Question: if there was sufficient enough technology to officially read the velocity of a thrown baseball 34 years ago, why isn't there enough to officially read and record the velocity of a thrown baseball today?
This is something that has puzzled me for... okay, the better part of an hour. But when something's wrong it's wrong, no matter how long one ponders its wrongness. It all started shortly after Venus Williams scorched the Wimbledon sod with a 127-mph flamethrower of an ace this afternoon. No woman had ever hit a faster serve at the Lawn Tennis Club than Ms. Williams, who now holds the distinction of owning speed records in all four women's tennis majors.
Of course, talk of Venus' records can't help but turn to baseball. (Hey, it's either this or a "Why can't our technology match up with that of Great Britain?" segue.) Throughout the evening edition of ESPN's SportsCenter, Williams' howitzer was compared to the highest recognized speeds in other sporting endeavors. One segment compared the serve to Al MacInnes' 100-mph slapper in an NHL All-Star Weekend event. Another brought up the current land-speed record of 700+ mph. And the baseball equivalent ESPN mentioned? Nolan Ryan's 100.9-mph rocket, recorded August 20, 1974.
The majority of online baseball record sites recognize Joel Zumaya as the sport's rocket-launching record-holder, crowning either the supernova that passed Yankees slugger Jason Giambi at 103.0 mph in the eighth inning of Game 2 of the 2006 ALDS, or the pitch during Game 2 of the 2006 ALCS at Oakland's McAfee (Almeda County) Coliseum that rang the guns at a jaw-dropping 104.8 mph. Yet oddly enough, the Major League Baseball records site notes that they "don't recognize radar speeds as an official statistic." Other concurring sources discredit the validity of the guns (and gunners) used to clock Zumaya and other present-day pitchers, claiming that a pitcher's arm velocity can impede the consistency and uniformity of the results, questioning the calibration of the equipment and even suggesting that the numbers are intentionally "dialed up". (Let it be noted at this point that no one, particularly the USTA, has questioned the validity of any of Venus Williams' records, nor the means by which each was documented.)
According to the Guiness Book of World Records, "The greatest reliably recorded speed at which a baseball has been pitched is 100.9 mph by Lynn Nolan Ryan (California Angels) at Anaheim Stadium in California on August 20, 1974." (link: http://www.baseball-almanac.com/recbooks/rb_guin.shtml) So. If there was sufficient enough technology in 1974 for the folks at Guinness (the world records house, not the brewing company, although knocking a few stouts back may help one make sense of all this), why isn't there enough in 2008? What mad skill do we as a society no longer possess?
Given their insistence on verification--representatives will routinely travel to all parts of the globe to witness a mere attempt--why wouldn't Team Guinness have investigated much less recorded Randy Johnson a decade ago, when The Mullet rountinely hit triple digits (and the occasional Floridian sea bird)? Or why wouldn't they be ready to track the pitches of a now-healthy Zumaya this season? Mind you, this is the same bastion of authenticity that allowed a chopped-up videotaped screen capture to serve as proof of an arcade game's all-time high score (yes, I saw "King Of Kong", so you're not pulling one past me!).
Being from Detroit, I have watched Zoom-Zoom throw 101-103 mph consistently in short relief. If a verification of the speed gun used to record these pitches is all that's standing in the way of making any of them qualify as world records, why on earth wouldn't there have been an attempt to document this legitimately? Especially since the gold standard for pitching velocity dates all the way back to 1974? ESPECIALLY considering how willingly they allowed another 1974 record to fall by the wayside. Funny how the juice-filled final years of Barry Bonds' career will likely keep him from something as subjective as Cooperstown, yet they're good enough for the pocket-protecting savants running the world's foremost keeper of its records.
And as for Zumaya and his numerous 103mph tallies (which, by the way, have been clocked on numerous speed guns by numerous people)? Sorry dude. Never happened. We can't prove the accuracy of the recording mechanisms.
Maybe we should just chalk it up to the screwed-up mess that is Major League Baseball, whose rules twist logic around as effortlessly as a Dr. Seuss book. The damage this game repeatedly inflicts upon itself is already a matter of record. Yet the very records themselves are precisely what allure the core of its audience: the "stat geeks", the guy sitting in your row amid a pile of peanut shells who's scored every game since the Dodgers left Brooklyn.
