President’s rectum as he was about cramming the Iraqi war down his throat.

When told of Cheney’s plans the President said “I meant I wanted to leave him in charge of something unimportant, like the country, not vitally important, like my ass.”

The President’s ass refused to comment.

Dodd Rules Out VP Seat

Dodd Rules Out VP Seat

By Ted Gay

Chris Dodd, who is seeking the Democratic presidential nomination, told CNN’s Wolf Blitzer that he would not accept an offer to become vice president on another contender’s ticket.

Democratic front-runner Hilary Clinton, when informed of Dodd’s statement, said: “Who?”

Clinton’s closest competitor, Illinois Congressman Barak Obama, said that Dodd was on his vice presidential list, one space below Scooter Libby and two spaces above Osama Bin Laden.

Democratic Chairman Howard Dean said that Dodd might be a viable vice presidential candidate if everything west of Pennsylvania and south of Maryland was sucked into a giant sinkhole.

At the end of the interview Dodd told Blitzer that he anticipated being the parties’ nominee. Unaware that his mike was on Blitzer chastised Dodd for appearing on his show while drunk.

Monday, July 16, 2007

As Green as it Gets: Al Gore's daughter weds

Al Gore’s daughter Sarah was married on July 14 in Beverly Hills to Bill Lee. “I admire a man who conserves letters in his own name,” the beaming father of the bride said.

The Gore family is looking to Sarah as their next political star. “I think she has a huge future,” her father said. “Nobody doesn’t like Sarah Lee.”

Dedicated environmentalists, the Gores sought to make the wedding as Green as possible, holding the ceremony on the hotel grounds and abstaining from electricity. Instead of a limousine the bride arrived in a horse-drawn carriage. “It was absolutely stunning,” said one guest. “Of course the girl smelled like horseshit all day.”

An embarrassing moment happened when Gore, walking his daughter down the aisle, mistakenly walked across the lily pond leaving Sarah knee deep in the muck.

The bride was quickly dried off. She was resplendent in a white chiffon dress reportedly made by Fairies in a magical forest near the Gore homestead. (Replicas can be purchased at Barney’s for $12,000; second day cross country air delivery an extra $1,000.) The groom wore traditional tie, tails, and an enormous hard-on.

As the sun set parties reveled under gas lit lanterns and listened to a string quartet with no amplification while eating free-range chicken cooked over an open pit. Said a Gore family representative: “It was just like John and Abigail Adams’ wedding, 40 people contracted small pox.”

The only two misfortunes occurred when An Inconvenient Truth producer Laurie David, who was not invited, kept buzzing the ceremony in her Cessna, and when Tipper lived up to her name and passed out in the lily pond leaving a hapless Al standing on the water unable to get to her and cursing his divinity.