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Final Thoughts From A Favre Fan

 

Thanks
Thanks

I’ll admit right from the beginning that the FlyMaster is a bonafide Brett Favre fan.  It’s not his stats, both the good and the bad, or his exciting and often nerve-racking plays.  For me, Favre played football the way everyone should play games.  He went all out all the time and was always having fun.  Let’s face it, sports are games and games are meant to be fun.  Bottom line.  Nobody puts their 6 year old son in sports in the hopes of him becoming a Hall of Famer.  And for those of you who do that, shame on you.  No, we put our kids in sports so they can learn some values and also so we see them having fun.  Pure unadulterated fun.  As we age many of us lose that inner-child and we then stop playing games.  Brett Favre never let go of that inner-child and played the game like a 6 year old at the highest level. 

Let the pundits debate Favre’s credentials as a top tier quarterback or whether or not his high interception totals tarnish his legacy, or whether the one year in a Jets uniform did him a disservice.  While those curmudgeons argue, I’ll be sitting back revering a guy who played the game the same way I see kids playing in the street.  In fact, Brett Favre has taught me more about my own affinity for still competing and playing hard at the age of 34.  Times are depressing, but give me 30 minutes of a pickup basketball game, 45 minutes of running up a hill with my lungs on fire, or an hour of teaching martial arts and it’s all in perspective.  Play the game to play the game and play it right.  That’s the Favre legacy. 

Favre, unlike so many other major sports icons, possesses an everyman quality.  His wrangler commercials are believable.  His battle against painkiller addiction and his dogged determination to always go to work made him more like us than any other icon from this era.  It’s imagineable to see Favre getting an offseason job just to work for work’s sake.  It’s plausible to walk into an Hattiesburg bar and see Brett at the end of the bar holding court over a pitcher.  Can the same be said of Tom Brady?  What about Tiger Woods?  No way, those guys aren’t like us.  They’re openly better, and that’s okay.  Favre is the uber normal man.  This week we’ve seen some pretty low stories with A-Rod and Phelps, but quietly the “boy-man” Favre left the sports spotlight and I highly doubt there is anybody who can step into his role.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

February 11, 2009 Posted by | Features & Opinions, NFL | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

George W. Bush Ruined Baseball

Right Back At You Buddy!

Right Back At You Buddy!

The steroid ship sailed for me about four years ago.  At that point, I dropped my Bob Costas “For the Love of the Game” naivete and began thinking anyone in the game could have been a user.  No discrimination, no hesitation.  I viewed steroids and PED’s in baseball in the same way I viewed cocaine use in the mid-1970s.  Everyone was doing it, so don’t judge individuals.  Instead judge the era.  The latest A-Rod information isn’t such a big deal except for people who still thought of A-Rod as the savior who was going to erase the villainous Barry Bonds from the National Pastime’s ledger.  Well, too bad, and you folks who villify Bonds had better start spreading the hate around. 

 

From day one, Barry Bonds has been the prime target.  Even Clemens, McGwire, Palmeiro, and Sosa have gotten treated with kid gloves compared to Barry Lamar.  Now Barry’s buddy A-Rod should share some heat.  But, instead of spreading the heat I suggest going to the source.  The source, you ask?  The source is one George Walker Bush.  Liberal cynicism?  Nope.  Kicking the cowboy while he’s down?  Nope.  Think about it.  Who stood up in front of the nation and gave Major League Baseball the come to Jesus talk as a part of the State of the Union address?  It was one, George Walker Bush.  Yet, which organization was at the forefront of steroid use when the era began in the mid-1990s?  The Texas Rangers.  Who was running the Texas Rangers at the time Canseco, Juan Gone, and Raffy Palmeiro were sticking each other in the booty?  That’s right, George Walker Bush.  Bush’s political legacy will take generations and gallons of “white out” to fix.  His social legacy needs to suffer as well.  How is the guy who “cowboyed” up to hunt down drugs in baseball going to be the actual source of the problem?  That shows how ridiculous this issue is.  The steroid ship has sailed.  Let’s sink it at sea and just admit that baseball has been screwed up for a long time.  Stop this damn posturing about who gets into the Hall of Fame.  If cats from this tainted era have the numbers, put them in the Hall.  Don’t sit there and not vote for McGwire because he didn’t say anything.  Do you want a Hall of Fame filled with Melky Cabrera’s and Steve Finley’s?  Vote for McGwire.  Vote for Bonds.  Vote for A-Rod.  But first vote for Pete Rose.  If not, the Hall will end up looking lamer than it already does.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

