This blog is psychic, I think.
The Cavs indeed dropped the ballast on Monday, terminating Paul Silas after less than two seasons at the helm.
Critics of the move chastised owner Dan Gilbert for making a rash fantasy-league decision after two weeks on the job. They scolded general manager Jim Paxson for supporting the move in an effort to save his own skin (which, based on Gilbert's non-committal comments at Monday's press conference, will probably be futile).
The fact is, in addition to the vulgar "See you next Tuesday" comment about Carlos Boozer and the run-ins with Ira Newble and Eric Snow, Silas was just no longer the right man for the job.
Silas was a great hire in June 2003, taking over a team with the most-anticipated rookie in decades in LeBron James, a team still dominated by lunkheads Ricky Davis and Darius Miles. Silas gave a team desperately in need of discipline just that.
It didn't stop them from careening to a 6-19 start last year, but the structure gave veteran acquisitions Eric Williams, Tony Battie and Jeff McInnis a chance to get the Cavaliers into the playoff chase.
However, the acquisition of Snow and the maturation of James have turned the Cavs into a much more veteran team, a team that didn't need the heavy-handed discipline of Silas.
The Cavs are much more in need of a tactician now, someone who is good at drawing up plays and making mid-game adjustments, which is what Silas most definitely is not. This team is also in need of someone who will be at least reasonably consistent with his substitution patterns.
Silas has a little streak of Butch Davis in him. In addition to his absolute hatred of having his methods and authority questioned, he, through design or tendency, toyed with his players.
Like Davis with the Browns, players oscillated between the penthouse and doghouse on Silas' bench. Sasha Pavlovic, Lucious Harris and DeSagana Diop would get significant minutes for four or five games, then disappear off the face of the earth for weeks.
Wild energy and possibly crowd-pleasing wild hair were the two things that saved Anderson Varejao from a similar fate.
Sunday, when McInnis rotted on the bench while Snow logged 40 minutes and zero points, was perhaps the most extreme example of Silas' erratically-revolving substitution door.
Inconsistency from the coach is one of the biggest morale killers in pro sports. Over the course of a long season, players want some kind of routine to adapt to, a role to settle into. Silas never gave his players that sense of purpose.
In the end, his players might have stopped playing for their coach. As the Cavs lost nine of their last 12, they played with much less organization and withdrew into their personal games. That usually happens on losing teams. It happened at the horrid start of last season for the Cavs.
Brendan Malone, Silas' interim replacement, is charged with getting this team to the playoffs, which has been the promise on the horizon all season. His reward will most likely be an oustering by Flip Saunders, Mo Cheeks or even Phil Jackson in the off-season.
But the Cavs had to do something to salvage this season. Anything less than the playoffs is unacceptable in light of last year's tease-and-falter in March and April.
Malone will hopefully get his substitution patterns squared away early on and at least get this team to go 9-9 over their last 18 games to finish 43-39, which should be a comfortable playoff record in the East.
Malone doesn't need to be a breath of fresh air. He just needs to be the anti-Silas on game nights for the next month or so.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Thursday, March 17, 2005
So we got a black eye anyway
Paul Silas, didn't I say Cleveland didn't need another black eye? Man, you need to start reading this blog on a regular basis.
Carlos Boozer doesn't show up Tuesday. Frustrating? Maybe. But the Cavaliers beat Boozer's Jazz easily, and Boozer's absence took away the temptation for any drunk fans to instigate something with the back of Boozer's head, which would have existed had Booz been sitting on the Utah bench. Taking Boozer out of the picture might have prevented a potential incident that could have dragged the reputation of Cleveland fans through the mud some more.
Cleveland appeared to get off scot-free and smelling like a rose Tuesday night. We took the moral high ground, save for some booing when Boozer's image was flashed on the Gund Arena Jumbotron during Utah free-throw attempts, and got away with a 19-point win.
But then, on Wednesday, as the Cavs were preparing to get back to their losing ways on the road in Milwaukee, it came to light that Silas had to open up his fat mouth.
Apparently, in an after-practice interview Monday, Silas came up with a creative new way to describe his former forward. He didn't come right out and say it, but it reportedly was obvious enough that Silas thinks Boozer is crass synonym for a gynecological reference. It rhymes with what football teams generally do on fourth down.
Silas is a physically large man who looks like he should be able to coach a bunch of guys 6-foot-6 and over. He played the NBA game, winning three titles. He demands respect from his players and appears to run a pretty tight ship both on and off the court.
But Silas has touched off enough run-ins with players since becoming Cleveland's coach to make you wonder if he can be the guy to lead the Cavaliers and LeBron James to greatness. Much of it appears to be the product of his coachly temper.
Last season, he and forward Ira Newble got into an argument over playing time following a game in Atlanta. As Newble stormed away, Silas was heard to have called Newble a "hip-hop motherf---er," an apparent reference to Newble's cornrowed, tattooed appearance.
The two seemed to have smoothed it over. Newble has started all but a handful of games for the Cavs this year.
Then there was the blow-up with Eric Snow in December. Snow might have said something caustic to Silas as he was being taken out of a game in Detroit. Different coaches handle player insubordination in different ways, and Silas' answer was to send Snow to the locker room for the rest of the game.
It isn't an unforgivable action, or even wrong. But this wasn't some hot-headed rookie or some knucklehead like Ricky Davis. This was one of the veteran anchors of your team, a guy who had started more than 200 straight games for Philadelphia before landing in Cleveland, where he was taking a bench role with no public complaint.
Afterward, Mount Silas erupted in front of the cameras, telling media members "I don't want to hear the name Eric Snow ... Am I speaking Chinese?" after they prodded a reluctant Silas for a comment on the matter.
The worst thing about Monday's reported shot at Boozer was that it wasn't in the heat of the moment. It wasn't a temper-driven comment. It was simply an off-color joke that could easily be made behind closed doors, but had no place in public. That lack of good judgment on Silas' part is a bit troubling. Coaches are supposed to be the voice of reason. They are supposed to rise above the petty sniping and feelings of betrayal that might exist between players, and players and fans.
Boozer was caught on tape saying he wanted to stay in Cleveland last year. It is hard to believe then-owner Gordon Gund and general manager Jim Paxson would have let Boozer out of his contract without some assurance that he was returning.
Boozer changed his mind when he saw the $68 million Utah was offering him to jump ship in Cleveland, and he couldn't say no. He was bitter that he was not picked until the second round in 2002, and was looking for a career-legitimizing payday. The Cavs were willing to give him that, but the Jazz were willing to give him more.
Boozer's actions very understandably caused hard feelings in Cleveland. Boozer's sorry attempts at justification for his actions and subsequent counter-accusations of character assassination by Gund and Paxson added to the flames.
Boozer was selfish. He should never have said he wanted to stay in Cleveland if that is not how he really felt. But Silas' comments just leveled the moral playing field a bit. If Cleveland's coach is taking incredibly crass verbal barbs at Boozer in public, suddenly it's not as easy to paint the Cavs as the victim last summer.
Silas has the Cavs pointed in the direction of the playoffs, a franchise that desperately needed the good vibe (and revenue) LeBron has provided. But Silas has brought some baggage on board the James Ship. If he begins to weigh this team down with his mouth and temper, it might soon become time to drop the ballast.
Carlos Boozer doesn't show up Tuesday. Frustrating? Maybe. But the Cavaliers beat Boozer's Jazz easily, and Boozer's absence took away the temptation for any drunk fans to instigate something with the back of Boozer's head, which would have existed had Booz been sitting on the Utah bench. Taking Boozer out of the picture might have prevented a potential incident that could have dragged the reputation of Cleveland fans through the mud some more.
Cleveland appeared to get off scot-free and smelling like a rose Tuesday night. We took the moral high ground, save for some booing when Boozer's image was flashed on the Gund Arena Jumbotron during Utah free-throw attempts, and got away with a 19-point win.
But then, on Wednesday, as the Cavs were preparing to get back to their losing ways on the road in Milwaukee, it came to light that Silas had to open up his fat mouth.
Apparently, in an after-practice interview Monday, Silas came up with a creative new way to describe his former forward. He didn't come right out and say it, but it reportedly was obvious enough that Silas thinks Boozer is crass synonym for a gynecological reference. It rhymes with what football teams generally do on fourth down.
Silas is a physically large man who looks like he should be able to coach a bunch of guys 6-foot-6 and over. He played the NBA game, winning three titles. He demands respect from his players and appears to run a pretty tight ship both on and off the court.
But Silas has touched off enough run-ins with players since becoming Cleveland's coach to make you wonder if he can be the guy to lead the Cavaliers and LeBron James to greatness. Much of it appears to be the product of his coachly temper.
Last season, he and forward Ira Newble got into an argument over playing time following a game in Atlanta. As Newble stormed away, Silas was heard to have called Newble a "hip-hop motherf---er," an apparent reference to Newble's cornrowed, tattooed appearance.
The two seemed to have smoothed it over. Newble has started all but a handful of games for the Cavs this year.
Then there was the blow-up with Eric Snow in December. Snow might have said something caustic to Silas as he was being taken out of a game in Detroit. Different coaches handle player insubordination in different ways, and Silas' answer was to send Snow to the locker room for the rest of the game.
It isn't an unforgivable action, or even wrong. But this wasn't some hot-headed rookie or some knucklehead like Ricky Davis. This was one of the veteran anchors of your team, a guy who had started more than 200 straight games for Philadelphia before landing in Cleveland, where he was taking a bench role with no public complaint.
Afterward, Mount Silas erupted in front of the cameras, telling media members "I don't want to hear the name Eric Snow ... Am I speaking Chinese?" after they prodded a reluctant Silas for a comment on the matter.
The worst thing about Monday's reported shot at Boozer was that it wasn't in the heat of the moment. It wasn't a temper-driven comment. It was simply an off-color joke that could easily be made behind closed doors, but had no place in public. That lack of good judgment on Silas' part is a bit troubling. Coaches are supposed to be the voice of reason. They are supposed to rise above the petty sniping and feelings of betrayal that might exist between players, and players and fans.
Boozer was caught on tape saying he wanted to stay in Cleveland last year. It is hard to believe then-owner Gordon Gund and general manager Jim Paxson would have let Boozer out of his contract without some assurance that he was returning.
Boozer changed his mind when he saw the $68 million Utah was offering him to jump ship in Cleveland, and he couldn't say no. He was bitter that he was not picked until the second round in 2002, and was looking for a career-legitimizing payday. The Cavs were willing to give him that, but the Jazz were willing to give him more.
Boozer's actions very understandably caused hard feelings in Cleveland. Boozer's sorry attempts at justification for his actions and subsequent counter-accusations of character assassination by Gund and Paxson added to the flames.
Boozer was selfish. He should never have said he wanted to stay in Cleveland if that is not how he really felt. But Silas' comments just leveled the moral playing field a bit. If Cleveland's coach is taking incredibly crass verbal barbs at Boozer in public, suddenly it's not as easy to paint the Cavs as the victim last summer.
Silas has the Cavs pointed in the direction of the playoffs, a franchise that desperately needed the good vibe (and revenue) LeBron has provided. But Silas has brought some baggage on board the James Ship. If he begins to weigh this team down with his mouth and temper, it might soon become time to drop the ballast.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Boozer backs out
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Don't try to stop me now, I'm gloating.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Carlos Boozer is chicken! CLUCK! CLUCK!
The man who tried to pull a Baltimore Colts and leave Cleveland under cover of darkness last summer is now hiding behind a foot injury as the reason he won't be on the Utah Jazz bench tonight at Gund Arena.
