the blog quebecois

This is from an upcoming New Yorker piece by Peter Boyer, about Martha Burk's quixotic tilt at Augusta:

At one point, I asked her to help me to understand the benefit to society that would result from a woman joining Augusta National. She responded with what has been, throughout her campaign, her case-closing line: "You wouldn't ask me what was the benefit to society if we were talking about excluding people on race."

The difference, she explained, has to do with the conditioned behavior of men and women. "Here's the difference. And it's interesting that you should ask this, and it¹s just now come to me, pretty clearly. It is because, when men get together, denigrating women is often a part of the social interaction. When women get together, denigrating men is rarely done. It's just not even on the radar screen. Even among the so-called strident feminists of the women's movement. We don't have anything to hide in that way, and men seem to."

I am flabbergasted. This is tinfoil helmet territory.

For Ms. (I know, I know, "Dr.") Burk's edification, men don't spend a lot of time together running down women. Apart from the obligatory, "Hey, did you see that stupid bitch Burk on Crossfire last night?"

Not that I'm invited to such august councils myself, but I've got an educated guess as to the conversation:

What is it with these kids today?
I made a shot like that on . . . Pebble Beach? 4th hole? 1964?
So I'm up about three, four times a night?
How's your beer? Anyone?
What I would tell Bush is . . .
Hey, did you see that stupid bitch Burk on Crossfire last night?

I am really, really sorry that Martha Burk was kicked out of the treehouse by her deadwhitefatherbrotherhusbandfetus or whatever.

Get over it, and leave those rich old farts whatever scrap of dignity they have left.

Rich old farts are people too.

I don't watch much U.S. college football. I don't have any particular allegiance to any university or team, so it all operates pretty much below my radar.

For some strange reason, though, I usually tune in for the Army-Navy game.

There's something quite poignant about it -- all the young midshipmen and cadets in their greatcoats of blue and gray, cheering on athletes who, by the standards of the age, qualify as true amateurs.

Few of them will make it to the pro leagues, and the few that do owe Uncle Sam a few years labor and possibly a whole lot more in the meantime. Devotion to country is still worth something in my estimation, even if the country isn't mine.

But of course I can't let this observation pass without one of my usual sarcastic comments.

I get Navy's colors, Blue and Gold. Blue for, duh, the sea; Gold for . . . anchor chains? Sunken doubloons?

I don't get Army's colors, Black and Gold. It raises several mettlesome questions:

1. Do they not teach the fine art of camouflage anymore at West Point?

2. Is there any beer left in the fridge?

OK, so it only raises two questions. Mirabile dictu, the latter of these can be answered in the affirmative.

Which leaves Army's troubling choice of colors. Ideally, their uniforms should be Astroturf green, splashed with irregular white stripes and yard markers. Done well, all you'd see of an Army ballcarrier would be a hairy forearm, cradling a football, floating down the field.

I'm not a big NBA fan. I didn't grow up playing basketball, so the game doesn't strike the same chords for me as hockey or baseball.

Nonetheless I'll watch it if nothing else is available.

Occasionally I'll peek past the computer screen and get hypnotized with the artistry and flash of it. It is by far the toughest aerobic workout you'll ever have if you ever play against

good players.

But I don't love it the same way I love the perfectly struck soccer ball or the slapshot that crashes across the rink at 6:00 a.m.

I'm timeshifting again.

By which I mean I've confounded the natural order of things and TV programmers and illegally taped a baseball game to have some little piece of sound and light humming away in the corner while I tap at this computer and contemplate the squalid ruin that is my life.

But I digress.

Toronto vs Cincinatti, I think. I'm not paying it a lot of attention.

Like Proust with his madeleine, though, memories come drifting back, and I must lie abed for the next twenty years composing my rememberances . . .

A baseball costs -- what? -- 10 bucks? I assume, subtracting inflation, that it was about the same value back when baseball began on the cusp of the 20th century.

The difference was that the teams were basically amateur then, playing for pennies, accomodations, and huzzah!s

The baseball was the one indispensable piece of equipment that they had, and they typically only had one of them, so when a ball was hit into the bleachers, the spectators would toss it out again so that the game could continue.

