Why Al Michaels Is a Tool, a Brief Meditation

If anybody ever wonders why NBC play by play man Al Michaels drives me completely batsh*t crazy, I have a simple example from last night's season opening Saints - Vikings game.

At the start of the 4th quarter, with New Orleans leading 14-9, old what's his name threw a pass out in the flat to Jimmy Kleinsasser. It was ruled an incomplete pass on the field. This drove Al nuts because the official behind Kleinsasser first ruled it a catch, but the other official, who had a better angle on the ball, ruled that the ball hit the ground and it was incomplete. To me, it walked like an incompletion, quacked like an incompletion, so it was clearly an incomplete duck, to borrow a phrase from our friend T.O.


Brad Childress, now sporting a porn 'stache rather than the old professorial beard, challenged the ruling on the field, and this provided Michaels with more time to blather on and on and on about absolutely nothing. The officials upheld the ruling on the field of incompletion, but Michaels still kept yammering, "First they called it complete, and then the second official called it incomplete ..." as play resumed.

He was still rambling about it when, momentarily, the camera flashed on a very, very large human being in a purple Vikings jersey being removed from the field on one of those big motorized karts. It was Bryant McKinnie, the Vikes left tackle, who left with a finger injury (on a kart? really Bryant?). Michaels stopped blathering about the officials long enough to mention McKinnie's exit and then returned to his inane prattle about the incompletion to Kleinsasser.

So, let's get this straight. The guy who is paid to protect the blind side of the great and wondrous Favre was out. The same Favre who the Vikings sent three of their players, smack dab in the middle of training camp no less, down to Mississippi to beg to come back, so important was he to Minnesota's plans. The same Favre who is making a kaboodilly billion dollars, plus incentives this year to play for the Vikes? So the guy whose primary function on a football field is to protect that guy is out, but it barely warrants barely a mention from the play by play announcer. Mmmm, 'kay.

Moreover, the Vikings list nobody behind McKinnie on the depth chart at LT.

What the Vikes did do, was shift Phil Loadholt over from right tackle to left, and insert Ryan Cook on the right side. And Loadholt had his hands full. He was flagged once for an egregious hold on the very next Minnesota possession and easily could have been flagged two or three more times, from what I saw. Moving from one end of the line to the other in the middle of the game is hard, so I'm told.

And yet, there was no mention of it from the announcers. Do you believe in moronity?!

Five Drool Covered NFL Players

Ah, welcome back NFL. Welcome back to all the training camp inanity signifying that the folks at the NFL Network can show something other than Super Bowl XXXIX (that's 39 for normal people) over and over and over again and get back to that hard, investigative journalism we've come to expect from them. I enjoy the silliness of the requisite camp phenoms, camp busts, overweight veterans, and maybe notable holdouts.

As much fun as all that it, the nationally televised pre-season games take it to a whole new level. You betcha. It's not the action on the field that's so great, but the action in the booth, the party of overwrought hyperbole, this festival of drool, lavished by announcers on a select few annointed players. It'll only get worse from here, so watching the pre-season helps me to inure myself to the gushing that will ramp itself up into the stratosphere during the regular season, as rapt announcers, man-crushes audibly tumescent, say things like, "This guy right here, this guy is a football player."

[Um, yes, yes he is a football player. You can tell because he's in a uniform on a football field during an officially sanctioned NFL game.]

The following are the most fawned over players in the NFL:


1. Ray Lewis. Never in the history of the NFL has there been a more inspirational player than Ray Lewis. Yea verily, for decades, NFL players apathetically muddled through games, looking like helmet and cleat clad zombies sleep-walking toward the endzone. Enter one Ray Anthony Lewis. More graceful than Michael Jackson, more inspirational than George Washington, braver than Sully Sullenberger, more eloquent than Martin Luther King, Jr., he saved the league from indifference and lassitude. The NFL, formerly a league with as much personality as instant mashed potatoes, has been transformed by Lewis' extraordinary love of the game. Thank you. Thank you, Ray Lewis.