Fans circled this date on their calendars in July, when Boozer saw the $68 million offer the Jazz dropped at his feet and began slipping on his own drool. Cleveland fans were locked, loaded, and ready to let Booz have it. But now America's favorite supplemental role player will be back in Salt Lake City tonight "rehabbing."
(He's probably actually going to hit the whirlpool for about 25 minutes, then retire to his home overlooking the Great Salt Lake, where he'll order in some lo mein, watch the Oakland-Alabama A&M NCAA play-in game and fall asleep, but that's a secret.)
I don't doubt Boozer's foot injury is legit, he's missed the last 11 games. But injured players making road trips is common practice in the NBA. The team is where the trainers and doctors are, and just about every NBA arena has state-of-the-art sports medicine facilities. There really isn't an excuse, barring hospitalization, that a player should miss being present for any game due to injury.
Boozer simply knows what awaited him tonight in Cleveland, and he didn't want to face it declawed, incapable of getting back at his persecutors with a 30-point, 15-rebound night and a win.
Or maybe he didn't want to have to spend two and a half hours sitting on the bench with his back turned on several thousand fans who think him a traitor. That might actually be a smart move on Boozer's part. We saw in Auburn Hills this past November what happens when heartily-disliked opposing players get too near riled-up and potentially liquored-up fans.
Given the staunch "us-against-them" attitude a lot of Cleveland sports fans have, and the very acute sense of getting screwed, this town is as ripe as any for another embarrassing incident. Cleveland fans, remember, are the ones that pelted the field of Browns Stadium with plastic beer bottles when the referees blew an instant-replay call in 2001, nailing the coffin shut in a loss to Jacksonville. Cleveland is also the town that showered left field with play money in 1997 when Albert Belle returned with the White Sox. For the remainder of that series, fans were kept about 10 feet back from the home run porch fence in Jacobs Field by strategically-placed bike racks.
With LeBron James holding court and Usher making Gund Arena Hollywood-hip, Cleveland doesn't need another black eye like that.
Boozer is ducking Cleveland's wrath, no question, and denying many fans the opportunity to let him know what a special mind-changing, money-grubbing backstabber he really is. But let's count our blessings before we take our stored-up, displaced anger out on the beer vendor for spilling our pre-St. Patrick's Day Bud Light our lap.
The Cavaliers are in second place, 33-27, and tied for the fourth seed in the Eastern Conference. They still have LeBron, and found Drew Gooden as a very serviceable replacement for Boozer. We also got Anderson Varejao in the Gooden trade, who has helped save the bench on many nights this season.
The Jazz overpaid for Boozer and Mehmet Okur this off-season. Neither one of their prize free agents was able to stop the team from going in the toilet when their real MVP, Andrei Kirilenko, went down with a bum knee earlier this year. The Jazz are now 20-42, dead last in their division. The only playoffs Boozer is going to see this year will be on TV.
Boozer has been publicly called out by Utah's owner for not answering the superstar bell in Kirilenko's absence, and was the subject of trade rumors before the trade deadline. As predicted, his defensive shortcomings have haunted him in the frontcourt-heavy west. He was a beast in the East. In the West, he's a bit undersized and not athletic enough to be a true marquee player.
All in all, things have shaped up well for Cleveland. The Cavs are in the thick of the playoff hunt with an outside chance at catching Detroit in the Central Division. We get to sit back and gloat as Boozer crawls back to Utah to hide out while his lottery-bound team plays in Cleveland tonight. He's paid, but as far as being the heir to Karl Malone's lofty power-forward throne in Utah as he wanted, it's not happening.
Maybe we all should just keep our mouth shut if we should pass Boozer on the street. Just stick your nose a little higher in the air and walk by with supreme confidence. Nothing else is needed.
Well maybe a little something.
So, how are things down there in last place, Carlos? HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Don't try to stop me now, I'm gloating.
HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Carlos Boozer is chicken! CLUCK! CLUCK!
The man who tried to pull a Baltimore Colts and leave Cleveland under cover of darkness last summer is now hiding behind a foot injury as the reason he won't be on the Utah Jazz bench tonight at Gund Arena.
Fans circled this date on their calendars in July, when Boozer saw the $68 million offer the Jazz dropped at his feet and began slipping on his own drool. Cleveland fans were locked, loaded, and ready to let Booz have it. But now America's favorite supplemental role player will be back in Salt Lake City tonight "rehabbing."
(He's probably actually going to hit the whirlpool for about 25 minutes, then retire to his home overlooking the Great Salt Lake, where he'll order in some lo mein, watch the Oakland-Alabama A&M NCAA play-in game and fall asleep, but that's a secret.)
I don't doubt Boozer's foot injury is legit, he's missed the last 11 games. But injured players making road trips is common practice in the NBA. The team is where the trainers and doctors are, and just about every NBA arena has state-of-the-art sports medicine facilities. There really isn't an excuse, barring hospitalization, that a player should miss being present for any game due to injury.
Boozer simply knows what awaited him tonight in Cleveland, and he didn't want to face it declawed, incapable of getting back at his persecutors with a 30-point, 15-rebound night and a win.
Or maybe he didn't want to have to spend two and a half hours sitting on the bench with his back turned on several thousand fans who think him a traitor. That might actually be a smart move on Boozer's part. We saw in Auburn Hills this past November what happens when heartily-disliked opposing players get too near riled-up and potentially liquored-up fans.
Given the staunch "us-against-them" attitude a lot of Cleveland sports fans have, and the very acute sense of getting screwed, this town is as ripe as any for another embarrassing incident. Cleveland fans, remember, are the ones that pelted the field of Browns Stadium with plastic beer bottles when the referees blew an instant-replay call in 2001, nailing the coffin shut in a loss to Jacksonville. Cleveland is also the town that showered left field with play money in 1997 when Albert Belle returned with the White Sox. For the remainder of that series, fans were kept about 10 feet back from the home run porch fence in Jacobs Field by strategically-placed bike racks.
With LeBron James holding court and Usher making Gund Arena Hollywood-hip, Cleveland doesn't need another black eye like that.
Boozer is ducking Cleveland's wrath, no question, and denying many fans the opportunity to let him know what a special mind-changing, money-grubbing backstabber he really is. But let's count our blessings before we take our stored-up, displaced anger out on the beer vendor for spilling our pre-St. Patrick's Day Bud Light our lap.
The Cavaliers are in second place, 33-27, and tied for the fourth seed in the Eastern Conference. They still have LeBron, and found Drew Gooden as a very serviceable replacement for Boozer. We also got Anderson Varejao in the Gooden trade, who has helped save the bench on many nights this season.
The Jazz overpaid for Boozer and Mehmet Okur this off-season. Neither one of their prize free agents was able to stop the team from going in the toilet when their real MVP, Andrei Kirilenko, went down with a bum knee earlier this year. The Jazz are now 20-42, dead last in their division. The only playoffs Boozer is going to see this year will be on TV.
Boozer has been publicly called out by Utah's owner for not answering the superstar bell in Kirilenko's absence, and was the subject of trade rumors before the trade deadline. As predicted, his defensive shortcomings have haunted him in the frontcourt-heavy west. He was a beast in the East. In the West, he's a bit undersized and not athletic enough to be a true marquee player.
All in all, things have shaped up well for Cleveland. The Cavs are in the thick of the playoff hunt with an outside chance at catching Detroit in the Central Division. We get to sit back and gloat as Boozer crawls back to Utah to hide out while his lottery-bound team plays in Cleveland tonight. He's paid, but as far as being the heir to Karl Malone's lofty power-forward throne in Utah as he wanted, it's not happening.
Maybe we all should just keep our mouth shut if we should pass Boozer on the street. Just stick your nose a little higher in the air and walk by with supreme confidence. Nothing else is needed.
Well maybe a little something.
So, how are things down there in last place, Carlos? HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Mad cookie season
It must be Girl Scout fundraising season again.
Girl Scout cookies are all over the map, multiplying like bunnies. The Girl Scout troops have stands in malls, door-to-door sales, and worst of all, parents bringing those dang forms into work and pointing them out to everyone they can grab the ear of.
I can just see the interactions in the women's restrooms of workplaces throughout the land. Some lady is fixing her hair at the mirror, and this disembodied, chirpy voice spurts out of a stall:
"Lydia? Oh, Lydia, is that you? I just want to let you know that Caitlin's Girl Scout troop is selling cookies again. The forms are in the lunch room."
Girl Scouts of America isn't just an extracurricular activity for pre-teens. It has to be a full-fleged business enterprise with marketers who have studied the concept of market saturation at length. The grass-roots advertising campaign for their cookies is nearly foolproof. Come on, they say, get someone to buy these cookies. It's fundraising. It's for a good cause. If you are a Girl Scout, or have one in your family, you are on the bandwagon. You can't help but be on the bandwagon. They have ways of dealing with you if you're not.
And once they have you, you are addicted. Thin mints, I am convinced, have nicotine in them. I can't stop eating them, no matter how much self-discipline I try to muster. Turkey sandwiches and salads take a backseat in jockeying for positioning in my stomach.
And I know I'm not alone. Once that first box of cookies is gone, you seek out that Girl Scout Mom at work and order some more. And she's only happy to enable your addiction. Four boxes? Five? How about some do-si-do's?
You think Hostess has a junk food empire? Girl Scout cookies put Twinkies to shame. Little Debbie isn't worthy to carry the merit badges of the Girl Scouts.
It's proliferation with sugar, and it's led me to a sad realization: Girl Scouts are contributing to America's obesity epidemic.
Second only to the fast food industry, Girl Scout cookies are carving a fattening niche in our society. They might be even more dangerous than McDonald's. Fast food restaurants can try to woo you with hamburgers and greasy French fries, but only Girl Scout cookies have pathos on their side.
Those cookie boxes are covered with smiling girls. Happy girls, broadening their horizons, learning new things, challenging themselves, becoming better people. Maybe one of these girls will represent your state in the Senate someday, the boxes seem to say. Maybe one of them will become President.
Don't buy the cookies? Well, that's just like saying you don't care about the future of 51 percent of the American population.
So you sheepishly offer up some cash to the incisor-less smile of that seven-year-old staring up at you. Come on, just two boxes? Make it three. It's for a good cause, after all.
Girl Scout cookies are all over the map, multiplying like bunnies. The Girl Scout troops have stands in malls, door-to-door sales, and worst of all, parents bringing those dang forms into work and pointing them out to everyone they can grab the ear of.
I can just see the interactions in the women's restrooms of workplaces throughout the land. Some lady is fixing her hair at the mirror, and this disembodied, chirpy voice spurts out of a stall:
"Lydia? Oh, Lydia, is that you? I just want to let you know that Caitlin's Girl Scout troop is selling cookies again. The forms are in the lunch room."
Girl Scouts of America isn't just an extracurricular activity for pre-teens. It has to be a full-fleged business enterprise with marketers who have studied the concept of market saturation at length. The grass-roots advertising campaign for their cookies is nearly foolproof. Come on, they say, get someone to buy these cookies. It's fundraising. It's for a good cause. If you are a Girl Scout, or have one in your family, you are on the bandwagon. You can't help but be on the bandwagon. They have ways of dealing with you if you're not.
And once they have you, you are addicted. Thin mints, I am convinced, have nicotine in them. I can't stop eating them, no matter how much self-discipline I try to muster. Turkey sandwiches and salads take a backseat in jockeying for positioning in my stomach.
And I know I'm not alone. Once that first box of cookies is gone, you seek out that Girl Scout Mom at work and order some more. And she's only happy to enable your addiction. Four boxes? Five? How about some do-si-do's?