Until the day when some guy caught it and refused to give it back. Outrage! He was dragged before the local magistrate, still clutching the ball. Who considered the matter, and pronounced: Finders, keepers. Losers, weepers.

Maybe he worded it better.

(By the way, I've got no idea where or when I heard this story. I'll bet Proust was making half of his stuff up, too.)

Major League Baseball took note of judicial precedent, and thereafter allowed fans to keep fouled or homered balls.

Not so with grounders or misaimed throws that stayed on the field. The ball boy would scamper out and scamper back to his perch down the infield line, hoarding the magic orb like it was the Hope Diamond, ignoring the pleading hands of children.

Come the strike of (95?) that cancelled the World Series and thoroughly soured fans on the sport.

There was a lot of cluckclucking about what baseball had to do to win back its audience.

Fast forward a year later. Joe Carter of the Blue Jays catches a routine popup in right field to end the inning and starts to trot off to the dugout. He abruptly veers off to the stands and with that big-ass, dazzling smile of his, hands the ball to a little boy who was literally hopping with delight.

The TV announcer: "Whoa! Now there's a fan for life!"

Exactly.

Watch the ball boys these days. Any stray shot is scooped up and delivered to the nearest kiddikin as the cameras zoom in.

It's great PR, and it's cheap. 10 bucks per baseball * 20 balls per game = future goodwill ^3.

I can't help but wonder if some bigwig in MLB saw the same game and sent out a memo.

If baseball can be rescued, then maybe Joe Carter should get some of the credit.

By now everyone's likely seen this, so I won't bother to link to it.

MILWAUKEE (AP) -- Pittsburgh Pirates first baseman Randall Simon got a grilling from prosecutors and was let off with a $432 fine Thursday after bopping a woman dressed as a giant sausage with his bat.

I was horrified to read this on the net last night, especially with quotes like:

Rick Schlesinger, Brewers executive vice president for business operations, said Simon's conduct was unjustified.

"This is one of the most outrageous things I've ever seen inside a ballpark or outside a ballpark," he said. "It sickened me to see it."

Uh, yeah. I finally saw it, and it was like the St. Valentine's Day massacre or something. Or some terrible NASCAR crash where the cars are all made of foam rubber and are wobbling perpendicularly down the track at 5 mph.

Simon was obviously trying to playfully tap the . . . sausage and the . . . sausage, startled as much as anything else, fell down and skinned her knees, taking out the . . . wiener with her. (I have tears in my eyes just trying to write this. Thank God he didn't pinch her ass.)

I used to work in the parts department of a local car dealership. One day a big black man -- Jamaican, judging by his accent -- came in. He wanted to buy a piece of interior trim or a panel so I had to go out to his car to get the color code, which is stamped on the V.I.N. plate. I was walking back to the counter, with him following, when I got hit with a gentle rabbit punch in the kidneys.

I spun around and found him grinning.

"I'm a boxer! This is how boxers have fun!"

Ooookkkaaayyyyy. I suppose I could have gotten all huffy about it and pointed out that I wasn't a boxer, etc., etc., but he was so delighted with his impromptu horseplay that I had no choice but to laugh too.

Oy! How I hate daily blogging! Nothing to post, and no time to write it!

I actually am working on an intriguing yawner that I think some might find interesting, but in the meantime, TSN is broadcasting one of the ('83? '86?) Oilers' Stanley Cup games against the Islanders, and I am hypnotically drawn to it.

Those were magical days in Edmonton, when we had the finest hockey team to ever lace up skates and you could still afford a playoff ticket.

My one and only hockey story.

I attended Clare Drake's hockey "school" when I was about 12 years old. I put "school" in scare quotes not out of disparagement, but because it wasn't really a summer-long program but rather a 3-day seminar.

Drake was the coach of the University of Alberta's Golden Bears, a team that won several Canadian championships for him, and he was (and still is) very well respected in Canadian hockey.

He was also a very nice, avuncular fellow, and at the end of the first day he took me aside and said, look, we're going to have to drop you down to an easier level because you just don't have some basic skills.

He was right. I could skate, but not backwards; I could shoot, but not really; and I could check, though my hundred-pound body bouncing off its intended target was not the impressive display intended.

