Emmitt Smith Likes His Leprechaun Suit

Even if you're like us and generally do what you can to insulate yourself from such things, you've probably heard about the recent on air dust-up between Kelly Ripa and Clay Aiken, during which Aiken put his hand over Ripa’s mouth because he was trying to ask a question and couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

While we have to admit that we did find it pretty entertaining to see the deep-seeded tension that exists between these two, we were more preoccupied with the outfit Emmitt Smith was wearing during his appearance on the show.

Sporting a shiny green sleeveless shirt, matching green shoes and these weird green bands that wrapped around the top of each of his biceps, Emmitt looked like a reject from the Leprechaun Academy of Weightlifting (whatever that means). Admittedly, we never saw him on Dancing with the Stars, but we realize that he sported similar outfits during his appearances on the show.

However, this doesn’t make it any less bizarre. What is the meaning of these strange armbands? They basically made it look like his shirt once had short sleeves but they have since been almost entirely torn off, leaving just the bottom ring of cloth in their place. Another way to describe it is that they look really stupid.

Furthermore, why was Emmitt appearing on television in this dance outfit anyways? We understand that he was pleased with his performance on the show, but would he have shown up on a talk show after winning a Super Bowl with the Cowboys wearing cleats and a helmet? No. And by the same logic, there’s just no need to wear that silly dance outfit anywhere other than the stage where that show was recorded.

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The Braves big deal for Mark Teixeira on Monday not only brings some much needed stability to first base, but it also signals the end of a short but memorable run as the starting first baseman for Julio Franco. The peak of that stretch came on Friday night against Arizona, when after a long and impressive at-bat, the ageless one lashed a double inside the first base bag to score two runs and bring the Braves within one, sending one group of 15 or so Braves fans in an Atlanta household into an absolute frenzy, as chants of “hoo-lee-OH, hoo-lee-OH, hoo-lee-OH” rang out like the crack of a baseball hitting the barrel of a 36 oz. piece of lumber.

We’ve said it before many times, and now is as good a time as any to say it again:

Viva la Julio.

Nice Pubes, Dipshit

Does it ever bother you immensely that they don’t show it on TV when a fan rushes the field at a baseball game?

Of course the logic behind not putting such antics on television makes perfect sense – the idea is not to glorify that sort of behavior (so instead we get to hear the announcer say in an extremely disapproving tone, “Some bonehead has just run out onto the field,” when you know that the filthy bastard would much prefer to use a far more crass word than "bonehead" to describe what he thinks of the person on the field).

The problem with not showing what happens when a fan runs onto the field is that oftentimes the results are quite spectacular. Once, at a Yankees game, we saw a man run onto the field and proceed to elude the security guards for a good minute and a half or so – pulling out all of his best jukes – before being absolutely leveled by a crushing hit that would have made Donovin Darius wince.

Of course, that can’t really compare to what happened at the bullfight shown above. It occurs to us in light of seeing this video that de-pantsing people would be a very solid deterrent to rushing onto the field. (Especially if done by a bull.)

In any case, the best thing about this video is the fact that after stealing the offending fan’s britches, the bull walks around with what appear to be the dude’s undies on his head, looking around at the crowd as if to say, “What.” (As in, “What, you want some more of this, bitches?”)

Also, if you haven’t already done so, please make sure you watch just past the one-minute mark, when anchor Lou Waters comes on camera and completely tries to ruin the moment but somehow heightens it even more by saying, “Yes. The winner, and still champion. Looking around, ‘Do you want a piece of me?’”

Fantastic work, Lou. Particularly enjoyed the awkward face scratch while saying “Do you want a piece of me?”

Then Lou’s co-anchor (whose name we believe is Veronica Corningstone) says, “And you heard the crowd? Did you hear the crowd?”

To which Lou responds, “Yeah. I think they were saying 'O-lay.' Isn’t that what they say in Spain, or is that in Mexico?”

Please let us know if anyone finds out the answer to that question.

Before he signs off, Lou Waters looks directly into the camera and says in his most earnest tone (which is not all that earnest), “Hope you enjoyed it.”

We did, Lou. More than you may ever know.

Would You Kindly Remove Those Fangs from My Head?