You think Hostess has a junk food empire? Girl Scout cookies put Twinkies to shame. Little Debbie isn't worthy to carry the merit badges of the Girl Scouts.
It's proliferation with sugar, and it's led me to a sad realization: Girl Scouts are contributing to America's obesity epidemic.
Second only to the fast food industry, Girl Scout cookies are carving a fattening niche in our society. They might be even more dangerous than McDonald's. Fast food restaurants can try to woo you with hamburgers and greasy French fries, but only Girl Scout cookies have pathos on their side.
Those cookie boxes are covered with smiling girls. Happy girls, broadening their horizons, learning new things, challenging themselves, becoming better people. Maybe one of these girls will represent your state in the Senate someday, the boxes seem to say. Maybe one of them will become President.
Don't buy the cookies? Well, that's just like saying you don't care about the future of 51 percent of the American population.
So you sheepishly offer up some cash to the incisor-less smile of that seven-year-old staring up at you. Come on, just two boxes? Make it three. It's for a good cause, after all.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
De-Butchinizing the Browns
It is a virtually inevitable fact: when a team struggles, fans want to vent. They call for the selling of the team, the clearing out of the front office, the firing of the coach, and most of all, the gutting of the roster.
Usually, fans are just acting out. When cooler heads prevail, we see it wasn't as bad as we all thought. The team starts to win and gains respectability without having a hatchet taken to it.
Then there's the Cleveland Browns.
Every Browns fan who has ever thrown a temper tantrum watching their team lose is seeing their heat-of-the-moment wishes come to life this early NFL off-season. The Browns are, indeed, gutting the roster.
If you thought Butch Davis mishandled the Cleveland roster miserably, guess what -- the new Browns regime agrees with you.
Tuesday, new general manager Phil Savage essentially told Davis what he thought of selecting defensive tackle Gerard Warren with the third overall pick of the 2001 draft. Savage laid the groundwork of a trade that would send Warren to the Denver Broncos for a fourth-round pick. Yes, a fourth-round pick.
It might sound harsh, but on the heels of Davis, who wouldn't trade Kevin Johnson for a third-round pick only to release him a year later for nothing, it is small progress.
Savage made no guarantee the de-Butchinization of the Browns was going to be a bloodless coup. He's making good on that. Savage and head coach Romeo Crennel are going to leave the bruised, battered remains of a lot of egos as they clean house. Not that egos should matter much when you have taken the reigns of a 4-12 team.
Like Warren, running back William Green was, for all intents and purposes, shown the door last week when his agent was given permission to seek a trade (translation: get your underachieving client and his personal baggage the &%#@ off our team).
Robert Griffith, not the head case Warren or Green is, was also released late last week. Griffith was a mature guy and didn't disgrace the organization off the field like Warren or Green, but he was also one of Davis' prize free agent pickups. Like so many of Davis' moves, it didn't really work. Maybe Griffith was the high-paid poster boy for the previous regime's ineptitude.
Of course, you can't talk about cleaning house in Cleveland without bringing up Jeff Garcia, who met with the Buccaneers on Monday. A year after the Browns outbid the Bucs and themselves to sign Garcia, he will probably wind up inking a deal for peanuts with the team the Browns should have let him go to in the first place.
More roster beheadings are sure to come. Punter Derrick Frost, tackle Ross Verba and defensive lineman Courtney Brown are at the top of the suspect list.
Only once the blood-letting is complete can Savage then concentrate on bringing in quality players he (hopefully) did his homework on before laying down the cash, unlike Davis.
Even in the rags-to-riches, parity-driven NFL, this ordeal may take several years before Cleveland fans can start reaping the benefits and watch their team climb up the standings.
Usually, fans are just acting out. When cooler heads prevail, we see it wasn't as bad as we all thought. The team starts to win and gains respectability without having a hatchet taken to it.
Then there's the Cleveland Browns.
Every Browns fan who has ever thrown a temper tantrum watching their team lose is seeing their heat-of-the-moment wishes come to life this early NFL off-season. The Browns are, indeed, gutting the roster.
If you thought Butch Davis mishandled the Cleveland roster miserably, guess what -- the new Browns regime agrees with you.
Tuesday, new general manager Phil Savage essentially told Davis what he thought of selecting defensive tackle Gerard Warren with the third overall pick of the 2001 draft. Savage laid the groundwork of a trade that would send Warren to the Denver Broncos for a fourth-round pick. Yes, a fourth-round pick.
It might sound harsh, but on the heels of Davis, who wouldn't trade Kevin Johnson for a third-round pick only to release him a year later for nothing, it is small progress.
Savage made no guarantee the de-Butchinization of the Browns was going to be a bloodless coup. He's making good on that. Savage and head coach Romeo Crennel are going to leave the bruised, battered remains of a lot of egos as they clean house. Not that egos should matter much when you have taken the reigns of a 4-12 team.
Like Warren, running back William Green was, for all intents and purposes, shown the door last week when his agent was given permission to seek a trade (translation: get your underachieving client and his personal baggage the &%#@ off our team).
Robert Griffith, not the head case Warren or Green is, was also released late last week. Griffith was a mature guy and didn't disgrace the organization off the field like Warren or Green, but he was also one of Davis' prize free agent pickups. Like so many of Davis' moves, it didn't really work. Maybe Griffith was the high-paid poster boy for the previous regime's ineptitude.
Of course, you can't talk about cleaning house in Cleveland without bringing up Jeff Garcia, who met with the Buccaneers on Monday. A year after the Browns outbid the Bucs and themselves to sign Garcia, he will probably wind up inking a deal for peanuts with the team the Browns should have let him go to in the first place.
More roster beheadings are sure to come. Punter Derrick Frost, tackle Ross Verba and defensive lineman Courtney Brown are at the top of the suspect list.
Only once the blood-letting is complete can Savage then concentrate on bringing in quality players he (hopefully) did his homework on before laying down the cash, unlike Davis.
Even in the rags-to-riches, parity-driven NFL, this ordeal may take several years before Cleveland fans can start reaping the benefits and watch their team climb up the standings.
Monday, February 28, 2005
New column
Anybody viewing this blog is welcome to check out my newest column on 210west.com and 1greborn.com. The column pokes more than a little fun at Jose Canseco, his rampant steroid usage and his "full disclosure" policy toward his former baseball colleagues.
The column should be up on 210west's front page soon, and can be accessed on 1greborn by clicking on "forums" and scrolling down to "sports."
The column should be up on 210west's front page soon, and can be accessed on 1greborn by clicking on "forums" and scrolling down to "sports."
Friday, February 25, 2005
The flying Welschman
The trade the Cavaliers made with Boston before Thursday's deadline was not flashy. It didn't garner the headlines the Chris Webber, Antoine Walker, or Baron Davis deals did. Heck, it probably falls somewhere behind Keith Van Horn to the Mavericks for spotlight time. But this trade is significant.
Jiri Welsch (pronounced "YEARY," for those not familiar with Czech dialects, like me) fills the one need the Cavaliers didn't have ready-made on their roster. Scoring inside, they have plenty of that. Athleticism, well, just look to LeBron. Rebounding can be a problem, but coach Paul Silas can always crack the whip on Zydrunas Ilgauskas and Drew Gooden to get some more hustle on the boards.
An outside shooting threat, someone very hard to mold in this league flooded with Darius Miles types, was one thing they didn't have. Lucious Harris has been a robust disappointment since the start of the season, looking like a 33-year-old quickly slipping toward has-been status. Sasha Pavlovic has shown flashes of talent, but he's still a young project player who needs time to ripen.
Welsch, 25, comes to the Cavs with perimeter shooting credentials. He's a career 36 percent three-point shooter in his third NBA season. He's 32-for-99 this year. Not only that, he comes to the Cavs with a history of being an all-around player with the capability of starting. That's important if, say, Ira Newble re-aggravates his partially torn Achilles tendon and is forced out the starting lineup again.
Welsch has started 100 of 173 career games, including 32 this year for the Celtics. His 7.5 points per game average doesn't look like that of a starter proficient at hitting three-balls, but his playing time has gone way down in recent weeks due to the emergence of other guard-forward swingmen on Boston's roster like Ricky Davis and Tony Allen.
At 6' 7" and 208 pounds, Welsch has some size, and can guard slightly bigger players with reasonable success. He has guarded LeBron in Cavs-Celtics matchups over the previous two seasons.
This trade might not put the Cavs in the NBA Finals this June, but they added a player who could become a piece of their long-term puzzle, certainly as a key contributor off the bench. Welsch is signed for this season at about $1.4 million and next season at about $2.1 million, after which he is eligible to become a restricted free agent.
That's another element: Welsch doesn't break the bank this year or next. With Ilgauskas a free agent-to-be and eligible for a fat, multi-year deal this summer, and rumors swirling about Cleveland chasing a top-flight shooting guard such as Michael Redd or Ray Allen, they didn't compromise their financial ability to retain or add a major piece or two around LeBron between now and the opening of training camp in the fall. That's huge, because if the Cavaliers make the playoffs and win a series this spring, fans and media pundits are going to be looking for them to challenge for a title in 2006. Anything less than legitimate title contention in 2006 will probably be a major disappointment.
If Welsch comes in here with a hot shooting hand, and can stretch defenses and unclog the middle for Z's post-ups and LeBron's drives, he could be as big a factor as any in how long into May the Cavs are playing.
Jiri Welsch (pronounced "YEARY," for those not familiar with Czech dialects, like me) fills the one need the Cavaliers didn't have ready-made on their roster. Scoring inside, they have plenty of that. Athleticism, well, just look to LeBron. Rebounding can be a problem, but coach Paul Silas can always crack the whip on Zydrunas Ilgauskas and Drew Gooden to get some more hustle on the boards.
An outside shooting threat, someone very hard to mold in this league flooded with Darius Miles types, was one thing they didn't have. Lucious Harris has been a robust disappointment since the start of the season, looking like a 33-year-old quickly slipping toward has-been status. Sasha Pavlovic has shown flashes of talent, but he's still a young project player who needs time to ripen.
Welsch, 25, comes to the Cavs with perimeter shooting credentials. He's a career 36 percent three-point shooter in his third NBA season. He's 32-for-99 this year. Not only that, he comes to the Cavs with a history of being an all-around player with the capability of starting. That's important if, say, Ira Newble re-aggravates his partially torn Achilles tendon and is forced out the starting lineup again.
Welsch has started 100 of 173 career games, including 32 this year for the Celtics. His 7.5 points per game average doesn't look like that of a starter proficient at hitting three-balls, but his playing time has gone way down in recent weeks due to the emergence of other guard-forward swingmen on Boston's roster like Ricky Davis and Tony Allen.
At 6' 7" and 208 pounds, Welsch has some size, and can guard slightly bigger players with reasonable success. He has guarded LeBron in Cavs-Celtics matchups over the previous two seasons.
This trade might not put the Cavs in the NBA Finals this June, but they added a player who could become a piece of their long-term puzzle, certainly as a key contributor off the bench. Welsch is signed for this season at about $1.4 million and next season at about $2.1 million, after which he is eligible to become a restricted free agent.
That's another element: Welsch doesn't break the bank this year or next. With Ilgauskas a free agent-to-be and eligible for a fat, multi-year deal this summer, and rumors swirling about Cleveland chasing a top-flight shooting guard such as Michael Redd or Ray Allen, they didn't compromise their financial ability to retain or add a major piece or two around LeBron between now and the opening of training camp in the fall. That's huge, because if the Cavaliers make the playoffs and win a series this spring, fans and media pundits are going to be looking for them to challenge for a title in 2006. Anything less than legitimate title contention in 2006 will probably be a major disappointment.