Adding to the irony is the fact that the one outlet ideally suited for these fanatical misfits happens to be the only major sport without things like, oooh I don't know, consistent playing field dimensions--uniformity typically being an important component of all comparative research. Not to mention the only major sport where one teams plays under different rules, with roster positions other teams are not permitted to have. Then again, we're talking about a league run by a commissioner content with ending its All-Star game in a tie; cancelling the World Series--THE WORLD SERIES--rather than working with its players union to reach an agreement; and turning his back on the rampant widespread violation of its drug policy because a home run battle was just what he needed to bring the fans back. So how important can maintaining the integrity and consistency of its record book possibly be?
Consider last Friday night's nonsense. The New York Mets' Carlos Delgato set a Major League single-game record for most RBIs by a designated hitter with nine in the first game of the Mets' day-night "Subway Series" double-header against the Yankees. Lost in Delgato's impressive performance is this little fact that the Mets are a National League team and as such, do not recognize the designated hitter rule except for the handful of times when they play an American League team in their ball park.
The list of absurdities grows with each passing day, a fiction no writer who values his reputation would dare write. Even as I type this, another "rule" has popped up that simply defies explanation. For some reason, someone in the MLB brain trust (oxymoron noted) decided to change the definition of no-hitter a decade or so ago. From that point forward the feat would no longer be based on the accomplishments of a pitcher. Nope, throwing a complete game without giving up a hit wasn't enough; the pitcher's team must score enough runs to win the game as well.
Technically, the rule was changed to include that the game must consist of "at least nine innings". Perhaps this was a means to prevent a pitcher with six innings of hitless ball under his belt in a rain-shortened game from receiving "no-hitter" status. However, since a team doesn't need their final at-bat when they're winning a home game, the addendum also excludes any poor saps who toss a no-hitter on the road when their team loses.
So on this asterisk of a night, the Mighty Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim's Jerred Weaver and Jose Arrendondo teamed up to blank their cross-town rivals at Dodger Stadium. But there was no celebration, no ride on teammates' shoulders. Why? Because their team couldn't score and the Angels lost the game, 1-0. But more specifically, because they performed this feat on the road. Had the pair pulled this off in Orange County, the Dodgers would have batted in the top of the ninth inning. In other words, you can throw a complete-game no-hitter and lose, so long as you're pitching for the home team.
Despite the fact that it's officially in the books as a complete game and the Dodger line has been duly recorded as one run, zero hits and two errors, this incredible performance is denied recognition as an accomplishment that could have, should have and would have been the defining moment of their careers. And a sport who three times this season has failed to identify a home run (and it's only June), has drifted further away from the game it once was.
I'd recommend pulling the plug on the entire league, but I don't think they're capable of recognizing their own demise.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
"Can a nun really say that?"
"You're in for a long night!"
The cabbie snickered at us as he pulled his taxi in front of our suburban hotel. Its yellow and black exterior should have served as a clue. We were in the only city with team colors, Pittsburgh. Home to the black-and-gold Steelers, black-and-gold Pirates, and the Eastern Conference Champion Penguins, who--suprisingly--wear black and gold.
Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals, my first-ever NHL playoff road game with the Red Wings, was a jersey game. I brought two sweaters with me for the ride assuming something divine would point me one way or the other over the course of our four-and-a-half-hour journey. Would it be the Nick Lidstrom 1998 Stanley Cup jersey, with the "Believe!" patch on its left shoulder and the long since forgotten alternate "A" on the chest? Or Igor Larionov's Cup jersey from 2002, the year he broke by a single day the record for the oldest player to score a goal in the Stanley Cup Finals (his goal in the third overtime coming after midnight, technically a day after his second-period goal in the same game set the original record)? Though #5 was the current team captain and #8 was retired, pimping his own bottled wine and waiting for a call from the Hall of Fame, I had to go with Igor tonight. It helped that my buddy Mike was sporting fellow Russian Vladmir Konstantinov's #16. Why just be loathed as mere Detroit fans when you can work in the dual-hatred of the Soviet Union?