Thanks to a tip from correspondent Frank G. Yak, it's now time for a long overdue update from the always fertile news-producing soil that is the sport of rugby:

After suffering from severe headaches, “lethargy” and an eye infection over the past several months, Australian rugby player Ben Czislowski recently found out that an opponent’s tooth had been buried in his forehead – just above the eye – since a collision during a match in early April.

Or so Czislowski alleges. Forgive us for being cynical, but in hearing this news, it’s impossible not to remember the Stephen King novel The Dark Half, in which the protagonist undergoes surgery for a problem with his brain only to discover that he had a pair of eyes, hair and teeth living on said brain, which turned out to be the remnants of a lesser twin that he absorbed in the womb.

Naturally, this disembodied, brain-dwelling twin caused the protagonist more than a few problems in his years on this earth. And we can only assume that the headaches that Czislowski was suffering were not from the fact that he had a tooth in his forehead, but from something much larger.

And no, we’re not insinuating that the Australian rugby player had a twin that he almost entirely absorbed while they were both in the womb. That’s pure science fiction nonsense.

What we are suggesting is that when he collided with an opposing player in April, Czislowski absorbed that player’s body, soul and spirit entirely, and the tooth is now all that remains (aside from the renegade, vengeful spirit of a rugby player who is hell bent on revenge at any cost). Unfortunately, our guess is that the headaches, lethargy and eye infection Czislowski has suffered are only the beginning.

Safe to say it’s gonna be pretty ugly when his forehead gives birth to a pair of cleats.

Madness, Thy Name is Glue

This morning a man walked onto the number 4 train in uptown Manhattan and announced a sales pitch:

“Good morning,” he said. “I do have one dollar batteries, and of course – one dollar Krazy Glue.”

Right. Naturally, he has the Krazy Glue. Because that’s the one thing we were really expecting.

Honestly, did we sleep through the period of time when Krazy Glue became so mundane and commonplace that every subway vendor now carries it – and more to the point, is expected to carry it?

Isn’t the whole point of Krazy Glue (aside from its remarkable adhesive qualities) that it’s incredibly krrrraaaazzzzy!? Isn’t it such a wacky substance that the standard crazy with a "c" won’t come close to doing it justice? Aren’t you supposed to be able to run full speed through brick walls and dodge oncoming traffic if you huff enough of it?

Umm… not that we’ve ever tried that.

(Pardon me, sir. Two tubes of one dollar Krazy Glue, please.)

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Quote of the Unspecified Time Period Until We Find a Better One:

“Michael Vick is such a fucking moron. Let me throw away a 100+ million dollar plus career over making $25k in dog fights. What a stupid fucking idiot. It's like someone covered him in honey and dipped him into a silo of stupid.”

That quote comes courtesy of longtime OCC reader (and President of Whynatte, Inc.) Jesse in the wake of the news that Vick has been indicted for his role in a dog fighting conspiracy. Thank you very much for your words, Jesse. What a strange and delightful image you've presented. It’s hard to picture Michael Vick willingly agreeing to be dipped into the Silo of Stupid, but you never know.

More importantly, if honey’s not readily available as an adhesive for the Stupid, would Krazy Glue suffice?

Could You Please Repeat That?

Little known fact: Prior to becoming a wildly successful, world-renowned sports blogger, The Off-Color Commentator once worked at a law office. (True story.) And at this law office, The OCC often had to deal with documents that had been translated from various languages (mostly French) into English.

Generally speaking, the translations were horrendous, featuring sentence after sentence that sounded like the kind of overly formal but altogether jumbled English a space alien would speak after touching down upon Planet Earth and exiting his space pod amidst a cloud of steam that looked suspiciously like dry ice.

But as bad as those translations were, they really couldn't hang with the Spanish-to-English translation of a Dodgers-Giants game recap we recently found on a site called SportsYA. Behold just one of the gems contained therein:

"While attacking, Dominican Wilson Betemit hit one, reaching a record of 10 homers. Betemit connected his quadrangular at starter Matt Morris' passes, with no players on the way."

Apparently this was quite a game. Not only did Wilson Betemit run out onto the field wielding some sort of lance, spear or other deadly weapon, but in the midst of hurling it around at opposing players (i.e. "attacking"), he also managed to hit a homer, which -- as it turns out -- was a record-setting number 10. Spectacular! We can only wonder what record this might have been. (Most homers in a single season by a player who accomplished the feat while assaulting others with a weapon?)

