Meandering the world of sport
We have here some stray items looking for a place to land. It's a bit of "disa and data," as the long-gone but unforgettable Bud Gillooly used to term the stuff back when he was the lead sports columnist for the irascible Record-American. It seems like only yesterday.
If you too have also been following the Clemens trial you may agree that the possibility of the erstwhile Rocket ending up in jail has probably evaporated. Guessing what juries will do is always folly. But vibes from the courtroom after two weeks of choppy give and take suggest the government will be lucky to get a split decision resulting in no more than a rap on the knuckles for Clemens.
This much is for sure. After the Barry Bonds fiasco followed by the clumsy Clemens caper the government will be getting out of the business of hounding ballplayers for abusing steroids thus enabling the gumshoes of the Justice department to return to the task of probing legitimate crime and chasing genuine criminals.
Speaking of folks who don't get it there is the recurring example of Rex Ryan, the incurably voluble headmaster of the New York Jets. In his latest oafish indiscretion Ryan vigorously asserts he has no concerns about his teenage son continuing to play football after the youngster was grounded by a concussion sustained during his high school season. "I'm proud my kid plays the game," Ryan declared to the New York press in a free-flowing dissertation on football's soaring head-injuries controversy.
Never one to waffle, even when it would be most wise to do so, Ryan says concussions go with the territory and terms his support for his son plugging on in the game to be "absolute." No one expects a coach to denounce his game let alone declare it too dangerous for his own kid. But Ryan's remarks seemed flip and even cavalier given that they were uttered two days after Junior Seau's suicide further elevated fears about the long-term effects of concussions. There are no easy answers nor does anyone have them but Ryan just can't recognize that sometimes the best answer is no answer at all.
Maybe that is grounds for better appreciating the taciturnity of Bill Belichick. Mind you, I said, "Maybe"!
With the chase for the grand and glorious Cup pounding down the back stretch, it begins to look like the historically irrelevant Los Angeles Kings, a punching bag for 45 years, is the team to beat. It's a notion that would have seemed preposterous just three weeks ago. But no team has been anywhere near as impressive. In smacking the Canucks and Blues -- the teams with the best records in the league -- the Kings have won eight of nine games outscoring both handily while suffocating both with a defense that's a thing of beauty.
The key, as ever, is the goalie. Jonathan Quick is a modest, mild-mannered, rather bookish-looking kid who has more the manner of a pre-med student than a rink-rat. Little known a year ago, Quick is now acclaimed as the world's best goalie although you may get an argument in New York where adoration of the Swedish artist, Henrik Lundqvist, runs high. A Lord Stanley final round featuring NYC and LA, for which the league devoutly prays, would settle this argument. Go with the Kings, says I.
On the other hand, the Broadway Blueshirts must first survive the Washington Capitals and we hereabouts understand that's no casual matter. It's time to pay respect to this gritty Washington team. It was not so much a case of the Bruins ''losing'' that opening round as it was of the Caps ''winning'' it. They out-played the defending champs and if the margin was mighty thin it was no less palpable.
It's not easy to give that legendary guttersnipe Dale Hunter the credit he already clearly deserves. He was one of the downright dirtiest blokes in the NHL's modern history and some of his more spectacular rants -- including a notably nutty playoff meltdown some 20 years ago -- might have gotten him banned for good in these much more strict and sensitive times. But in only a half season of coaching, Hunter has these Caps playing a grittier, more tenacious, and much more disciplined game than they've ever played in their entire history and that is quite an achievement.
One wonders if Rajon Rondo for all of his obvious talents could have played for that immortal taskmaster Red Auerbach, who had little tolerance for sophomoric antics. The answer is probably "Yes," although Rondo would have to have already become an even better player, or else be gone.
Also worth wondering is this. Might the much touted and overly sentimentalized Andy Pettitte comeback be destined to be a huge and embarrassing flop? His tune-ups in the low minors the last three weeks have hardly been awe-inspiring, with the latest effort for the Yankees' Scranton farm team being especially messy. Given the run of rotten luck they've been lately experiencing in the Bronx, Pettitte may be prepping to serve as the next pigeon.
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