In case you missed it - and that would have been easy to do - Mike Bibby was traded to the Atlanta Hawks last weekend. I sincerely hope you don’t care, but in case you do, the Hawks sent starting point guard Anthony Johnson, 2007 first-round pick Shelden Williams, backup point guard Tyronn Lue, veteran forward Lorenzen Wright, and a 2008 second-round pick to the Sacramento Kings.
Maybe I’m just getting spoiled, but after Gasol to L.A., Shaq to Phoenix, and Kidd (maybe) to Dallas, the Bibby to Atlanta deal nearly caused me physical pain with its hateful dullness. Sure, Bibby makes the Hawks better, but only better in the sense of “first round playoff sweep” instead of “NBA draft lottery.” And since this is the Eastern Conference we’re talking about, that’s a difference of about four or five games, tops. Still, as hard as it is to believe, there are some things that are even more boring than the Bibby trade. Here’s the top ten of those things.
10. Kokomo, Indiana: Known as the “City of Firsts” and named after a Miami Indian chief, Kokomo’s top two tourist attractions are - in this order - a giant stuffed cow and the world’s largest sycamore tree stump. Not surprisingly, these morbid artifacts are displayed side-by-side in the city’s public park.
8. Making fun of Tom Cruise: Back in the day, hating on Tom Cruise was fun because he was rich, famous, good-looking, and we all kind of assumed he was a repressed homosexual (he is). But ever since he started taking about KSWs, PTSPs and whatever other acronyms crazy people use, mocking him kind of feels like giving a handicapped child a wedgie.
7. Kobe Bryant pinkie finger updates: I don’t think that any other finger in the history of opposable digits has ever gotten this much press. You know what? Until Kobe’s pinkie becomes capable of independent thought or transforms into a poisonous ninja monster with Pamela Anderson as its right leg, I really don’t need to know anything else about it.
5. SlamDuncan.com: Tim Duncan is a two-time league MVP and a four-time NBA champion, yet he’s also the most boring professional athlete who has ever lived. And I’m including Kurt Warner in that category. His official Web site takes boring to a new, even more uninteresting level. My favorite part is Timmy’s diary, which provides an in-depth and brutally candid window into the mind of this basketball legend. Examples include: “Attempting to be the best team possible is very hard work” and “I am very excited we are in the Western Conference Finals.”
4. Aquaman: This “super” hero’s powers include swimming and talking to fish, which means I have approximately 50 percent of Aquaman’s powers and 100 percent less trout smell. I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you ever find yourself trapped in a flaming building, don’t call Aquaman unless you want to say a few last words to your pet goldfish before slowly burning to death.
3. NBA Collective Bargaining Agreement: If you ever find out a human being has clawed his own eyes out with a rusty garden tool, chances are he did it after reading the CBA in full.
2. Video game Pictionary: It’s true; this thing exists. Leave it to the old Nintendo Entertainment System to turn a party game meant to be enjoyed with a group of friends into a solitary hobby played in the gloomy darkness of your parents’ basement.
1. Greg Ostertag’s Wikipedia entry: Well, let’s see: His middle name is Donovan and his last game was on April 19, 2006. Fascinating! Also, ‘Tag is “an advocate of organ donation.” Just so you know, if I ever - for any reason whatsoever - require a life-saving organ donation from Greg Ostertag, you have permission to just let me die.
We don’t know many Sonics fans, but if we did, we’d mostly be tiptoeing around them these days. It’s one thing to make fun of a Knicks fan; at least the Knicks aren’t going anywhere. (Sadly.) But Sonics fans … what can you say to them these days?
Public radio fella John More tried to grapple with this over the weekend, with a depressing outcome: People are officially shifting to the Trail Blazers.
What’s heartbreaking for fans is that in this fight, the bad guys, the guys who want to take away the team, are referred to as The Sonics, the same name of the team the fans have loved for over 40 years. Continuing to buy tickets puts money in those owners’ pockets. But to walk away from the team violates the way you’ve been living as a fan for your whole life. You can’t cheer. It feels wrong to boo, and you’re too passionate to simply stop caring.
What those Oklahoma City owners are doing to the city of Seattle is downright mean. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Here’s to sports!
New weekend editor Christmas Ape tried out to be one of the guys who run the Presidents Races at Washington Nationals games. Here’s how it went.
I’ve attended a handful of Nationals games each of the three years they’ve been in D.C. and the composition of the crowd is largely unchanged from the midpoint of their first season on: bored couples, bored families, Hill staffers I want to garrote with piano wire and more than a small smattering of opposing fans. But last year on Opening Day, I glimpsed what, to me, was the first moment of palpable excitement in RFK since baseball returned to D.C. in 2005 and, of course, it had nothing to do with the sport itself.