So after tossing a few race bombs into the back seat of his cab--hey, they're white dudes from the D, they must be bigots too--the taxi driver pulled up to the curb in front of the Igloo (now referred to as Mellon Arena) and spilled us out. We turned to face the arena and noticed one thing. There wasn't a red jersey to be found. Nothing that even bore the color, with the exception of the cycling traffic light at the corner. So... let the insults begin!
We had a third companion with us, our friend Doug, who chose to do other things with his money (which, tickets being what they were, could have included booking a Virgin Islands vacation). He preferred to mill about the crowd outside the rink and just be. I had yet to put my jersey on. I was meeting a Pens fan outside the arena, a guy I had already sent roughly $1,000 to, and I didn't want to cause him any reason to just keep walking. I had already bought tickets to this game four times... twice I bailed out on the deal after google searches of their names revealed everything from securities fraud to web sites on scrotum reduction. (You read it right; I can't make up this kind of stuff.)
"What, you too scared to wear your jersey?"
The first taunt came from a cute 20-something female. Frankly, I couldn't wait to walk into the Pittsburgh Penguins' arena sporting the winged wheel. Bring it on. I like this city actually, being a long-standing Steeler fan. And despite our being outnumbered and verbally abused, I didn't feel the least bit threatened. Trust me, I've been physically threatened in Columbus, I've had drinks thrown at me in East Lansing and I've had fans chant "You suck!" at me--and my son. This atmosphere, even at its worst, was nothing like that. But it was no walk along the Monongahela River either.
In fact, the only friendly face we found was the large, paper mache head of a black and gold penguin (see photo). Even he yelled out a muffled epithet as we walked off, but as you can see, we took what we could get.
We waded through the crowd like Moses waded through the Red Sea. There's a scene in the movie Juno where the camera follows a visibly pregnant Ellen Page down her high-school hallway and her classmates back away if they could get knocked up on contact. Yeah, it was like that. But it was exciting. Rarely is one put in a position where they are hated by so many people in the same place at the same time. The situation was right for performance art.
I had seen an exhibit a few years back in Los Angeles from a photographer who would incite groups of people and capture them in full-blown rage as they chased him down the street. This gallery filled my mind as our pathway approached a crowd of thousands camped before a large-screen TV outside the Igloo. I had a similar chance to capture the instantaneous anger of hundreds of hard-core hockey fans, directed at me. I couldn't resist.
So I stopped before them in my red and white jersey (I couldn't have garnered as much attention naked), flapped my arms and yelled, "Can I get a little Red Wings love here?" This was the response.
"The police should take you guys away in handcuffs!"
It wasn't merely that the comment came from a five-year-old boy. It was that he was just getting warmed up. His laughing father held him back as we passed, while the kid struggled to free himself as if to say, "And another thing..." By the time we approached the doors of the arena, we were novelty to the point of celebrity. Strangers approached us asking if we'd take pictures with them (see below). Others would hurl F-bombs at us, then turn around and say "But Igor's cool though" or "Nice Vladdy jersey".
Inside the door, we received our "Mellon Arena White Out" shirts and Cup Crazy rally towels, and local Stanley Cup Finals programs, full-color small-format magazines they gave away for free. Nice touch... hear that, Mr. I? We then worked our way past the jeers and promises of bodily injury to level E, and found our seats... in the very last row, deep below the overhang of section F. An old rickety air conditioner rattled ceasingly throughout the game, and while we had a complete view of the arena, we could see nothing else beyond that. If I bent down till my chin touched my knees, I could see the Jumbotron (which I did for this shot of the opening face-off):
When we arrived at our seats, the fan next to us immediately grabbed his cell phone. "You sold your seats to f---ing Red Wings fans? You are a f---ing a--hole!" he screamed and slapped the phone shut. He wouldn't even look at us at first, but his friend was more understanding. (By the start of the third period, we were laughing it up... they even vowed to take us to the city's famous Strip District after the game for a steak and egg sandwich at Primanti's delicatessen.)