His junior coaches were terrific. In the next day and a half, they taught me how to stickhandle through the pylons like they were, uh, pylons. How to angle an opponent into the boards and tie him up with my stick.

How to -- O, Glorious Moment! -- pivot on your skates and kick your ass out and that leading foot down and skate backwards. It's the male equivalent of the first Single Axel, I guess.

They couldn't help me with my shot, though. That depends considerably on upper-body strength, of which I didn't have a lot. Basically, there are only three shots in hockey: the slapshot, the wristshot, and the snapshot.

The slapshot is the most dramatic (and feared, for anyone standing in front of the net). That's the one where the shooter swings his arms back past his shoulders like a golfer and leans into the followthrough, driving the puck at 90+ mph with not a lot of accuracy.

Then there is the wristshot, which is nonexistent among 12-year-old boys. It takes a lot of arm and wrist strength to cup the puck and whip it towards the goal. (The backhand shot is a subspecies of this.)

That leaves the snapshot, which was the only weapon in my arsenal. You draw the stick back one or two feet and sharply twist your wrists when you make contact with the puck. Ideally that launches it with some height and menace at the net.

I digress. The highlight of the third and final day was the scrimmage. Blue Team against Red Team. I was on one of them, playing right wing. (Spare me the jokes.)

You are constantly enjoined to get to the net . By which is meant, get in front of the goalie, keep your stick down on the ice, and fight for your spot.

Fine. I got to the net, kept my stick down on the ice, and then got absolutely clobbered by some big farmboy defenceman who obviously hadn't read the rules about me getting to the net.

I went down, my helmet bouncing off the ice. That was the first time in my life that I really saw stars. I got up and he crosschecked me again. That was the second time in my life that I saw stars.

I'd like to portray it as a valiant fight for space in front of the net, but really, I was just trying to get the hell out of there.

Whistle blows. Faceoff. Puck drifts out to me at the top of the circle and I blast my best snapshot at the net, drilling it off aforementioned farmboy's ankle. He was twenty feet away to the side of the net at the time.

Later in the locker room he limped up to me and said, "Geez, I'm not gonna mess with you again." I didn't have the heart to tell him I wasn't aiming at him.

My Gordie Howe moment.

Thus endeth my one and only hockey story.

In honor of the baseball playoffs starting today, two quotes (sorry, no links) from my two favorite color-men.

Tim McCarver: That was a real Linda Ronstadt fastball.

Announcer: A Linda Ronstadt fastball?

McCarver: Yeah. Blue Bayou.

----------

There was a game in -- I think -- Yankee Stadium. At any rate, both teams' bullpens were way out in left field.

A batter got hit and the benches cleared. Pointless milling about and yelling.

The doors of the bullpens flew open and the respective pitching staffs jogged, in two-by-two harmony, across the entire field until they, too, were engaged in pointless milling about and yelling.

Joe Morgan: Why do they do that?

Morgan: Run all the way from over there. They just have to leave the bullpen and they can start shoving each other right away.

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and a special hello to our Armed Forces overseas. It's Super Sunday, and people are clicking off their TVs and turning to The Blog Quebecois for minute-by-minute analysis of the big game.

That's right. I'm devoting the considerable resources of this blog to covering Super Bowl CVXIII or whatever especially for our international visitors, who are most likely in bed. That is, unless I get distracted by my new Xbox game, True Crime: Streets of L.A., which is way cool. It's got like 700 square miles of Los Angeles digitally mapped out. Not that I'd know it from Biloxi, Mississippi, because I've never been to L.A, or Biloxi, for that matter.

Whoa! See what I mean about being distracted?. Focus, man, focus!

Before we go to Houston, let's set the stage by drinking 13 beers.

Whaddya mean, it doesn't start for another two hours? I'll be hammered by then.

Thash alright, though. I do shome of my bes' blogging like thish.

First up, let's get our predictions down. In contrast to most pundits, who are forecasting a tight defensive match, I'm going with my gut and predicting a lot of scoring. When the dust settles, I think the final score is going to be:

Carolina 65 0 7 10 16 22 29
New England 40 0 7 14 21 29 32.