The team had the 12-foot-tall Teddy Roosevelt mascot president, winless then as now, rappel down from the roof of the stadium in a failed Wile E. Coyote-esque plot to overtake Washington, Lincoln and Jefferson in the presidents race. The crowd ate it up like campaign pandering. It was all people talked about on the way out of the park. New stadium aside, fans still seem more interested in seeing whether Teddy wins than whether the team will finish above .500 (He won’t, they won’t).
So when DS commenter Becky sent me a link about how the Nats were looking for folks to fill part-time roles as one of the Dead Prez, there was no way my impulsiveness and my recollection of that day wasn’t going to win out.
And there I found myself yesterday morning with 30 other people ready to don the wobbly 40 lb. suit of dead white man. Many of them were like myself - nerdy twentysomething dudes who were quietly thinking they were better than the other people there - but there were also quite a number of guys in their 40s and 50s in full Nats regalia (curly W hat, Nats windbreaker, low expectations) and, lo and behold, even two women, one of whom came with a broken arm in a sling.
Broken Arm Girl was quite a hit with the assembled sad sack feature reporters tasked to cover this event, because, well, when you’re looking for color for the 12-inch mascot tryouts story you’re filing for tomorrow’s paper, you’ll take anything you can get. Apparently she had broken it earlier in the week in a basketball game hitting the ground after going for a rebound.
“I’m not gonna let one little injury prevent my summer of fun,” she told one reporter.
“Well, I don’t know. But it’s about time we had a female president, right?” she said to another.
It was clear: This girl was out for blood.
There was no Teddy available for us plebeians — he was too busy “training” — so they paired us up by threes for heats as Washington, Lincoln and Jefferson. After watching a few brave souls have a go at it, I was finally ready to suit up as Christmas Abe.
/pause for groans
Whatever preconceptions I had about being able to see while in the costume were immediately quashed. The gauze-like fist-sized hole in the president’s neck you’re supposed to look through is mostly obscured by the character’s jaw, so your field of vision is pretty much limited to your feet. And though you’re strapped in, that giant head will lurch wherever it pleases and kill the shit out of your back trying to keep it aloft.
We got up to the starting line and the Nats entertainment coordinator tells us, “Okay, no shtick. I just wanna see your speed out there on the first run.” As if my shtick up to that point had been anything other than “please, oh please Lord don’t let me fall.” Immediately upon starting, the guy in the Jefferson costume next to me falls dead on his face, almost tripping me up in the process, but I quickly recover and bound my way down the right field foul territory from the foul pole to the dugout, finishing a decided second behind that asshole Washington. He’ll save children, but not the British children, indeed.
Here’s the clip:
Before the return run to the foul pole, one of the staffers tells us he wants full-on speed for the second run but to throw in “a little Chariots of Fire action at the end,” which I take to mean running in slow motion and not being an overrated movie from the ’80s. After that, we’re judged on our victory dances. For some reason, I’m temporarily tempted to try Shawne Merriman’s “Lights Out” sack celebration as Lincoln but, afraid again of falling over, opt for some “Choo-Choo” The Hurkey-Jerky Dancer action instead.
Several local TV news teams had arrived at this point, and they wanted to have a word with the guy who fell on his face in the Jefferson costume, because, really, it’s not like Broken Arm Girl had broken the arm here. So five minutes ago.
Finally, each contestant was marshaled into a private room to meet with three youngish intern-type people for the interview segment, in which you’re asked such probing questions as “What part of the experience did you like best?” and “Which of the presidents do you most identify with?”
Me: “Well, uh, that is, I like Lincoln, because, uh, he’s tall and he, um, he ended slavery.”
For the third consecutive season, we are proud to introduce the Deadspin Baseball Season Previews. Yes, baseball is awfully close now; it’s spring training, after all.
Every weekday until the start of the season, a different writer will preview his/her team. We asked a gaggle of writers, from the Web, from print, from books, to tell us, in as many or as little words as they need, Where Their Team Stands. This is not meant to be factual, or dispassionate, or even logical: We just asked them to riff on why they love their team so much, or what their team means to them, or whatever.
Today: The Los Angeles Angels Of Anaheim. Your author is Mat Gleason.
Mat Gleason blogs as Reverend Halofan at Halos Heaven. His words are after the jump.
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You don’t have to be too deep to understand that the Angels are deep.
So I am reading a Baseball Prospectus preview of the Angels’ Spring Training and Joe Sheehan fails to even mention Vladimir Guerrero. I’m paying for access to this site? This is like paying for the Dick Morris election newsletter and getting no mention of Barack Obama. Previews for a team are 95 percent fixation on about 5 percent of what matters - splitting hairs about minor league prospects who will never get out of AA, pissing contests about bench players who are easier to replace than a tire and stats sold as the word of Math God which measure an infinity more easily explained as two bloop singles in the guy’s rookie year.