If Welsch comes in here with a hot shooting hand, and can stretch defenses and unclog the middle for Z's post-ups and LeBron's drives, he could be as big a factor as any in how long into May the Cavs are playing.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
It's not 1995 anymore
It's hard to be understanding, sometimes.
Goodness knows, I try. I know people developed an attachment to those great Cleveland Indians teams of the 1990s. Those players, Kenny Lofton, Jim Thome, Manny Ramirez, Sandy and Roberto Alomar, and even Albert Belle became heroes of a sort. It pains fans when they see their pride and joy, their bragging rights, the team with which they can go to other cities not named New York and say "look at us!" and watch it be systematically dismantled through trades and free agency.
Fans want to hold someone accountable. The owner is cheap. The general manager is clueless. The financial system of baseball is a joke.
It hurt a bit to look at the Indians as they trial-and-errored their way to 74-88, 68-94 and 80-82 records the past three years. It hurts a bit to watch the Minnesota Twins take Cleveland's place as the alpha dog in the division. Remaining angry and hardened as the Indians try to claw their way back to the top has become a favored practice in some circles of fans.
Some fans are holding onto those Tribe teams of the 1990s with bitter resolve, vowing to hold the Indians' 2001-2002 implosion to rebuild against owner Larry Dolan and general manager Mark Shapiro until, seemingly, their dying day. There is good and bad in that.
I am glad, for one, the 1990s clubs set the bar so high. Dolan and Shapiro have a large legacy to live up to, and the demanding fans should help keep them on their toes. I have no problem with demanding success. Mediocrity is a self-perpetuating danger zone, and bad should only be a move to clear the decks to get good again.
But hanging on to those sexy 1990s lineups like a jilted lover is a problem. Lofton, Ramirez and Thome aren't coming back. The best you can hope for is a creaky-kneed, late-30s Thome hobbling back to Cleveland as a part-time player in about five years.
Fans screamed bloody murder and vowed never to attend another game again when David Justice was traded in 2000. They did the same when Roberto Alomar was traded in 2001, when Sandy Alomar left as a free agent in 2000, when Thome departed for Philadelphia in 2002, and when Omar Vizquel took his magic glove to San Francisco late last year. Many don't want to hear about Victor Martinez, Travis Hafner, or any other player that might become a new household name in Cleveland if given the chance. Winning will probably cure that, but the unwillingness to accept anything new is troubling, especially as Tribe attendance remains a far cry from the 455 straight sellouts of 1995-2001.
Are Tribe fans spoiled by success? Time will tell. The economy isn't booming like the 1990s, so nobody, least of all me, is expecting season sellouts before the first pitch is thrown, a Jacobs Field anomaly last decade. But one of my fears is chronically sluggish attendance from a fan base that has become jaded by "just" winning the division every year. Three years of non-contention should cure some of that by reminding fans what it was like before Jacobs Field opened and muscle-bound lineups showered the city with a vault-load of game winning homers every summer.
However, good teams have drawn little more than moths in other cities. The Florida Marlins won two World Series in front of September bandwagoners. A good Kansas City Royals team in 2003 was sparsely supported.
Good teams draw well, and in championship-starved Cleveland, fans will latch onto any team that promises the possibility of hardware. But the Indians, in a sport with no salary cap and a joke of a financial structure (that earlier statement was a true one), needs attendance to survive. They need merchandise sales. They need fans willing to give the team a chance if they prove themselves worthy.
It's not Omar. It's not Manny or Jimmy or even Orel Hershiser. But it's your team. And if they start to win, they deserve a look. They deserve a chance to carve their own niche in history.
Goodness knows, I try. I know people developed an attachment to those great Cleveland Indians teams of the 1990s. Those players, Kenny Lofton, Jim Thome, Manny Ramirez, Sandy and Roberto Alomar, and even Albert Belle became heroes of a sort. It pains fans when they see their pride and joy, their bragging rights, the team with which they can go to other cities not named New York and say "look at us!" and watch it be systematically dismantled through trades and free agency.
Fans want to hold someone accountable. The owner is cheap. The general manager is clueless. The financial system of baseball is a joke.
It hurt a bit to look at the Indians as they trial-and-errored their way to 74-88, 68-94 and 80-82 records the past three years. It hurts a bit to watch the Minnesota Twins take Cleveland's place as the alpha dog in the division. Remaining angry and hardened as the Indians try to claw their way back to the top has become a favored practice in some circles of fans.
Some fans are holding onto those Tribe teams of the 1990s with bitter resolve, vowing to hold the Indians' 2001-2002 implosion to rebuild against owner Larry Dolan and general manager Mark Shapiro until, seemingly, their dying day. There is good and bad in that.
I am glad, for one, the 1990s clubs set the bar so high. Dolan and Shapiro have a large legacy to live up to, and the demanding fans should help keep them on their toes. I have no problem with demanding success. Mediocrity is a self-perpetuating danger zone, and bad should only be a move to clear the decks to get good again.
But hanging on to those sexy 1990s lineups like a jilted lover is a problem. Lofton, Ramirez and Thome aren't coming back. The best you can hope for is a creaky-kneed, late-30s Thome hobbling back to Cleveland as a part-time player in about five years.
Fans screamed bloody murder and vowed never to attend another game again when David Justice was traded in 2000. They did the same when Roberto Alomar was traded in 2001, when Sandy Alomar left as a free agent in 2000, when Thome departed for Philadelphia in 2002, and when Omar Vizquel took his magic glove to San Francisco late last year. Many don't want to hear about Victor Martinez, Travis Hafner, or any other player that might become a new household name in Cleveland if given the chance. Winning will probably cure that, but the unwillingness to accept anything new is troubling, especially as Tribe attendance remains a far cry from the 455 straight sellouts of 1995-2001.
Are Tribe fans spoiled by success? Time will tell. The economy isn't booming like the 1990s, so nobody, least of all me, is expecting season sellouts before the first pitch is thrown, a Jacobs Field anomaly last decade. But one of my fears is chronically sluggish attendance from a fan base that has become jaded by "just" winning the division every year. Three years of non-contention should cure some of that by reminding fans what it was like before Jacobs Field opened and muscle-bound lineups showered the city with a vault-load of game winning homers every summer.
However, good teams have drawn little more than moths in other cities. The Florida Marlins won two World Series in front of September bandwagoners. A good Kansas City Royals team in 2003 was sparsely supported.
Good teams draw well, and in championship-starved Cleveland, fans will latch onto any team that promises the possibility of hardware. But the Indians, in a sport with no salary cap and a joke of a financial structure (that earlier statement was a true one), needs attendance to survive. They need merchandise sales. They need fans willing to give the team a chance if they prove themselves worthy.
It's not Omar. It's not Manny or Jimmy or even Orel Hershiser. But it's your team. And if they start to win, they deserve a look. They deserve a chance to carve their own niche in history.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
My BAAAARF award
I admit it. I type my name into Web searches. I want to know where my name is out there. So far, searching has alerted me of two awards I have won. The first was quite nice, a 2003 award of merit from Ohio Public Images for a Crain's Cleveland Business story I wrote on workers with developmental disabilities. The second, ehhh...not so sure.
Turns out, I am the recepient of a 2004 BAAAARF award. The award stands for Butyric Acid Awards, Awful Accident Reporting For... (Don't ask me). The award is the product of Hazards Intelligence (HInt), and apparently chastises newspaper reporters for boneheaded grammatical errors or incorrect scientific references in their articles.
I know nothing else of HInt, but I suspect it is a front for the Transcontinental Institute of Grammar Hawks, Technology Advocates and Specialized Scientists. (T.I.G.H.T.A.S.S.) Apparently, I was bestowed this honor for a grammatical gaffe that appeared in the Dec. 31, 2003 issue of The Gazette. The article, about a tar tank that blew its top at a Medina factory, stated "the stench was apparently the most widespread casualty," to which the BAAAARF panel responds, "we wish the stench our best for a speedy recovery."
Now, I know casualty usually only pertains to human suffering, and I can't explain why that word crept into my article. I take the blame, and like "Gigli" at the Razzies, accept my BAAAARF with humility. But no one can take this fact away from me: I am now in lofty company. I join Jewel as the only people ever to be publicly chastised for misuse of the word "casualty." Kurt Loder, where are you? Set me straight.
Turns out, I am the recepient of a 2004 BAAAARF award. The award stands for Butyric Acid Awards, Awful Accident Reporting For... (Don't ask me). The award is the product of Hazards Intelligence (HInt), and apparently chastises newspaper reporters for boneheaded grammatical errors or incorrect scientific references in their articles.
I know nothing else of HInt, but I suspect it is a front for the Transcontinental Institute of Grammar Hawks, Technology Advocates and Specialized Scientists. (T.I.G.H.T.A.S.S.) Apparently, I was bestowed this honor for a grammatical gaffe that appeared in the Dec. 31, 2003 issue of The Gazette. The article, about a tar tank that blew its top at a Medina factory, stated "the stench was apparently the most widespread casualty," to which the BAAAARF panel responds, "we wish the stench our best for a speedy recovery."
Now, I know casualty usually only pertains to human suffering, and I can't explain why that word crept into my article. I take the blame, and like "Gigli" at the Razzies, accept my BAAAARF with humility. But no one can take this fact away from me: I am now in lofty company. I join Jewel as the only people ever to be publicly chastised for misuse of the word "casualty." Kurt Loder, where are you? Set me straight.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
He's a Cavalier now
So maybe I was wrong. Maybe incoming owner Dan Gilbert is a flesh-and-blood Cavalier who just happens to be living in Pistons country.
This week, Gilbert limbered up his 42-year-old joints and played a pick-up basketball game near his home in suburban Detroit. Apparently, he wasn't limber enough because he tore the anterior cruciate ligament in one of his knees. It will require surgery, according to The Plain Dealer.
Knee surgery and the Cleveland Cavaliers go together like Mexico and enchiladas. Over the years, orthopedic surgeons have cut, poked, drained and sewed the knees of Austin Carr, Mark Price and others scores of times.
So now Gilbert can maybe borrow a set of monogrammed crutches from the personal stash of former trainer Gary Briggs and trade "where were your when your heard your knee pop?" stories with Price, who is now a Cavs television analyst. When Price blew out his knee at The Omni in Atlanta in 1990, he said he felt his knee go in two directions at once. Top that, Mr. Millionaire Owner!
Gilbert joked after the injury that he wanted something to share with his players. Well, LeBron, J-Mac, E-Snow and Z, move over and make a space at the whirlpool. It's time to bond with the new guy.
This week, Gilbert limbered up his 42-year-old joints and played a pick-up basketball game near his home in suburban Detroit. Apparently, he wasn't limber enough because he tore the anterior cruciate ligament in one of his knees. It will require surgery, according to The Plain Dealer.
Knee surgery and the Cleveland Cavaliers go together like Mexico and enchiladas. Over the years, orthopedic surgeons have cut, poked, drained and sewed the knees of Austin Carr, Mark Price and others scores of times.
So now Gilbert can maybe borrow a set of monogrammed crutches from the personal stash of former trainer Gary Briggs and trade "where were your when your heard your knee pop?" stories with Price, who is now a Cavs television analyst. When Price blew out his knee at The Omni in Atlanta in 1990, he said he felt his knee go in two directions at once. Top that, Mr. Millionaire Owner!