And you can take that to your bookie.

Stay tuned, folks, there's much, much more to come.

From the National Post (no link available):

1 - Number of red-faced referees who wished they'd gone for the yellow card instead, according to the Brazilian newspaper Terra. Apparently in an amateur match in the city of Anama, referee Carlos Jose Figueira Ferro was trying to give a red card to soccer player Paulo Coise when, instead of producing the card, he pulled out a pair of red women's panties. Flustered, he is said to have ended the match with 20 minutes left, and claimed ignorance about the source of the unexpected undergarments. Worse, Terra said that Ferro's wife was in the stands, and that divorce proceedings are on the way.

I just finished watching the Netherlands/Portugal semi-final in the Euro 2004 tourney.

One of the charming things about watching old-tyme "football" is the custom of exchanging jerseys at the end of the match, which is either a symbol of sportsmanship, or a deeply homoerotic exercise, I can't decide which.

There are serious dangers here, though, and they don't all revolve around the potential for sweat-borne disease, such as ecxema, malaria, and dengue fever.

Consider this scenario, where Team A has triumphed over Team B, and then swapped shirts:

Team B: Right, guv'nor, let's have the trophy, then.

Guv'nor: But, but, you're not Team A,

Team B: Sure we are. We're all dressed in Team A jerseys. What more proof do you need?

Guv'nor: Well, then, here you go. I'm mainly concerned with banging the new secretary, anyway.

Team B: Hurrah!

Team A: Hey!

Team B: Get lost, Team B.

I'm not saying it's likely. But it could happen. And don't kid yourself, Osama bin Laden is already planning along these lines. Al-Qaeda? Or B-Qaeda? How will we tell them apart?

I will be live-blogging the Olympics.

Just the shot-putting competition, mind you. If I have some spare time, then I'll try to cover the rhythmic gymnastics. Or water polo.

When will water polo gain the audience it deserves?

Tune in 24/7 for all the shot-putting/rhythmic gymnastics/water polo coverage you can handle!

What's that? You can't handle all the shot-putting/rhythmic/gymnastics/water polo coverage?

Fair enough. Then I'm not going to provide it.

i can`t help it I`m a quitter
from inside I`m cold and bitter

-- gas giants

It was while watching the springboard synchronized diving competition that I realized I couldn't blog the Olympics anymore.

Even after cashing in all my frequent-flier miles and savings bonds; and selling most of my furniture and my (left, slightly damaged) kidney, I can no longer afford to fly to Athens; return home; blog the Olympics; return to Athens; return home; blog the Olympics; repeat; rinse; repeat. In retrospect, I think I should have brought the laptop with me.

From Iraq The Model:

Iraqi football team won against Australia 1-0 to reach the semifinal for the first time in Iraq's history. Now we are going to play for a medal! Iraq has one medal only in her Olypic record; a bronze one that we won in weight-lifting back in 1960.

This is the *BEST* acheivment Iraq has ever acheived in soccer. Strange isn't it!? Not to me! I really expected that despite the difficult life in Iraq that our athletes were going to perform better than ever, and I believe it's the effect of freedom.

Right now there is lots of shooting into the air (I don't like it but at least Iraqis are happy and it's better to waste bullets this way).

I know some of our American friends are upset with the Iraqi team because of the latest comments of some players, but this is Iraq, not 1 or 2 players and the player who said these terrible words didn't even play! I wish you could forget that idiot and join us in our celebrations, as the truth must be said, it's a victory that you helped in in so many ways.

And check out the comments. 340 and counting.

Me, I've started to chat with the spammers.

MosNews:

If you’ve ever seen a rubber woman, you know it must take a lot of imagination to, er, handle her the way you’re supposed to. Some Russian men and women apparently have even more imagination to spare — 126 of them used inflatable sex dolls as flotation devices to raft down rapids in the vicinity of St. Petersburg.