 

February 9, 2009 Posted by | Major League Baseball, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This One’s For the Bitches

Forget steroids for a minute.  Forget Olympians bong-toking.  Forget the Lakers tapping the Celtics and Cavs in back-to-back games.   It’s time to break out the full-court coverage on the greatest American sporting event.  That’s right, my friends, it is Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show time.  Some of you may consider this coverage ludicrous, cynical, and even irrelevant, but you’re straight up wrong.  If there’s one thing the FlyMaster loves, it’s bitches.  Bitches of all shapes and sizes.  Loud bitches.  Quite bitches.  Black bitches.  White bitches.  Brindle bitches.  Bitches that drool.  Bitches that like pools.  Bitches that eat meat.  As long as that bitch has four feet, she can compete.   

Leaving a Mark at MSG

Leaving a Mark at MSG

On the real side, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is a gem of the highest carat weight.  Each February Madison Square Garden becomes the world’s fanciest dog park.  Last week Kobe and Lebron both left their mark on the Garden.  This week there will be all sorts of marks left on the garden.   America’s blue bloods parade their canine compatriots with more pride than when Yury Andropov surveyed and approved the Soviet Army in Red Square.   You know you’re dealing with a blue blood, conceited, four legged spoiled brats when they sport names like “Champion Dulymus Arbuckle on High Quartermain,” and “Winchester Trig Palin McCain We Lost Damnit.”  The FlyDog is named Del.  Keep it simple, muffy.  Now that the backstory is set, let’s break down the 133rd Westiminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Last year’s champion was Uno, a beagle that took the City by storm and did it his way.  With his dynamic personality and semi-tolerable breath, Uno was a lock to go back-to-back, but alas Uno is currently embroiled in ACL rehabilitation and a performance enhancing drug scandal that prevent him from competing.  The field is wide open, just like the NL MVP race once Barry Bonds removed himself from the league.   This year’s early favorites are Lincoln, a Brussels Griffon from the Toy Group, and Carly, a corgi from the Herding Group.  Here’s a group by group breakdown.

Sporting Group:

The Sporting Group is replete with every type of retriever, spaniel, and pointer you’d ever want to see. While many of the pundits laud the accomplishments of the English Springer Spaniel, and some of the overseas prognosticators are lining up in the Wirehaired Pointing Griffon’s corner, Sir FlyMaster will be sticking to his preseason pick, the Vizsla. The Vizsla is a little-known Hungarian dog that puts all thes other Sporting Mutts in their place. Watch out for the Nova Scotia Duck Toiling Retriever to make a splash as well.

Hound Group:
 
The Hound Group represents an array of body types and functionality. From the short-rotund Basset Hound to the immensely regal, yet nappy and drunk Irish Wolfhound, this group is built for excitement. Don’t bet against the frontrunner here. That’s right. The 15″ Beagle will be victorious, if only because the Charles Schultz Snoopy contigent is huge here at the Westminster Kennel, and who doesn’t like Snoopy? If you need a darkhorse, or darkdog rather, don’t sleep on the Black and Tan Coonhound. That’s just a great name because one isn’t quite sure if it’s slightly offensive or just a product of good-old-down-home-Southern naivete. “Look at the jowls on that coon.” That’s one of my favorite lines from covering last year’s Dogapalooza.
 