Ice-cold beers in our mitts, we watched the player intros amid the deafening roar of the Penguin faithful. In a scene reminiscent of Le Colisee in Quebec during a Nordiques playoff game, or the Jets' last game in Winnepeg in 1996 when the Red Wings closed them out in game 6 of the Western Conference semis, the entire arena went white... from the ice to the stands. Take a peek again at the face-off photo above. I counted people wearing red from our vantage point and came up with 47. 47 out of the roughly 10,000 fans in my eyesight (the arena seats 17,000). Indimidating only scratches the surface. Place was LOUD.
Anyway the chrome dome nearly blew from the ground when Pittsburgh's Marian Hossa scored the game's opening goal five minutes in. Both teams had performed extremely well when scoring the game's first goal... and extremely poorly when giving up said goal. The Mellon nearly split like a cantaloupe from the exposion, and it stayed crazy as the game continued. Minutes later, while on the power play, Lidstrom blasted a shot from outside the left circle that passed Pens' goalie Marc-Andre Fleury and into the net to tie the score. We yelled out "Yesss!" and high-fived, as the profanity rained down on us like so much Iron City beer.
The tight-checking 1-1 game worked its way into the third period, with Wings goalie Chris Osgood standing on his head once again with save after mystifying save, one knocking him clear into the crease--all but his trapper, that is. Then, just a few minutes into the third, Detroit's Brad Stuart settled the puck in the neutral zone and worked it in deep to Darren Helm, whose cross-ice pass hit a streaking Jiri Hudler. Alone on Fleury, the lightning-quick Czech fired a backhand shot off the right post and the goalie's leg to put Detroit ahead to stay.
But the game was anything but won at that point. Detroit had fought off a disproportionate number of short-handed situations all game long, and with ten minutes left, faced a 1:26-long 5-on-3 advantage.
"Now we're back in this game!" the once-silent Penguin fan beside me proclaimed. "But if you don't score, it's over," I shot back. And the Red Wings denied Pittsburgh any more than a single shot during their entire power play. The highlight and what will surely become the snapshot moment of the game if not the series, was Henrik Zetterberg's clamp-down on Sydney Crosby as the 20-year-old phenom awaited a centering pass at the mouth of the net. Ozzie was beaten on the play and the talented Swede was all that was in the way of a 2-2 tie game. But Crosby could barely touch the puck, much less get the puck on net, and the one remaining opportunity was snuffed out by yet another spectacular save by the once-maligned Osgood. The fuzzy-faced netminder--even in his mid-30s--who has allowed a grand total of one goal in three Red Wings victories, now sits a win away from his third Stanley Cup, second as a starter. And with his career statistics climbing up the list of the very best goaltenders of all time, that win may be enough for him to reach the Hall of Fame.
After the game, I couldn't help but get a picture holding my lucky little repliCup (see photo below). As I worked my way down to arena level, one last drunken idiot threw a vile string of profane name-calling. I turned to him, smiled and pointed at the scoreboard, which sent him into hysterics. I looked back at him as his five friends looked away in embarrasment. As I told a Pittsburgh fan earlier that evening, this team will win one, maybe two Cups in the next five years, so chill out.
We met up with our wandering friend and the three of us headed to the Marriott, where ESPN had taken up shop. The hotel bar was crawling with Red Wings faithful--FINALLY!--and we celebrated this magnificent victory with our own for a change. I even met a couple fans from Alberta, who all but invited us up some weekend next winter to catch back-to-back Calgary Flames and Edmonton Oilers games. Yet the afterglow still wasn't without incident. A slurry, drooling punk actually threatened a gang attack on me--twice--yet each time I asked him to repeat what he just said, he wouldn't. I've been described many ways, but imposing has never been one of the adjectives. It was one final case of idle threat by drunken fan. And from Pittsburgh of all places, a city I respected for its toughness. I'd never witnessed sore loser to this degree before... and I have season tickets for Michigan football!
We ended the night at a sports bar by our hotel, gloating before sunken-spirited Penguins one last time before we retired for the night. Sunday morning was the long trip back home. Well okay, the four-and-a-half-hour ride home. But we had two items left on our Steel-town agenda. First, a visit to the Andy Warhol Museum. No way do we miss that experience, even if for just two hours. The silver clouds room alone (where you walked along a swirling hallway filled with massive rectangular mylar pillows) was worth it. And second, of course, Primanti's. And not just any Primanti's, the Strip District Primanti's (or "the dirty one" as our adjacent Penguin friends referred to it the previous evening). Though the Red Wings win killed their "free lunch" offer, the thought of having the city's signature steak and egg sandwich was too good to pass up. (FYI, they serve them with cole slaw and fries inside the sandwich, a recipe designed to enable steel workers to enjoy an entire meal packed conveniently within two slices of bread).