Gilbert joked after the injury that he wanted something to share with his players. Well, LeBron, J-Mac, E-Snow and Z, move over and make a space at the whirlpool. It's time to bond with the new guy.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Harken the masses
As Romeo, new King of the Brown Warriors, enters the Grand Hall, he is assailed by a great light, from the many photograhic bulbs bursting against the air. Lord Lerner takes his arms and leads him to the King's Table, where he will have audience with the presse.
King Crennel, Act I, Scene Five: The Grand Hall conference
Romeo (shielding his eyes as he crosses stage left): I declare, mine eyes have never bore witness to such a show!
Lord Lerner: To this you must grow accustomed. The light will follow you to the ends of the Earth. (pulls out a chair at the King's Table). Here, take rest.
Master John Collins enters the room stage right, and approaches Lord Lerner.
Master John: We must carry the reigns on these animals. They'll surely scare the new King off.
Lord Lerner: Ah, John, but this is my manor. At my hand, they shall obey and quiet. (turns to the presse and raises his hand) Your eyes and ears, sirs! Your eyes and ears! Seated at the Table now is our new King, or new Chieftain for our Brown Warriors. What sayeth you, in quest? For he knows much of winning!
Tonyus Grossius: Winning is admirable, but what of men? For if he cannot favour his men, he cannot favour wins.
Romeo: I can answer with a free mind; I promise no gold, that is much in the hands of Providence. But I can promise men that will fight and bear their arms and souls for this manor. I promise men that will draw their last breath for the honour of this house.
Terrius Pluto: What of the soldiers who make discord and trouble among the ranks? How are they to be dealt with?
Romeo: One offence will be half a day's wages and a pence more; two offences will be a whole days wages and extra labour. Three and more will be cases sent to the dungeon until as time I see fit to release.
Tonyus Grossius: He speaks with an iron tongue. But what will his speech be when the Steel Men of Pittsburgh ride their legions and chariots over the hills? They threaten this manor at least twice a year when the leaves turn.
Romeo: I hope for the health, talent, and blessings to fight those men. In my mind, I glorify the day when we ride back to Lord Lerner with the vanquished foes behind us. That day, with God's will, is ahead of us.
Terrius Pluto: Who was your Master in the New Land of England? For whom do you credit this sure attitude you exhibit?
Romeo: The legions in the House of Patriot are full of good, fearful men who love their tasks and carry them to completion. But I have but one man to credit for the King I am today...
Lord Lerner (standing in front of the King's Table): Romeo, King of the Armies, we must end this presently---
Romeo: .... I shall credit him to my dying day...
Master John: Romeo! Speak no further! You are not known to the ways of this house!
Romeo: His name is Grand Master Belichick.
Lord Lerner and Master John both back away, stunned.
All Members of the Assembled Presse: Belichick!
Tonyus Grossius: Belichick was one of the traitorous house of Modell, who destroyed our will 10 years from the next frost!
Terrius Pluto: And we have associated us a member of his army? This cannot be!
Romeo: I assure you I have loyalty to my bones for this house. Fear not my teachers!
Members of the Assembled Presse: He lies! He lies! Cast him to the doldrums! To the Arizona Cardinals with him!
CURTAIN.
In part three: Romeo must answer for his past. And a special visitor shows.
King Crennel, Act I, Scene Five: The Grand Hall conference
Romeo (shielding his eyes as he crosses stage left): I declare, mine eyes have never bore witness to such a show!
Lord Lerner: To this you must grow accustomed. The light will follow you to the ends of the Earth. (pulls out a chair at the King's Table). Here, take rest.
Master John Collins enters the room stage right, and approaches Lord Lerner.
Master John: We must carry the reigns on these animals. They'll surely scare the new King off.
Lord Lerner: Ah, John, but this is my manor. At my hand, they shall obey and quiet. (turns to the presse and raises his hand) Your eyes and ears, sirs! Your eyes and ears! Seated at the Table now is our new King, or new Chieftain for our Brown Warriors. What sayeth you, in quest? For he knows much of winning!
Tonyus Grossius: Winning is admirable, but what of men? For if he cannot favour his men, he cannot favour wins.
Romeo: I can answer with a free mind; I promise no gold, that is much in the hands of Providence. But I can promise men that will fight and bear their arms and souls for this manor. I promise men that will draw their last breath for the honour of this house.
Terrius Pluto: What of the soldiers who make discord and trouble among the ranks? How are they to be dealt with?
Romeo: One offence will be half a day's wages and a pence more; two offences will be a whole days wages and extra labour. Three and more will be cases sent to the dungeon until as time I see fit to release.
Tonyus Grossius: He speaks with an iron tongue. But what will his speech be when the Steel Men of Pittsburgh ride their legions and chariots over the hills? They threaten this manor at least twice a year when the leaves turn.
Romeo: I hope for the health, talent, and blessings to fight those men. In my mind, I glorify the day when we ride back to Lord Lerner with the vanquished foes behind us. That day, with God's will, is ahead of us.
Terrius Pluto: Who was your Master in the New Land of England? For whom do you credit this sure attitude you exhibit?
Romeo: The legions in the House of Patriot are full of good, fearful men who love their tasks and carry them to completion. But I have but one man to credit for the King I am today...
Lord Lerner (standing in front of the King's Table): Romeo, King of the Armies, we must end this presently---
Romeo: .... I shall credit him to my dying day...
Master John: Romeo! Speak no further! You are not known to the ways of this house!
Romeo: His name is Grand Master Belichick.
Lord Lerner and Master John both back away, stunned.
All Members of the Assembled Presse: Belichick!
Tonyus Grossius: Belichick was one of the traitorous house of Modell, who destroyed our will 10 years from the next frost!
Terrius Pluto: And we have associated us a member of his army? This cannot be!
Romeo: I assure you I have loyalty to my bones for this house. Fear not my teachers!
Members of the Assembled Presse: He lies! He lies! Cast him to the doldrums! To the Arizona Cardinals with him!
CURTAIN.
In part three: Romeo must answer for his past. And a special visitor shows.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Yon Presse Conference
Hark! What light through yon window breaks? It is the East, and sweet gleam of five rings!
Romeo doth have a lean and hungry look (OK, maybe not so lean). Shine forth, you bright gleam. It is hope! It is victory, dare I smell, on the Eastern Wind, caressing my face from the New Land of England.
He is king, Romeo. Long live King Romeo! King, Lord Master of the Brown Warriors from Cleveland.
Dare this not be tragedy like so many Shakespearian works. Boldly, say, we may step forth into a new dawn. An assemblage of newsmen carried forth the word from the land of Berea on Tuesday, 8 February in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Five.
King Crennel, Act I, Scene Four: The chamber of Lord Lerner, House of Brown.
Romeo (stage left): Dark, dawn crests over the airport hills and I arrive. Conquerer, not yet, but a willing combatant.
Lord Lerner: Much of my gold I shall bestow at your feet, if you shall only rescue my house from the shame Lord King Master Sultan General Butch doth left us to bear. My back is sore, my legs quiver at this burdenous load!
Romeo (drawing his sword): This, dear Master, is the blade which has slid across the throats of many dragons. Not least, the legions of Philadelphia, which I have come from slaying forthright. With your gold and trust, I shall go to battle with my men, and though I cannot guarantee the Ultimate Prize, I shall spill much enemy blood for this house.
Lord Lerner: The House of Patriot and Lord Kraft are indeed benevolent champions, to allow us your servitude.
Romeo: I have the knee of Grand Master Belichick to thank for my winning spirit, for it is at that knee I learned how to be a Dragon Slayer.
Lord Lerner: I understand, but thou must never speak that name, Belichick, within this manor, or face the Brimstone that shall well from the Earth.
Romeo: Very well. So when shall I meet the warriors and the masses?
Lord Lerner: Forthright. A mass of pressmen have assembled in the Grand Hall to meet your arrival. And do please put that sword away before. General Butch swung his blade like a club, and pierced the chests of many in this manor.
Romeo (sheathing his sword): That I shall. So I meet them, and onto another new horizon!
(Both exit stage left)
In part two: Romeo faces the beating eye of the Assembled Presse.
Romeo doth have a lean and hungry look (OK, maybe not so lean). Shine forth, you bright gleam. It is hope! It is victory, dare I smell, on the Eastern Wind, caressing my face from the New Land of England.
He is king, Romeo. Long live King Romeo! King, Lord Master of the Brown Warriors from Cleveland.
Dare this not be tragedy like so many Shakespearian works. Boldly, say, we may step forth into a new dawn. An assemblage of newsmen carried forth the word from the land of Berea on Tuesday, 8 February in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Five.
King Crennel, Act I, Scene Four: The chamber of Lord Lerner, House of Brown.
Romeo (stage left): Dark, dawn crests over the airport hills and I arrive. Conquerer, not yet, but a willing combatant.
Lord Lerner: Much of my gold I shall bestow at your feet, if you shall only rescue my house from the shame Lord King Master Sultan General Butch doth left us to bear. My back is sore, my legs quiver at this burdenous load!
Romeo (drawing his sword): This, dear Master, is the blade which has slid across the throats of many dragons. Not least, the legions of Philadelphia, which I have come from slaying forthright. With your gold and trust, I shall go to battle with my men, and though I cannot guarantee the Ultimate Prize, I shall spill much enemy blood for this house.
Lord Lerner: The House of Patriot and Lord Kraft are indeed benevolent champions, to allow us your servitude.
Romeo: I have the knee of Grand Master Belichick to thank for my winning spirit, for it is at that knee I learned how to be a Dragon Slayer.
Lord Lerner: I understand, but thou must never speak that name, Belichick, within this manor, or face the Brimstone that shall well from the Earth.
Romeo: Very well. So when shall I meet the warriors and the masses?
Lord Lerner: Forthright. A mass of pressmen have assembled in the Grand Hall to meet your arrival. And do please put that sword away before. General Butch swung his blade like a club, and pierced the chests of many in this manor.
Romeo (sheathing his sword): That I shall. So I meet them, and onto another new horizon!
(Both exit stage left)
In part two: Romeo faces the beating eye of the Assembled Presse.
Monday, February 07, 2005
St. Belichick
OK, now it's official. Bill Belichick, with three Super Bowl titles as a head coach and two more as a defensive coordinator, now sitteth at the right hand of Vince Lombardi. He is the greatest living coach. Bill Walsh, Chuck Noll, Bill Parcells, Jimmy Johnson, their accomplishments faded with time. But not St. Belichick. His accomplishments will live for centuries -- nay -- millennia after his passing.
This could only be the beginning for St. William of the Headbands. His mighty powers could make him one of the greatest human beings that ever lived. Consider the possibilities...
This could only be the beginning for St. William of the Headbands. His mighty powers could make him one of the greatest human beings that ever lived. Consider the possibilities...
- 2010: after winning his seventh straight Super Bowl and eight in nine years, Belichick resigns as the head coach of the Patriots. Hearing the wails of torment coming from Chicago, he switches sports and becomes the manager and general manager of the Cubs. Within one year, Belichick remakes the team with cast-offs and Cuban refugees, and delivers the Cubs their first championship in 103 years. The statue of Harry Caray in front of Wrigley Field is demolished and replaced with a statue of Belichick. Visitors can take an elevator to an observation deck in the statue's head, where it is rumored the secret of life is held.
- 2018: France and Iran declare war on the United States. With French battleships steaming toward New York, the Pentagon asks Belichick to employ his remarkable strategic mind and formulate a defense plan. Within 48 hours, 10 French ships are sunk and the war is ended. Belichick's birthday, April 16, is declared a national holiday.