From a close reading of the text, we have also deduced that Betemit's record-setting strike came after Giants starter Matt Morris made multiple "passes" at him. Matt Morris making passes at opposing players would certainly be a revelation in and of itself, but what the phrase we're really stuck on is "Betemit connected his quadrangular." It occurs to us that this is probably referring to a homer (hence the use of "quad" for four bases), but connecting one's quadrangular also sounds rather personal and perhaps like the sort of business one might want to take care of in the clubhouse.

Whatever the case may be, this is the kind of insight you can't just find anywhere. In the legal business, a botched translation is a gigantic headache. But in the world of sports, it is pure gold.

In closing: Thank you, SportsYA. Thank you for your strange words and odd-sounding phrases. Whatever machine (or person) slaughtered that translation has illuminated a side of baseball that we never knew existed. And for that, we will be forever grateful.

And by "grateful," we mean "salad bowl."

Rickey Knows Hitting

The last snapshot of Rickey Henderson’s stint as a Met in 1999 was during Game 6 of the NLCS at Turner Field, when Henderson and Bobby Bonilla – instead of sitting in the dugout – were hanging out in the clubhouse, playing cards.

With this memory having faded but not entirely disappeared, it’s with more than a tad bit of shock that we behold today’s news that the Mets have hired Rickey Henderson to be their new hitting coach.

Honestly, what’s going on here? Did they mean to extend an offer to Dave Henderson and accidentally dial the wrong man? Rickey was obviously an extraordinary player, but there’s absolutely nothing in his pedigree that suggests he’ll be a quality coach.

Remember that story about how Rickey once saw John Olerud wearing a helmet playing first base and commented that he’d once had a teammate who wore a helmet, at which point Olerud informed Rickey that he (Olerud) was that very teammate?

That story is actually a myth, but it’s founded on at least one small shred of truth: namely, that Rickey is not exactly known as the most diligent and focused individual on the planet.

And even if the Mets thought that in his late 40’s he may have evolved into someone who could be an incredibly hard-working and meticulous hitting coach, this is still an odd choice. Henderson’s greatest asset as an offensive player (other than his unbelievable speed and base-stealing ability) was his uncanny batting eye and ability to get on base. But it’s not like one person can easily impart how he was able to draw so many walks and be such a unique offensive weapon. To some extent it’s something you either have or you don’t.

A hitting coach’s greatest benefit to a team would be his ability to communicate about hitting mechanics, or passing along some timely piece of spiritual or philosophical wisdom about the science of hitting. But Rickey’s mechanics weren’t all that good, and his philosophy of being really, really good at getting on base can’t easily be put into words.

This is all a drawn out way of saying that this move is extremely questionable – a measure that reeks of desperation from a team that doesn’t exactly have a significant reason to be desperate (after all, the Mets are in still in first place in a rather weak division). Firing the hitting coach when your offense isn’t consistently clicking is one thing, but bringing in an absolute wild card who’s just as likely to start up a game of Canasta in the clubhouse with Julio Franco as he is to pay attention during late-game AB’s is nothing short of crazy.

To prove that this is madness, we’ve taken a glimpse into the future and can now provide you with a definitive timeline of how the Rickey Henderson coaching experience will unfold:

July 12, 2007: Rickey is hired as hitting coach.

July 13, 2007: Rickey shows up to work in 1980’s era Oakland A’s uniform, complete with white cleats and Carney Lansford-style moustache.

July 17, 2007: Rickey enters game as a pinch hitter, much to the surprise of everyone in the stadium, including Jose Reyes, who was scheduled to hit. Rickey is informed by home plate umpire Mark Carlson that he hasn’t been announced, and furthermore isn’t on the Mets’ roster. Nevertheless, Rickey stands in, draws a five-pitch walk, steals second and third and then scores on a groundout. The run does not count.

July 21, 2007: During a game against the Dodgers, Rickey runs out to left field as a late-inning defensive replacement, then decides he’s too good to be a late-inning defensive replacement, storms off the field and leaves the dugout in a huff before getting the keys to Willie Randolph’s car from the parking attendant and driving to Vancouver without so much as stopping to pee.