It's a weekend I won't soon forget. At least until Detroit and Pittsburgh line up for a Stanley Cup rematch next May. Or the one after that. Without a doubt, these two franchises will meet again. The Penguins are too talented not to make it back and the Red Wings are just too smart.
The cabbie snickered at us as he pulled his taxi in front of our suburban hotel. Its yellow and black exterior should have served as a clue. We were in the only city with team colors, Pittsburgh. Home to the black-and-gold Steelers, black-and-gold Pirates, and the Eastern Conference Champion Penguins, who--suprisingly--wear black and gold.
Game 4 of the Stanley Cup Finals, my first-ever NHL playoff road game with the Red Wings, was a jersey game. I brought two sweaters with me for the ride assuming something divine would point me one way or the other over the course of our four-and-a-half-hour journey. Would it be the Nick Lidstrom 1998 Stanley Cup jersey, with the "Believe!" patch on its left shoulder and the long since forgotten alternate "A" on the chest? Or Igor Larionov's Cup jersey from 2002, the year he broke by a single day the record for the oldest player to score a goal in the Stanley Cup Finals (his goal in the third overtime coming after midnight, technically a day after his second-period goal in the same game set the original record)? Though #5 was the current team captain and #8 was retired, pimping his own bottled wine and waiting for a call from the Hall of Fame, I had to go with Igor tonight. It helped that my buddy Mike was sporting fellow Russian Vladmir Konstantinov's #16. Why just be loathed as mere Detroit fans when you can work in the dual-hatred of the Soviet Union?
So after tossing a few race bombs into the back seat of his cab--hey, they're white dudes from the D, they must be bigots too--the taxi driver pulled up to the curb in front of the Igloo (now referred to as Mellon Arena) and spilled us out. We turned to face the arena and noticed one thing. There wasn't a red jersey to be found. Nothing that even bore the color, with the exception of the cycling traffic light at the corner. So... let the insults begin!
We had a third companion with us, our friend Doug, who chose to do other things with his money (which, tickets being what they were, could have included booking a Virgin Islands vacation). He preferred to mill about the crowd outside the rink and just be. I had yet to put my jersey on. I was meeting a Pens fan outside the arena, a guy I had already sent roughly $1,000 to, and I didn't want to cause him any reason to just keep walking. I had already bought tickets to this game four times... twice I bailed out on the deal after google searches of their names revealed everything from securities fraud to web sites on scrotum reduction. (You read it right; I can't make up this kind of stuff.)
"What, you too scared to wear your jersey?"
The first taunt came from a cute 20-something female. Frankly, I couldn't wait to walk into the Pittsburgh Penguins' arena sporting the winged wheel. Bring it on. I like this city actually, being a long-standing Steeler fan. And despite our being outnumbered and verbally abused, I didn't feel the least bit threatened. Trust me, I've been physically threatened in Columbus, I've had drinks thrown at me in East Lansing and I've had fans chant "You suck!" at me--and my son. This atmosphere, even at its worst, was nothing like that. But it was no walk along the Monongahela River either.
In fact, the only friendly face we found was the large, paper mache head of a black and gold penguin (see photo). Even he yelled out a muffled epithet as we walked off, but as you can see, we took what we could get.
We waded through the crowd like Moses waded through the Red Sea. There's a scene in the movie Juno where the camera follows a visibly pregnant Ellen Page down her high-school hallway and her classmates back away if they could get knocked up on contact. Yeah, it was like that. But it was exciting. Rarely is one put in a position where they are hated by so many people in the same place at the same time. The situation was right for performance art.
I had seen an exhibit a few years back in Los Angeles from a photographer who would incite groups of people and capture them in full-blown rage as they chased him down the street. This gallery filled my mind as our pathway approached a crowd of thousands camped before a large-screen TV outside the Igloo. I had a similar chance to capture the instantaneous anger of hundreds of hard-core hockey fans, directed at me. I couldn't resist.