The second Bubble Baba Challenge (in Russian, baba stands for “woman,” only unlike the other word for woman, zhenschina, conveys not a shred of respect) was held on the Vuoksa river that runs in northwestern Russia a year after the first contest. Dmitry Bulawinov, the mastermind and organizer behind the unusual sporting event, says the idea of floating down the river in the embraces of a rubber woman was conceived as a joke at a party where the men got drunk and the women didn’t show up. While considering the possible uses for a rubber woman on a camping trip, someone voiced the thought that a sex doll would make a handy flotation device.

[ . . . ]

Although vastly outnumbered by men excited about floating down the river atop a rubber chick, women did compete in the contest, finding nothing odd about using such unusual “lifesavers.” Bulawinov and other organizers try to be fair and leave open the option of floating down on rubber men dolls, but unfortunately, they can’t rent them out like they do the rubber women.

They rent them out?

Ewww.

Via Bifurcated Rivets

in the clearing stands a boxer
and a fighter by his trade
and he carries the reminders
of ev’ry glove that laid him down

-- simon and garfunkel

I wonder if boxers ever wear their championship belts when they're out and around on the town?

You know the things I'm referring to? Those huge bellybands encrusted with rhinestones? About half the height of the boxer?

It's difficult to imagine fitting it into your standard belt loops, and you'd look like one of those old retired guys with your pants hitched up to your armpits if you ever did manage it.

Most boxers aren't that well known apart from the heavyweights and a few others like Sugar Ray Leonard or Oscar de la Hoya. Nobody knows who the junior featherweight champion is. At least I don't.

So it'd be nice if he had a small, decorous ribbon or medal that he could pin on his lapel to denote his mastery of the Sweet Science.

Rather than something that belongs above his mantleplace, if even there.

Because it looks like a hernia truss.

Well, it does.

i wanna be a high school football hero
with an s.a.t. score less than zero
i wanna try to drink my weight in beer-o

a.f.i.

I won't be live-blogging tomorrow's Super Bowl, as I've got a few other things to do.

Also, I am still bitter about last year's effort. Or maybe I'm still hungover.

I shall, however, venture a brave prediction: New England wins, 24-10.

I would also like to point out that the Patriots' star linebacker has the second-most-perfect American name:

Tedy Bruschi. Pronounced "Brewski." As in "Fetch me another brewski while you're up."

And yes, the spelling of his first name is as it's listed on both the Patriots' and NFL's official pages. So that's why it's only the second-most perfect American name

The first-most-perfect American name? Former U.S. Secretary of State Lawrence Eagleburger. These guys should really get together and open up a sports bar. They could call it Larry and Tedy's or something.

Relax Thumb, Come Through Ball

Don't try to over lift or turn the ball during the release. It will only cause muscling and misdirection of your arm swing. Instead just relax your thumb and come cleanly through the ball as you release it and follow through, keeping your eyes focused on your target. For a strong release you need good lower body leverage (legs) and you also need to finish up close to the foul line . . .

Above all else, mentally fix your release point and stick to it.

Update: Here's a version with sound.

Outsports:

�Stefan was the leader of the group, and he has in his file that he was accused and found guilty of consorting with a goat at the age of 15,� said the coach.

This scandal has made its way to UEFA, but the organization has no rules that govern homosexual behavior. �It is not in our jurisdiction,� said a representative of the body. �It is a matter for the Bulgarian football association.�

�They [the four teammates] are a bunch of big homos,� said the report. �All of this stuff has been going on on the team. They have been caught doing this before, but the coaches thought that it was just drunken horseplay.�

It started at a bar called Martinitza, where the manager found the owner of the team with two transvestites and Anton, who is a homosexual gypsy singer. One of the 18 year olds on the team was copying Anton�s style, but Anton is much shorter.

Just for the record, I would like to make it clear that I do not spend much -- nay, not even a jot or tittle of time at sites such as Outsports.

Robert apparently does, though.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Via A Welsh View

now different feelings come to me, confusion in my mind
a different rhythm, a different mood
is pulling me out of time

sally oldfield

Gizmodo:

The real winner of the games may be Apple, however, as its iPod is getting tons of free exposure to a worldwide audience. Though Apple doesn�t specifically target athletes, Olympians from figure skater Kimmie Meissner to snowboarder Shaun White have been spotted using Apple�s little music device during their runs.