July 26, 2007: After David Wright hits a mammoth walk-off homer against Pittsburgh, Rickey comes out of the dugout, stands at home plate to salute the big fly, and then goes into a trot of his own. After he passes a confused Wright rounding second base, the Mets third baseman is called out according to Official Rule 7.08 (h).

August 12, 2007: After showing up to the park wearing a bathrobe and a bicycle helmet, a clearly exhausted and overwhelmed Henderson is replaced as hitting coach by Weird Al Yankovic. Rickey is demoted to clubhouse manager, where he, Bobby Bonilla and Dom DeLuise commence an epic game of Gin Rummy that alters the course of baseball history forever.

Is There Any Baseball on Tonight?

The scoreboard says that "American" is playing "National" at 8:25 p.m. Does anyone know what that means?

More importantly, does anyone really care?

950 drachmas says that taking 90 seconds to watch the video embedded above will be infinitely more gratifying (not to mention about three hours shorter) than watching tonight's All-Star festivities.

And the video above isn't even that good.

Unless Barry Bonds is actually going to throw an opposing player over the outfield fence (remember, he picked Torii Hunter up over his head a few years ago), is there any real point in tuning in?

We'll go ahead and tell you what happens: American League wins. There are few, if any, plays that truly stand out over the course of the night and you'll have stayed up possibly past midnight for no particular reason at all.

Seems like the last truly entertaining thing to happen in an MLB All-Star game was Larry Walker turning his helmet around and batting from the opposite side against Randy Johnson. And come to think of it, that was kind of stupid.

But forgive the surly attitude -- we're suffering from a rather vicious case of jet lag that is making it virtually impossible to stomach the notion that Freddy Sanchez and his puke-inducing .708 OPS are on the All-Star team. Seriously, can we please do away with the rule that says that each team must be represented? Freddy Sanchez has about as much business being an All-Star as Poncho Sanchez has rocking a Fidel Castro-style beard.

Anyhow, by the time first pitch rolls around, we suspect that if we're not face down in a pool of drool with a half-eaten enchilada clutched in our trembling fist (jet lag does strange things to men), we'll at least be mildly intrigued by the match. And at the very worst we'll sift through it on DVR half speed to see if anything truly remarkable happens (such as Justin Verlander throwing a pitch at 107 mph as his right arm detaches and helicopters into the stands.)

Unfortunately, we're guessing nothing of the sort will take place.

All-Star games may have meant something at one point in time, but in a day and age when we can all watch our favorite players on the Extra Innings TV package whenever we want, all the All-Star break does is allow tired players to sneak in a DL stint if necessary and otherwise get some extra rest (which pretty significantly diminishes the quality of games leading up to the break).

From this vantage point, the All-Star game can't end soon enough. And Friday (the start of the second half) had better hurry its ass up and arrive.

Anyhow, we don't mean to ruin anyone's fun. If you're truly excited about tonight, have a blast watching the likes of Aaron Rowand and Dmitri Young determine home field advantage in the World Series.

Now if you'll excuse us, we're off to take a nap. If the alarm doesn't go off, give a shout when Friday gets here.

A Note on Sports in the (Very) Deep South

Not long ago, the entire staff of The Off-Color Commentator (all one of us) packed up our belongings and made a hajj to the land of Belize. In addition to finding a landscape pockmarked with concrete basketball courts (one of which is pictured above), we came across a couple of notably bizarre athletic traditions.

One such athletic endeavor was a game called Pok-A-Tok. This game, for those not in the know, was played by the ancient Mayans. For the most part, it was a very simple game: The competitors played in a small area surrounded by stone and attempted to get a ball through a hoop by hitting it with their elbows, knees or hips.

The only catch was that after a match was completed, oftentimes everyone who played (both winners and losers) were beheaded. Apparently this was considered an honor, and it was said that the players would then go to the underworld and compete against the gods in a high stakes Pok-A-Tok showdown. The winners would be allowed to leave the underworld and return to their regular lives above ground, where they would be celebrated as heroes. (Seems like with such high stakes, there would be a major incentive to use performance-enhancing drugs.)

In case you’re wondering what the court looks like, here’s a picture of the one we visited in the Guatemalan city of Tikal:

The game was played in the narrow area between the two stone structures. Pretty wild that people’s fates (and eternal salvation or damnation) were decided on a strip of grass barely wider than a single lane of traffic.