Working Group:
 
The finest bitches and male dogs reside in the Working Group. These dogs can be fluffy, buff, ugly, short, stocky, long, lean, but they all get the job done. The Japanese contingent will be pulling for the Akita, while the Inuit population (all 2 of them) can’t get enough Malamute. Well, sorry folks, 2009 is the year of the Boxer. No dog is more elegant in its aloofness, more resolute in its musculature, and more playful when gnawing on the fibulas of children from war torn countries. Give the trophy to the Boxer and stay out of her way.

 
Terrier Group:

The Terrier Group features a bunch of glorified rat and rabbit hunters. If that’s your dharma, you don’t deserve an award show. But since they’re in the competition we’ll pick a winner. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Pick the Norwich Terrier and get on with the show.

Toy Group:

The Toy group is a disgrace to the animal kingdom. These dogs are the preferred choice of B-list celebrities, gay mafiosos, old ladies with skin that looks like a well tanned kangaroo hide, and the Sportsfly office. This year it was tough to make a decision, but FlyMaster is rolling with the Japanese Chin for two reasons. Japanese Chin sounds like a disparaging disease name from the mid 1800s and the name “Chin” is Chinese, so who the hell is Japanese Chin? Conspiracy in the making.

Non-Sporting Group:All bastard dogs that really don’t serve a purpose and can’t be classified in any of the other groups get thrown in the Non-Sporting Group. Here you’ll find your Poodles, Dalmations, Chow Chow, and other ungodly concoctions. Put some money on the Bulldog (British) because he’s really trying to distance himself from the rest of these ragamuffins, but his leg length and genetic predisposition for hip problems are severely limiting. Mercy vote the Bulldog to glory.

Herding Group:

The Herding Group features some new entrants this year. This begs the question, were there new dogs discovered last year or has that Human Genome Project taken a turn toward the realm of Doctor Moreau? Anyhow, look for the Swedish Vallhund to make a huge debut this year. Word is, the Vallhund looks more like a shrunk down buffalo with goat eyes and a forked tongue, so you know it will stand out. Other contenders are the Bearded Collie and the Corgi. Either way, it’s going to be a heated competition.

BEST IN SHOW:

No doubt the best in show comp will come down to the Boxer and the Swedish Vallhund. This year’s competition has been switched up to boost ratings. Word has it that Michael Vick will be asked to referee the Best in Show match, with the losing dog being placed on the Signature #7 Rape Stand, where all Chihuahuas are released upon the loser. It ain’t pretty, but it’s sports. Look for the Boxer to take down the Vallhund with some nice punching skills and adept ankle-biting. Sorry Sweden, maybe you can invent another new dog in 2010 and enter again. Until then, 2009 is the year of the Boxer.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

Best In Show?

Best In Show?

 

February 9, 2009 Posted by | Doping, Features & Opinions, General, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

National Signing Day = Media Pedophilia

A Complete Sham

A Complete Sham

For those of us who are maniacally cynical, pessimistic, and overall dour on the state of society National Signing Day is yet another reminder of our imminent demise.  This year ESPN, SI, and Fox Sports have all been touting the arrival of National Signing Day for two weeks.  The question I’d pose is why?  First of all we’re talking about 17 and 18 year old kids who’ve yet to go to the prom, take a driving test, and witness their last pep rally in the quad during nutrition (or recess which is even more juvenile).  The fact of the matter is that no matter how much hype surrounds National Signing Day only a couple of these kids will truly taste collegiate greatness and even fewer will matriculate from the collegiate ranks to the NFL.  In other words, media coverage falsely inflates and exploits many of these kids filling them with false hopes and false expectations. 