So I stopped before them in my red and white jersey (I couldn't have garnered as much attention naked), flapped my arms and yelled, "Can I get a little Red Wings love here?" This was the response.
"The police should take you guys away in handcuffs!"
It wasn't merely that the comment came from a five-year-old boy. It was that he was just getting warmed up. His laughing father held him back as we passed, while the kid struggled to free himself as if to say, "And another thing..." By the time we approached the doors of the arena, we were novelty to the point of celebrity. Strangers approached us asking if we'd take pictures with them (see below). Others would hurl F-bombs at us, then turn around and say "But Igor's cool though" or "Nice Vladdy jersey".
Inside the door, we received our "Mellon Arena White Out" shirts and Cup Crazy rally towels, and local Stanley Cup Finals programs, full-color small-format magazines they gave away for free. Nice touch... hear that, Mr. I? We then worked our way past the jeers and promises of bodily injury to level E, and found our seats... in the very last row, deep below the overhang of section F. An old rickety air conditioner rattled ceasingly throughout the game, and while we had a complete view of the arena, we could see nothing else beyond that. If I bent down till my chin touched my knees, I could see the Jumbotron (which I did for this shot of the opening face-off):
When we arrived at our seats, the fan next to us immediately grabbed his cell phone. "You sold your seats to f---ing Red Wings fans? You are a f---ing a--hole!" he screamed and slapped the phone shut. He wouldn't even look at us at first, but his friend was more understanding. (By the start of the third period, we were laughing it up... they even vowed to take us to the city's famous Strip District after the game for a steak and egg sandwich at Primanti's delicatessen.)
Ice-cold beers in our mitts, we watched the player intros amid the deafening roar of the Penguin faithful. In a scene reminiscent of Le Colisee in Quebec during a Nordiques playoff game, or the Jets' last game in Winnepeg in 1996 when the Red Wings closed them out in game 6 of the Western Conference semis, the entire arena went white... from the ice to the stands. Take a peek again at the face-off photo above. I counted people wearing red from our vantage point and came up with 47. 47 out of the roughly 10,000 fans in my eyesight (the arena seats 17,000). Indimidating only scratches the surface. Place was LOUD.
Anyway the chrome dome nearly blew from the ground when Pittsburgh's Marian Hossa scored the game's opening goal five minutes in. Both teams had performed extremely well when scoring the game's first goal... and extremely poorly when giving up said goal. The Mellon nearly split like a cantaloupe from the exposion, and it stayed crazy as the game continued. Minutes later, while on the power play, Lidstrom blasted a shot from outside the left circle that passed Pens' goalie Marc-Andre Fleury and into the net to tie the score. We yelled out "Yesss!" and high-fived, as the profanity rained down on us like so much Iron City beer.
The tight-checking 1-1 game worked its way into the third period, with Wings goalie Chris Osgood standing on his head once again with save after mystifying save, one knocking him clear into the crease--all but his trapper, that is. Then, just a few minutes into the third, Detroit's Brad Stuart settled the puck in the neutral zone and worked it in deep to Darren Helm, whose cross-ice pass hit a streaking Jiri Hudler. Alone on Fleury, the lightning-quick Czech fired a backhand shot off the right post and the goalie's leg to put Detroit ahead to stay.
But the game was anything but won at that point. Detroit had fought off a disproportionate number of short-handed situations all game long, and with ten minutes left, faced a 1:26-long 5-on-3 advantage.
"Now we're back in this game!" the once-silent Penguin fan beside me proclaimed. "But if you don't score, it's over," I shot back. And the Red Wings denied Pittsburgh any more than a single shot during their entire power play. The highlight and what will surely become the snapshot moment of the game if not the series, was Henrik Zetterberg's clamp-down on Sydney Crosby as the 20-year-old phenom awaited a centering pass at the mouth of the net. Ozzie was beaten on the play and the talented Swede was all that was in the way of a 2-2 tie game. But Crosby could barely touch the puck, much less get the puck on net, and the one remaining opportunity was snuffed out by yet another spectacular save by the once-maligned Osgood. The fuzzy-faced netminder--even in his mid-30s--who has allowed a grand total of one goal in three Red Wings victories, now sits a win away from his third Stanley Cup, second as a starter. And with his career statistics climbing up the list of the very best goaltenders of all time, that win may be enough for him to reach the Hall of Fame.