- Belichick spends the ensuing years as a military strategist-for-hire. His airtight defensive plans thwart conflicts in Africa, the Middle East, and Northern Ireland. Soon, fearing the wrath of Bill, nations stop warring, and world peace is accomplished. Belichick wins the Nobel Peace Prize four years in a row. After his fourth award, he calls it the "second-greatest four-peat of my life, after Tom Brady scorching Atlanta for 343 yards and five touchdowns in Super Bowl XLI."
- 2023: In an independent poll of scholars, Belichick trumps Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud and Thomas Edison as the greatest genius of the past 200 years. Belichick is given a lifetime achievement award by by a group of world-renowed scientists and philosophers in Geneva, Switzerland, but does not attend the ceremony. He is busy breaking down game film for the Patriots, whom he has returned to as a consultant. In January 2024, New England wins their 15th Super Bowl in 23 years.
- 2025: Bowing to intense worldwide pressure, the city of Cleveland finally recognizes Belichick's birthday as a holiday. Mayor For Life LeBron James invites Belichick to a state dinner, but due to suffocating debt, the only thing the city coffers can front is a chicken fajita platter at Applebee's. Belichick declines.
- 2027: Belichick turns 75. Realizing he's not going to live forever, a group of government scientists and computer programmers write a computer program based on Belichick's mind. For decades after Bill dies, scientists, humanitarians, military strategists, and football coaches alike consult the "Belichick v. 2.0" program to solve their problems. With the help of the program, cancer and AIDS are cured, world peace is maintained, and winning percentages skyrocket on all levels of football.
- 2102: on the 100th anniversary of Belichick's first Super Bowl win as a head coach, an image of him appears in the swirls of a oil puddle floating on the Charles River in Boston. Attendants use defibrilator paddles to shock Pope John Paul II, now 298 years old, back to consciouness long enough to ascend Belichick to sainthood. A new Christian sect based on the teachings of Belichick is formed. Within 200 years, Belichickianism rises to the largest Christian denomination in the Western world.
- 3247: Human beings make contact with alien life for the first time. When the aliens step off their spaceship, their leader holds out an oblong object to the world leaders assmbled for the historic moment. It is a New England Patriots football. As the stunned Earthlings look at the prized possession of the newcomers, the alien leader utters the only two words he knows in English: "Belichick ... autograph."
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
The outsider
One of our worst basketball fears on the North Coast may be slowly becoming realized: Incoming Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert isn't the Daddy Warbucks everybody thought he was.
Just when we think Cleveland may have gotten its own Mark Cuban to free-spend (or at least spend without fear) to make the Cavaliers a perennial winner, and maybe end our four-decade championship drought, we find out he might be something to be feared: a bottom-line driven outsider who doesn't realize the adversity Clevelanders have dealt with in just trying to find winning teams, let alone title contenders.
Rumors are flying that Gilbert isn't too crazy about ponying up the money to re-sign center Zydrunas Ilgauskas for another four or five years. Ilgauskas has said the Cavaliers haven't even opened contract discussions with him.
The handwriting may be on the wall for the former all-star center who has not yet turned 30. If the Cavs don't deal Ilgauskas by the trade deadline at the end of the month, or have a remarkable change of heart on a contract extension, they are probably going to let him walk in the off-season.
If Gilbert doesn't want to talk deal now, it is hard to imagine him diving into the fray over the summer, when other teams will drive Ilgauskas' asking price up.
The problem might largely be Gilbert's lack of familiarity with Cleveland and the Cavaliers. Gilbert professes to be a huge basketball fan, yet his attitude toward Ilgauskas looks like that of a guy who has overdosed on news reports about "Z"s repeated foot injuries. That, understandably, is the view from Detroit, where Gilbert lives. Nationally, Ilgauskas is known as the guy who couldn't stop breaking his feet, so naturally Gilbert will be leery of paying him big money.
But times have changed since Ilgauskas' last foot surgery in 2001. He had his feet structurally altered in that surgery, a last-ditch effort to save his career.
So far, the surgery has been a rousing success, a borderline-miracle. Not only is Ilgauskas on the floor every night, he is one of the top offensive centers in the game and hands-down the Cavaliers' second-best player.
Gilbert must sit up and realize "Z" is not just the broken-foot man. Yes, that is an indelible part of his career, but to view him only in that light is doing him a great disservice. He is now playing with virtually no fear of foot problems, and if "Z" can do that, after nearly staring the end of his career in the face, those that pay his salary should be able to as well.
Ilgauskas is important to the Cavaliers, important to the team they are trying to build around LeBron James. If there is a silver lining to his foot problems, it saved wear on the rest of his body by keeping him out of action for parts of four seasons. Ilgauskas is less likely to develop back and knee problems that hamper other big men as they inch into their 30s. "Z" has not missed a game due to injury, foot or otherwise, in four years. Tim Duncan and Shaquille O'Neal haven't done that. If that type of durability is not worthy of an extension, what is?
If Gilbert can't realize what Ilgauskas means to the Cavaliers, it is up to general manager Jim Paxson and outgoing majority owner Gordon Gund to educate him. Of course, with rumors seeping in about Gilbert wanting to bring in his own guy (namely, Bill Laimbeer) to run the Cavs, Paxson may follow Gund and Ilgauskas out the door.
If it's all true, Gilbert is playing Russian Roulette with his ability to keep LeBron in a Cleveland uniform in two years. He either has to keep LeBron happy, or win LeBron over to his way of thinking.
LeBron has a tremendous sense of loyalty to his coach and many of his teammates, chief among them the quiet yet likeable Ilgauskas. Loyalty is good in Gilbert's cutthroat world of business only when it serves you (read: makes you money). Usually, when you're a self-made millionaire, you are much more prone to do things your way because that's how you got rich in the first place.
But the caution, the warning, the red flag to Gilbert: For the first time in a long time, things are looking good for the Cavaliers. It wasn't always this good. Usually, it's been pretty bad.
If it ain't broke, Mr. Gilbert, don't fix it.
Just when we think Cleveland may have gotten its own Mark Cuban to free-spend (or at least spend without fear) to make the Cavaliers a perennial winner, and maybe end our four-decade championship drought, we find out he might be something to be feared: a bottom-line driven outsider who doesn't realize the adversity Clevelanders have dealt with in just trying to find winning teams, let alone title contenders.
Rumors are flying that Gilbert isn't too crazy about ponying up the money to re-sign center Zydrunas Ilgauskas for another four or five years. Ilgauskas has said the Cavaliers haven't even opened contract discussions with him.
The handwriting may be on the wall for the former all-star center who has not yet turned 30. If the Cavs don't deal Ilgauskas by the trade deadline at the end of the month, or have a remarkable change of heart on a contract extension, they are probably going to let him walk in the off-season.
If Gilbert doesn't want to talk deal now, it is hard to imagine him diving into the fray over the summer, when other teams will drive Ilgauskas' asking price up.
The problem might largely be Gilbert's lack of familiarity with Cleveland and the Cavaliers. Gilbert professes to be a huge basketball fan, yet his attitude toward Ilgauskas looks like that of a guy who has overdosed on news reports about "Z"s repeated foot injuries. That, understandably, is the view from Detroit, where Gilbert lives. Nationally, Ilgauskas is known as the guy who couldn't stop breaking his feet, so naturally Gilbert will be leery of paying him big money.
But times have changed since Ilgauskas' last foot surgery in 2001. He had his feet structurally altered in that surgery, a last-ditch effort to save his career.
So far, the surgery has been a rousing success, a borderline-miracle. Not only is Ilgauskas on the floor every night, he is one of the top offensive centers in the game and hands-down the Cavaliers' second-best player.
Gilbert must sit up and realize "Z" is not just the broken-foot man. Yes, that is an indelible part of his career, but to view him only in that light is doing him a great disservice. He is now playing with virtually no fear of foot problems, and if "Z" can do that, after nearly staring the end of his career in the face, those that pay his salary should be able to as well.
Ilgauskas is important to the Cavaliers, important to the team they are trying to build around LeBron James. If there is a silver lining to his foot problems, it saved wear on the rest of his body by keeping him out of action for parts of four seasons. Ilgauskas is less likely to develop back and knee problems that hamper other big men as they inch into their 30s. "Z" has not missed a game due to injury, foot or otherwise, in four years. Tim Duncan and Shaquille O'Neal haven't done that. If that type of durability is not worthy of an extension, what is?
If Gilbert can't realize what Ilgauskas means to the Cavaliers, it is up to general manager Jim Paxson and outgoing majority owner Gordon Gund to educate him. Of course, with rumors seeping in about Gilbert wanting to bring in his own guy (namely, Bill Laimbeer) to run the Cavs, Paxson may follow Gund and Ilgauskas out the door.
If it's all true, Gilbert is playing Russian Roulette with his ability to keep LeBron in a Cleveland uniform in two years. He either has to keep LeBron happy, or win LeBron over to his way of thinking.
LeBron has a tremendous sense of loyalty to his coach and many of his teammates, chief among them the quiet yet likeable Ilgauskas. Loyalty is good in Gilbert's cutthroat world of business only when it serves you (read: makes you money). Usually, when you're a self-made millionaire, you are much more prone to do things your way because that's how you got rich in the first place.
But the caution, the warning, the red flag to Gilbert: For the first time in a long time, things are looking good for the Cavaliers. It wasn't always this good. Usually, it's been pretty bad.
If it ain't broke, Mr. Gilbert, don't fix it.
Monday, January 31, 2005
The ice is melting
I was disheartened recently to read that the Cleveland Barons, the American Hockey League team in town, may be considering a move to greener pastures -- namely, the Quad Cities area of Iowa and Illinois.
Hockey's got to be in trouble when Davenport, Iowa holds more promise than a metropolitan area of nearly three million people with a 20,000-seat downtown arena to play in.
To tell you the truth, I can't tell whether this is a bigger indictment of hockey or hockey in Cleveland. Yes, the NHL is mired in a lockout that could kill the entire 2004-05 season, and sustained long enough, could permanently alter the professional face of the sport. Minor league hockey can't help but be affected by that. If the big boys aren't playing on ESPN, most casual fans probably aren't going to get too pumped about the bus leagues.
In Cleveland, that is especially the case. Say what you will about rivers catching on fire and a steel industry that has been dead and/or comatose for much of the past 30 years, but Cleveland is a major league town. We have NFL football, NBA basketball and Major League Baseball. Any minor league franchise is fighting an uphill battle against our big three.
The Barons currently rank 22 out of 28 AHL teams in attendance, averaging less than 5,000 fans per game. Team officials have gone on record saying the Barons are bleeding money and have been for quite some time.
The Barons, quite simply, just aren't capturing the imagination, and by extension the pocketbooks, of Cleveland fans.
Greater Cleveland is a great grass-roots hockey area, boasting one of the best hockey rink-to-population ratios in the country. But if this edition of the Barons fails, it will be the fifth hockey franchise to move or fold in Cleveland's history.
The original Barons, the ones that made a legacy in Cleveland, moved in 1973. The Crusaders were swallowed up when the World Hockey League was absorbed by the NHL in 1976. The NHL Barons (yes, Cleveland briefly was an NHL city), lasted only two red-inked seasons before being merged with the Minnesota North Stars in 1978.
The International Hockey League's Lumberjacks lasted almost 10 years in town. Armed with a promotional cache of loopy sideshows and heavily-hyped giveaways, they drew good crowds to Gund Arena until poor management killed the team, and shortly thereafter, the league.
The $64,000 question is, how can a city with an extensive hockey history, and a well-rooted amateur scene, be such a wasteland for the professional game?
