My Blue Heaven

This time around, the Giants play the giant-killers. And the part of Goliath, aka Kurt Warner, aka Earl Morrall, will be played by Tom Brady.

Eli Manning is in much the same situation Tom Brady faced after the 2001 season, three super bowl rings and two supermodels ago. Back then the Brady was the unproven phenom on the rise, facing huge odds against the offensive juggernaut Rams. Now Page Six Tom is the establishment.

Thus the upside for Manning this year is that much higher, as the juggernaut Pats he is facing are Pursuing Perfection. Unprecedented all-time glory is there for the taking – or at the very least the biggest glory since lamb chops Namath in SB III.

Plus, every decent American not afflicted with Patriotitis is rooting for the Jints. “Unless you’re a cheater-loving chowderhead” is how the loveable NY Post drew the battle lines in this morning’s paper, including their political style USA mockup with the continental US all in blue save the New England states, including the classic halving of Connecticut down the CT river. Clearly the Post editors has some lingering Yankee bitterness to expunge, and lest they get too caught up in their us vs. them mentality, I’d like to remind them not to exclude Alaska, Hawaii, Guam and Western Samoa who I understand all are blue as well.

There were so many bright spots in an absolute classic NFC Championship Game at Lambeau. Plaxico times three great catches in the first half, laying out tipping balls to himself, domination over the Packers corner Al Harris. The ageless Amani Toomer’s tiptoe act, touching a single blade of grass with each toe before going out of bounds. And you had to applaud Coughlin’s handling of the two pronged running attack. After the Packers got punched in the mouth by the bruising Brandon Jacobs, Ahamad Bradshaw would come in with a whole other gear and knife through the secondary for 10+ yards.

Sure there was plenty of bad play and bad luck. None worse than McQuarters Fumble #1, which lodged itself in the stomach of wayward Packers lineman Mark Tauscher to preserve the possession within the red zone on the way to a TD. But listen, Domenick Hixon seemed to have radar tracking on the ball amongst a sea of green jerseys while recovering McQuarters Fumble #2, and then you had Corey Webster in the right place and not dropping Brett Favre’s interception in OT. And of course one good kick out of three.

And that shows me enough game plan, enough game-ready performances and enough luck to believe the Giants won’t embarrass me when I prepare to make The Greatest Prediction in the History of Sports in one sentence from now. The Giants will win Super Bowl XLII.

Editors Note: That would come exactly one year to the day from the current Greatest Prediction Ever, which was my call of a return TD by Devin Hester on the last Super Bowl's opening play. More on that this week when I return with this years edition of my Super Bowl Magic Moments.

Pats Light Shines On

As the Pats prepared a fourth and 1 quarterback sneak, their fragile gem of a perfect season on the line, a jumpy-handed Ravens assistant coach signalled the time out. At that moment the future fractured into two paths, What Might Have Been, and What Is. The attempted quarterback sneak by Tom Brady only existed in the land of What Might Have Been, but in that land Brady got popped! Halted in his tracks a yard behind scrimmage, he toppled over, defeated, the Pats perfect run ended. Demoralized, the Pats lose their mojo, lose to Pittsburgh, lose to Indy in the playoffs again and see the reputation of their cantankerous head coach sullied by their epic collapse as the rest of the league delights.

But none of that happened, because in the Land of What Is, the Pats are protected by a glowing light, a mysterious force which guides them and made the Ravens call timeout. It doesn't matter whether this magical light is in the "T"-shape of that Ravens coach's hands, in the eye of the referee who ruled Jabar Gaffney's hot potato routine in the endzone was a TD catch, or in the mouth of the back judge who rattled Ravens defender Samari Rolle with his alleged in-game epithets. Any one of these ripples in the space-time continuum might have been sufficient to derail the Ravens upset bid by itself.

On a night where the Pats were outhustled and outplayed, and looked far from dominant, its amazing that they always seem to have just enough pixie dust to sprinkle on the field when they need a little luck. One thing is clear, the Pats "We're not on a quest" quest for a perfect season has taken on a life of its own. Emboldened by a chance at football immortality, Pats opponents are taking aim at The Streak itself and coming up with the games of their lives.

Unheralded, uncelebrated and most would say unskilled QBs A.J. Feeley and Kyle Boller had career days chasing anti-Pat history on consecutive weeks. That is a clear indication that The Streak is exerting a powerful influence on Patriot opponents, an influence which is growing exponentially as the season approaches its final chapters.