After the game, I couldn't help but get a picture holding my lucky little repliCup (see photo below). As I worked my way down to arena level, one last drunken idiot threw a vile string of profane name-calling. I turned to him, smiled and pointed at the scoreboard, which sent him into hysterics. I looked back at him as his five friends looked away in embarrasment. As I told a Pittsburgh fan earlier that evening, this team will win one, maybe two Cups in the next five years, so chill out.
We met up with our wandering friend and the three of us headed to the Marriott, where ESPN had taken up shop. The hotel bar was crawling with Red Wings faithful--FINALLY!--and we celebrated this magnificent victory with our own for a change. I even met a couple fans from Alberta, who all but invited us up some weekend next winter to catch back-to-back Calgary Flames and Edmonton Oilers games. Yet the afterglow still wasn't without incident. A slurry, drooling punk actually threatened a gang attack on me--twice--yet each time I asked him to repeat what he just said, he wouldn't. I've been described many ways, but imposing has never been one of the adjectives. It was one final case of idle threat by drunken fan. And from Pittsburgh of all places, a city I respected for its toughness. I'd never witnessed sore loser to this degree before... and I have season tickets for Michigan football!
We ended the night at a sports bar by our hotel, gloating before sunken-spirited Penguins one last time before we retired for the night. Sunday morning was the long trip back home. Well okay, the four-and-a-half-hour ride home. But we had two items left on our Steel-town agenda. First, a visit to the Andy Warhol Museum. No way do we miss that experience, even if for just two hours. The silver clouds room alone (where you walked along a swirling hallway filled with massive rectangular mylar pillows) was worth it. And second, of course, Primanti's. And not just any Primanti's, the Strip District Primanti's (or "the dirty one" as our adjacent Penguin friends referred to it the previous evening). Though the Red Wings win killed their "free lunch" offer, the thought of having the city's signature steak and egg sandwich was too good to pass up. (FYI, they serve them with cole slaw and fries inside the sandwich, a recipe designed to enable steel workers to enjoy an entire meal packed conveniently within two slices of bread).
It's a weekend I won't soon forget. At least until Detroit and Pittsburgh line up for a Stanley Cup rematch next May. Or the one after that. Without a doubt, these two franchises will meet again. The Penguins are too talented not to make it back and the Red Wings are just too smart.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
It's Time.
This past season the Detroit Pistons paid tribute to their 50th year with the slogan, "50 Seasons, One Reason: It's Time." On Friday night their silver anniversary ended with the silver medal, a few feet lower on the podium and looking up to the franchise who's won gold more than anyone else. The Boston Celtics.
As the series we had waited for since last Halloween came to a close, we discovered how well the foe from Auburn Hills can disguise itself. Each spring for the past six years, the Pistons roll confidently into the conference finals. Each of the last three seasons, they run out of gas six games later. Rasheed Wallace (see my pic) seemed to epitomize the state of recent Piston fortunes in late May, with more fouls (five) than points (four). It's time, as the tag line suggests. Time to move forward.
Move forward, I say. Because simply breaking up the team isn't an option for team president Joe Dumars. Cogs and gears in the machine have atrophied, or just don't move as smoothly and cohesively as they once did. These elements must first be identified, then removed, then most importantly, upgraded. Five years ago, when Dumars said goodbye to Rick Carlisle, I decided to put my faith and trust in Joe. I figured that he must know what he's doing, and just because it made no sense to me doesn't mean I shouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt.
First, bringing in Larry Brown, who quickly toughened up the team. Second, scoring Rasheed Wallace. I was outspoken in my belief that this would blow up in Joe's face, but once again, he knew something few others did. He traded Lindsay Hunter away, only to pick him right back up off waivers. Dumars rolled the dice on journeyman after journeyman, nailing every hunch as if he has regular delivery of next week's newspaper. Rip Hamilton, Chauncey Billups, Ben Wallace, Antonio McDyess. And when Brown brought them to the brink of the title, he made sure some seven-foot stalwart was on the bench, readying himself to go one-on-one with Shaq.
