“We’re going to be sick about this one for…for….forever.” – Giants head coach Tom Coughlin.
It’s the year 3006 and the New York Giants mark the 1,000 year anniversary of the horrific Titanic disaster. Although it’s several hundred years after the NFL permanently phased out the playing of football games in 2412, the Giants, like many teams in the United Way NFL, still use old football lessons about hustle, concentration, and finishing off your opponent to inspire their players in their new pursuit of competitive charitable acts, such as home building and trash pickup. The NFL permanently adopted this format after modern research surrounding concussions and brain injuries spelled the end of football, which joined coffee and SUV’s on society’s scrap heap. Nonetheless, children are reminded every year about Mathias Kiwanucka’s bizarre aborted tackle attempt like it is the tale of Passover, and the Wicked Son is told that you should “never, ever tackle life’s obstacles in this matter.”
Clearly, no matter how much the world changes, the horribly painful lesson of the Giants loss to Tennessee will reverberate for all eternity. OK, perhaps Coughlin was in fact liberally pumping up the importance of the loss to attempt a self-abusive end run around his critics. And yet there really were some basic, timeless and game-transcending truths which both the Giants and the Titans put on display to the world Sunday, when the Giants cruise ship ran into a titanic iceberg within their own minds.
The Giants’ three-headed fourth quarter goat, Plaxico Burress, Kiwanucka and Eli Manning, proved that you really do need to concentrate on executing your job and hustling until the whistle blows in order to be a winner. First, Burress changed the tone of the game with his lazy, yawning play with a big lead, allowing an errant pass to sail by without defending against the DB, Adam “Pac-Man” Jones, who intercepted it. Plax was reduced to a vulnerable blinking ghost as Pac-Man ate him up for 100 points, streaking down the sideline under the protection of his power pill.
Soon after, Kiwanucka had both of his huge arms wrapped around Titans QB Vince Young in a 4th and 10 death embrace that should have ended the game right there. Seems like the Giants' rookie defensive end either anticipated an “in the grasp” whistle that wasn’t there, or thought the ball had been thrown away. All he had to do was keep hugging and fall to the ground, which right there would be nothing the more than the basic definition of a tackle. Kiwanucka’s two-hand-touch level of effort breathed life back into the Titans as Young escaped his too-gentle clutches and rambled 20 yards for a first down.
Young Eli gave the self-inserted dagger its final twist. Inexplicably, the Giants QB put the ball in Young’s hands again at the exact moment where he could do anything but that and still go to overtime. His poor execution exceeded only by his poor decision making, Eli’s mind seems to be moving one way and his arm another these days. As if oblivious of the confounding failures of goats 1 and 2, Manning seemed to want to be the game’s hero, and lacked the judgment to realize what he was risking in that ill-advised pursuit.
As much as the Giants proved that a lack of mental toughness can be a team’s undoing, Vince Young demonstrated the type of miracle that heart and skill can produce. Young was deadly with his feet and hands and seemed nothing like a rookie, hitting his receivers, and then, with his brilliant sense of timing, knowing exactly when he could scramble ahead of the scattered Giants’ defenders. Most importantly, he never gave up, and always kept his head in the game. With the lead 21-0 in the fourth quarter, and Giants fans all counting the victory and going out to pick up their Chinese food, Young seemed to be the only person in the world taking seriously the Titans chance to steal the game.
Young’s day brought back memories of his epic performance for Texas, when they defeated USC in last year’s college title bout. 30 of 40 passing for 267 yards PLUS 200 running, and “that touchdown”, that perfectly timed scramble to the corner of the endzone on fourth down. So clutch. Also brings back memories of those human interest segments about Young’s near fatal bike accident when he was six, about the disturbingly large scar on his little torso, and how he had to spend almost a year in the hospital. Young says the accident made him who he is today. You can feel that the kid has courage, he knows he his not Superman but he also believes that if he fights and does not quit he can accomplish anything.
How could Vince Young be the most confident man on the field, with all the Giants talent and their 21-0 lead? Like Tom Coughlin, I believe mankind will be attempting to answer this question until the very end of recorded time.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Monday, November 13, 2006
Tiki Talks to the World
“They don’t hit you like that on ‘Fox and Friends’”.