Next on the Pats agenda are the Steelers, in great shape to end the perfect season and have their efforts live on for years of NFL Films glory. Steelers are no 25-point underdog like the Eagles, the Steelers have a revitalized Big Ben, Steelers have that D, Steelers have something to prove for their youthful new head coach who bravely declared "This is no Appalachian State vs. Michigan." All of which would only lead one to the conclusion that this time the Pats are REALLY going down.

However, until the spell is broken and someone finishes a victory to the final second, its hard not to believe the orb of light will rescue the Pats once again. Furthermore, Tom Brady's desire to silence the annoying Mercury Morris of the 72 Dolphins has gotta be considered another exponentially growing force.

The Buns Rule Wrigley

We came down from Milwaukee on I-84, our bellies filled with bratwurst and German beers. We were flush from a Brewer victory and 12 stadiums deep in our family’s quest to make it to all 30 MLB parks. Halfway to Chicago I shed my new Prince Fielder Brewers t-shirt and new Brewers hat and donned my Cubs shirt and hat. We came into the Windy City anticipating the quintessential Wrigley Field experience. Sadly for us, that’s exactly what we found, that fateful and wet night on the North Side.

Did you know that the first team to take the field at the ballyard now known as Wrigley was not, in fact, the Cubs, but a squad known as the “Buns?” Back then, (in 1914), it was called Weeghman Field, named for Charlie Weeghman, who built it for his baseball team that played in the short-lived Federal League. Weeghman had made his fortune as the owner of a thriving string of Chicago luncheonettes called “Weeghman’s”. Lacking an official team nickname, legendary baseball writer Ring Lardner helped give rise to the unofficial name “Buns” as a reference to the typical luncheonette fare.

The Buns were the only team ever to celebrate a championship on the field now known as Wrigley, in 1915. (By then a fan vote had named Weeghman’s squad “The Whales.”) Even this faraway and forgotten title had its asterisk. The Whales benefited from two rainouts which did not get made up, affording them (after winning the second game of a darkness-shortened doubleheader on the last day of the season) a fractional .0009 percentage edge over the St. Louis Rebels, who actually won 87 games on the season to the Whales’ 85. The Federal league folded after the Whales won the last game, and Weeghman bought majority shares of the Cubs and moved them to his field on the North Side.

World War I at once spelled doom for the leisurely luncheon counter lifestyle and introduced gum-chewing cynicism throughout the world; consequently Weeghman saw his fortune dissolve as William Wrigley’s wealth multiplied. When the gum magnate bought out Weeghman in 1918, that was the official beginning of 89 years of remarkable failure in the still-continuing saga, known as the Cubs “curse”. It’s a saga that does anything but leave a minty fresh taste in their fans’ mouths.

The Wrigleys’ legacy is plain as day the moment you walk into the park, even now in 2007. The field is impeccably groomed by a groundskeeping crew at least three times as large as any I had seen at other stadiums. The park itself is a jewel, the team, traditionally, not so much, evidence of the allegedly reversed priorities of the Cubs’ ownership. P.K. Wrigley (William’s son) notoriously did not care about the team’s success as long as he could reap the stadium’s profits. A pirated scorecard sold to my Dad in front of the stadium was filled with these same accusations of the Chicago Tribune, the present owner.

In keeping with this greed-before-baseball philosophy, you’d expect the Cubs to milk the concessions as much as possible in a rain suspension situation. That’s exactly what we witnessed. After a soaking rain kept the tarp on the field for 30 minutes, we waited and waited for our game with the Cardinals to resume, even waiting long after the drops had completely ceased. We ate the hot dogs and drank the beer of necessity, trusting in our hearts that the end of the real rain must mean there would be baseball.

Alas, after a full two hours of delay, the announcement was made that the game was called. Fans booed loudly and those in the outfield bleachers littered the warning track with garbage, in protest for wasting two irretrievable hours of their already dismal lives (as Cubs fans). Interestingly, no announcement was made about not throwing garbage on the field. The army of groundskeepers just came trotting out to scoop it up in their big garbage bags, like it was part of their job, like they were expecting it, like it was just an acceptable expression of Cub-fan frustration.