So I trust in Joe to do what needs to be done to move forward. But hey, it's my blog, and as such it's my duty to make a few suggestions. Okay, predictions.
The nucleus will remain intact, because it should, because it has to. I see Rip, Chauncy and Teyshawn coming back. The backcourt works way too well for Joe to rip it apart (pardon the pun). Considering how well Rodney Stuckey played in the final few months, they may end up grooming the next generation Piston backcourt. Teyshawn is still young and despite disappearing in the final two games of the Boston series, well worth keeping at the three. Besides, it would be difficult, only four years after passing on Carmello Anthony and D-Wade in favor of Darko (now on the bench elsewhere), to have a need at that same position.
I see three components that need upgrades.
First, Rasheed Wallace. The most talented player on the team. A seven-footer who can post low and hit threes with consistency. A player with a swagger who usually backs it up. Next year is the final season of his contract, and he can still fetch a good return on investment through a trade. Imagine what Sheed could do for any one of these teams: Phoenix, LA, Portland, Dallas, Chicago, Cleveland, Orlando, Denver. Teams close but in need of cajones to help them rise up to the promised land. Joe can get quality enhancements from several of these teams, and I trust he will know the best course to take.
Second, Antonio McDyess. Not because he's a detriment, not at all. In fact, he had been one of the more consistent offensive weapons for the team, and just completed perhaps the strongest season of his career. But he's at peak efficiency, and at best will deliver similar numbers in the next couple years. The more likely scenario is that his game will drop a half-notch, then another. This is an opportunity for the Pistons to get young, strong and big down low. They can secure reserve Theo Ratliff for another year. But McDyess is a valuable commodity, and packaged with one of Detroit's young up-and-comers could be the key to landing a top-tier center. I won't even throw out names, but I have a sneaking suspicion Joe has a few people in mind, a few of whom the thought of seeing them in the Piston blue and red would blow us away.
And third, Flip Saunders. He has a great basketball mind. He's a real stand-up guy (though I've only met him once, he impressed my son as he ran the kid ragged in a youth camp). But he's not right for this team. I feared that he would take The Team That Larry Brown Built and turn them into the Detroit Timberwolves. And that is precisely what he has done. Frequently (in May!) the Pistons have turned in performances where they looked unprepared for the challenge at hand. Game 1 this year in Boston is a classic example. Game 6 in Cleveland last year is another. Game 1 against Miami in the '06 Eastern Conference Finals, yet another.
But the most telling aspect that turned the Bad Boys, well, bad, was the lack of a defensive focus. Throughout the 1980s, the Detroit Pistons forged a reputation as the league's foremost defensive force. Teams and their superstars feared a drive through the lane, because more often than not, they would pay dearly for it. And no one was exempt--Jordan, Magic, Bird, Kareem, you name it. It may not have been pretty, but it won championships. With each playoff run, the number of layups, dunks and offensive rebounds given up to the opposition increases. In Friday's game 6, it sucked the fire right out of the team and its 20,000 vocal supporters. And with each season-ending loss, they leave the court almost resigned to its inevitability. When you're working harder for your buckets than the guys on the other side, you get tired sooner.
The Pistons need to restore their defensive pride. The pride founded by Dantley and Rodman, Laimbeer and Mahorn. The pride restored by Larry Brown in the play of Big Ben and Tey Tey. This is the single most important attribute of their next coach. Larry Brown was the perfect theoretical fit, but he's been bookended by offensive-minded tacticians.
As for the reserves, I would fight to keep Jason Maxiell, Stuckey and Amir Johnson (in my opinion the second most talented player on the current roster). Among Afallo, Hayes, Juan Dixon and Walter Herrmann, there seems to be the potential for trade value.
Detroit has four tradition-laced professional teams. Only one of them has a personality, a brand if you will. And Mr. Dumars can sense that this brand is in danger of being undone. Bill Davidson trusts you, Joe. The front office trusts you. The fans trust you. I trust you. You helped build the image. You know what you need to do to sustain it.
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