World of B

It’s possible that fans of every professional sports team will echo this sentiment, but it seems to me that Minnesota teams are never involved in blockbuster trades. It’s a real bummer. Maybe the Herschel Walker nightmare scared everyone off (which is understandable), but for years, every season in every sport came and went without the Minnesota squads making the Big Move. So you can imagine the excitement we fans felt today as both the Timberwolves and Twins pulled off significant trades seemingly out of nowhere.

Now, the KG move is roughly 500 times more significant than the Twins’ trade of team leadoff hitter/space cadet Luis Castillo, but each move sparked a gut reaction on the state of the team involved. A few impulsive thoughts on the moves:

Kevin Garnett traded to the Boston Celtics

(As I write this, the deal is still pending, which might make this post irrelevant if it falls through at the last minute. But I’m going to proceed like it’s reality, which seems to be what everyone else is doing.)

This strikes me as the sort of deal that will bum out the casual fans (who likely see KG as the only recognizable figure on the team) but will be noted by the diehards as an unfortunate obligation. I could be wrong, but that seems to how the reactions are shaking out. The casual camp sees KG as one of the last decent guys in a sport overrun with overpaid thugs (not my opinion, but whatever). He plays his heart out, he’s incredibly charitable, refreshingly humble, and he’s maintained a fierce loyalty to Minnesota. Next to Kirby Puckett, he is this state’s most beloved athlete. (With good reason. I personally have an obscene man-crush on him. KG gives me a “sports boner” like no other.)

The diehards recognize the same thing, but point to issues like the salary cap, expiring contracts and the need to attain young talent as reasons to trade KG. The Wolves organization is a sinking ship, and getting rid of the biggest contract on said ship is usually seen as the easiest, most surefire option to stop the drowning. It’s not personal, it’s business, and if fans want to see a Wolves championship someday, they’ll understand the need to let KG go.

I fall in the latter category. I’m not in love with this pending trade (though I think Simmons’s giddiness is a bit overboard), but Minnesota is snagging a potential franchise player in Jefferson and two draft picks (though they won’t be lottery) with which to continue to seek out the next superstar. And with our young, fairly promising nucleus of Jefferson, Foye, Brewer and McCants, along with the potential of another lottery pick next year, not to mention the multi-millions in cap room that can lure a big name … who knows. The Wolves might be competitive again in a couple years.

But the real problem is that it’s all a crapshoot. Will Jefferson continue to develop into a premier player? Will Foye improve? Is Brewer the real deal? Is KG out of his prime? Will McHale be able to pull off a few smaller moves to continue to free up cap room? Is it acceptable for me to wear a KG Celtics jersey on dates? No one knows any of these things, which is why the fans seem so divided on the trade.

There is only one truth that each side can agree on: the Wolves were not going to win a championship with KG on their roster. That was a certainty. They were too handicapped by Frankenstein McHale’s moves to legitimately contend. And since the current roster wasn’t going to get the team anywhere, a move had to be made. This may not have been the right move – the jury’ll be out for a couple years on that one – but it was definitely, if unfortunately, a step in the right direction.

**********

Luis Castillo to the Mets

This trade was both blatantly predictable and slightly perplexing. Everyone knew Castillo was gone at season’s end (and that Alexi ‘Lil Vin Diesel’ Casilla is primed to step in as the ‘08 starter), so he was a perfect late-season rental for a contender. And while I trust Terry Ryan’s trading skills *cough*Pierzynski*cough* I’m still not understanding the prospects we got in return. The main guy in this deal appears to be Drew Butera, who looks like a solid player … except that he’s a catcher. A catcher. What are we going to do with a catcher? I feel like Wayne Campbell right now, with Butera playing the role of gun rack.

I’m cool with getting a decent prospect no matter the position at this point, and at the very least trading him away or relocating him to a different position, but was this the only deal the Twins could’ve made? How does Butera help our 2008 plans? Are we gearing up for ‘09? Furthermore, if there were other players in the Mets’ system that better fit our needs, why not throw in one of our many young pitchers to snag him (especially considering our gaping holes at third and the outfield)?