For the record, we did try get a pick-up game together with some locals, but apparently no one was willing to die.

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That same day, we also had the opportunity to climb to the top of some ancient Mayan stone pyramids, which provided some pretty extraordinary views. To give you a sense of how impressive the vantage point is, word on the street is that the jungle scenes from Return of the Jedi (with treetops as far as you could see) were shot there.

But here’s the trick: To see the views, you had to get to the top of the pyramids. And there wasn’t exactly a chair lift taking you to the top. No, to reach the summit of these ancient structures, you had to scale right up the side of them.

The most treacherous such climb was up a narrow, almost vertical ladder shooting up the side of Pyramid #5 (that’s The OCC himself climbing up the ladder, pictured below)

Safe to say this was a rather frightening experience. The ladder, consisting of wooden steps about a foot and a half apart (one atop the other) afforded no real protection from the sheer drop below except for a pair of hand rails to hang onto. About two thirds of the way up, there was definitely a gut check moment where we paused, feeling out of breath and exhausted in the heat, but knew there was no choice but to continue.

Fortunately, we managed to avoid death that day, but others challenging the pyramids in Tikal have not been so lucky. The first pyramid we climbed on the day (Pyramid #3) had quite a history. According to our guide, the day before we were there, a man had fallen down 55 steps – and lived. (And frankly, having climbed up the worn, narrow stone steps, it's easy to see how someone might fall.)

Our guide also mentioned an incident nine months earlier, when a Dutch tourist fell to her death on the very same pyramid.

Asked how this thing could still be open to tourists without any warning signs or upgraded safety standards in the wake of these gruesome falls, the guide pretty much summed up everything when he said, “Welcome to Guatemala.”

Ramblings of the Wandering Mind

Due to circumstances beyond our control (read: uncontrollable brain rot), the following blog post will most likely be random and meandering, could come across as wildly disjointed and may be mildly incoherent. Let us begin:

First of all, recent reports from injured Astros pitcher Brad Lidge have the rehabbing reliever throwing 50 pitches at “90 to 95 percent.” This struck us as pretty ridiculous. It’s one thing to say that you’re throwing at 50 percent, even 75 percent, but how the hell do you throw at 95 percent?

Answer: You don’t. It’s bollocks. No one has the body control to shave five percentage points of energy off their throwing motion. And if they do, they should be teaching the people of the world how to better improve their lives through a radically complex combination of yoga, pilates and capoeira that will forever change the way the human race functions on the planet.

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And speaking of reliever-related tomfoolery, Yankees setup man Scott Proctor recently burned his glove, uniform, cleats and “other items” following a rotten outing on the mound.

A few questions:

1) What happens when you burn a baseball glove? We’ve never been in a privileged enough situation to find it fiscally valid to lay a blowtorch to any of our mitts (and furthermore, the glove we currently have is approximately 12 years old and, aside from shoving it into the dirt to dig out an errant throw, we would never think of attempting to hurt it). In any case, it’s hard to think that the glove actually goes away when you burn it; more likely, it turns into some kind of bubbling pile of leathery mush that just makes you more unhappy than you already were before you burned it.

2) In the same vein, burning cleats is probably not the most brilliant idea ever either. Wouldn’t the metal spikes become insanely hot, thereby turning into a multi-pronged cattle brand? For speculation’s sake, do you think that was why Proctor set his cleats ablaze in the first place – to brand his own ass as punishment? And if so, who do you think administered the branding? (If we had to guess, we’d say Miguel Cairo.)

3) Lastly on this topic, what do you think was included in the “other items” that Proctor burned? For some reason we’re picturing the smoldering head of Jobu lying atop the heap as his incendiary yellow hair goes up in a flash of bright smoke.

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Hey, have you seen any footage of Warriors recent first round pick Marco Belinelli? We weren’t exactly fond of the Warriors choice to trade away Jason Richardson on draft night, but the guy they took at #18 looks like a pure baller. Check out this video on the popular new internet blog “Youtube.org.” Gotta love his willingness to hoist (and hit) wild jumpers with opposing defenders’ fingers shoved up his nose. And he seems to have a penchant for the medium-strength flush, which is always enjoyable to watch as well.