Part of it is Cleveland, and part of it is hockey.
I think hockey is a lot like golf to many people: enjoyable to play, but tedious to watch. The nonstop movement makes some seasick when viewing on television. The small, black puck is work to follow. The breaks in action and constant face-offs also seem to frustrate viewers, though football is every bit as spastic.
Hockey isn't basketball with slam dunks. It isn't baseball with home runs. People aren't innately attracted to sheer feats of athleticism like with other sports. The greatness of hockey, like the passing of Wayne Gretzky or the skating of Bobby Orr, is more nuanced. People that appreciate hockey were most likely brought up watching it.
And for the NHL and all the leagues below it, that is less and less the case.
The NHL can take a lesson from Cleveland and other cold-weather towns where hockey continually fails. Professional hockey is not doing a good enough job of building a widespread, loyal fan base of people who can relate to the sport. It has withdrawn resources from cold-weather hockey enclaves to go for the sun and fun of the South.
After Gretzky, hockey thought it was hip and happening. It moved to Miami, to Tampa Bay, to Phoenix and Anaheim and several other places where it only snows in "The Day After Tomorrow." The NHL wanted glamour. It wanted sizzle and suntans. But in doing so, in turning a blind eye to its chilly roots, hockey overstepped its bounds.
The lesson is simple, and hopefully not too late to learn: if hockey has trouble being relevant enough to survive in Cleveland, Milwaukee and Winnipeg, how can it survive in Miami, Phoenix and Atlanta? In the long run, it probably can't.
Hockey's got to be in trouble when Davenport, Iowa holds more promise than a metropolitan area of nearly three million people with a 20,000-seat downtown arena to play in.
To tell you the truth, I can't tell whether this is a bigger indictment of hockey or hockey in Cleveland. Yes, the NHL is mired in a lockout that could kill the entire 2004-05 season, and sustained long enough, could permanently alter the professional face of the sport. Minor league hockey can't help but be affected by that. If the big boys aren't playing on ESPN, most casual fans probably aren't going to get too pumped about the bus leagues.
In Cleveland, that is especially the case. Say what you will about rivers catching on fire and a steel industry that has been dead and/or comatose for much of the past 30 years, but Cleveland is a major league town. We have NFL football, NBA basketball and Major League Baseball. Any minor league franchise is fighting an uphill battle against our big three.
The Barons currently rank 22 out of 28 AHL teams in attendance, averaging less than 5,000 fans per game. Team officials have gone on record saying the Barons are bleeding money and have been for quite some time.
The Barons, quite simply, just aren't capturing the imagination, and by extension the pocketbooks, of Cleveland fans.
Greater Cleveland is a great grass-roots hockey area, boasting one of the best hockey rink-to-population ratios in the country. But if this edition of the Barons fails, it will be the fifth hockey franchise to move or fold in Cleveland's history.
The original Barons, the ones that made a legacy in Cleveland, moved in 1973. The Crusaders were swallowed up when the World Hockey League was absorbed by the NHL in 1976. The NHL Barons (yes, Cleveland briefly was an NHL city), lasted only two red-inked seasons before being merged with the Minnesota North Stars in 1978.
The International Hockey League's Lumberjacks lasted almost 10 years in town. Armed with a promotional cache of loopy sideshows and heavily-hyped giveaways, they drew good crowds to Gund Arena until poor management killed the team, and shortly thereafter, the league.
The $64,000 question is, how can a city with an extensive hockey history, and a well-rooted amateur scene, be such a wasteland for the professional game?
Part of it is Cleveland, and part of it is hockey.
I think hockey is a lot like golf to many people: enjoyable to play, but tedious to watch. The nonstop movement makes some seasick when viewing on television. The small, black puck is work to follow. The breaks in action and constant face-offs also seem to frustrate viewers, though football is every bit as spastic.
Hockey isn't basketball with slam dunks. It isn't baseball with home runs. People aren't innately attracted to sheer feats of athleticism like with other sports. The greatness of hockey, like the passing of Wayne Gretzky or the skating of Bobby Orr, is more nuanced. People that appreciate hockey were most likely brought up watching it.
And for the NHL and all the leagues below it, that is less and less the case.
The NHL can take a lesson from Cleveland and other cold-weather towns where hockey continually fails. Professional hockey is not doing a good enough job of building a widespread, loyal fan base of people who can relate to the sport. It has withdrawn resources from cold-weather hockey enclaves to go for the sun and fun of the South.
After Gretzky, hockey thought it was hip and happening. It moved to Miami, to Tampa Bay, to Phoenix and Anaheim and several other places where it only snows in "The Day After Tomorrow." The NHL wanted glamour. It wanted sizzle and suntans. But in doing so, in turning a blind eye to its chilly roots, hockey overstepped its bounds.
The lesson is simple, and hopefully not too late to learn: if hockey has trouble being relevant enough to survive in Cleveland, Milwaukee and Winnipeg, how can it survive in Miami, Phoenix and Atlanta? In the long run, it probably can't.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Holding your breath
Ever heard 18,000 people gasp at once? I never had either. Then I went to Wednesday's Cavaliers-Grizzlies game at Gund Arena.
Early in the fourth quarter, LeBron James went up for one of those purist-chafing Jordan fadeaway jumpers, which rimmed out. Memphis grabbed the rebound and hustled to the other end of the floor, where my eyes were following.
Then a mass "ooooh." from all sides. Back at the defensive end, LeBron was crumpled on the floor. Even from my upper-deck seat hundreds of feet away, I could see Cleveland's franchise was in excruciating pain. He writhed, flung off his protective mask and headband, and pounded the floor.
He reached for his left ankle. Not good. He reached for the back of his left ankle, right around his Achilles tendon. Really not good.
When LeBron came down from his jump shot, his foot landed on the foot of Dahntay Jones, a Memphis player who was guarding LeBron like his Siamese twin. That's the disadvantage of being one of the most lethal offensive players in the game. Paranoid defenders obsessed with not getting burned will stay close enough to smell the laundry detergent your jersey was washed in.
Teammates and the trainer, Max Benton, helped LeBron up and carried him toward the vomitorium. Near Cleveland's bench, he shrugged off further assistance and limped to the locker room to a hopeful standing ovation.
My friend Dave and I looked at each other, knowing full well the fate of the Cavs' season was being discovered about 100 feet below us.
The Grizzlies pared down a 10-point deficit and the game was slipping away. But then, Cleveland had its own Willis Reed moment when LeBron walked back out onto the floor. Now the pensive standing "O" from 10 minutes previous was replaced with uninhibited joy.
Shaking off the effects of what was diagnosed as a sprained ankle, LeBron keyed a final push with a steal and bucket to hold of Memphis for a 114-111 win.
Could he be the dragon slayer? In two NBA seasons, he has shaken off two ankle sprains and a broken cheek bone to miss a grand total of three games as of Friday.
Whatever curse and/or negative mojo the Drive-Fumble-Shot-Red Right 88 legacy has thrown at LeBron, whatever bad luck he has faced, he has stared it down and emerged even better.
They call him King James. If he slays Cleveland's dragon, if he reverses the spell that has prevented Cleveland from winning a major sports title for over 40 years, that moniker will fit more than we ever thought.
Early in the fourth quarter, LeBron James went up for one of those purist-chafing Jordan fadeaway jumpers, which rimmed out. Memphis grabbed the rebound and hustled to the other end of the floor, where my eyes were following.
Then a mass "ooooh." from all sides. Back at the defensive end, LeBron was crumpled on the floor. Even from my upper-deck seat hundreds of feet away, I could see Cleveland's franchise was in excruciating pain. He writhed, flung off his protective mask and headband, and pounded the floor.
He reached for his left ankle. Not good. He reached for the back of his left ankle, right around his Achilles tendon. Really not good.
When LeBron came down from his jump shot, his foot landed on the foot of Dahntay Jones, a Memphis player who was guarding LeBron like his Siamese twin. That's the disadvantage of being one of the most lethal offensive players in the game. Paranoid defenders obsessed with not getting burned will stay close enough to smell the laundry detergent your jersey was washed in.
Teammates and the trainer, Max Benton, helped LeBron up and carried him toward the vomitorium. Near Cleveland's bench, he shrugged off further assistance and limped to the locker room to a hopeful standing ovation.
My friend Dave and I looked at each other, knowing full well the fate of the Cavs' season was being discovered about 100 feet below us.
The Grizzlies pared down a 10-point deficit and the game was slipping away. But then, Cleveland had its own Willis Reed moment when LeBron walked back out onto the floor. Now the pensive standing "O" from 10 minutes previous was replaced with uninhibited joy.
Shaking off the effects of what was diagnosed as a sprained ankle, LeBron keyed a final push with a steal and bucket to hold of Memphis for a 114-111 win.
Could he be the dragon slayer? In two NBA seasons, he has shaken off two ankle sprains and a broken cheek bone to miss a grand total of three games as of Friday.
Whatever curse and/or negative mojo the Drive-Fumble-Shot-Red Right 88 legacy has thrown at LeBron, whatever bad luck he has faced, he has stared it down and emerged even better.
They call him King James. If he slays Cleveland's dragon, if he reverses the spell that has prevented Cleveland from winning a major sports title for over 40 years, that moniker will fit more than we ever thought.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
You're welcome, Bill
Bill Belichick, you are one lucky man.
You are standing on the precipice of your third Super Bowl in four years. If you win on February 6 (and you should), you will make the New England Patriots the "Team of the 2000s," the same way the 49ers were the "Team of the '80s" and the Steelers were the "Team of the '70s."
You will write your name alongside Bill Walsh, Vince Lombardi and Paul Brown as the greatest mastermind coaches of all time. Sure, other teams have won three in four years. But Jimmy Johnson and Barry Switzer had better players. The mini-runs of the Denver Broncos and Oakland Raiders were more the products of John Elway, Dave Casper and Ken Stabler than Mike Shanahan, Tom Flores and John Madden.
You are winning with a philosophy, Bill. Not superlative talent.
And I just wanted to say, on behalf of Browns fans everywhere and our smoking wreckage of a team, you're welcome.
You're welcome because we were your own, personal safety town. You learned on us. Learned that coaching is more than poring over Xs and Os on dry-erase boards for hours on end.
You've always been one of the greatest at strategy. But when you came to Cleveland in 1991, you were clueless about being a leader, about handling people so they believe in you. You were a terse, sulking charcoal briquette of a man, leaving a trail of proverbial soot wherever you went.
You cut Bernie Kosar when Vinny Testaverde was injured. You kicked a field goal down by 21 points in the fourth quarter. You brought in retreads and castoffs from the Giants by the busload.
And yet, despite the clouds and the "Bill must go" chants, you somehow developed a dominant defense and won a playoff game against your mentor, Bill Parcells, in 1994. Maybe it was a bit of your potential leaking through.
This year, you brought your reigning world champs into Cleveland, and pounded the utterly debilitated Browns 42-15. You saw some Pats fans cheering in the near-deserted stands as you left the field, and thrust your fist in the air as you made eye contact.
You are on top of the world now, Bill. But somehow, sticking it to those Browns fans that chided you, made you a punch line in the darkest, most confusing era of your career was a bit more satisfying than your scores of other wins.
But we helped mold you. Your struggles and humiliation in Cleveland forged you. You learned the need to motivate, to evaluate, to get 53 players and a dozen coaches to work as a team. You learned winning doesn't exist in the abstract, conceptual world of the playbook. That is a starting point. Games are won in the real, imperfect world of human interaction. That's what Cleveland taught you.