I’m not saying this was a bad deal (especially since I found Castillo to be slightly overrated to begin with), but it’s just strange to trade for a catcher. Old what’s-his-face currently behind the dish seems to be a pretty decent player, and I imagine he’ll be sticking around for a while.

News flash: this has not been a great week for sports. Baseball is dealing with one of its most beloved historical records about to be broken by a steroid-abusing jerk. One of the NFL’s most visible players is headed to the clink for his active involvement in a brutal dog-fighting ring. And over in the NBA, the entire competitive scope of the sport has been compromised with news that one of the league’s referees was involved in a point-shaving scandal with the mob. So, you could say things have been better.

Which leads me to a question: taking into account all the above info, which sport is in the most trouble?

Answer: the NHL.

More slightly inappropriate musings from good old Bert Blyleven, during this evening’s tense contest against the Detroit Tigers:

Bert was telling play-by-play partner Dick Bremer about having recently eaten two goldfish at a charity auction. He evidently raised something like $3,500 for scarfing down a couple of the suckers (which is a lot more than I received for eating live minnows during a hazing ritual in college – the only thing I was able to raise was my lunch, dinner, all the other contents in my stomach and I believe a small chunk of my small intestine, right out my mouth). When Dick asked whether Bert had been experiencing any after-effects since eating the fish, Bert quipped, “Not yet. I’ve been afraid to look!”

Correct me if I’m wrong here, but … was Bert making a veiled reference about being afraid to inspect his own stool for goldfish remnants? I guess I shouldn’t be completely shocked, given his past comments on getting lucky with Paula Abdul and Bremer’s lack of pubic hair, but still. What a horrifying mental image to be saddled with the rest of the evening.

Two recent gems from Twins broadcasters:

1. A few games back, Dick Bremer was mid-sentence, doing a promo of some sorts, and his voice cracked in this comical, Peter Brady-esque manner. He said a quick ‘excuse me,’ and after a few beats of silence, Bert Blyleven blurted out, “Don’t worry, Dick, the hair will come soon.” Bremer politely chuckled and quickly changed the subject. Because, you know, that’s what you do when someone mentions your hypothetical lack of pubic hair on live television. But that’s what we’ve come to expect from Bert — a bratty refusal to pass up the most obvious joke. Or question, for that matter.

2. Over on the radio network, John “I Wish I Could Make Love To My Own Voice” Gordon and Dan Gladden were weighing in on the recent scuffle between Cubs teammates Carlos Zambrano and Michael Barrett. Gordon offered a few tsk-tsks before getting back to his sensual larynx massage, and Gladden began to come down on the Cubbies teammates as well. A few seconds later — the time I imagine it takes someone to hurl the 1998 Twins guide at Gladden’s head — he meekly concluded his speech with, “It’s an unfortunate situation, and, and…well, I guess I’m not the best person comment on this.” You’ve got a point there, Dazzle. I’d say that anyone who fights with a teammate on his own front lawn, with his daughter bearing witness, may want to steer clear from lecturing others about the importance of respect for teammates. But thanks for your continued efforts to attempt to come up with something interesting to say.

So, to recap: Gladden 0, Blyleven -1. Pretty standard week around these parts.

Just to preemptively field concerns regarding my lack of creative input during the summer months: this is where I’ll be spending my time this summer. On the baseball diamond. That’s how I roll.

For those of you who don’t give a damn about my personal life (I don’t blame you), I offer you Chicago Cubs pitcher Ryan Dempster being awesome as a peace treaty for my brief self-indulgence:

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I promise a return to our regularly scheduled programming (read: inane BS) tomorrow.

Just in case you haven’t seen it yet: on the far right is Brady Quinn, smiling at the camera while he and his cronies demonstrate the traditional “Fighting Irish handshake.”

I realize that Deadspin posted this story a couple days back, but I feel the need to report the news myself. I need the following video housed here at the WoB, if only for easy access to future viewings. Because there will be future viewings. Oh yes, there will.

Setting: Fenway Park, Monday night. Scene: some jackass Red Sox fan starts making fun of a couple guys seated near him for eating a pizza in the stands. A few batters later, said jackass gets a foul ball hit his direction, and during the ensuing commotion, one of the pizza eaters decides to chuck an entire slice at him. The result? A full slice of cheese ‘za to the shoulder & face. Slo-mo replays ensue. Announcers are unable to contain their laughter, rewatching the video like Jim Garrison staring down the Zapruder. A day later, watching from my computer, uncontrollable tears of laughter stream down my cheeks.