2. Tom Brady. You want to see a quarterback who competes, take a look at this guy. Nobody has a hotter fire burning inside than Tom Terrific. Nobody has ever lead so many come from behind to tie drives in the history of the universe. He's like having a coach on the field. No, he's better than that, because he's like a coach, only he's dreamy. And he sleeps with super models. Why? Because he himself is a model -- a model of NFL Quarterback perfection.


3. Peyton Manning. Work ethic, thy name is Peyton Manning. Manning can breakdown NFL game film like Stephen Hawking parsing gravitational singularity theorems. He has thrown approximately 4,785,243,298,161,547 out-pattern passes. And that's just in practices, not in live action. He has an encyclopedic memory of every offensive schemes ever deployed from 1919 to three years in the present. He was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame at the moment he was conceived. And rightly so.


4. Brett Favre. Why, he's just a big kid. Just a big, overgrown, graybearded, can't-get-out-of-bed-without-a-walker-but-you-can't-keep-him-out-of-the-game, kid. Despite all the hits along the way, he plays with a simple joy. He's like that labrador retriever who keeps running into the lake after a stick (a stick!), no matter how many times you toss it in there. He lets it all hang out, does Brett Favre. He plays the game the right way. The only guy who wants Favre to come back more than Brad Childress does is Phil Simms.


5. Brian Urlacher. See, the thing about Urlacher is that he is a whole defense unto himself. Without him on the field, the Bears D is tough as tapioca pudding. With him on the field, why, they are eerily reminiscent of the spartans in "300." He can do so much. He causes fumbles and returns fumbles, creates havoc in the backfield and goes out in coverage. Why, he'd even punt if Lovie Smith would let him. Nobody wants to win more than this guy. Nobody.


Honorable Mention: Hines Ward. Tony Romo.

Mishaps to Root for in the 2009 NFL Season

From True/Slant on September 10, 2009:

Mishaps, Mayhem and Misery to Actively Root for in the NFL Season


The 2009 NFL season is full bore upon us, full of predictions, power rankings, prevarications, prognostications and pretenders. Predictions? Always wrong. Power Rankings? Feh. Like the Grinch, I’m looking for the negative, reveling in anticipation of potential failures. Here are some massive miscues I’m hoping for:

1. The New England Patriots come back to earth. Patriots fans rationalize last year’s 11-5 record reflected one thing and one thing only: Tom Brady on the IR. The man who looks as comfortable on a runway at Fashion Week as he is on a gridiron, the modelizer in chief with the Hollywood good looks and silly hipster hats is back.

But will it really catapult New England back to the top of the pecking order?

Personally, I hope GQ Tom is healthy — no excuses from beantown this year. I wonder about the rest of the team. The offensive line, once a perfect stonewall around Giselle’s hubby, shows cracks and it’s possible his uni may get a wee dirty from time to time. The defense has lost too many players to count and is weak against the pass.

Meanwhile, sneaky Bill Belichick seems less evil. He used to be positively Cheney-esque and I honestly think opposing coaches caved against him for fear that he would reach down their throats and eat their still beating hearts at the 50 yard line. But between tearing up at Tedy Bruschi’s retirement and even occasionally smiling at training camp, Head Hoodie seems almost human.

2. The Minnesota Vikings get a big bite in the ass from Lady Karma. With all the coaching talent out there, with Bill Cowher, Brian Billick, Tony Dungy and Mike Shanahan out of work, and given the success of the bright young guys like Mike Tomlin, Ken Whisenhunt and John Harbaugh, I find it hard to imagine how the Vikings organization reflected and said, “Yeah, Brad Childress. He’s the guy to take this team to the next level and get us that elusive Lombardi Trophy. Yuppers.” As a southern friend of mine used to say, rilly?

This off-season, Childress created a bidding war against himself for the services of Brett Favre by publicly slavering over the 40 year old interception king. (Hey, I actually like Favre, so this is no knock on him). Childress obsessed like one of those adolescent girls fixated on the “Twilight” books. He begged and pleaded. He called. And called. And called. He had to have Favre; couldn’t win without Favre; it all came down to mighty Brett Favre. Then, with the evanescent Favre secured and cloaked in Minnesota purple, Childress sent his irreplacable QB out in a wildcat formation, whereupon the elder indispensable man committed an illegal crackback block, injuring Texans DB, Eugene Wilson in the process. In a meaningless pre-season game. The league fined Favre $10,000 for the hit. They should have fined Childress. $50,000 for being a dickhead.