I credit Stan Verrett of the Sports Center posse with the most humorously succinct take on the “Tiki Situation”. We understand from Tiki that his Giants teammates have known for a while of his retirement plans, but now us mere fans have had a few games to process the announcement. I was pulling for my team in the first Monday night game vs. the Cowboys following Tiki’s announcement, yet there was something else I wanted to take a closer look at. I was also high fiving my friend and fellow Giants fan Adam when Tiki got blown up on a vicious hit by 257 pound De Marcus Ware, and lost the ball quicker than I lose my keys. Why did I want Tiki to get slammed?
Its not the fact that Tiki is leaving football, but where he is going that is unsettling. The world of morning network reporting just seems so politely objective and so cheerfully perky that it should be light years away from the mentality we expect from a Sunday Football Warrior. A football player should be partisan, dyed in the colors of his team, not objectively covering all sides with the required vanilla tone of network media. As a football player one is encouraged to yell and curse and slam your fist into the lockers when pumping up your teammates before a game, wouldn’t that make it almost comical to have a football player delivering the peppy pleasantries of morning news?
But Tiki’s definitely a different type of football player, you can hear it right away in the articulate gentleness of his words and you can see it in the unrelenting charisma of his million dollar smile. As Tiki informs the world in his unapologetic Cadillac Escalade commercial, “opportunities are seldom perfect,” but when the guy ahead of you is injured, you gotta run for daylight and make the most of it. Obviously, Tiki has moved way up the ladder of morning reporter candidates because he is already a media figure and a recognizable name. But why would he want to? There are a million other ways to make money and be a public person that also don’t destroy your knees. Some of which help people and most of which have more character.
Tiki’s early retirement has been compared to that of the great Jim Brown, who left football to kick ass on screen in lowbrow but popular movies. At least he still WAS Jim Brown, a swashbuckling larger than life hero. That Tiki could still be Tiki on the morning news, that he could be the REAL Tiki while quipping with the co-anchor and straightening his papers as they go to break just doesn’t feel right. As a fan you want your team to be led by larger than life warriors, who spit out the blood when they get hit and growl back to the line for the next play. It’s safe to say Mark Bavaro never wanted to read the morning news.
I credit Stan Verrett of the Sports Center posse with the most humorously succinct take on the “Tiki Situation”. We understand from Tiki that his Giants teammates have known for a while of his retirement plans, but now us mere fans have had a few games to process the announcement. I was pulling for my team in the first Monday night game vs. the Cowboys following Tiki’s announcement, yet there was something else I wanted to take a closer look at. I was also high fiving my friend and fellow Giants fan Adam when Tiki got blown up on a vicious hit by 257 pound De Marcus Ware, and lost the ball quicker than I lose my keys. Why did I want Tiki to get slammed?
Its not the fact that Tiki is leaving football, but where he is going that is unsettling. The world of morning network reporting just seems so politely objective and so cheerfully perky that it should be light years away from the mentality we expect from a Sunday Football Warrior. A football player should be partisan, dyed in the colors of his team, not objectively covering all sides with the required vanilla tone of network media. As a football player one is encouraged to yell and curse and slam your fist into the lockers when pumping up your teammates before a game, wouldn’t that make it almost comical to have a football player delivering the peppy pleasantries of morning news?
But Tiki’s definitely a different type of football player, you can hear it right away in the articulate gentleness of his words and you can see it in the unrelenting charisma of his million dollar smile. As Tiki informs the world in his unapologetic Cadillac Escalade commercial, “opportunities are seldom perfect,” but when the guy ahead of you is injured, you gotta run for daylight and make the most of it. Obviously, Tiki has moved way up the ladder of morning reporter candidates because he is already a media figure and a recognizable name. But why would he want to? There are a million other ways to make money and be a public person that also don’t destroy your knees. Some of which help people and most of which have more character.
Tiki’s early retirement has been compared to that of the great Jim Brown, who left football to kick ass on screen in lowbrow but popular movies. At least he still WAS Jim Brown, a swashbuckling larger than life hero. That Tiki could still be Tiki on the morning news, that he could be the REAL Tiki while quipping with the co-anchor and straightening his papers as they go to break just doesn’t feel right. As a fan you want your team to be led by larger than life warriors, who spit out the blood when they get hit and growl back to the line for the next play. It’s safe to say Mark Bavaro never wanted to read the morning news.
Reflections on the Mets Elimination
The David Wright Vitamin Water ads were instantly ubiquitous on the phone booths and bus stations of New York within days of the Mets horrific Game 7 elimination at the hands of the Cardinals. “For David Wright, it works” the ads contend, below a picture of Wright, not in the blue and orange of the Mets but in the plain white, unlabeled uniform of corporate America. Still smarting from the shocking conclusion of the playoffs, in which Wright only hit .216, I find myself asking angry questions as I face the omnipresent reminders from the folks at Vitamin Water. Such as: “If it works for David, does that mean he would have would have hit .000 without it?”, “How many hours in the batting cage did he miss while mugging for those shots?”, and “Why doesn’t he have his own flavor like 50 Cent?”
Is there anyone better than David Wright on whom to pin the blame for the Mets flameout? After watching the wheels of the pitching staff come off in brutal fashion with the shocking and/or predictable injuries to Martinez and El Duque, the Mets fans knew there would be significant amounts of postseason magic needed to carry the team through. The Mets entered the playoffs with a scotch-taped-together staff but with a confidence born from a season of dominant offense, clutch play, and a flair for the dramatic that left the Mets still a Vegas favorite. The killer was, that postseason pixie dust did indeed get sprinkled on the young, untested arms of John Maine and Oliver Perez, and then even Tom Glavine, the last of 300 game winners, found the dominance of his prime with a streak of 13 shutout innings. You even have to look at veteran Darren Oliver, who contemplated retirement after some bad outings with the AAA Iowa Cubs before joining the Mets this spring, had that one last meaningful moment he imagined was left in his arm, shutting out St. Louis for 6 innings in game 2 after starter Steve Trachsel was terrible. Overall the pitching was actually just fine. Coulda been a touching story about the pitchers. They even had that awesome Endy Chavez catch. What they needed was a couple more timely hits.
Mets fans looked at the Cardinals series, knowing pitching dominates in the postseason, and conceded the Cards had an advantage in this category. They had the soon-to-be two time Cy Young winner (Carpenter), a wily journeyman (Suppan) and that surfer looking guy with the blond hair who got booted from the Yankees (Weaver). Which certainly wouldn’t have been THAT daunting if the Mets had their usual guys, but even without Martinez and El Duque, 8 of 8 of the New York Posts’ experts picked the Mets to win the series, obviously not because of their pitching, but because their hitting was so powerful, so magical, so clutch.
And it was all season. Wright was at the heart of it all, his fat .358 average with runners at third and two outs, his hustle in clutch moments gave the Mets that final, deadly advantage beyond the huge talent of Reyes, Beltran, Delgado and Lo Duca. In the Cards series you could sense Wright’s absence as these other star hitters contributed in turn. Delgado was on fire, dropping bombs throughout, looking like a series MVP and getting walked three times in the decisive game 7. Beltran and Reyes each single-handedly seized one game, as Beltran’s homer was the only offense in the Mets 2-0 game one victory, and Reyes’ leadoff shot and speed were the advantage in game 5. Lo Duca scattered productive singles throughout, hitting a respectable .275 in the playoffs. The offense wasn’t on fire, but these clutch performances at least got them to game 7. Where was the clutch David Wright performance?
Modells sales executives stated this year David Wright finally ended a 10 year run by Derek Jeter as the top nameplated sports gear seller in New York. Anyone who has been to a Mets game in 2006 can attest it seems like well over 50% of the shirts and jerseys bear his name. It’s safe to say virtually all of the women who come to Shea sporting the name of a player have David Wright gear, much of it targeted toward Wright’s sex appeal, such as the “Mrs. Wright” version of the female-cut tee. David Wright is the face of the Mets.
It’s the nature of all sports, future potential for promising young stars is richly rewarded. David Wright has been rewarded because he is the plucky and likeable son of Virginia Beach cop, a hard-working 23 year old who practices, hustles, is humble and has a good attitude, and because he SHOULD come through in a Playoff game 7. He should get that key single the other way, fouling off pitches to get to something he can handle, controlling his nerves despite the noise and situation which is making the high-priced prima donnas around him crumble under pressure. Kind of like David Eckstein was able to do for the Cards.
So, having failed to come through in Game 7 and throughout the entire postseason, Wright owes one to the Mets fans. These fans who have given him so much unconditional love before the postseason even arrived as the guy we would/should/could rely on if we ever got there. That’s what Mets fans are thinking every day when they pass those dragonberry-red Vitamin Water ads on the way to work. That and “Steve Trachsel is terrible”.
Is there anyone better than David Wright on whom to pin the blame for the Mets flameout? After watching the wheels of the pitching staff come off in brutal fashion with the shocking and/or predictable injuries to Martinez and El Duque, the Mets fans knew there would be significant amounts of postseason magic needed to carry the team through. The Mets entered the playoffs with a scotch-taped-together staff but with a confidence born from a season of dominant offense, clutch play, and a flair for the dramatic that left the Mets still a Vegas favorite. The killer was, that postseason pixie dust did indeed get sprinkled on the young, untested arms of John Maine and Oliver Perez, and then even Tom Glavine, the last of 300 game winners, found the dominance of his prime with a streak of 13 shutout innings. You even have to look at veteran Darren Oliver, who contemplated retirement after some bad outings with the AAA Iowa Cubs before joining the Mets this spring, had that one last meaningful moment he imagined was left in his arm, shutting out St. Louis for 6 innings in game 2 after starter Steve Trachsel was terrible. Overall the pitching was actually just fine. Coulda been a touching story about the pitchers. They even had that awesome Endy Chavez catch. What they needed was a couple more timely hits.
Mets fans looked at the Cardinals series, knowing pitching dominates in the postseason, and conceded the Cards had an advantage in this category. They had the soon-to-be two time Cy Young winner (Carpenter), a wily journeyman (Suppan) and that surfer looking guy with the blond hair who got booted from the Yankees (Weaver). Which certainly wouldn’t have been THAT daunting if the Mets had their usual guys, but even without Martinez and El Duque, 8 of 8 of the New York Posts’ experts picked the Mets to win the series, obviously not because of their pitching, but because their hitting was so powerful, so magical, so clutch.
And it was all season. Wright was at the heart of it all, his fat .358 average with runners at third and two outs, his hustle in clutch moments gave the Mets that final, deadly advantage beyond the huge talent of Reyes, Beltran, Delgado and Lo Duca. In the Cards series you could sense Wright’s absence as these other star hitters contributed in turn. Delgado was on fire, dropping bombs throughout, looking like a series MVP and getting walked three times in the decisive game 7. Beltran and Reyes each single-handedly seized one game, as Beltran’s homer was the only offense in the Mets 2-0 game one victory, and Reyes’ leadoff shot and speed were the advantage in game 5. Lo Duca scattered productive singles throughout, hitting a respectable .275 in the playoffs. The offense wasn’t on fire, but these clutch performances at least got them to game 7. Where was the clutch David Wright performance?
Modells sales executives stated this year David Wright finally ended a 10 year run by Derek Jeter as the top nameplated sports gear seller in New York. Anyone who has been to a Mets game in 2006 can attest it seems like well over 50% of the shirts and jerseys bear his name. It’s safe to say virtually all of the women who come to Shea sporting the name of a player have David Wright gear, much of it targeted toward Wright’s sex appeal, such as the “Mrs. Wright” version of the female-cut tee. David Wright is the face of the Mets.
It’s the nature of all sports, future potential for promising young stars is richly rewarded. David Wright has been rewarded because he is the plucky and likeable son of Virginia Beach cop, a hard-working 23 year old who practices, hustles, is humble and has a good attitude, and because he SHOULD come through in a Playoff game 7. He should get that key single the other way, fouling off pitches to get to something he can handle, controlling his nerves despite the noise and situation which is making the high-priced prima donnas around him crumble under pressure. Kind of like David Eckstein was able to do for the Cards.
So, having failed to come through in Game 7 and throughout the entire postseason, Wright owes one to the Mets fans. These fans who have given him so much unconditional love before the postseason even arrived as the guy we would/should/could rely on if we ever got there. That’s what Mets fans are thinking every day when they pass those dragonberry-red Vitamin Water ads on the way to work. That and “Steve Trachsel is terrible”.
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