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The latest of Isiah Thomas’ brilliant plots to take over planet basketball has recently been unveiled in the proceedings of a sexual harassment suit being filed against Isiah by a former Knicks executive. The plantiff in the suit alleges that Isiah encouraged her to “go into the referees' locker room and make them happy.”

What the hell sort of tactics are these? If Isiah really did this – and we’re going to assume here that he did, because unfortunately this seems like the kind of thing he might think up – did he really think it would work? Are referees known as such a lascivious sort that the moment a woman walks into their locker room they completely forget all of their officiating responsibilities and decide that they’re going to have a predisposed preference towards the home team because that’s where they had the good fortune to actually see a woman – in person – in their locker room?

Hard to picture a bribe like this really having any effect on the Dick Bavettas of the world. And furthermore, why would Isiah choose to ask a team executive to do this? Wouldn’t he have been better off getting Lt. Frank Drebbin to go into the bowels of the stadium, bludgeon the lead official unconscious and then dress up in his uniform?

For Isiah's sake, we hope that this is just a ridiculous and unfounded allegation. Because otherwise, this is just sort of pathetic.

And one more thought while we’re on the subject of the Knicks:

While recently reading a Newsday blog entry about Zach Randolph’s upcoming relocation to New York, we came across this info about the goings-on at his current offseason residence in Indianapolis:

“The neighbors, for one, hope [the trade] means the departure of Randolph's notorious circle of friends, known as the ‘Hoop Family.’ Yes, it wasn't too difficult to dig up a lot of dirt about Randolph and his boys. Lewd tales of sexual conduct (one police interview I obtained revealed that Randolph and his friend "share" at least one particular girlfriend) and a lot of wilding and partying. DUI. Marijuana use. Shooting guns in the air.”

If you’ve read this blog many times before, you won’t be surprised that we have no intention of calling out Zach here for some of his admittedly questionable behavior. We already have plenty of evidence from years past to think that the guy’s not a candidate for early sainthood. So let’s not talk about things that aren’t going to be that interesting to discuss.

What we really want to briefly touch on is the use of the verb “wilding.”

And what we’d like to say about this verb is that it may very well be one of the greatest verbs in the English language.

Seriously, is this not just a tremendous word to describe activities that are simultaneously outrageously fun, fairly ambiguous and slightly edgy all at the same time?

And aren’t activities such as these the ones that people fondly recall for the rest of their born days?

In sum, when you get right down to it, is there anything better than wilding?

Thank you, that is all.

I Love What You've Done With the Place

Have you ever thought of yourself as really hardcore because you installed a chin-up bar in your apartment, or jumped rope in your living room (much to your downstairs neighbor’s chagrin), or imitated Herschel Walker’s classic workout routine by hitting the floor during TV commercials to do a set of push-ups or sit-ups?

Well, sorry, but you’re not hardcore. Not hardcore at all.

At least not compared to Reggie Willits of the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, California, USA, Planet Earth.

What, you may ask, is it that makes this scrappy outfielder the king of home workouts?

Dude has a batting cage in his bedroom.

Yes, that’s right, Willits and his wife sleep with their feet pointing directly towards the pitching machine, with the baby’s crib at the foot of the bed.

Picturing this bizarre home configuration, it’s hard not to recall that classic Seinfeld episode when George attempted to combine two of his favorite things: eating and sex. Before long, he was eating salami hoagies under the covers. And as for what we’re picturing going on in the Willits household with the batting cage and associated equipment so close to thebed – well, it’s probably best to leave that to the imagination (or perhaps, for the pure of mind, ignore it altogether).

(You also have to wonder if in moments of extreme frustration, Reggie Willits puts on a Bruins jersey and takes a series of fastballs off the chest a la Happy Gilmore.)

Almost lost in the madness of the Willits household is the fact that Reggie and Amber have named their infant son Jaxon. Which begs the question: What the hell is the deal with that name? Do the letters “ck” not exist in Willitsville? When Amber comes home, does she open the door and announce, “Hey honey, I’m bax?” Do they refer to cracks in the wall as “crax”? When the man of the house decides to pleasure himself, is he “jaxing off”?

Okay, that was inappropriate. Almost as inappropriate as eating sliced and cured meats in bed.

Now get your mind out of the gutter and go do something productive.

Need a suggestion for an idea? How about this:

Go take a few cuts at the batting cage.

There’s gotta be one somewhere nearby.