Sounds like a recipe for a broken leg to me -- but as I've noted, I'm not an expert (I just play one on the blogs).

pretty lonely, ugly woman
getting mail from you
pretty lucky are you real or am i simply ugly ugly

lisa germano

Number 34 with the sheepish expression is Gabe Pruitt, starting point guard for the USC Trojans. Behind him you will see rival Berkeley fans. They seem very amused.

I wonder why that is?

Those Germans! Always with the jokes:

BERLIN (Reuters) - Police in Berlin said on Wednesday they had arrested two men on suspicion of placing cement-filled soccer balls around the city and inviting people to kick them. At least two people injured themselves by kicking the balls, which were chained to lampposts and trees alongside the spray-painted message: "Can you kick it?"

Police said they had identified a 26-year-old and a 29-year-old and had found a workshop in their apartment where they made the balls. The two are accused of causing serious physical injury, dangerous obstruction of traffic and causing injury through negligence, police said.

Here's a tastier idea:

The Play & Freeze is shaped like a football with a metal cylinder inside. The cylinder is where you add your ingredients. We were making vanilla ice-cream so our ingredients, which we prepared earlier as they say, were sugar, cream, eggs and vanilla pods. Ingredients to make 0.5 litre of vanilla ice-cream cost us around �2.00. With the cylinder in place inside the football, the rest of the space is packed with as much ice as you can fit in, plus salt. Rock salt is recommended but we used table salt and it worked fine. Rock salt should enhance the freezing ability.

Roll it around (kicking or heading it would be a bad idea, as it weighs about six pounds fully loaded) for 20 minutes or so, and presto: perfectly barbequed chicken.

Oh, the World Cup? My heart says France (it would be nice to see Zidane go out on top retire without actually killing someone) but my head says Italy. However, since my mouth hasn't said anything, you'll have difficulty proving it in court.

All is not gaiety at the gay Outgames:

Homophobic locker-room jokes by members of a Laval water polo team have "blighted" the Outgames experience of competitors from London, the British squad's manager said yesterday [...]

[...] before competition resumed, Rajotte read a prepared statement condemning the remarks made by the Laval players and asking the offending four to withdraw from the tournament, which they did.

Even short-handed, the team proved too strong for the competition. Laval advanced to the gold-medal match yesterday in the inaugural Outgames water polo tournament [...]

Good Lord, what manner of wussies are these people? Gimme that old-time water polo any day:

The only direct bearing these events had in Melbourne came when the Soviet water polo team met the Hungarians in the semifinals. Hungary won 4-0, but the match turned ugly after a Hungarian player was pulled bleeding from the pool with a deep gash over his eye from a Soviet head butt. A brawl quickly ensued involving both players and spectators and the police had to step in to prevent a riot.

In other sporting news:

From worrying about which bridge to crash under for the night, to jetting off to Africa for an international soccer tournament -- homeless men are being picked for Canada's Homeless World Cup team. Players from Calgary are in Winnipeg today vying to make it to the tournament, which sees 48 squads meeting in South Africa, next month.

I did some checking; and yep, it's for real. Here's the Wikipedia entry for it. You'll notice that Canada does about as well at the Homeless World Cup as it does at the real thing.

The cheapest air fare I found for a roundtrip Toronto-Johannesburg ticket at this time of year is $2300, not counting taxes and fees -- but just think of all the money on hotel rooms that they'll save.

Via Nealenews

The little barbarians! Someone get me Don Cherry's email address.

Warning: Music, "violence."

That's what it's called -- the football card pictures of a ballcarrier with one leg in the air, straight-arming an imaginary would-be tackler. At least that's what it's called on this site. I can't find any other reference to it on Google or in Wikipedia.

If it's not called the "ol' huck 'n' buck" -- it damned well should be. I suspect that after Google indexes this page, the pressure to call it the "ol' huck 'n' buck" will be unstoppable. (The pose, that is. I think Google's name is still safe.)

There are three pages of quality huckness 'n' buckitude. Or photos of the rejects from a Bolshoi Ballet audition. The link to the next is at the centre-bottom of each page (it's hard to see, but lights up when you hover your cursor over it).