So there you have it: a frustrated young baseball fan flings a slice of pizza at another human being, and unwittingly reminds an entire nation of the power of poetic justice.

Gawd, I love sports.

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Obviously the Anaheim Ducks need a bit of a refresher on their team’s roots. They should hunker down in the team A/V room, pop in the first Mighty Ducks movie and witness how it all began. Ducks are underdogs. The fun-loving, fan favorite pipsqueaks who initiate team quack cheers and eventually embrace the talented-yet-arrogant stud Adam Banks as they unite toward one common bond of playing the game the way it was meant to be played, and winning with class. Just like Emilio Estevez taught them. That’s the way Ducks are supposed to behave. Somebody should remind these guys, because today’s Ducks are playing like a bunch of classless goons.

You all saw that Anaheim player jump Adam Hall as he was engaged in the classic one-on-one battle of fisticuffs, yes? When has that been an appropriate maneuver? Since the beginning of ice hockey, has that ever been okay? And what about Brad May’s sucker punch that soon followed? This is not Nam, guys. There are rules.

Ah, but I kid. Truth is, I couldn’t get enough of the Ducks’ villainous behavior, even though the drama (including the over-the-top angry broadcasters) eventually took on WWE levels. The roommate Spoon was pretty riled up, at one point taking on a Chris-Farley-impersonating-Schwartzkopf intensity (“I want Holyfield! It’s the war on the shore!”) while slamming his fists into the couch and screaming expletives at the telly.

Me, I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s just sports, and all fun and games anyway, so we might as well appreciate the goons and the nonsense and the pageantry, and just embrace the NHL for what it is. Old-school to its core. The lustful boos from fans, Burns cheering a victory while being dragged to the penalty box, Boogaard provoking the Ducks bench once the game was well in hand, all capped with a blowout victory…that was hands down the most entertaining hockey game I’ve seen in years.

The NHL playoffs began last week. Were you aware? I’ve been trying to think of something to write about hockey, perhaps penning a column regarding how clueless the majority of Wild fans are — I’m guessing if you polled fans heading into the Xcel about the Wild’s playoff seed, almost half would’ve answered 2 instead of 7 — but I just didn’t have the energy. Or the heart. It just annoys me, is all.

So, in the true spirit of lazy website proprietorship, you’re getting a YouTube video. The following is a four-minute clip of a marathon fight between the Senators and Flyers. Hockey fights mostly bore me, but this one’s pretty incredible. What a bunch of goons.

Somewhere, Carmelo Anthony and Nate Robinson are thinking, “man, I chose the wrong damn sport. I’d be a HERO in the NHL, yo.”

Anyway, enjoy:

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I don’t see Mark Mallory living this one down anytime soon:

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Holy moly, Stephen Hawking could’ve thrown a better pitch.

Showing that his lack of aim wasn’t limited to on-field efforts, Mayor Mallory entered the restroom minutes later and accidentally pissed on the leg of the gentleman one urinal over.

Here’s that “United Way” clip from last weekend’s SNL that everyone has been talking about…

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…While forgetting that the premise is pretty much an exact rip-off of a joke first seen in a dumb movie made 12 years ago. But then again, Peyton’s Super Bowl victory wiped that smug look off every Chicago Bears fan I know, so maybe I should lay off for a while.

I was recently asked by Showcase Magazine to “write something about March Madness.” The following, which can be found on page 41 of the March issue, is what I came up with. Hope you enjoy.

Whenever people ask how it all started, my reply is always the same: “I just wanted to win.”

I had never won a March Madness bracket before. I’d followed college hoops on the periphery, and every single year I filled out a bracket and entered a pool. But I never won – not in high school, college or at the office – and so last year I decided I’d had enough. Enough losing.

Research took over my life. I purchased a supplemental college basketball channel, subscribed to magazines, pored through websites, calculated and adjusted for each team’s difficulty of schedule, even custom-created a spreadsheet intended to cross-analyze teams in different conferences. I was a man possessed – even taking a few “sick” days – but when I finally submitted my completed bracket, I knew I had it in the bag.