Vladimir Guerrero is pretty much the only thing that really matters to the Angels. If Vlad plays in 140 games and posts an OPS+ of at least 140 in 2008, the only way that the Angels do not easily coast to a division title would be a meltdown in their starting pitching. A healthy Vlad makes Mike Scioscia look like a genius no matter how stupid batting Gary Matthews Jr. second would make any manager appear.
There are three everyday players from the 94-win 2007 squad who are not returning - a half-season 5th starter (Bartolo Colon), a half-season DH (Shea Hillenbrand) and Vlad’s best friend (Orlando Cabrera). While Cabrera’s defense will be hard to replace, with his trade value at its peak, he yielded a No. 3 starter (John Garland).
The Angels are deep in the outfield. The signing of Torii Hunter puts Vlad and Garret Anderson in a musical chairs rotation as DH with Matthews rotating between left and right field. At age 32, resting Vlad now is an insurance policy for contract extensions to come. Hunter will add some power to the lineup (which, for all its semi-anemic pop, was fourth in the AL in runs scored) and playing on grass for an extra 81 home games should, in theory, slow any perceived decline Torii may be about to take. His defense - admittedly hard to measure/quantify for even the most evangelical sabermetrician - will be an improvement for the Angels. As a bonus (for you chemistry guys), Hunter replaces the good cheer Cabrera brought to the clubhouse and should sell well in the gift shop, too. There is even a Torii Hunter Bobblehead Night scheduled for May 12 against the White Sox. The Angels could have been stinkers and had this giveaway on a Twins visit, but they are too classy an organization. Juan Rivera and Reggie Willits are the fifth and sixth outfielders.
The Angels are deep in the infield. Mike Napoli and Jeff Mathis are behind the plate. Casey Kotchman is at 1B. If Kotch has yet another freak injury or disease, Kendry Morales will step in. Howie Kendrick is at 2B. Cabrera will be replaced at shortstop by a league average, league minimum salary player 5-10 years his junior (Erick Aybar or Maicer Izturis with Brandon Wood returning to SS at AAA in case neither option has worked by June 1). Either of Aybar/Izturis can back up at 2B and 3B, but Chone Figgins is at 3B and in a contract year.
The Angels are deep in pitching. The rotation is John Lackey, Jered Weaver, Garland, Ervin Santana and Joe Saunders. This is a great rotation, and it is missing Kelvim Escobar, their No. 2, who is babying a sore shoulder into May on a strict rehab program. A stud prospect, Nick Adenhart, awaits a callup. Dustin Moseley and Chris Bootcheck would do in a pinch, if they haven’t mopped up in the bullpen recently, where Justin Speier and Scot Shields will setup for Frankie “Contract Year” Rodriguez. This will likely be Frankie’s last year in an Angels uniform, but visions of free agent dollar signs will make it his best.
The Angels are deep pocketed. As far as dollar amounts and lengths of contracts - the fixations of the less well-endowed franchises - Angel fans know that their billionaire owner will not flush the farm system down the toilet for a once-in-a-lifetime player like Miguel Cabrera nor will he break the bank for Alex Rodriguez. But this is no tightwad. Arte Moreno’s fiscal sanity is backed up by a lot of chips on the table. And he plays his cards when his hand is strong.
The Angels are deep and they are going to kick your team’s ass. Play ball.
Far be it from us to tell Rockies outfielder Ryan Spilborghs what to do with his truck, or how to live his life, but we think he should either consider new parking options, or stop offending the golden gods of animal excrement.
As organizers prepared for the National Western Stock Show parade through downtown Denver, the Coors Field parking lot served as a staging area for livestock. A few steers didn’t, um, steer sharply enough and one broke the taillight on Spilborghs’ vehicle.
“My spot was taken, so I parked in space 19, for my number. When I came out, the light was broken,” Spilborghs said. “I checked for a note, but those longhorns left something else behind.”
Cow, horse, whatever, all farm animals hate the Colorado Rockies. It’s simple science.
Matt from Hardwood Paroxysm headed to New Orleans for the All-Star madness last weekend. Well, actually, he was there for the Celebrity Game and the D-League All-Star Games. Over the next two days, we’ll be telling his tales. Today: The Celebrity Game.
We come for the NBA D-League All-Star events, we stay for the Celebrity game! In a development that can either be considered a blessing or a horrible, horrible curse, my partner Corn and I were actually around for the celebrity game during the NBA Jam Session Friday Night.
After nabbing our passes, we prayed to God no one would discover we’re A. writing for a blog and B. that the blog we’re guest writing for is, in the minds of NBA-teat suckling oinker ESPN, The End Of Western Civilization.
As we made our way into the press area, we came to one simple conclusion.
Whoever is in charge of programming the NBA Celebrity Game is a deeply disturbed masochist who is obviously smoking crack cocaine in a room full of ether.
We walked in behind two of the largest human beings we’ve ever seen, both wearing “Mayweather Promotions” t-shirts. It was like being behind a rhino on two legs.
Corn: “Maybe we should just stay behind these two all weekend. We’re safer that way.”
As we turned the corner to the media section, it was possibly the most absurd collection of human beings and mascot-type devices we could have imagined. On our right? The ESPN set, with Rick Bucher setting up STAT for a Tarot reading. In case you were wondering how we picked out Bucher, it was pretty easy since the man is NEON FUCKING ORANGE. Amare Stoudemire was next to him, and we couldn’t take our eyes off of Bucher since we were worried Amare was going to start melting from the radiation steaming off Bucher.
Milling around the back area was overwhelmingly absurd. On our right we’ve got Stuart Scott and Chris Paul coming to check in with the DJ of the event. On our left was a group of older women; apparently they would be performing at halftime. These dancers, a take off of the Hornets’ Honey Bees, were called the Used-To-Bees. Women, 50 to 80 years old, standing within feet of the greatest basketball players in the world. And Taylor Hicks.
Oh, Taylor Hicks.
We’ll admit something. We hate American Idol. With the passion of a thousand Bill Waltons. It is turrrible. But as opposed to most of the participants who were actually trying to act cool, Hicks was over the top ridiculous. He knew he had no place there and reveled in it. The man was wearing his jersey tucked into his shorts, for God’s sake. Neyo kept looking at him like he was walking around without pants on. If it seems that we are unnaturally preoccupied with the man, it’s just that he was so amazingly out of place, and yet mystifyingly dorky.
We ran into Skeets and instantly he and I had the same assessment:
“Is this not the most bizarre fucking thing you’ve ever seen?
It would have been one thing just to see Taylor Hicks and Chris Tucker wandering around in jerseys and long shorts among Stephen A. and Shaq. But to see a gigantic Warriors mascot get into a dancing contest with two guys from an internet radio show, to see 60-year-old women in the halftime show, to seeing Stuart Scott chowing down with top-notch chefs while all of this is going on? Too much. Just too much. I was having sensory overload, but not from anything of any importance. It was like getting bombarded with Bugs Bunny cartoons that weren’t funny.
I’d love to give you some insight into the game, but to be honest, it was kind of like watching your friends play a pickup game, if your friends all had perfectly styled hair and were absolutely terrible at basketball. There was no defense, sloppy ballhandling, and both teams were shooting about 25 percent, it seemed like. So basically, it was a Bobcats games with Chris Tucker.
Deion Sanders was pretty good, and so was the guy from the Wire. Then they did the moronic in-game trade with T.O. joining the fray, and he killed everyone. We’re decided that T.O. could come in and play in the NBA and outperform Jerome James, Tyronn Lue and Jason Collins on any given night. Not individually. Combined. The dunk he threw down was downright nasty.
But on the whole, the entire event was like watching a zebra have sex with a flamingo. Downright confusing. The good news? People loved it. Especially when they brought out the mascots and free stuff. The NBA Celebrity Game. It’s fan… yeah, I got nothin’.
You surely remember the monstrosity (and potential extinctive agent for humanity as a whole) that was the Jason Taylor Robot. (It responds to visual stimulation! Ack!) Well, the real life version — as much as a “real life version” can exist — is about to be cutting a proverbial rug.
Following in the clomping, shambling “steps” of Mark Cuban, Kenny Mayne and Emmitt Smith, Taylor will be on next year’s Dancing With The Stars.
USA Today has the full list, which includes Monica Seles, Kristi Yamaguchi and Simmons buddy Adam Carrola. As long as someone makes this facial expression, we’ll be happy.
In case you missed it - and that would have been easy to do - Mike Bibby was traded to the Atlanta Hawks last weekend. I sincerely hope you don’t care, but in case you do, the Hawks sent starting point guard Anthony Johnson, 2007 first-round pick Shelden Williams, backup point guard Tyronn Lue, veteran forward Lorenzen Wright, and a 2008 second-round pick to the Sacramento Kings.
We don’t know many Sonics fans, but if we did, we’d mostly be tiptoeing around them these days. It’s one thing to make fun of a Knicks fan; at least the Knicks aren’t going anywhere. (Sadly.) But Sonics fans … what can you say to them these days?
For the third consecutive season, we are proud to introduce the 
Far be it from us to tell Rockies outfielder Ryan Spilborghs what to do with his truck, or how to live his life, but we think he should either consider new parking options, or stop offending the golden gods of animal excrement.
Matt from 
You surely remember the monstrosity (and potential extinctive agent for humanity as a whole) that was 