We learned that casually throwing on the mantle of Cubs fanhood for one night is a potentially perilous proposition. There are many years of baggage and many hardened scars that you instantly put on when you toss that blue cap with the red “C” on your head. The hot dogs, however, really were the best we had at any park this summer; I guess great dogs are necessary as the last line of defense against fan riots. They’re grilled to a blackened color and served with onions, in a perfect poppy seed bun that really makes the dog experience. The Buns, after all, have Wrigley’s only winning legacy to uphold.

Vick, Donaghy Reflect Dark NFL, NBA Truths

Michael Vick and Tim Donaghy underscore negative fan perceptions of their respective leagues. Yet somehow Barry Bonds ends up making baseball fans feel better about their sport, even if the majority of fans choose to hate him openly.

Dogfighting is a startling analogy for the NFL itself. The vicious hits and spiteful taunting that have become commonplace create an environment where cruelty at times seems celebrated. Players flaunt a lack of concern for their peers’ safety (or even dignity, in the case of some taunting) in a way that feels mercenary and “dog eat dog”. Vick seems to have taken the delight in cruelty to a new level. That he would use his wealth and celebrity to create a veil of secrecy under which dogfights could take place really is a scary and powerful answer to the average fan’s question of what lies in the soul of an NFL player.

New NFL commissioner Roger Goodell can attempt to institute a culture shift and distance the league from Vick. David Stern is not so lucky with the Tim Donaghy nightmare, as referee control of games and excessive fouls are already the biggest problems with the NBA, even without gambling and fixing in the mix.

The NBA has constant whistle interruptions, the last minutes of games are sliced into infinite fractions of time, with commercials in between. The overblown arguments and clashes of wills between referees and players plays out like a pro wrestling match. A referee already has too much control over the game and it seems like he can easily change momentum for one team or another based on his mood if he, say, had some indigestion or had just gotten in a fight with his wife, or of course if he owed some money to the mob. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. As the league became a highlight reel, windmill dunk, sneaker commercial of a pro wrestling league with a ball, it also became whistle-heavy and scripted, and, it seems, totally corrupt.

Meanwhile, with Barry Bonds a homer away from Hank Aaron, MLB has had ages to get its story straight. The Bonds/steroids/record saga, for any young child watching baseball, is a massive passion play about how cheaters don’t win, and how crime does not pay. It’s still a significant number being crossed out of the record book, but Barry has been stripped of his fanfare and denied his celebration. He’s not exactly sitting on the beach sipping champagne having gotten away with the crime of the century.

Whereas the hate of racism stained Aaron’s chase, Barry’s pursuit has lost even more to hate. But it’s a reversal of the situation the heroic Aaron had to face. The anger against Barry is a righteous indignation, a diatribe against cheaters. It’s a dose of “justice of the people” meted out one booing fan, one clever sign, one perfectly timed media allegation at a time.

So while the NBA and NFL are totally caught with their pants down, MLB has become a forum through which good values and ideals ultimately get expressed and have a voice. The cycles and traditions of baseball have always been ingrained in American culture and always have been a mirror of the times, whether in the Black Sox Era, Jackie Robinson's first game, Aaron’s chase, and now Barry’s march, in what's already being called a Steroid "Era". Baseball will go on, Barry, ultimately will not really win, and people feel good about that.

Lastings by a Nail

The Mets 3-2 nail-biter was won by a fingernail. The fortunately unbitten fingernail on the outstretched finger of Lastings Milledge, who needed every millimeter of his digits as he glided just wide of the glove of Reds catcher David Ross, and scraped the corner of home plate for the Mets winning run. Milledge’s feet seemed to stutter-step as he left first early on the two out Ruben Gotay single, so the sneaky slide just barely made up enough for the time he lost before his speed kicked in.

Milledge was recalled from AAA New Orleans today, and represents some hustle and zip in the lineup, as the Mets waive goodbye to 57 year old Julio Franco, who is going straight into the Senior PGA. Also making the most of his opportunity was Gotay, playing second for the injured Jose Valentin, whose finger was bandaged up after breaking up a fight in Puerto Rico during the All Star break. The solid .342-hitting Gotay made team history homering back to back with Jose Reyes to start the game, which, oddly never happened since they started this crazy Mets journey back in 1962.

Its vexing that the veteran Valentin would get injured during what one assumes was a liquor- soaked late night situation during his shore leave from the Mets ship. Mets fans hope that looking back, Jose would rather the two combatants have bashed each other senseless while he lounged at home drinking mango juice and reading the Ted Williams book about hitting. While Gotay seems ready to be leaned on increasingly, its Milledge who will be quickly exposed if he fails. With the curse of injury to anyone who plays leftfield striking Moises Alou, Endy Chavez and Carlos Gomez, fate turns the lasting glow of its spotlight to Lastings Milledge.

Billy Wagner meanwhile, managed to bounce back from the two run homer he allowed to the Indians’ Victor Martinez in the All Star Game with the save. There is a mental disconnect when you throw closers into the dreaded “non-save situation” during the Midsummer Classic, so it was reassuring to see Wagner return to his dominant form when back in his ninth inning role, with all the “save situation” theme music and ceremony he seems to require.

Mets' Maine Man

John Maine began his outing tonight in most auspicious fashion, becoming the first player in major league history to strike out four batters in an inning. Astros leadoff hitter Craig Biggio waved at a subterranean strike three slider, as did #2 hitter Hunter Pence. When #3 hitter Lance Berkman lost his bat in a flailing strike three attempt, it went flying into the on-deck circle, striking #4 hitter Carlos Lee and knocking him flat. Four batters felled in one swoop of a first inning.

Maine went on to fan a career high nine batters in the much needed, tide-turning 6-2 victory in Houston, coming after a late night escape flight that capped a brutal sweep by Colorado.

In the sixth, with runners on first and second and none out, Maine whistled a flame-trailing 94-mph offering high and tight past a lunging Berkman. Capitalizing on the big whiff, he crossed up Lee, who was way out ahead of a vicious and tantalizing slider for strike one. He later went back to the inside heat for a swinging strike three to Lee, and then got Loretta to pop up harmlessly, stepping right out of trouble with a calmness and even emotion you don’t usually see in second year players.

For seven solid innings the Astros offense was pushed down and prevented from breathing by the stifling Maine, until he ran out of gas in the eighth, 119 pitches deep. Lee, got his revenge with a run scoring double and scored himself on a Loretta single. With the score 5-2, the Mets were able to tiptoe out of further damage thanks to Pedro Feliciano, who struck out an angrily looking Morgan Ensberg, silenced the Astro rally and “set up” the closer Billy Wagner for a nice n easy ninth.

Maine’s rousing effort stopped some pretty serious Mets bleeding. After the Mets experienced a Rocky Mountain reduction of their psyche at the hands of Colorado – 47 Coors-aided hits and 34 runs allowed in 3 increasingly demoralizing losses - they were grateful for the poise of Maine and his instant heat out of the gate to set a different tone. Mets play-by-play guy Gary Cohen was inspired enough to anoint Maine as the Mets new “stopper”, and instantly the SNY cameras find the browbeaten visage of Tom Glavine in the dugout, who seemed to somehow sense that his inconsistent performance had just gotten him demoted out of that role.

NY vs. NY a Wagnerian Saga

“Nein, W.” is the answer.

“Do you spell your name with a “V”, Mr. Wagner?” is the question. Or so goes a favorite joke of my classical music aficionado father.

The question for the Mets was how were they going to break a losing skid that saw them drop nein of their last ten games? And how would they do so against the suddenly resurgent Yankees, who have won nein in a row? The answer, like the joke, lies with a Mr. Wagner. Was the tonic for the Mets ills some type of psychological victory? Nein, it was a W, as the Mets triumphed over their Bronx rivals, 2-0 last night, on Wagner’s perfect neinth.

The somewhat unpredictable starter Oliver Perez pitched brilliantly, scattering six hits over his 7 1/3 shutout innings. And the Joe Smith/Pedro Feliciano two-headed monster that picked up the last two outs of the 8th suddenly seems like a serviceable replacement to the one confused head of Aaron Heilman. The perfect 9th Billy Wagner pitched was downright necessary for the Mets. To have blown, or even jeopardized the fragile 2-0 gem the Mets had pieced together would have been more devastating than if they got shelled from the get go.

After getting behind in the count to Posada (with his surprising .349 average) Wagner got Jorge to pop up, then froze Hideki Matsui with an unappetizing offering; an outside fastball that swerved in to skim the black on strike three for the second out. Robinson Cano, seeing Matsui’s open-mouthed hesitation, vowed to swing at Wagner’s nasty outside heat, and flailed at strike three, missing by a foot.

Billy Wagner’s lifetime .188 opponent’s batting average is best among active relievers. His continued ability to locate his feisty arsenal of pitches is needed to unlock the Mets potential, as we enter the heat of summer and the land of the 4-3, 3-2 one run games.