Recruiting has become a full-time job for top tier college programs and covering recruiting has become big business for sites like Scouts, Inc. and Rivals.com.  The fuel that flames the maelstrom of recruiting madness remains the human element.  Kids, whether the successful few or the discounted many, are the crux of this media phenomenon.  Names are volleyed about and kid’s are lauded as the next Ray Lewis or Reggie Bush, but honestly how many of us have ever seen or heard of these kids?  Would we know or care about them if not for the media throwing them in our faces?  No way!  On a deeper level, there is a definite element of child abuse and pedophilia that resonates through this whole process.  You have middle-aged men (coaches, recruiters, etc) communicating with kids via text messages and official visits and under-the-table gifts.  That smells bad.  ESPN posting videos of top prospects and prematurely touting kids as idols is damaging to the kid and lowers the moral bar of the sports consumer.  It’s the “pornofication” of sports.  The bottom line is if you’re 17 or 18 and have never even stepped outside of the auspices of your parents or home situation, I don’t want to know your name, I don’t want to compare you to some grown man or professional, and I definitely don’t want to leer into your future with any vested interest.  Sure, it’s great for colleges to reload their talent, but is there really a need to turn this into a meat market where the cattle dramatically put on some college’s hat in front of a contrived press conference?  No, there really isn’t.  Let the cattle announce where they go quietly with less fanfare and let’s check back in three years to see if the cattle turn out to be bulls or steer.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

February 4, 2009 Posted by | College Football, General, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

RIP Kay Yow

It’s not often that the Sportsfly crew muses on women’s athletics, except to clown or hammer home a point of irrelevance, but today closes the uplifting yet sorrowful saga of North Carolina State Women’s Basketball Coach Kay Yow.  Yow’s Hall of Fame career has some amazing stats.  700+ wins.  Olympic gold medal coach.  Numerous NCAA Tournament appearances.  These stats and career moments pale in comparison to her real contribution to humanity.

Yow was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1987 and battled the disease over the next 22 years of her life.  Yow’s initial response to being diagnosed was to go out and coach the Olympic team in 1988.  She beat the disease and continued coaching.  In 2004, the cancer returned, yet Yow faced it down again.  Indomitable spirit defined Kay Yow’s life experience.  In December 2008 Coach Yow took a leave of absence and said she would not return this season.  A week later, she checked into the hospital.  A week after that she passed away.  A fitting farewell to an inspirational figure.

All to often the true essence of sports gets lost.  Amongst media blitzes, over-dramaticized hyperbole, and overexposure the nature of sports dwells and unfortunately it takes stories like Kay Yow’s to bring that nature to the fore.  Competition breeds internal fire and that fire can be used to succeed, defy odds, perservere through adversity, stand humble in the face of success, and recognize one’s place in the greater scheme.  It’s fitting that both Kay Yow and her Wolfpack compatriot, Jim Valvano, lived and taught these principles as they faced an opponent that typically drains the spirit just as much as it drains the body.  To the end, Kay Yow remained resolute to not let cancer take her out of the game.  On the court she stood, even as her physical self dwindled away.  When she finally decided the fight was over, it ended.  That is the beauty of free will.  Kay Yow was laid to rest today, but her example and teachings resonate.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

Fight til the Fight is Done

Fight til the Fight is Done

January 30, 2009 Posted by | College Basketball, Features & Opinions, General | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tiger Balm on the Rocket’s Sack

Fire Down Below

Fire Down Below

Roger Clemens’ legacy sports more tarnish than a Rodin sculpture left out in the Paris weather for 150 years, but the latest revelations from Tom Verducci and Joe Torre’s book “The Yankee Years” are just way too much information.  For years Clemens’ workout regimen was put on the pantheon of athletic asceticism alongside Jerry Rice and Walter Payton.  “The Yankee Years” may have just revealed how weird a guy Roger Clemens is and odd effects steroids can contribute to deranging an already slightly deranged mind.  In the book, Clemens pregame ritual on pitch days was revealed.  Steve Donahue, Yankees trainer, claimed that on pitch days Clemens would start by taking a whirlpool bath in scalding hot water.  Donahue said that Clemens would emerge “looking like a lobster.”  Okay, that’s not too weird.  Slightly masochistic, yes, but not altogether weird.  Clemens would then have Donahue take the hottest liniment and rub it into his testicles.  You read it right.  Rub it into his testicles.  Donahue continued to say that Clemens would “snort like a bull” and that was the sign he was ready to pitch.  Weird.