3. The only thing worse that the Head Hoodie in New England is Hoodie Lite, Josh McDaniels, in Denver. He’s got all of the ego and none of the substance. McDaniels has alienated not only the fans, but his entire team in record speed. A petulant child with a multi-million dollar arm Jay Cutler may be, but he knew the Broncos ship was sinking the minute the ersatz Bellichick arrived in town.

To paraphrase Joan Cusack: just because I wear a hoodie with the sleeves cut off and draw up defenses on a legal pad doesn’t make me Bill Bellichick. Never will.

4. Presenting: Jerry Jones and his amazing punt-blocking videoscreens! Okay, so Jones spent $1.2 billion to build a new stadium and he wanted every bell and whistle available, and even a few whistles that hadn’t been invented yet. So he sent his minions into the future and they came back with a Deathstar sized HD videoscreen to suspend over the field. So fans could see the game without actually looking at the field in front of them where the Cowboys will actually play the games. I know Jones was trying to create an amazing multi-media, all-out visual and aural assault on every synapse in the brain of every fan in the stands. He was going for a wow factor beyond mere football and while it’s not my style, I kinda get it.

It was all grand until a jabeep free agent punter for Tennessee doinked a punt off the undercarriage of the videoboard. Not the regular punter for the Titans, mind you, nor in a regular season game. It was a free agent destined to for the slag heap who hit the videoboard. Jerr’Jones’ response? “Ah, that’ll never happen during a regular season game.” Really? Well, in case it does, the league has allowed for a do-over and I am fervently praying that we see at least a dozen balls bounce off that thing this season.

5. Little Danny Snyder’s crash and burn. He’s obnoxious, he’s cocky, he hangs out with Tom Cruise (which is just gross enough without continuing), and he never met an overpriced free-agent he didn’t like. This year, Snyder’s front office sued a little old lady long-time Redskins season-ticket holder who has fallen on hard economic times and couldn’t pay for her season tickets through the life of the contract.

Yes, I know she was legally obligated. I get it. But the Redskins could very easily have let Granny out of her contract and sold that seat license to somebody else two minutes later. Unless the speculation the once legendary Redskins season ticket wait list has evaporated as a result of Snyder’s mismanagement and general assholery is true.

Whatever the case of the mysterious waiting list, this incident demonstrates little Danny Snyder’s modus operandi. Let’s face it, he spends more over Sunday coffee than the default judgement (about $66,000) against the sad sack Granny. The team was well within the law to pursue a judgment, but did they have to? They honestly couldn’t come up with any other solution? I find it hard to believe that the franchise would go freaking bankrupt with out this old broad’s money.

I like Clinton Portis, Jason Campbell, Cornelius Griffin and H.B. Blades. I have long admired Redskins fans — the Hogs, “Hail to the Redskins” and the way that the old RFK used to shake from ground to rafters when the fans really got going. Still, I hope they go 0-16 and we get to see vile little Danny cry like Cindy Brady in the owner’s box.

Favre, Favre, Go Away, Don't Come Back Another Day

Earlier this week, Brett Favre went on Joe Buck's new HBO show (who thought that was a good idea?) and admitted that the rumors are true: he's hoping to play football again, specifically with the Minnesota Vikings. As reported in the Minneapolis-St. Paul Star-Tribune:

"Brett Favre ended weeks of silence Monday by making it clear that if his surgically repaired right arm is healthy, he wants to return to the NFL -- as a member of the Vikings. During an interview on HBO, the retired quarterback admitted it 'makes perfect sense' for him to play in Minnesota, even referring to the Vikings as 'we' at one point."

There was no doubt much rejoicing from one, John Madden, Favre's biggest cheerleader, and also from Vikings fans, who apparently believe their team will be improved with Methusela's younger brother, a/k/a Brett Favre, under center, but I've reached my complete and utter saturation point. What comes beyond saturation? Whatever that is, that's where I am with Favre. I'm anticipatorily over-loaded on future SportsCenter stories about him, more tired debates on the Sports Reporters, and sideline reports detailing his relationships with new teammates, coaches and even equipment managers. I'm dyspeptic when I think ahead to the Vikings Week 4 prime-time match up versus the Green Bay Packers, which will no doubt bring pre-game hype to heretofore unreached levels of inanity.

Somewhere along the way, Favre morphed from a mere-mortal quarterback into the gun-slinger monolith, unwilling to give up on the mystique of his own greatness, even as his abilities manifestly diminished. This version of Favre -- the older, annoying version that tearfully retires and un-retires annually -- has been so omnipresent that it retroactively taints my happier memories.

Every time I even hear his name, I make an unpleasant face, like the one I would make if I had to suck on an aspirin tablet. It's the exact same face I make when I see Madonna.

Tragically cool music snobs will deny ever enjoying the Material Girl, but I don't know anybody who didn't dance up a sweat to her first clubby, catchy self-titled disc back in the early '80's. Oh, sure, Madonna made mad missteps. For every "Express Yourself," there was a "Papa Don't Preach," and for every charming "League of Their Own" performance, there was a ludicrous stinker like "Body of Evidence." She produced some absolutely painful drivel, but she also had moments of greatness. She made some great dance music and dominated pop culture for a long time. Personally, I counted "Like a Prayer" as one of my top 10 favorite pop songs of all time. If anybody bothered to ask, which nobody did. Just saying.

Somewhere along the line, Madonna crossed a line and her miscues started to outnumber the moments of artistic genius; her knack for recognizing a trend just nanoseconds before it happened and then capitalizing, turned into an egomaniacal, solipsistic need to create the trend, to actually BE the trend. She tried on any pose, any outfit, any style to seem relevant. Heck, she tried on Kabbalah, and she even tried on a phony British accent when she started loafing with Rupert Everett. On a visit to the Holy Land several years ago, she asked to be called 'Esther', about which one of my wittier friends commented, "She's so biblical."

At some point, the current Madonna incarnation -- the yoga obsessed, Kaballah quoting, third-world child adopting, anorexic, surgically altered, A-Rod canoodling Madonna -- consumed and ruined the earlier eras. I deleted "Like a Prayer" from my iPod running mix.

Likewise, I used to love Favre. He was my favorite NFL player who didn't play in Pittsburgh. It was easy enough. I always had a soft spot for the Packers: the appeal of Green Bay as an NFL city, the charming chant of the locals, "Go Pack Go," Lombardi and Starr, the odd sartorial splendor of the green and the yellow, the frozen tundra and all that.

Then there was Favre himself, funny, reckless, fun-loving, with a canon for an arm. He won a lot and when he did, it was often in dramatic fashion. It was flat-out fun to watch Favre and the Packers. Back then, the gunslinger routine was fresh and organic.

Like Madonna, Brett made a lot of missteps along the way. His 464 career touchdown passes rank as the most for any QB; of course, his 310 career interceptions rank at the top, too. He won one Super Bowl but there are those who think he could have, in fact, should have had more. There were times when he carried his team, elevated them to heights unattainable without him. And then, like Madonna in her "Swept Away"/"Die Another Day" phase, there were games that he threw away: the 2003/2004 divisional playoff game versus the Eagles, when he threw a late game interception that lead to the winning kick for the Eagles; or the 2007/2008 NFC Championship game in which he tossed two killer picks that sent the Packers into the off-season and the New York Giants into the Super Bowl.

The thing is, he always threw bad picks. That's just who he was and his penchant for the big mistake used to be counter-balanced by some entertaining heroics. But, as with Madonna, Favre's stinkers became more frequent and his moments of greatness more remote. The 2008 Favre devoured the 1996 Favre.

What could a return possibly accomplish that he hasn't already accomplished? Another MVP or Super Bowl title are highly unlikely. And besides, how many of those does he need to solidify his already secured spot in the pantheon? And, truly, how many more hit records are in Madonna's future? At this point, they both seem like the party guests who see you cleaning up, yawning, even brushing and flossing, but don't know that it's time to go.