Now, you are the whole package. Leading like a president, strategizing like a general, winning like a champion. Your bust will be cast in bronze and placed in Canton someday. And we in Cleveland will get a chance to drive an hour south and see what we don't have: everything you have brought to New England.
We don't exist in Utopia. We merely pay it forward to other cities, other teams, other coaches.
You're welcome, Bill.
You are standing on the precipice of your third Super Bowl in four years. If you win on February 6 (and you should), you will make the New England Patriots the "Team of the 2000s," the same way the 49ers were the "Team of the '80s" and the Steelers were the "Team of the '70s."
You will write your name alongside Bill Walsh, Vince Lombardi and Paul Brown as the greatest mastermind coaches of all time. Sure, other teams have won three in four years. But Jimmy Johnson and Barry Switzer had better players. The mini-runs of the Denver Broncos and Oakland Raiders were more the products of John Elway, Dave Casper and Ken Stabler than Mike Shanahan, Tom Flores and John Madden.
You are winning with a philosophy, Bill. Not superlative talent.
And I just wanted to say, on behalf of Browns fans everywhere and our smoking wreckage of a team, you're welcome.
You're welcome because we were your own, personal safety town. You learned on us. Learned that coaching is more than poring over Xs and Os on dry-erase boards for hours on end.
You've always been one of the greatest at strategy. But when you came to Cleveland in 1991, you were clueless about being a leader, about handling people so they believe in you. You were a terse, sulking charcoal briquette of a man, leaving a trail of proverbial soot wherever you went.
You cut Bernie Kosar when Vinny Testaverde was injured. You kicked a field goal down by 21 points in the fourth quarter. You brought in retreads and castoffs from the Giants by the busload.
And yet, despite the clouds and the "Bill must go" chants, you somehow developed a dominant defense and won a playoff game against your mentor, Bill Parcells, in 1994. Maybe it was a bit of your potential leaking through.
This year, you brought your reigning world champs into Cleveland, and pounded the utterly debilitated Browns 42-15. You saw some Pats fans cheering in the near-deserted stands as you left the field, and thrust your fist in the air as you made eye contact.
You are on top of the world now, Bill. But somehow, sticking it to those Browns fans that chided you, made you a punch line in the darkest, most confusing era of your career was a bit more satisfying than your scores of other wins.
But we helped mold you. Your struggles and humiliation in Cleveland forged you. You learned the need to motivate, to evaluate, to get 53 players and a dozen coaches to work as a team. You learned winning doesn't exist in the abstract, conceptual world of the playbook. That is a starting point. Games are won in the real, imperfect world of human interaction. That's what Cleveland taught you.
Now, you are the whole package. Leading like a president, strategizing like a general, winning like a champion. Your bust will be cast in bronze and placed in Canton someday. And we in Cleveland will get a chance to drive an hour south and see what we don't have: everything you have brought to New England.
We don't exist in Utopia. We merely pay it forward to other cities, other teams, other coaches.
You're welcome, Bill.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Black holes
I recently saw that scientists have revised a long-standing theory that black holes only suck in material. Apparently, they found one, six hundred some-odd Milky Way galaxies across, that is spitting material back out into space.
Now, what are the odds that a particle of matter would not only be drawn into a black hole, but subsequently retched out?
Better than you might realize.
Sumbitted for your approval, one Mr. Lamond Murray, professional basketball player. He's been traded twice in his career, once from the Clippers to the Cavaliers for Derek Anderson, and once from the Cavaliers (the sucky, pre-LeBron James edition) to the Raptors for a package including the incomparable Michael "Yogi" Stewart.
Murray has been sucked in and spat out by two black holes, one of the few players in league history who can count Donald Sterling as an owner and Randy Wittman as a coach.
There's a silver lining, however. Lamond Murray is a good enough player that the Cavs thought it essential to dump him to reach the latrine-duty status that allowed them to land James. I have to think Murray is flattered.
Now, what are the odds that a particle of matter would not only be drawn into a black hole, but subsequently retched out?
Better than you might realize.
Sumbitted for your approval, one Mr. Lamond Murray, professional basketball player. He's been traded twice in his career, once from the Clippers to the Cavaliers for Derek Anderson, and once from the Cavaliers (the sucky, pre-LeBron James edition) to the Raptors for a package including the incomparable Michael "Yogi" Stewart.
Murray has been sucked in and spat out by two black holes, one of the few players in league history who can count Donald Sterling as an owner and Randy Wittman as a coach.
There's a silver lining, however. Lamond Murray is a good enough player that the Cavs thought it essential to dump him to reach the latrine-duty status that allowed them to land James. I have to think Murray is flattered.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
An inferiority complex
The calls are coming into local sports radio from Pittsburgh fans everywhere:
"Why don't you Browns fans support the Steelers? Give your division some love."
And, you know what? I can't think of a good reason not to.
The Steelers may be our hated AFC North rivals, but if you can't beat them (and we assuredly can't right now), what else can you do?
Making a case for the Steelers being the bad guys is kind of like making a case that Jennifer Aniston is homely. Not even Johnny Cochrane could argue that one and win.
The Steelers are a high form of football life. I hate saying that, but it's true. They're not the Yankees, out-spending everyone to the playoffs. They win most years with the same salary-cap restrictions the Browns and everybody else in the NFL has. They just make good decisions, instill pride and discipline in their organization, and are (damn) lucky.
Pittsburgh has head coach Bill Cowher, oozing competitveness with every jut of his prominent chin; Cleveland had, most recently, pudgy Butch Davis making faces on the sideline like he was passing an extremely jagged kidney stone.
Pittsburgh has quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, Ohio native, hater of the Browns and Bengals. Big, tough and workmanlike, he's the ultimate Pittsburgher. Cleveland has Jeff Garcia, who is short, old, and it turns out, really whiny.
Pittsburgh has Dan Rooney, son of Art Rooney, as an owner. The Rooneys are beloved, devoted to Pittsburgh and its people. They won four Super Bowls, and Dan may get a fifth next month.
Cleveland had weasel Art Modell, who spent himself into catastrophic debt, then lied about his intentions to move the team. Not that it was all his fault. Modell stood back and watched the Indians and Cavaliers get new digs while his Browns were stuck in delapidated Cleveland Stadium.
But Modell's ending is a happy one. He won the Super Bowl ... in Baltimore. Cleveland's still waiting for an appearance in the game.
The Steelers exist in football Utopia compared to the Browns. Their fans are happy and supportive, the players are talented and competitive, the coaches coach, the front office manages, and the owner is benevolent. The Browns are an angry, disjointed bunch plagued by a bottle-throwing incident, fractured relations between the coaches and players, a non-existent front office, and all the hope in the world resting on the relatively-young shoulders of new general manager Phil Savage.
Did I mention they're on their second franchise?
As I Browns fan, I probably can't bring myself to root for the Steelers, but I sure can't root against them. The sorry state of football in my own backyard makes me unworthy.
"Why don't you Browns fans support the Steelers? Give your division some love."
And, you know what? I can't think of a good reason not to.
The Steelers may be our hated AFC North rivals, but if you can't beat them (and we assuredly can't right now), what else can you do?
Making a case for the Steelers being the bad guys is kind of like making a case that Jennifer Aniston is homely. Not even Johnny Cochrane could argue that one and win.
The Steelers are a high form of football life. I hate saying that, but it's true. They're not the Yankees, out-spending everyone to the playoffs. They win most years with the same salary-cap restrictions the Browns and everybody else in the NFL has. They just make good decisions, instill pride and discipline in their organization, and are (damn) lucky.
Pittsburgh has head coach Bill Cowher, oozing competitveness with every jut of his prominent chin; Cleveland had, most recently, pudgy Butch Davis making faces on the sideline like he was passing an extremely jagged kidney stone.
Pittsburgh has quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, Ohio native, hater of the Browns and Bengals. Big, tough and workmanlike, he's the ultimate Pittsburgher. Cleveland has Jeff Garcia, who is short, old, and it turns out, really whiny.
Pittsburgh has Dan Rooney, son of Art Rooney, as an owner. The Rooneys are beloved, devoted to Pittsburgh and its people. They won four Super Bowls, and Dan may get a fifth next month.
Cleveland had weasel Art Modell, who spent himself into catastrophic debt, then lied about his intentions to move the team. Not that it was all his fault. Modell stood back and watched the Indians and Cavaliers get new digs while his Browns were stuck in delapidated Cleveland Stadium.
But Modell's ending is a happy one. He won the Super Bowl ... in Baltimore. Cleveland's still waiting for an appearance in the game.
The Steelers exist in football Utopia compared to the Browns. Their fans are happy and supportive, the players are talented and competitive, the coaches coach, the front office manages, and the owner is benevolent. The Browns are an angry, disjointed bunch plagued by a bottle-throwing incident, fractured relations between the coaches and players, a non-existent front office, and all the hope in the world resting on the relatively-young shoulders of new general manager Phil Savage.
Did I mention they're on their second franchise?
As I Browns fan, I probably can't bring myself to root for the Steelers, but I sure can't root against them. The sorry state of football in my own backyard makes me unworthy.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Savage Town
I am a bit late with this, but consider this a formal welcome of Phil Savage as the new general manager of the Cleveland Browns.
Sad to say, but right now I am happier about what Savage isn't than what he is. He isn't Carmen Policy. He isn't Dwight Clark. He isn't Butch Davis. He's not well-known. He's not a figurehead.
He's pretty much what Mark Shapiro and Jim Paxson were as they took the reigns of the Indians and Cavaliers, respectively. He's young, ambitious, but unproven as "the man" in an organization.
He's not Ron Wolf. He's not Tom Modrak. I have a theory about organizational people who have been around too long or have already reached the summit. Sometimes, they lose their edge and grow tired of the daily grind. To draft and recruit and hire and revise and critique and approve and disapprove, you need to have the desire to look past all the "dirty work" to envision the final product. Savage, at 39, is young enough to do that.
Having said that, many of us here in Cleveland have been burned by the young, ambitious mastermind type. Butch Davis was that when he took the reigns of the Browns in 2001. He left as a megalomaniac, seemingly more concerned with coveting power than winning.
In a nutshell, Savage is smart. He has a history of great talent evaluation with the Ravens. As long as he understands his job is to find great talent, get it into Browns uniforms without bankrupting the team, and get back behind the scenes to plot his next move, the Browns are on the way up. If not ... well, let's not even think that way.
Sad to say, but right now I am happier about what Savage isn't than what he is. He isn't Carmen Policy. He isn't Dwight Clark. He isn't Butch Davis. He's not well-known. He's not a figurehead.
He's pretty much what Mark Shapiro and Jim Paxson were as they took the reigns of the Indians and Cavaliers, respectively. He's young, ambitious, but unproven as "the man" in an organization.
He's not Ron Wolf. He's not Tom Modrak. I have a theory about organizational people who have been around too long or have already reached the summit. Sometimes, they lose their edge and grow tired of the daily grind. To draft and recruit and hire and revise and critique and approve and disapprove, you need to have the desire to look past all the "dirty work" to envision the final product. Savage, at 39, is young enough to do that.
Having said that, many of us here in Cleveland have been burned by the young, ambitious mastermind type. Butch Davis was that when he took the reigns of the Browns in 2001. He left as a megalomaniac, seemingly more concerned with coveting power than winning.
In a nutshell, Savage is smart. He has a history of great talent evaluation with the Ravens. As long as he understands his job is to find great talent, get it into Browns uniforms without bankrupting the team, and get back behind the scenes to plot his next move, the Browns are on the way up. If not ... well, let's not even think that way.
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