 

Clemens’ fall from grace doesn’t need anymore coverage, and getting liniment rubbed into his nuts may just be par for the course.  Instead, let’s think about poor Steve Donahue.  How many kids dream about wearing the famed pinstripes when they grow up?  How many of those kids actually realize that dream?  Steve Donahue realized the dream, donned the pinstripes, and once he made the big leagues he ends up rubbing Tiger Balm on the Rocket’s testes.  At that price, you can keep the pinstripes.  He might as well be in prison and Clemens was his “big brother.” 

Imagine going home at night, washing your hands for 2 hours only to have your wife or girlfriend say “how was work…what did you do today?” 

“Oh, same ol’ same ol’.  I did some therapy on Giambi’s mustache, did rehab work with Hideki, and then rubbed some liniment on Clemens’ genitalia.” 

“Isn’t that a little gay?” 

“Yeah, a little bit, but he’s the Rocket.” 

“Did you touch his rocket?”

“No, baby that’s just gross…strictly the nuts.”

That conversation can’t ever go well.  Sorry, Steve Donahue did you not ever see that Beverly Hills 90210 episode where they teach about “No Means No”?  Rub your own testes.  That should be a rule across society.  Rub your own testes.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now! 

January 29, 2009 Posted by | Doping, Features & Opinions, Major League Baseball, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Let Hyperbole Rule The Day

The Super Bowl experience increasingly wraps and intertwines itself in a bind of hype, hyperbole, and overexposure.  Turn on your TV, radio, or computer today and everywhere you turn Super Bowl 43 stares at you like that money you would have saved if you signed with Geico.  From Sunday to Sunday the coverage is simply too much.  There is no way the game can ever live up to the hype that precedes it.  It’s Monday morning and I’ve already heard the following stories.

  1. Hines Ward is waking up every 3 hours to take medicine and ice his knee.  Big f’*cking deal.  So does the FlyGrandma.
  2. Tampa Bay is bracing itself for a week of record crowds.  New York just called to say “shut the f up.”
  3. Arizona players are spending Monday and Tuesday dealing with the logistics of giving out tickets.  All of America is busy ducking creditors, so giving out tickets seems mighty easy.
  4. This just in…Kurt Warner thanked Jesus.
  5. Mike and Mike on the Radio just went through their top Super Bowl moments.  Every other media outlest will publish their lists by noon on Tuesday.
  6. The weather in Tampa is nice. 
  7. Ben Roethlisberger is happy to be back in the Super Bowl.  What is he supposed to be, pissed off?
  8. Arizona feel like underdogs and nobody respects them.  You know who’s not respected?  The homeless, three-legged dogs, middle-aged call girls, honeybees, and teachers.
  9. John Madden is riding a bus to Tampa.  No shit.  Wow, is it filled with Turducken?
  10. Vegas is bracing for a record in bets.  Of course it is, everyone who’s broke is looking for the quick come up.

Dont Believe the Hype

Don't Believe the Hype

Brace yourselves for the wave of inundation.  If the game can be 1/10 as good as the hype machine says it will be, we’ll have ourselves a game worthy of being played in week 12 of any season. 

 

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

January 26, 2009 Posted by | Features & Opinions, NFL, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Mark McGwire’s Brother is a Rat

 

Beat Your Brothers Ass!

Beat Your Brother's Ass!

Mark McGwire did steroids.  We know this.  This isn’t a big deal anymore.  Silence is admission of guilt, and when was the last time you heard Mark McGwire speak?  That’s right, it was when he pleaded the fifth like a Chappelle’s show skit.  Well, in a story that’s about as tired and used up as a hooker at a 1994 house party at Michael Irvin’s house, Mark McGwire’s younger brother Jay is making headlines (more like footnotes) with a proposed book that details brother Mark’s steroid use.  Big whoopty-do.  It should be noted that Jay and Mark are estranged and Jay claims that he introduced Mark to ‘roids after Mark saw Jay win a bodybuilding contest.  Jay’s looking for a payday and that’s where the FlyMaster’s ire gets raised.