As you now know, I did win my office pool, comfortably beating the runner-up/secretary Esther Coughlin. I’ll never forget the pathetic look on her face as I celebrated my well-deserved victory with some aggressive taunting. Talk about sour grapes.

I am not ashamed to say the victory was the biggest accomplishment of my life.

Things changed pretty quickly after my victory was announced to the media. There was a parade, autograph sessions, first-pitch-throwing at the ballgame, and, eventually, a state holiday named in my honor. As I shook hands with the governor that fateful day, our wide smiles beaming toward the dozens of flashbulbs, I knew my life would never be the same.

The endorsements piled up rather quickly. I did commercials for Herberger’s, New Balance, Office Max, Buick…I can’t even remember them all. My point is, the abundance of commercial work was the main catalyst in my abrupt move to Hollywood.

It was there everything changed.

I still remember when I first saw Rachel Bilson: I was at a Halloween party for some hotshot director of a Wite-Out commercial who was trying to get me to appear in his next ad. I wouldn’t have been caught dead hawking that third-rate product, but the guy promised celebrity appearances (beyond just myself) and unlimited sushi, so I figured I’d stop by before moving on to the A-list soirees.

So Rachel walks in, I walk over, a few words are exchanged, and by the time I’ve detailed my strategy behind choosing Bradley to upset Pitt in the quarterfinals, we’re completely in love. It was amazing. Like a truckload of firecrackers had just been set off in a closet full of explosives inside a house laced with kerosene. I’m talking serious sparks. I don’t remember ever enjoying life more.

Rach and I were inseparable. She was by my side for the spreadsheet seminars, the talk show circuit, the bracket lectures at USC, the data analysis roundtables, the dinner at The White House.

Life was a perpetual whirlwind. I had every A-list director in town hounding me about doing movies. I was mauled relentlessly by the paparazzi. My agent had her own agent. My posse had their own posses. It was pure pandemonium, and Rach and I were basking in the fame.

We could have been happy. We should have been happy.

I’ll admit, most of the eventual demise was my fault. As she stated in her recent Us Weekly interview, she was entirely faithful throughout our relationship.

As any internationally-renowned celebrity can attest, with fame comes groupies. I loved Rachel more than words can express, but I got careless and selfish, and the deplorable urges got the best of me. After the groupies – once enthralled by my bracket genius but eventually stung with rejection – spread news of my infidelity to the gossip blogs, the relationship took a nosedive. Rachel left me, allegedly striking up a rebound with that jerk from Scrubs.

Media outlets blame my resultant two-week “bender” (as People called it) on the break-up. I won’t argue that. What with all the pressures surrounding me, I needed to cool off. My original intention was to take a few weeks to relax with my posse. Simple as that.

However, while pure intentions are noble indeed, your actions can sometimes betray you. That is how I justify the fistfight with that homeless guy, and the numerous paparazzi flip-outs, and the time I choked that Burger King employee through the drive-thru window, and the arrest-inducing sucker-punch of that jerk from Scrubs at the New Year’s Eve party I’d snuck into.

After posting bail, I called an emergency strategy session with my PR agent. It was time to get back to basics, she said, time to return to my roots. We forged ahead with a campaign refocusing on my office pool victory. I offered to counsel bracket competitors, analyze spreadsheets, create a scheduling metric nearly identical to the one that helped me mop the floor with Esther the year before…anything. I called everyone I knew.

Sadly, I received no response. Zilch. It seemed I’d overstayed my welcome in Hollywood, and when my expense of living collided with my sudden lack of income, I was quickly out of money. There went the groupies, there went the posse. I finally knew what Hammer felt like.

When a last-ditch text message to my comrade Seacrest went unanswered, I finally knew the dream was over. I was broke and desperate, and thus agreed to the invitation extended by my mother to move back home.

We have fun together, Mom and me, and she helps me in times of need. As we were in the middle of our pilates exercises yesterday, I mentioned that a magazine had recently asked me to pen an article about the unforeseen dangers of office pools. She slowly dropped her chubby arm, looked up at me and said only, “tell them your story.” So I did.