England's loss to Croatia in the Euro 2008 qualifying rounds got off to an amusing start, at least.

Ananova:

Tony Henry was trying to sing the national anthem in Croatian, but reportedly got the words wrong.

Fans say the mispronounciation helped the players relax before the game at Wembley where Croatia beat England 3-2.

The national anthem is written in old style Croatian, and there can be slightly different interpretations in English because it is a very lyrical language.

The line in which Henry slipped up should have been "mila kuda si planina" (You know my dear how we love your mountains).

Which is kind of suggestive all by itself.

But what he actually sang was "mila kura si planina" which means "Dear Penis, you are a Mountain" or "My Dear, my penis is a mountain".

Croat players like Manchester City's Vedran Corluka and Arsenal target Luka Modric started looking at each other and grinning when they realised what he was singing.

Croat fan websites have been calling for Henry to be given a medal of honour for helping the players relax, they also want him made an official team mascot for the tournament.

I think they should make the change official. It's much more intimidating than "You'll Never Walk Alone."

*

The Minnesota Timberwolves' Rashad McCants shoots a jumper in a game last night. In related news, Kyle Korver of the Utah Jazz has apparently spotted a spider or a mouse or something real icky on the floor.

Via nba.com

I don't know what to make of this. I ran across it at Breitbart.com, picking up on a NY Daily News report and the AP wire:

NEW YORK (AP) - New York Rangers forward Sean Avery was taken to a hospital in cardiac arrest hours after the team lost a playoff game to the Pittsburgh Penguins, the Daily News reported Wednesday on its Web site.

The newspaper reported Avery was unconscious and not breathing when he was taken to St. Vincent's Medical Center. The 28-year-old arrived about 3 a.m. Wednesday, a hospital source told the newspaper.

A person close to the team told the newspaper Avery had been rushed to the hospital.

The Rangers lost 5-3 at home Tuesday night, falling behind 3-0 in their second-round series with the Penguins.

Avery had an assist on the Rangers' second goal in Tuesday night's game.

Update: Just heard on the radio that the Rangers' super-pest is being treated for a lacerated spleen and is expected to miss the rest of the series (which isn't going to be much longer, anyway).

As you are about to find out in the next 1/100th of a second. I haven't seen so much panic since the Titanic went down.

Full size here.

I had no idea the Preakness Stakes had gotten so, um, rambunctious.

that Red Bull doesn't give you wings?

Fanhouse:

This is Russian high jumper Ivan Ukhov failing miserably on a jump at the Lausanne Grand Prix, going under the bar instead of over it: So what was Ukhov's problem? It hasn't been reported in the English-language media, but in other countries the stories say that he was jumping under the influence of Red Bull and vodka.

Another view here:

This clip predates the (commercial) Internet by some years: I saw it on TV in the late 80s. I've been looking for it off and on, searching YouTube occasionally to see if someone's uploaded it. An Internet-wide search finally found it. Enjoy!

Jeff's Boxing:

In Southhampton, England on September 9, 1989, Tony Wilson fought Steve McCarthy. On the third round Wilson was knocked down and he was able to get up before the 8th count. He was then bombarded by McCarthy on the rope. The referee seemed to stop the fight by TKO, but wait... a lady, later known as Mi[n]na Wilson, Tony Wilson's mother, entered the ring and smashed [her] son's opponent's head twice with her high heeled shoes.

I had been under the impression that McCarthy, who had to withdraw, was declared the victor; shockingly that wasn't the case.

NY Times:

The British Boxing Board of Control, meeting in London yesterday, ruled that Tony Wilson could keep his victory over Steve McCarthy on his record, even though Wilson's mother landed the winning blows with her high-heeled shoe in a light-heavyweight bout in Southampton, England, Sept. 21.

The board said it would honor the referee's final decision despite ''the unsatisfactory nature of the ending of this contest.'' A rematch will be held at a different site, under tight security at ringside, and without Minna Wilson present.

In the third round of the fight, for a shot at the British light-heavyweight championship, McCarthy punched Wilson to the mat for an 8-count. Wilson's mother climbed into the ring and started beating McCarthy's head with one of her shoes, opening a large wound, which required hospital treatment and forced McCarthy to retire. Under the rules, the referee gave Wilson the victory.(AP)

Though I doubt it was much of a bragging point in his career, assuming he didn't die of embarrassment, that is.

If you'll recall Michael Moore's "documentary "Fahrenheit 9/11 you probably remember this scene of George W. Bush on a golf course, intended to prove that he was a heartless monster who played at the bourgeous pastime of railroad tycoons and oligarchs while soldiers bled in the grim streets of Baghdad. That was the theory, anyway. All that I took away from it was that Bush has a nice golf swing, compact but powerful.

Indeed his innate athleticism has long been noted. In 1999 Golf magazine credited the then-Governor with a 15-point handicap, calling it "legitimate" in comparison to Bill Clinton's.

But what's this? Barack Obama turns up on a list of the 200 best golfers in Washington, with an "estimated" handicap of 16. One problem with that might be found in this video:

If that terrible, herky-jerky swing qualifies for a 16 handicap, then my name is now Tiger Freaking Woods.

that these two horses would finish first and second? (Track in New Jersey, I think.)

Via The Presurfer

Ottawa Citizen:

A trio of former NHL enforcers are poised to launch a lawsuit against CBC hockey commentator Don Cherry for comments he made last Thursday.

The Montreal Gazette, citing sources, reports that the Tennessee law firm Kay, Griffin, Enkema & Colbert will release a statement Tuesday morning from former NHL players Chris Nilan, Jim Thomson and Stu Grimson indicating the players are not satisfied with Cherry’s explanation of the comments two nights later, and making clear that they expect a full apology from the CBC commentator.

In an episode of Coach’s Corner that aired last Thursday, Cherry referred to the Nilan, Thomson and Grimson as “pukes,” “hypocrites” and “turncoats.”

The statement is expected to indicate that the players feel Cherry’s comments were vulgar and malicious and, in light of his limited attempt to qualify his comments Saturday, they are considering further action to force an apology.

C'mon, let's settle this like the (highly-effeminate) warriors you are: Powder puffs at dawn (or Don, if you prefer to throw pun-ches).

The Miami Heat came into tonight's match with the Chicago Bulls riding a four-game winning streak, so they certainly haven't stunk on the floor. It did stink, though, in the first quarter on the Heat bench, when someone (we're guessing Juwan Howard, given he's the only one not reacting) let a stinkbomb fly—much to his teammates' dismay.

Warning: Sound, music

Via Ace Of Spades HQ

New York Post:

When Beijing kicked off its 2008 Olympics, the ceremony celebrated an ideal China. Sweatshops, the Cultural Revolution and the absence of democracy went unmentioned. But the West is more sophisticated — so next week’s opening of the London Games will go for the gold in historical guilt, re-opening old wounds and national self-loathing.

The July 27 ceremony, conceived by Oscar-winning “Slumdog Millionaire” and “Trainspotting” director Danny Boyle, will pay careful attention to Britain’s shame, with tableaux devoted to the denial of voting rights to women, Industrial Revolution pollution, the Great Depression and exploitation of the workers.

Instead of celebrating Nelson and Wellington, the show will feature scary soldiers “erupting” out of the ground like lava. A centerpiece will be a reenactment of a 200-mile 1936 workers’ march from the North to London to protest living conditions.

“Brideshead Revisited,” this ain’t. Call it Painspotting.

Yet another reason to skip the opening ceremonies.

Not that I was planning to watch much of the rest, either.

Mark Steyn:

But where was that much-vaunted British sense of irony on opening night? The overhead camera settled on robotic formations of grateful apple-cheeked urchins in a giant children’s ward spelling out the letters N-H-S like a Busby Berkeley chorus in Gold Diggers of 1935 — and, horrifyingly, they seemed to mean it. Had the pageant been truer to life, the patients would have left their hospital beds riddled with C. difficile, MRSA, septicemia, and the other parting gifts that attend a stay in an NHS hospital. But no; when the state religion of government medicine comes up, the dark irony of Danny Boyle, the epitome of Blair-era Cool Britannia, withers and dies like a geriatric waiting for her hip replacement. And all this in the week that the nation’s doctors are going on strike.