Assaults on filial piety, the sanctity of the family, and sibling bonds are the lowest of the low.  Rats are dealt with pretty severely in prison, and thus they should be karmically retributed against with the utmost impunity when they betray their family.  All families bicker, fight, become estranged, burn each other’s houses, beat each other’s puppies, but that all stays in the family.  That’s rule number one.  Jay McGwire broke the golden rules of being a family member and in his meager attempts to capitalize on his brother’s demons only make him a demon of higher caliber.  What’s next, Jay?  Are you going to rat out your other brother Dan, one of the worst NFL QB busts in the last 30 years, for being a hideously bad gunslinger who was a product of the San Diego State offense of the late 1980s?  You jerk

Please allow the FlyMaster to make an open statement to the FlySister.  FlySister, if you ever rat me out on all the ridiculously dumb, dimwitted, nefarious stuff the FlyMaster is responsible for the FlyMaster will find you.  Find you he will.  However, if you choose to write some memoir of FlyMaster’s foibles please ask for more than $100K, although I doubt you’d receive more than $4 bucks, a six pack of Pabst, and some gummy bears.  But, on the real side, the FlySister understands this agreement as an unsaid code of siblings.  That’s what makes Jay McGwire even more of a douchetard.  He didn’t even realize the idiocy and ignorance of his actions.  Remember people, nothing is more important than maintaining belief in your family members even if they’re a walking petri dish of HGH, horse testosterone, and cow urine.  Back acne and rages aside, he’s still your brother. 

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

January 22, 2009 Posted by | Doping, Features & Opinions, General, Major League Baseball, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

What the Hell is That? Volume 2

Steroids for Kids? Damn!

Steroids for Kids? Damn!

A father’s love knows no bounds.  Fathers dedicate themselves to providing their kids with the best opportunities to succeed, protect them from and prepare them for the awaiting world, and of course, give their kids steroids as motivation to become better athletes.  Meet Mr. Todd Gerleman, an Iowa resident who expressed his love for his 14 year old son by injecting the boy with steroids and supplying him with a cocktail of pills.  Do you smell “Father of the Year” yet?  Well, let the story unfold.  Gerleman’s dedication to his son’s competitive excellence only became apparent after his son assaulted his mother in what police described as a “steroid rage.”  Mom obviously wasn’t on the same page as the Gerleman boys.  By the way, Gerleman is pronounced “girlie man.”   Back to our story of father-son bonding.  Gerleman said he was giving his son steroids as a means to motivate him in sports.  Damn, that is some out of the box thinking.  “Here son, the road to success begins with me shooting some unnatural shit into your butt.”  Play like a champion today. 

First of all, look at this fool’s mugshot.  Is that the face of a motivational speaker?  Why are most cats busted for steroid dealing overweight?  I guess the NWA warning of  not “getting high on your own supply” resonates with the ‘roid dealers of the world.  Secondly, his son is a high school wrestler (already a suspiciously homoerotic subculture) and this guy is basically using his son as a guinea pig.  This defines perversion.  Ok, before we condemn the man let’s listen to the case…let’s give the Gerleman some props.  He’s definitely thinking outside of the box.  In a time when the sports world has rallied against steroids and performance enhancers, Gerleman stood strong in his convictions.  A rogue salmon swimming down stream while the rest of the pack swam upstream to spawn.   It takes true belief in one’s progeny’s capabilities to want to inject them with steroids thereby increasing the size of his frontal lobe while simulataneously shrinking his nuts to the size of sunflower seeds.  Acne on the back?  That’s comes with the glory of being Iowa State Wrestling champ.  Gerleman is the sports equivalent of those backwoods militia men who ride around on ATVs while spewing the “Freedom Or Death” rhetoric through their missing front teeth.  Gerleman is in a league of his own, and I don’t encourage you to join this league.

In my attempts to improve my son’s performance in his 6 and under soccer league I’ve too use methods that may be deemed unorthodox, unethical, unusual, maniacal, and laced with evil.  I can’t afford steroids, and my disdain of synthetic drugs prevent me from concocting any cocktails, but the FlyMaster has his methods.  Method one is called “pull my chariot with your teeth.”  This involves me sitting in a red wagon while he chomps down on a twine tether and pulls me up the driveway.  This is great for leg strength, determination, neck stability, and is an adjunct way of flossing.  Don’t mind the bloody gums.  They get used to that.  Method two is called “get a job muthaf**ker.”  You got to pay to play, and having mundane jobs teaches kids the value of getting to play games.  Plain and simple.  Each day after school I drop him off at the life insurance agency and he gets busy trying to slang policies.  He’s not bad for a six year old, but I’d never buy from him or tell him he’s doing well.  Got to keep their mental state slightly fragile.  Method three is called “play with the big boys son.”  This involves putting him on the field with his dad’s crew of roughneck soccer players.  Now the FlyMaster plays with a crew of Irish miscreants, salty Mexicans, angered Englishmen, two Argentinian jerks, and some old-school pipe smoking brothas.  We put the FlySon in goal and practice taking penalty shots at him.  Trick is, we blind fold him.  That develops the chi and sensory perception.  All of these methods have combined to completely screw up my son’s head and sense of self, but hey that’s what Gerleman was doing also, so I’m not alone. 

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

January 15, 2009 Posted by | Doping, Features & Opinions, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Rickey Henderson – Hall of Fame Linguist

Part Cobb, Part Satre

Part Cobb, Part Satre

The 2009 MLB Hall of Fame class will be announced later today and one thing is for certain; Mr. Rickey Henderson’s name will be announced.  Thank the heavens.  The numbers don’t lie.  First in all-time runs.  First in all-time steals.  First in leadoff homers.  First in third person references.  Before Rickey, the word “I” was the most common word used by athletes.   Now the time has come to salute Rickey.

Without Rickey’s groundbreaking reconstruction of the English language by means of shunning the first person where would the sports world be?  Bo Jackson would have just been a stuttering bull from the Deep South had Rickey not paved the way.  Manny Being Manny?  Rickey Being Rickey is the only “being” that matters.  Put all of the on-the-field excellence Rickey exuded aside and ponder how it really feels when someone you’re speaking to refers to themself in the third person.  It’s quite odd, and furthermore, it’s a little intimidating.  When a person answers a question in the third person it completely removes the question asker from the conversation.  Thus, it is no longer a conversation, but instead a monologue of the most disassociated sense.  Example: “How’ve you been?”  “FlyMaster’s been working on his type speed and FlyMaster’s font choices are improving.”  See, that just sounds cool, yet removed.

Rickey’s gifts to our cultural lexicon do not end with his mastery of the third.  No, he also made the non sequitor, the double entendre, malapropisms, and syllogistic arguments forms of art.  From standing in his New York condo and saying he could see the “Entire State Building,” to telling the A’s “if you want to pay me like Mike Gallego, I’ll play like Mike Gallego,” Rickey channeled the best of Ty Cobb and Jean-Paul Satre.  A philospher capable of creating poignancy from simplicity.  Who can’t appreciate a man who would stand in front of the mirror, nude and repeating “Rickey’s the best” for several minutes with the asceticism of St. Augustine before games.  That, my friends is a higher calling.  Rickey’s philosophical genius bears itself in his reaction to becoming Nolan Ryan’s 5,000th strikeout victim.  After fanning Rickey said “Ryan just blew it by me, but it’s an honor….Rickey will have another paragraph in the baseball books….Rickey already is in there three or four times.”  Genius, plain and simple. 

Here’s to the greatest leadoff player in history, the first left fielder to be inducted since Yaz, the man who could not recognize John Olerud after playing with him on two teams, and the “symbol of great base stealing.”  All hail Rickey.  Rickey hail Rickey.  FlyMaster can’t wait for the Hall of Fame speech.

FlyMaster Signing Off…For Now!

January 12, 2009 Posted by | Features & Opinions, Major League Baseball, Talkin Trash | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment