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Jun 21 2010
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The Chronicles of Roddick

Editor’s note: So I was slated to do a story on Andy Roddick last summer because he was going to appear at the now-defunct Indy Tennis Championships and interviewed numerous people, like his brother, his mom, Sam Querrey, Robby Ginepri, Patrick McEnroe and even Johnny Mac. And I was on a quick conference call with Roddick himself. Anyways, he bailed out because of injury and I never got to write the story. UNTIL NOW. A year later, and about 2,000 words longer, we get this…

As a rule, tennis doesn’t reward those who take their time. The sport caters to the fleet-footed and swift-minded. It goes without saying that a player can’t think at length about whether he hit his groundstroke deep enough to put his opponent at a disadvantage and thus should rush the net.

A player must react. A player must decide. A player must be ready to change in a match – be it a change of position, strategy or mental state.

This rule of tennis, of course, applies everywhere throughout the sport and not just in the basics of play.

Yes, transformations are rapid. Metamorphoses seem to occur overnight if not quicker. Sam Stosur was barely a top 50 player a year ago. She’s now a contender in Grand Slams. Robin Soderling was dubiously known as one of the ATP’s best indoor court players. He’s now seen by many as the best player behind Federer and Nadal.

Yet as rapidly as players’ fortunes rise and fall on the courts, their reputations change faster. Andre Agassi was a rebellious prodigy whose shallow persona prevented his play from reaching its ultimate depth. Then he was a wise philanthropist, a man who made use of his talent to reach out to others.

Federer was a talented headcase. Then he was the undisputed king of tennis. Then he was washed up. Then he was back on his throne, the billowy white jacket with a gold 15 emblazoned the lower corner at last year’s Wimbledon illustrating that.

Federer slipped on that jacket after a match against Andy Roddick that lasted 30 games into the fifth set. It was in those five sets, in those 30 games that a transformation, rapid even by tennis’ standards, occurred.

When it was over, Roddick was the bruised and battered hero. He was vulnerable. He was wounded.

And we saw that.

One day we felt iffy about Roddick, the next day we admired him.

This is about that transformation. This is about the origins. This is about a man who was misunderstood for so long.

This is about him, and it’s about us.

Why didn’t we feel passionate about Roddick from the beginning? Why did we have to change?

What took us so long to like Andy Roddick?

***
The rule was no basketball. And that was an order straight from Roddick’s coach, Tarik Benhabiles. He coached one of the top juniors in the country, and he didn’t want to see him get injured playing something that wouldn’t improve his tennis.

This wasn’t a typical rule for a tennis prodigy. Can you imagine a young Ivan Lendl even considering picking up a basketball?
But Roddick was never like the others. A tennis life for an ordinary kid began, where else, the Midwest. There, in Omaha, Roddick joined a class of 7-year-olds at Westroads Racquet Club. He was 3 1/2.

Blanche Roddick, his mother, knew he would fail. She only enrolled him because the class would shut down for good if another student didn’t join. So she signed him up.

“If you want to get rid of him,” Blanche would tell the instructor, “go ahead.”

Nobody got rid of Roddick. Even if he wasn’t better than the rest of the class, they couldn’t have. He would stand in front of the club’s rebound wall and pound the yellow ball endlessly, not budging for anyone.

Years went by and Roddick improved and he hit a growth spurt and soon he was one of the better young Americans and then one of the best young players in the world. He still wore a hole-covered Nebraska Cornhuskers hat when he played. He still spent his formative years in the Midwest. He still played basketball.

And when his family finally did move to Florida to further his tennis career, Benhabiles began working with him the way a typical coach would work with a tennis prodigy.

And one of his rules was no basketball.

So one night Roddick told Blanche he planned to see some friends, left the house and came back late. Blanche scanned the paper the next day and stumbled upon the box score from the Boca Prep basketball game. There, printed among the Boca players who scored, she found an interesting name. It was Andy Roddick.

***
Robby Ginepri knows a Roddick none of us know, the one without the Mach 3 serve and baggy Lacoste polo.

“He was a grinder,” Ginepri says.

Roddick had to be a grinder. He was small, almost comically small until midway through his high school career. The wall measurements were posted in the Roddick’s house in Austin, and Blanche can’t remember his exact height by his early teens, but…

“He couldn’t have been more than five feet,” she says.

This meant that Roddick came up with deceptive ways to win points. This meant that he put himself in better condition. This meant that he outworked his opponents so that he still finished near the top of the 14-and-unders despite standing smaller than all but one of the top 128 in the rankings.

But he did grow, and he grew into, well, Patrick McEnroe tells it through this story.

Tennis has taken McEnroe all over the world and then back to those places again, every year, as a commentator and a Davis Cup coach. Yet he vividly remembers Basel.

It was 2001. He was a freshly-minted Davis Cup coach and high on his list of priorities was finding a spot for a teenager who had not only turned professional but rose higher than any young player ever had. That player was, of course, Roddick.

McEnroe invited him to Basel for a match against Switzerland and held a practice for the entire team on the day they arrived. Todd Martin was there, so too were Justin Gimelstob and Jon-Michael-Gambill, and jet lag threw off everyone’s timing.

Roddick stepped on the court and began rifling 140 mph serves like he was in a Grand Slam match. McEnroe turned to Martin. He saw energy, and he still saw that grind-it-out mentality.

“I’ve seen that side in Andy many times in distant lands,” McEnroe says, “and it’s something few people have.”

***
“Andy Roddick can’t find the remote either.”
L. Jon Wertheim used that sentence to begin an SI story on Roddick shortly after he won the 2003 U.S. Open. You get it, right? In a tennis world where top players like Marcelo Rios ran over their trainers in SUV’s and punched Roman taxi drivers, Roddick never missed a Nebraska football game and played poker with Mardy Fish and James Blake.

He may have dated Mandy Moore and earned millions of dollars, but he was one of us. Roddick was the everyman.

Of course, he was one of us back then because he just won the U.S. Open. In September of 2003 the future of American tennis established himself as the present.

He had a world-record cannon serve. He had a sense of humor, too. He’d poke fun at media members during otherwise boring press conferences.

But he wasn’t Pete or Andre.

A few years later, we discovered that. He lost in the first rounds of Grand Slams, and when he did reach the semifinals or finals, we knew he didn’t have a chance. And he didn’t. By 2008, Roddick had never won that second, third, fourth or fifth Grand Slam like we expected.

His serve no longer struck awe. He was called one-dimensional, lazy. His outbursts to the media weren’t hilarious but instead moody and aloof.

He still advanced deep into the draws of most Grand Slams. He planted himself in the top 10, finishing eighth or higher for the year-end rankings every year since 2002. He helped several people escape a hotel fire in Rome. He started the Andy Roddick Foundation, a charity unmatched by anyone in tennis except for Agassi. Through it he started tennis academies in poor areas and sent tons of kids, including a young Jozy Altidore, to school at Boca Prep.

“Where would be without him?” McEnroe asks.

Where would we be without him? Did we even notice that we had him? Everything Roddick did seemed to spur feelings of apathy, or worse.

I remember the fall of 2008. Roddick played an early round match at the U.S. Open against Ernests Gulbis. Gulbis was a rising star, a young Latvian riding a summer hot streak. I remember watching the beginning of the match at a friend’s house and mentioning to the group you wanted Gulbis to win.

They shrugged their shoulders.

They felt the same way.

***
There’s another layer to McEnroe’s story about Basel. The U.S. lost that Davis Cup match to Switzerland, and the main reason why McEnroe remembers, was because of a young man named Roger Federer.

That same man was wearing white on championship Sunday at Wimbledon last year and staring across the net at Roddick like he had so many times before. Roddick was 2-18 against Federer in his career.

Then the match started, and Roddick won the first set, and he had the second set won if he just made that volley. But he didn’t. He did come back to win another set though, and it went to the fifth, then it went to the 22nd game, then the 24th, then the 28th and Roddick still hadn’t been broken.

Yet no matter what we may have thought there was no way he was going to win. Rod Laver, Bjorn Borg and Pete Sampras had come to England to watch. This was about the coronation of Roger Federer. A dreamer serving aces on fumes wasn’t about to change that.

And Roddick didn’t. He did get broken. He did have to watch Federer put on that white jacket with a golden 15 emblazoned on the side and hear him apologize for the defeat.

Later, night fell on Wimbledon and McEnroe rushed over to Roddick’s rented townhouse to see if he’d be able to play in the Davis Cup event the next weekend.

Roddick was there with his wife, Brooklyn Decker, his trainer, Doug Spreen, and coach, Larry Stefanki. He was gutted. He was defeated.

McEnroe couldn’t do much to change that, but he felt he needed to say something.

“I know this isn’t going to make you feel any better,” McEnroe said, “but you’ve earned more fans with this loss than you did with any of your wins.”

The next week Roddick traveled to New York so a doctor could check on his hip. People stopped him on the streets, more than ever had before. They all gave him words of encouragement.

“I couldn’t go a block without people telling me how much they enjoyed the match,” he says.

Perhaps Joe Posnanski captured the zeitgeist best by writing “he offered that rare fan feeling: He made me feel like we had been through something together.”

It was true. Roddick had played with the guts of the grinder Ginepri knows, with the rebelliousness and joy of the kid who snuck out for a basketball game, with the energy McEnroe has seen thousands of times away from the TV cameras.

Really, he played the way he’s always played: the way we had previously never noticed.

Roddick didn’t change. We did. That quickly, how it always is in tennis, we converted.

We couldn’t get enough of Andy Roddick.

***
The draws are out for this summer’s Wimbledon. Roddick is ranked fifth and is placed in Novak Djokovic’s quarter. TV reports, blogs and news stories will bring up last year thousands of times over the next few days. They’ll show the English crowd chanting Roddick’s name as he vainly tried to win in the fifth set.

Then on Monday, the matches will begin. Flashbacks to last year will stop. Roddick will have to defeat six opponents, possibly Djokovic and Federer, just to get back to the Final.

It won’t be easy. He lost to Dudi Sela at a Wimbledon tune up last week. He played well on the hard courts in the spring but has slogged through injuries and inconsistencies the last two months.

Many wonder if Roddick has been able to recover from last year’s Wimbledon. The match that marked his mid-career resurrection and endeared him to us could have caused permanent damage to his game.

To be able to advance deep into the draw, he’ll have to forget about it. He’ll have to forget that he did everything he could against Federer for five hours and still couldn’t win.

As for us, we’ll remember. We’ll watch him hit bullet serves on the pristine grass and remember.

Our views of Roddick changed suddenly in one afternoon, and now we can take our time admiring his career.

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May 27 2010
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Feeling used

Editor’s note: Sorry for the long lapse between posts. Been busy myself and Rustin, of course, is the new blogger extraordinare for Ball Star at kansascity.com. Be sure to check his stuff out there. And, anyways, on to the post…

Q: How many used car salesmen does it take to change a light bulb?
A: I’m going to work this out on my calculator, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.

The intricacies of human fear are really quite fascinating.

Like most everything, at least part of our fears can be traced back to the human genome. Yes, we are, and have been for longer than any of us could imagine, genetically programmed to fear certain aspects of our environment.

Because it traces back to the genome, these are shared fears, archetypal phobias. We fear bed bugs. We fear the dark. We fear attacks from ferocious wild animals.

They are instinctual and more than that primal. This is because the human genome is obviously ancient.

Several hundred years ago, and longer than that, you damn well better have been afraid of attacks from wild animals and the dark because if you weren’t, you’d probably get killed.

Now, though? The fears seem a little outdated. When was the last time you saw a saber tooth tiger?

Yeah, our genome* needs an update. We should innately fear guns, not buffalo stampedes. We should innately fear texting while driving, not monsters lurking around our dwellings at night.

*Just to so everyone knows, I’m really not this smart. I know all about this stuff because of KU professor Dr. Steven Ilardi. Now, he is smart.

No, most would argue our genome lacks modern fears, and I would agree, except for one: the used car salesman.

It seems from birth we know to despise them, to cringe at the slimy thoughts induced by their very mention. We dismiss them, make fun of them, stereotype them as overweight fast-talking evildoers.

When pressed to think of what a used car salesman does all day, we imagine a wily man dressed in a checkered suit standing over a clunker with a rolled-back speedometer parked in the back lot repeating the line about how an old lady was the previous owner, and, “she just drove it five miles to and from church every Sunday.”

Yet the stories and stereotypes seem to be a way to divert our fear of them. Deep down, we fear the used car salesman. The anxiety seems innate, like part of the genome.

And that brings us to the point, about 300 words into this post in case you were wondering.

Last month, I battled the human genome and attempted to buy my first used car.

*****

Agatha Trunchbull: I need a car, inexpensive but reliable. Can you service me?
Harry Wormwood: In a manner of speaking, yes

BEFORE April, I knew of used car salesman only from popular culture. The thoughts of the used car salesmen as cheap, sleazy and poorly dressed begin early in all of us because of the genome, and are then cultivated through what we see and hear from media.

It starts with Disney. Or, more specifically, with Goofy.

Goofy, you may or may not realize, has a best friend name Pete in the cartoon “The Goof Troop.” Pete likes to play tricks on Goofy. He likes to cheat Goofy. He likes to sabotage Goofy when they go camping.

Pete isn’t just staggeringly different in the way he acts from the earnest, naïve Goofy; he looks different.

His gut protrudes from a rounded, stocky body. His black dog ears point upwards slightly, not unlike devil horns. His chubby, yet raised, cheekbones don’t feature a permanent scowl underneath them but do give the impression that one could form at any time.

Pete, of course, is a used car salesman.

So is Matilda’s dad. He’s the next step on the list, the used car salesman we see once we reach prime tweenage years.

Matilda’s dad, aptly named Mr. Harry Wormwood, fills engines with sawdust and buys a used car for $118 that he sells for more than five times that amount. He and his wife condemn education and reading. He calls Matilda “Melinda.”

In the movie, he’s played by Danny DeVito. He’s plump and shrill and picks from a wardrobe of checkered shirts, checkered shirts, checkered shirts and plaid shirts.

Finally, upon reaching our late teen years or early 20s, we may stumble across “Breaking Away”* and the noble dealer, if you will.

*The greatest sports movie of all time. A must see.

The main character, Dave Stoller, loves biking and the Italian culture. His father, Ray, is a used car salesman. Unlike Wormwood and Pete, he appears to be a loving, fair man – just not around the used car lot.

There’s a scene where Dave starts working with his dad to make some extra money. At one point, a pair of men start pushing a broken-down car back into the lot that they just bought. Dave wants to give them a refund. Ray tries pushing the car back into the street.

He has a heart attack.

All of these characters are funny but add all of them up and an image comes to mind – overweight and money-hungry, uneducated and unrefined, avaricious and opportunistic. If cars existed in the middle ages, you get a feeling Dante would have created a ring of hell entirely for housing used car dealers.

We can imagine that, hundreds or even thousands of years ago, a mother or father would tell a child a story about how a vicious animal attacked one of their ancestors so that it would stick, so that the offspring would know to avoid the dangerous creatures.

In the same way, this repeated pop culture portrayal of the used car salesmen sticks. It feeds our innate fear, and before we ever walk into the showroom of a used car dealership we think of the salesmen as caricatures, as jokes.

But we’re also trembling.

*****

“It has been said that ‘The only constant in life is change.’

TOYOTA of Paris sits on the north side of Loop 286, a roadway that may be considered the Champs Elysees of Paris, Texas. Only instead of boutiques and designer fashion, the most famous street in this Paris features clunkers and smelly exhaust from passing semis.

I arrived there early one morning in late March. The used car area wasn’t a showroom but rather a jumble of offices. I expected heads to pop out doors, a handful of drooling men with wispy mustaches to appear already tasting a sale. No one did.

I called out for help. A woman stepped away from her computer. I told her I was interested in looking at one of the cars I had viewed online. She walked out with me and handed the keys.

She said nothing other than some directions to take for the test drive. She almost seemed surprised that I was there. She didn’t wear plaid.

To an extent I didn’t want to buy the car because the people working there didn’t seem overzealous. They didn’t rush out of their offices screaming, “What can I do to put you in one of our cars today?”

A couple of weeks passed. I didn’t buy that car, and I was considering driving my brother’s 2003 Hyundai Sonata a while longer, until it completely eroded from its already withered state.

That’s when I received a phone call from Debby Baxter.

Apparently I had talked to her earlier when I first began my search for the used car. She works at Hilliard Automotive in Grapevine, Texas, a town where there are no grapes nor vines.

She called to check if I was still interested in a used car. Said she could get me a deal. Yep, a deal for me, just for me.

Now this sounded about right. Someone was hounding me and promising something “just for me,” i.e., something for anyone who shows up with a checkbook or wad of cash.

All of a sudden, my appetite to search for the perfect used car and the stereotypical used car salesman strengthened.

But I never made it to Grapevine. I surfed the Web that night for some other deals and stumbled upon a delectable one at a dealership in Bonham, Texas.

I went there the next evening for a test drive and knew I wanted the car if I could get the right deal. The blue book value on the car I wanted was about 10-grand, and the blue book value on my Sonata, the passenger side dented to the point that the doors wouldn’t open from the outside and the windshield cracked, was about $900*

*And if my brother Mike reads this from Seoul, he could be finding out for the first time that his car was in such miserable shape before I traded it in.

The enemy showed up with the keys. He looked and sounded like a person from Bonham, Texas, not a shrewd fast-talker. He worked with his wife, who discussed high school football with me as her husband checked out my Sonata.

There was no major negotiating or arguing. I said what I would accept for my car (double blue-book value) and what I would pay for his (a little less) and we, along with the head of the dealership, agreed.

If, and this is an if and I’m knocking on wood as I type, this car doesn’t break down in say a year or two, I got the better deal. I know I did.

I would say I defeated the used car salesman and humanity’s shared fear of the species, but that wouldn’t be right. The used car salesmen that I dealt with didn’t even put up a fight.

The next day I e-mailed Debby Baxter. I had told her that I would stop by to test drive a car in Grapevine after she had called me, but I no longer had to because I bought that car in Bonham.

This was the last opportunity for a used car salesman to show their true colors, to justify our fear.

I expected an e-mail of protest, of arm-twisting. I expected her to sweeten the deal or recommend something else, or heck, I don’t know, knock on my door or stalk me for several weeks.

Instead I got what you saw above, that italicized, nearly philosophical quote about change.

Could it be that our genome got it wrong? Is the used car salesman not an evil, tacky opportunist and actually a sympathetic figure that we have misunderstood all this time?

I scanned further down on the e-mail. Debby Baxter had one more thing to say.

“Please keep my number handy – and remember – the only pressure you’ll get from us is the air in your tires!”

Then again, maybe we got it right.

Editor’s note: You may be wondering what type of car I bought. I left that out on purpose. Although most of the nine readers who frequent this blog likely know what I purchased, I’m leaving the story of my new car for another, hopefully soon, post.

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Apr 13 2010
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Happy MGMT Day… sort of

“This is our decision, to live fast and die young.
We’ve got the vision, now let’s have some fun.
Yeah, it’s overwhelming, but what else can we do.
Get jobs in offices, and wake up for the morning commute,”
— from “Time to Pretend” by MGMT

And so the cycle continues…

The other week I was giving one of my friends a ride in Lawrence, Kan. We we’re going to the gym to play basketball — but that’s not really tangential at all to the point of this story. Of course, if you want to draw some kind of obscure meaning or motif from the game of basketball. Go ahead.

So my friend slides into the car, and the first thing he sees is a stack of old, beat-up CD’s. Most of them were burned years ago, but they’ve gone back into rotation in my Ford Taurus because I don’t have an iPod adapter.

His words come quickly.

“Oh, wow, CD’s?”
“Yea,” I say, “Pretty wild, huh?

Moments later, I pop a CD into the car’s CD player and start driving. And then the thought comes.

Wait, it’s wild to still have CD’s in your car? Really? What year is it?

There’s a reason I bring this story up. Today (Tuesday, April 13, 2010) is MGMT Day.

Today, MGMT’s second studio album, Congratulations, is released to the general public.

If people still bought CD’s, thousands of college-aged kids would be trekking to Best Buy or Target or — gasp — Sam Goody to purchase the album.

But, of course, people don’t buy CDs anymore, so I’m not really sure of the significance of the “album release date”.

I suppose the album also becomes available on iTunes today, so perhaps a large number of technologically-challenged kids will fire up their laptops and throw down $12.99 (or whatever arbitrary cost an album on iTunes goes for these days).

But for me — and I’d like to hope that I’m not alone — all this day means is that the commercial album is now in the public domain. And that fact should make it relatively easy to download the album for free on the latest trendy downloading apparatus*.

*And yes, I know that any “true” techie could have located a pirated copy of the album on the interwebs weeks ago.

So, yes, in one sense, this story is about the demise of the album format. About how the digitization of music has created a disincentive for bands to spend time crafting brilliant studio albums. And about how “themed” rock albums — and album with eloquence and coherence and a collective narrative — are dying.

But that’s only a part of the story.

It’s also about how those same forces — the internet, digitization, and the proliferation of social media — have made it impossible for a band to stay relevant and hip for more than, say, 6 or 7 minutes. More on this shortly.

Yes. Today is MGMT Day.

And MGMT is perhaps the biggest college band in the world right now. Walk down the street in a college town… and you’ll likely hear “Kids” or “Electric Feel” blasting from porch speakers as college kids play some regional drinking game.

So, yes, MGMT passes the college town music corollary.

And the progression usually looks something like this.

The “hippest” and “coolest” music will always start at college radio stations, where hipster DJ’s with picky tastes will weed out the best up-and-coming bands.

Soon, the music moves to the rest of campus, where it gains traction in dorms and greek houses and off-campus shitholes.

And finally, it reaches its tipping point. Some mag like Rolling Stone is praising MGMT, trying to co-opt some of MGMT’s hipness for the magazine’s own brand.

That’s how the cycle works, has for decades.

Of course, the cycle used to be organic. And there was something romantic about it.

But now, because of twitter and facebook and the google machine, the cycle moves with the intense focus of a college kid on adderall.

And that’s where a band like MGMT comes in.

This band has it all. Seriously. If somebody were to create a band to go viral on college campuses, you’d piece together MGMT.

First off, nobody would even believe that those names could be real?

Ben Goldwasser and Andrew VanWyngarden?

VanWyngarden?

They play music that’s just poppy enough to attract a mass audience. And it’s just synthy and experimental enough to sound better with the addition of drugs. … Did I mention they’re based in Brooklyn.

But here’s the thing:

Today is MGMT Day. Thousands of college kids will find some way to listen to their new album. And thousands more will listen to it at parties. And soon, some commercial radio stations will throw MGMT into rotation.

And the progression will continue. And for some reason, this will make MGMT progressively less hip.

And all those kids who made Goldwasser and VanWyngarden will slowly move away and latch on to the next “it” band. All those kids who found comfort in discovering MGMT — the band that was their own little secret, the band that wrote beautiful pop songs, the band that sounded smart and raw and genuine all at the same time… well, those kids will slowly move away.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. This is the way the cycle works. And it’s worked like this for years and years and years.

It’s just too bad it happens so quickly these days.

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Apr 12 2010
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Gaetti Project: Deconstructing Damon

Editor’s Note: This is Part 2 of The Gary Gaetti Project, a nine-part series to ring in the beginning of the Royals’ 2010 baseball season. Why Gaetti? Well, let’s just say that anytime we can honor a guy that was nicknamed The Rat, wore a mullet… AND went to Northwest Missouri State, you gotta do it. Adding to the legend, Gaetti hit 35 homers for The Kansas City Royals in 1995… at age 36. And miraculously, he did it all while wearing a batting helmet with no ear flaps. Yep, we could all use a little more Gaetti in our lives.

*****

It’s been nearly 10 years since Johnny Damon wore a Kansas City Royals uniform.

10 years.

Damon played his last game for the Royals on Oct. 1, 2000.

In case you’re curious, he went one for four with a walk in a 6-2 victory against the Chicago White Sox.

So, yes, it’s been nearly a decade. Almost 10 years since Damon was roping doubles down the line and chasing down liners in the gap. It’s been more than 3,000 days since Damon was teamed with Carlos Beltran and Jermaine Dye – one of the most talented young outfields in baseball history.

10 years.

Do you know what can happen in 10 years?

John F. Kennedy once told the nation that we would reach the moon in 10 years – and it happened. A young man named Barack Obama went from a second-term state senator in Illinois to the leader of the free world. The Beatles went from unknown lads to bigger than Jesus… to broken up.

So, of course, a lot can happen in 10 years.

And for Johnny Damon, a lot did happen.

The kid who was tabbed to be the savior of the Royals – the next George Brett – has lived a lifetime in the last 10 years.

He’s played on four teams, won two World Series, and had 11 different haircuts.

He dethroned the mighty Yankees with a back-breaking grand slam in Game Seven of the 2004 ALCS.

And he saved the mighty Yankees with one of the most heads-up baserunning plays in history during the 2009 World Series.

Yes, Johnny Damon has lived it all.

But let’s start at the beginning. Before Boston. Before New York. Before he was a Caveman. Before “What would Johnny Damon do?” Before The Idiots. Before he broke the curse of the Bambino. Before he helped end the curse of A-Rod.

Stay with us. We’re moving fast. And we’re ending up in flyover country. In a land where people grill out in the backyard on sunny days. In a land of minimal traffic and sleepy suburbs – and horrific baseball.

Kansas City. The town in which Johnny Damon became a star.

*****

Ok. We have to start with the commercial. It was only 30 seconds long. But they still talk about it here.

The premise was simple. Damon was the Royals’ young hope, a speedy outfielder drafted in the first round in 1992, the best prospect in a Royals organization that was undergoing its first true youth movement in more than a generation.

George Brett was the face of the franchise, the symbol of the Royals’ glory years, a sure-fire Hall of Famer who had hung up his cleats just a few years earlier.

So, yes, the narrative was too easy to spot. And, of course, the Royals’ marketing people saw it as well.

The Royals’ marketing department did what any franchise would do.

They used images from the Royals’ glorious past to sell the hope of the future.

If it happened once, why couldn’t it happen again?

The commercial was simple*.

Damon and Brett sit next to each other and watch television.

*Jeff Pearlman of Sports Illustrated once wrote a nice piece on the Royals’ young outfield of Damon, Carlos Beltran and Jermaine Dye, and there’s a complete retelling of the Damon and Brett commercial in the story…

First, the television shows highlights from the Royals’ playoff conquest of the late 1970s and early 1980s.

Then, Damon snags the remote and flips the channel to highlights of the modern-day Royals — with Damon leading the way.

Of course, you know what happens next. Brett takes control of the remote and changes the channel back to the glory days. Then Damon flips it back. And so on.

Finally, Brett grabs the remote, flashes his World Series ring, and says something like, “Wait ‘til you have one these, kid.”

*****

So, where do we begin?

The commercial is prescient for a number of reasons. First, the last line is a little ironic because, obviously, Damon now has two World Series titles.

But there’s more than that.

Because really, this commercial has come to symbolize so much more in Kansas City.

In the mid-1990s, Damon was the face of Royals Youth Movement No. 1.

More than a decade later, the Royals are somewhere between Youth Movement No. 3 and No. 4, depending on your perspective.

Damon would never win more than 77 games in a Royals uniform. And his stay in Kansas City would more or less be considered a disappointment.

Need proof? Last week, Damon returned to Kansas City on opening day as a member of the Detroit Tigers. He was booed every time he went to the plate.

So, yes, Damon did not save the franchise. He would not become George Brett. He would not lead the Royals back to the playoffs.

But perhaps this isn’t really Damon’s fault. Maybe — just maybe — we can blame it on the economics of baseball.

The Royals, of course, traded Damon to the Oakland A’s after the 2000 season. They had no choice. Damon was not going to sign in Kansas City*.

*Unfortunately, the Royals weren’t able to grab much in return. The haul for Damon? A young shortstop named Angel Berroa, an aging closer named Roberto Hernandez, and a throw-in catcher named A.J. Hinch.

And if you need more proof of the greatness of Billy Beane, check this out. In the Damon trade, which also included Tampa Bay, the A’s acquired Damon, second baseman Mark Ellis and pitcher Cory Lidle.

So, yes, the Royals should have capitalized on their asset (Damon).

But there was not much hope in signing that asset. At the time, it just wasn’t economically feasible.

And this is where the story of Damon and the commercial and Kansas City gets interesting.

In the past 10 years, Damon has quietly pieced together a stunningly good career.

How stunning? Well, Damon has a shot — and some might conclude that he has a good shot — at ending up in Cooperstown.

Yep. The Hall of Fame.

The numbers are complete and shocking and beautiful all at the same time.

At age 36, Damon’s career numbers look like this:

BA: .288
OBP: .355
OPS: .793
OPS+ : 105
207 homers
452 doubles (84th all-time)
95 triples
2,428 hits (108th all-time)
1,485 runs (71st all-time)
998 RBIs
374 stolen bases (86th all-time)

And now, there’s an outside chance that Damon’s infamous commercial with George Brett may become more prophetic than anyone could have ever imagined.

Johnny David Damon might just become the second Hall of Famer to ever come out of the Royals’ system.

Sports Illustrated’s Joe Posnanski has bandied about this statistic more than once, but I still thought I’d share it.

Damon has a realistic shot to reach 3,000 hits, 500 doubles, 100 triples, 250 homers and 400 stolen bases.

How many players in baseball history have done that? Zero.

Of course, just because Damon could do it doesn’t mean he will.

And 3,000 hits may be tough. He needs rap out about 150 hits for the next four seasons to reach the big 3K.

But he might.

And if he does, here’s the question:

What baseball hat would be on his Hall-of-Fame plaque?

Before you instinctively say “Red Sox”, consider the following.

Here Damon’s career statistics with each of the first four* teams he’s played with:

*We’re not counting the Tigers for obvious reasons.

****

With the Royals:
Five full seasons

Homers: 65
RBI: 329
Stolen Bases: 149
BA: .291
OBP: .350
OPS: .783
OPS-plus: 99

Best season: In 2000, Damon .327 with a .382 OBP. He finished with a career-high 214 hits, and added 42 doubles, a league-best 46 stolen bases and a league-best 136 runs.

With the Red Sox
Four full seasons (2002-2005)

Homers: 56
RBI: 299
Stolen Bases: 98
BA: .294
OBP: .361
OPS: .803
OPS-plus: 107

Best season: In 2004, Damon hit .304 with a .380 OBP. He finished with 20 homers, 35 doubles and 123 runs.

With the Yankees:
Four full seasons (2006-2009)

Homers: 77
RBI: 296
Stolen Bases: 93
BA: .285
OBP: .362
OPS: .819
OPS-plus: 114

Best season: In 2009, Damon hit .282 with a .365 OBP. He tied a career high with 24 homers, and finished with 36 doubles and a 107 runs.

With the A’s:
One full season (2001)

Homers: 9
RBI: 49
Stolen Bases: 27
BA: .256
OBP: .324
OPS: .687
OPS-plus: 82

*****

Damon doesn’t have much reason to pick the Royals. After all, he won his titles in Boston and New York. But it also might be a difficult choice for him to choose between the Sox and Yanks.

At one time, Damon was Boston. He was the face of the Idiots. But then he left for New York, cut his hair, and became a company man. Of course, the Yanks discarded him last offseason — and most people don’t exactly picture Damon as a true Yankee.

But even if Damon snubs the Royals, even if he picks Boston or New York, even if he doesn’t mention a single member of the Royals organization in his Hall-of-Fame speech, the people of Kansas City could still claim another minor victory.

They could tell their grandkids that they saw Johnny Damon, “Hall-of-Famer Johnny Damon”, play baseball at Kauffman Stadium.

They could say that they saw him slap four doubles in a game and make running catches at the warning track… and they could say they saw the commercial that started it all.

Yes. They could say they saw Johnny Damon become a star.

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Apr 11 2010
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Lavin is perfect for the Storm

Imagine Alumni Hall for just a minute. It’s a Friday afternoon, shortly after lunch time, and the place, situated on the aptly named Utopia Parkway, is packed. A smattering of students mill about the court, bricking three-pointers and lazily checking the man they’re supposed to guard.

This is the rec center, and it is also the same cramped gymnasium where guys like Ron Artest, Eric Barkley and Lavor Postell not only practiced but played a few Big East basketball games.

I love this about St. John’s. It’s small time, only it’s big time. The names – Lou Carnesecca, Chris Mullin, Artest – and the numbers – only six schools have more all-time victories – prove that. Really, St. John’s is Big East basketball, more so than Georgetown, Syracuse, Villanova, Connecticut, any of those schools. There’s more history at St. John’s, more pride.

I started watching the Red Storm when Artest and Barkley played. Later, Postell took over, then Marcus Hatten. He would lead them to the NIT Championship one year and the NCAA Tournament the next. That was 2002, and the Red Storm hasn’t been back since.

After Hatten, Elijah Ingram, a McDonald’s All-American took over as the lead guard. Losses piled, Ingram was charged with a crime and then dismissed from the team, coach Mike Jarvis would lose his job, more losses piled, Norm Roberts was hired, New York ties were supposedly reintroduced, more losses piled; and now when the Red Storm gets brought up in conversation, it’s more likely to get mentioned with South Florida than Georgetown.

***
Who has the hardest job in America?

I began the first journalism assignment of high school with that question. Keep in mind, we didn’t actually learn anything about journalism – i.e. reporting or structure or writing or anything of that nature. So this first assignment was basically a column. It was a column about UCLA coach Steve Lavin.

At first I couldn’t stand Lavin. His slick hair and scratchy weasel voice made John Calipari seem wholesome. He only got the UCLA job because it fell to him after Jim Harrick was charged with NCAA violations and other top assistants like Lorenzo Romar had already found head coaching jobs elsewhere.

Then players from Kansas City started going out west. Lavin recruited JaRon Rush, and one of my all-time favorites, Earl Watson, and I began watching UCLA.

Every year followed the same structure. Lavin’s teams would begin the year with high expectations, a top 25 ranking and a tough schedule. They would slump in the middle before gaining ground at the end and qualifying for the NCAA Tournament, even if it was because they got the Pac-10s automatic berth.

Anyone who watched this season after season could form one of two opinions, the first being that Lavin disappointed. He twice brought the consensus No. 1 recruiting classes to Westwood and never put together a complete season.

The second opinion differs greatly from the first, penciling Lavin as a good coach who couldn’t meet wild expectations. I agreed with this one.

After all, Lavin did his best in the NCAA tourney. His teams advanced to the Sweet 16 five times in six seasons, most of the time upsetting higher seeds along the way. Only Mike Kryszewski and Duke made the same number of Sweet 16s in that stretch.

Of course, this wasn’t enough. John Wooden coached the Bruins, and we all know how he did. Nothing short of Final Fours and national championships wins goodwill from UCLA fans.

So no matter what Lavin did, UCLA wouldn’t accept it. Everyone called him a great recruiter and a terrible coach. He could bring in the talent and then let it lay dormant until it moved on to the NBA.

The placing of his name onto the so-called hot seat became a midseason tradition, a tradition that always ended with those Sweet 16 runs and thus the inability to fire him. I admired how he dealt with the unfairness, persevered, struggled a while again, and then still found some way to bring it all together.

Then came his final year – 2003. The Bruins never had that middle of the year run, and his firing was inevitable. Lavin spoke in the past tense about his time in Westwood. He knew he was finished, and he had no problem admitting it, even embracing it.

But then something strange happened, although with Lavin nothing was entirely strange. UCLA defeated Arizona, the top seed, in the first round of the Pac-10 tournament. Would the Bruins mount another tournament run? It sure looked that way.

In the second round, UCLA held a big lead against Oregon. It was happening again, all the late season theatrics and victories that certainly incensed athletic officials and boosters. Somehow Lavin would save his job.

But that’s not how it worked. UCLA coughed up that lead, and Oregon won 75-74. The Bruins finished the year 10-19. Finally Steve Lavin could be fired.

***
Nobody can win at St. John’s. That’s the sentiment circling around right now; it has been since Mike Jarvis left, a cloud of controversy staying there behind him. Yep, no one can win there. No one can win at Rutgers or Seton Hall either. Schools like them, schools like St. John’s, they’re urban schools.

On the surface, coaching St. John’s would seem like an easy job. You’re based in New York. You’re based in the Mecca of college basketball.

About 20 million people live in that Mecca. Plenty of them grow up playing rec ball in cramped CYO gyms in the winter before bringing the game outside to the famous playgrounds in the summer. The smaller ones become pass-first point guards, and the taller ones develop mean streaks; they become the type of player no one wants to drive against in a game. Yes, the talent is there, but mining it is the hard part.

All the best players from the NYC area generally want to get out of the five boroughs. They don’t want to live in Jamaica, Queens. And outside of the NYC metro, no one has heard of St. John’s or cares about St. John’s. They don’t want to live in Jamaica, Queens, either.

The Red Storm’s last coach, Norm Roberts, knew New York as well as anyone. He was the man who first convinced Russell Robinson to leave the City and come to Kansas. He had connections. He could recruit the public and private schools of New York.
Roberts lasted for six seasons. He never made the NCAA Tournament.

And now here comes Lavin. He probably doesn’t have enough connections to reserve a table at a restaurant in New York City, let alone enough to gain favor among the area high schools.

Most people say this is a problem. How can the coach of a basketball team in New York City survive without any connections? How can a laid-back San Francisco guy inspire the gritty players of the Northeast to come play for him?

Here’s how. Lavin won’t. He won’t get the best players from New York City. He won’t establish deep connections with the city’s high schools. He won’t have to. And he shouldn’t try to.

St. John’s has been milking the New York City route for too long, and it’s a pointless endeavor. All the great connections of Jarvis and Roberts have gotten the Red Storm nowhere except the bottom of the Big East for the last several years.

New York City boys don’t respect St. John’s like they used to. They’ve moved on. St. John’s needs to do the same, and finally did so by hiring Lavin.

Like he did at UCLA, Lavin will recruit from all over the country and probably still largely on the West Coast. There’s no question it will be tougher. This will be a challenge.

But, remember, Lavin once held the hardest job in America. His new job fits into that same category, and there are few others more prepared for such a challenge.

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Apr 08 2010
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A List Mania unlike any other

So here we go, the sun is out, the golf ball starts flying at Augusta on Thursday, the baseball season has started, and another addition of List Mania is upon us.

For those not in the know, List Mania is an ode to former Kansas City Star and current Sports Illustrated columnist Joe Posnanski, who famously wrote lists until one day, many years ago, he wrote a column saying he would never list again…

So here goes…

Three sports upsets that I wish would have happened

1. Tom Watson at the 2009 British Open
2. Butler over Duke in the 2010 NCAA title game
3. U.S. soccer team over Germany in the quarterfinals of the 2002 World Cup

White players who’ve won MOP of the Final Four since 1977

1. Christian Laettner, Duke, 1991
2. Bobby Hurley, Duke, 1992
3. Jeff Sheppard, Kentucky, 1998
4. Kyle Singler, Duke, 2010

Top five pitchers in baseball

1. Zack Greinke, Kansas City Royals
2. Tim Lincecum, San Francisco Giants
3. Felix Hernandez, Seattle Mariners
4. Roy Halladay, Philadelphia Phillies
5. Johan Santana, New York Mets

The five most underrated players in baseball

1. Ben Zobrist, utility player, Tampa Bay Rays

The Rays’ best-kept secret started 81 games at second base and 44 games in the outfield (also chipped in six games at short and two at first base), but his bat is what really makes him special. He had a .405 on-base percentage and an OPS-plus of 146. That’s what happens when you hit 27 homers and 28 doubles*. To put this in perspective. No Royal has had an OPS-plus of more than 146 since Mike Sweeney posted a 148 in 2002. Did we mention Zobrist will make $438,100** this season?

*Zobrist also seems to have good speed. At least, a high-ranking official in the Royals’ organization once praised Yuniesky Betancourt’s arm because he threw out Zobrist on a slow roller. So I’m guessing the official thinks Zobrist can fly.

**Numbers obtained from of the website, Cot’s Baseball Contracts

2. Shin-Soo Choo, right fielder, Cleveland Indians

Choo, who turns 28 in July, had a .394 on-base percentage with 20 homers and 38 doubles in 2009. Pretty good for a guy who made $420,300. … And I don’t want to sound like a scout here, but the guy really does look impressive in person.

3. Chone Figgins, second baseman, Seattle Mariners

You may ask how Figgins can still be underrated. After all, the Mariners signed him to a four-year, $36 million deal in the offseason. Still, I’m not sure people understand how valuable Figgins is. Last season, according to FanGraphs.com, Figgins’ WAR (a metric that utilizes offense, defense and baserunning to measure total value) was 6.1, the 11th highest in baseball.*

*Who was ranked ahead of Figgins? How about this list?

1. Ben Zobrist, 8.6
2. Albert Pujols, 8.5
3. Joe Mauer, 8.1
4. Chase Utley, 7.6
5. Derek Jeter, 7.4
6. Evan Longoria, 7.2
7. Hanley Ramirez, 7.2
8. Ryan Zimmerman, 7.2
9. Prince Fielder, 6.8
10. Adrian Gonzalez, 6.8

4. Franklin Gutierrez, center fielder, Seattle Mariners

By nearly any defensive metric, Gutierrez is the best outfielder in baseball – and by some, he is the best defensive player in all of baseball. Gold Gloves be damned.

5. Erick Aybar, shortstop, LA Angels

Similar to Figgins, Aybar may be even more valuable than some people realize. He’ll make just a shade over $2 million this season. A pretty solid investment for a 26 year old who hit .312 last season with an on-base percentage of .353. Watch him play in person, and you’ll also realize that the kid can flat out fly.

Five players selected after the Royals picked Luke Hochevar No. 1 in the 2006 MLB draft

1. Evan Longoria, picked third by Tampa Bay
2. Clayton Kershaw, picked seventh by the LA Dodgers
3. Tim Lincecum, picked 10th by San Francisco
4. Joba Chamberlain, picked 41 by the New York Yankees
5. Brett Anderson, picked 55th by Arizona (traded to Oakland)

Five players selected after the Royals picked Alex Gordon No. 2 in the 2005 MLB draft

1. Ryan Zimmerman, picked fourth by Washington
2. Ryan Braun, picked fifth by Milwaukee
3. Troy Tulowitzki, picked seventh by Colorado
4. Andrew McCutcheon, picked 11th by Pittsburgh
5. Jacoby Ellsbury, picked 28th by Boston

Five things that may only interest me

1. So they have Cheeseburger-flavored Doritos now. Really, cheeseburger. Of course, I had to try them. The review? Well, they really do taste like cheeseburger. You get the cheesy taste of regular Doritos, a hint of ketchup – and the smoky flavor of the burger patty. Of course, I’m not so sure this is all a good thing. I’m not so sure I need my cheeseburgers in chip form.

2. President Obama is not allowed to throw out any more first pitches. The poor guy has tried twice, and both times he has come out looking only slightly better than this guy…

Hey, I appreciate that Obama can hoop a little bit. That’s impressive. But is it too much to ask that our commander-in-chiefs have the ability to shoot a basketball AND throw a baseball? Dubya could fill up the strike zone – but he also once did this…

3. The strangest thing about the Masters? How can the most beautiful golf course in the world be in the one of the most plain towns in America?

Five song lyrics for the spring

1. “But times change, sailors these days, when I’m in port I get what I need. Not just Havanas or bananas or daiquiris, but that American creation on which I feed.”

2. “Twelve hours out of Mackinaw City, stopped in a bar to have a brew. Met a girl and we had a few drinks, and I told her what I’d decided to do.”

3. “And its funny how it`s the little things in life that mean the most, not where you live, what you drive or the price tag on your clothes.”

3. “The water is warm, but it’s sending me shivers. A baby is born, crying out for attention. Memories fade, like looking through a fogged mirror… Decisions to decisions are made and not bought, but I thought, this wouldn’t hurt a lot, I guess not.”

4. “You can’t start a fire, you can’t start a fire without a spark.”

Five questions to ponder

1. Will Kevin Durant win more NBA titles than LeBron James?

2. Will MGMT’s latest album, Congratulations, released this Tuesday, be the best album of the year?

3. Is Barcelona’s Lionel Messi the most dominant athlete in the world?

4. Whose idea was it to put an “S” in the word “lisp”?

5. Hey is that the truth or are you talking trash? Is your game M.V.P. like Steve Nash?

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Apr 07 2010
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Gaetti Project: Yuni at The Bat

Editor’s Note: This is Part 1 of The Gary Gaetti Project, a nine-part series to ring in the beginning of the Royals’ 2010 baseball season. Why Gaetti? Well, let’s just that anytime we can honor a guy that was nicknamed The Rat, wore a mullet… AND went to Northwest Missouri State, you gotta do it. Adding to the legend, Gaetti hit 35 homers for The Kansas City Royals in 1995… at age 36. And miraculously, he did it all while wearing a batting helmet with no ear flaps. Yep, we could all use a little more Gaetti in our lives.

Some people call Yuniesky Betancourt the worst every-day player in baseball.

You probably know that his WAR (Wins above replacement player) in 2009 was a historically awful -2.2, the worst in all of baseball.

You probably know what that number means. Just in case you don’t, WAR adds together the total contribution (offense, defense, baserunning, pitching) of each Major League player. A player with a WAR of 0 or 1 is easily replaceable. If your WAR is negative (like good ‘ol Yuni’s) you should be replaced.

So, yes, some people call Yuni Betancourt the worst every-day player in baseball.

I call him an inspiration…

*****

Yuni at the Bat

The Outlook wasn’t brilliant for the KC nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Bloomy died at first, and Kendall did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the partiers at The K.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
clung to that hope which springs from a Stroud’s chicken breast;
They thought, if only Yuni could get but a whack at that –
We’d put up even money, now, with Yuni at the bat.

But Getz preceded Casey, as did also Rick Ankiel,
And the former had no slug and the latter was no Emil;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Yuni’s getting to the bat.

But Getz let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Ank, the old southpaw, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Ankiel safe at second and Getz a-hugging third.

Then from 20,000 throats and more there rose a lusty cry;
It rumbled through Westport, it rattled the plaza-wide;
It knocked upon Okie Joes and recoiled over Gates,
For Yuni, mighty Yuni, was advancing to the plate.

There was ease in Yuni’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was WAR in Yuni’s bearing and VORP on Yuni’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Yuni at the bat.

40,000 eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
20,000 tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Yuni’s eye, a sneer curled Yuni’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Yuni stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman, the ball unheeded sped-
“That is my style,” said Yuni. “But ya wiffed,” the umpire said.

With a smile of Christian charity great Yuni’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But this time, Yuni ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Yuni and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Yuni wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Yuni’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Yuni’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in KC – mighty Yuni has struck out.

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Apr 05 2010
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One more play for the Royals’ lowlight reel

It’s getting to a point that someone could write a thesis about the Kansas City Royals and all their famous blunders and bloopers of the last 10 years. I’m not talking about writing of how the organization lost more games than anyone else in that time, how it drafted the No. 1 overall pick in 2006 without a general manager or how it lost 97 games with the Cy-Young winner pitching once every five days, or even how it paid a man who can’t play in the field, get on base, walk or hit for power $36 million.

I’m talking about the purely anecdotal evidence from players and managers. The lowlights. The hilariously awful moments. These could fill an easy 100 pages double-spaced.

To an extent, the Kansas City Star did this on Sunday. The Star, of course, featured a massive section, one you could consider a thesis, to preview opening day and this coming season that mainly detailed the Royals’ problems with fundamentals. One part of it highlighted these blunders I speak of.

It was brilliant. The Star reminded us of Kerry Robinson’s famous scaling of the outfield wall, only, upon reaching the apex of his jump, to find out that the ball bounced on the warning track in front of him. It reminded us of Ken Harvey getting hit in the back by his cut off throw, various sunglasses issues and others that you can read here.

Those are the chosen lowlights. Those are what we remember the Royals for in what is arguably the worst period of baseball imaginable. Those are what Joe Posnanski can reel off reflexively, along with moments like when the Royals promoted Eduardo Villacis to start at Yankee Stadium, when Tony Muser complained he had too many players who pounded milk and cookies instead of tequila, when Luke Hochevar let a runner advance to third base because he wasn’t looking, when a cat sprinted around the stadium and when manager Tony Pena showered in his uniform after that dreadful Villacis start and then told the press the Royals would win the division.

These are wonderfully terrible, hilarious moments. But everyone tends to overlook a certain lowlight when the discussing the Royals’ ineptitude.

Let’s go back to 2005. August. In the annals of bad baseball history, this would be Chapter One.

That month, Kansas City lost an otherworldly 19 games in a row. From July 28 to August 19, the Royals didn’t win once. One of the famous lowlights occurred during that stretch. In a game that the Royals had in the bag, Chip Ambres let a fly ball drop to the turf. His catch would have been the third out in the ninth. The other team went on to win the game.

So, yes, people will remember that August month for the losing streak and that game. Maybe that’s why this lowlight has largely been forgotten.

It happened on Aug. 27. The Royals led the Yankees, in the Bronx, 7-3 in the bottom of the ninth. Jeremy Affeldt, who had been a pretty reliable reliever, was pitching.

With one out and a runner on first base, he forced Jorge Posada into an 0-2 count. Then came the moment.

Posada hit an easy come-backer straight to the mound. Affeldt fielded it and had an easy throw to make for the game-ending double play. But these are the Royals, and easy often leads to a certain kind of remarkable that leaves you shaking your head for all the wrong reasons.

As he turned around to throw to Angel Berroa, who was covering second base, Affeldt tripped over the rosin bag. Let me write that one more time.

HE TRIPPED OVER THE ROSIN BAG.

The loss of balance caused him to poorly throw the ball, and both runners advanced safely. Of course, the Royals went on to blow their four run lead and lose 8-7.

So there it is, the forgotten piece of history. I guess it’s only natural that we forget or don’t emphasize certain parts of the past. Important details of the greatest civilizations have certainly been forgotten or lost. But our conscious keeps details of Tony Pena Jr.’s sunglasses, Robinson’s leap and so on. I say we add the rosin bag as well.

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Apr 05 2010
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Believe in Butler

The Butler will do it. Yes, I said. It. Tonight, the Butler will do it. The Bulldogs have to do it, right? That’s how this story is supposed to end, right? This is why we love college basketball. Heck, this is why we watch sports. Right? Right!?

Tonight, the Butler Bulldog will play the Duke Blue Devils.

I’ve heard a lot of things about the Butler Bulldogs. I’ve heard that they are the ultimate Cinderella. I’ve heard that they are NOT a Cinderella. I’ve heard that their story is better than Cinderella’s… better than a miracle… better than any story ever… (OK. That was this blog).

But here’s the thing about Butler.

This team is not a Cinderella. This team doesn’t need miracles to win. This team is, well, good. This team may even be great. They’ve won 25 in a row.

They have Gordon Hayward, who could be a first-round pick in this year’s NBA Draft. They have Shelvin Mack, a sophomore who will play for money at some point in his career. And they have Matt Howard, a junior who was the Horizon League player of the year last season, before Hayward took over.

Veteran scribe Joe Posnanski made a similar point yesterday, but he went further. He wrote:

“…This is not really some crazy Hoosiers-type saga, you know, with Gene Hackman teaching kids how to dribble around chairs and Jimmy Chitwood joining the team to save the coach’s job and Ollie making underhand free throws to win a game at the end…”

Of course, if you’re going to make the argument that Butler is not some Hoosiers-type, Cinderella tale, I think you also have to argue that Jimmy Chitwood’s Hickory Huskers weren’t even Cinderellas.

OK, it was a miracle that Hickory High, with 75 boys in the whole school, and a tragic figure at head coach, and a drunk as an assistant coach, did beat the big boys and win the Indiana state championship.

But it wasn’t necessarily a miracle that that team beat everybody. I mean, did you see that team? They could freaking stroke it. And Jimmy Chitwood must’ve been the best player in the state of Indiana. Yes, they didn’t have much height, but they could pass and cut and play defense — and again… they could fill it up from the outside.

This Butler team kind of feels the same way.

Sure, some people probably feel like they’re slighting them by calling them a Cinderella. After all, we’ve seen over and over that this Butler team is one of the best in the country.

But that’s not the miraculous part. The miraculous part is that Butler, a school of 4,200 students, a team that plays in the Horizon League, is even here in the first place.

The miracle is that ex-coaches Barry Collier and Thad Matta built the program into a viable mid-major… and that Todd Lickliter kept on bringing in talented players before bolting for Iowa … and that Brad Stevens, a 30-something with no head coaching experience, took over and molded this talented roster into one of the best teams in the country.

Yes, it is a miracle that Butler is here. And it would be a miracle if they win a national championship.

But for this team, the miracle part is over. They can beat Duke. Yes, they can. And what a story it would be if they did.

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Apr 03 2010
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Finally Four…

So here it is, Saturday night of the Final Four. Four teams. Two games. Two spots in the national title game on Monday night.

There are those who love the Super Bowl. There are those who worship Sunday at the Masters. There are those who would pick the Kentucky Derby or the World Series or the NBA Finals.

But for me, this is the best sports day of the year.

What other day gives you TWO games in the same venue. Four legions of fans, all in the same building. Close to five hours of college basketball at the highest level.

I love everything about the Final Four. I love the storylines and the cheesy music and Jim Nantz on the microphone.

And I love all the stories that come out of the ultimate hoops festival.

Love the fact that you might step into an elevator with David Robinson. Love the fact that you might see legendary Boston Globe columnist Bob Ryan strolling around a hotel lobby at 8:30 in the morning, looking like an old man trying to get an early start on his day of sightseeing.

Love the fact that you might randomly walk past a restaurant patio as former UCLA star Ed O’Bannon takes his seat (and a group of UCLA fans begins an impromptu chant of “EDDIE-O, EDDIE-O, EDDIE-O”).

Love the fact that you might randomly see former Wisconsin center Brian Butch walking down the street by himself and think — hey, it’s Brian Butch.

Love the college three-point and dunk contests that take place during Final Four weekend.*

*The following exchange took place during the college dunk contest at this year’s Final Four in Indianapolis.

Chris Roberts, who was a senior at Bradley this past season, had just thrown down a sick dunk and ESPN reporter Holly Rowe was waiting on the sidelines to interview him.

Rowe: So, Chris, what do you have to do to win this thing?
Roberts: Just go out, and keep making dunks

Well, sure… makes sense.

And lastly, I love the fact that you might accidentally pick a fight with a player from one of the Final Four teams just hours before the games begin.*

*All these things happened to me while I was at the 2008 Final Four in San Antonio, but the last one was the best. I was walking around the Riverwalk with Mark Dent and Daily Kansan photographer Jon Goering, and we stopped outside in a small patio area.

Of course, the talk turned to KU’s game against North Carolina, which would take place later on that night. We were half-heartedly breaking down North Carolina’s team, and Mark and I came to the consensus that the Tar Heels’ Danny Green was ridiculously overrated.

Then, as Mark blurted aloud that he thought Green more or less sucked, we turned around and saw Green standing just 10 feet away from us with a kid who looked like his younger brother.

Two things crossed my mind:

1. I really hope Danny Green didn’t hear us.
2. What the hell is Green doing here? KU plays North Carolina in like five hours.

But there’s still one thing that gives the Final Four its soul. And it’s the players.

You probably know that Kansas’ Cole Aldrich is leaving school early to enter the NBA Draft.

He announced his decision earlier this week at a press conference in Lawrence.

Aldrich had a pretty remarkable career at Kansas. He had a triple-double against Dayton in the 2009 NCAA Tournament. He never lost a game at Allen Fieldhouse. And he was a third-team All-American as a junior.

Still, as Aldrich reflected on three years at Kansas during his “I’m going to the NBA” press conference, I wonder if he thought about the night he went from little-used freshman to Kansas legend. The night he stepped off the bench and outplayed North Carolina’s national player of the year, Tyler Hansbrough, in front of the entire nation.

I can still remember the look on Aldrich face after Kansas took down Hansbrough and Roy Williams and the rest of the Tar Heels.

…The look on his face as he was asked about ripping a rebound from the clutches of Hansbrough.

It was a mix of pride and satisfaction and joy.

And that’s the Final Four. I can’t wait.

(Editor’s Note – Here is what I wrote about Aldrich on the night oh his coming-out party against North Carolina)

*****

SAN ANTONIO | Once upon a time, Cole Aldrich was an afterthought, the fourth big man off the bench — just another big body at Kansas’ coach Bill Self’s disposal.

On Saturday night against North Carolina, Aldrich etched his name onto the list of greatest relief performances in Kansas basketball history.

Kansas’ freshman center scored eight points and grabbed seven rebounds off the bench in Kansas’ 84-66 victory against North Carolina, including one board which Aldrich snatched from the clutches of North Carolina All-American Tyler Hansbrough.

“I wasn’t gonna let go,” Aldrich said.

Aldrich’s supporting performance may go down in Kansas lore if the Jayhawks follow up their Saturday night victory with a victory and a national title on Monday.

And oddly enough, Self saw it coming.

Earlier this week Self corrected a reporter who had asked how important Darnell Jackson, Sasha Kaun and Darrell Arthur would be in Kansas’ attempt to contain North Carolina forward Tyler Hansbrough. Don’t forget about Cole, Self reminded.

Self’s prophecy came true.

“He may have won the game for us tonight as much as anybody,” Self said.

With seniors Sasha Kaun and Darnell Jackson both committing two early fouls, Bill Self faced a coaching calamity. Send Cole Aldrich, who averaged 8.1 minutes per game during the regular season, on to the floor to guard Hansbrough, the Tar Heels leading scorer and the AP National Player of the Year.

No sweat.

Aldrich responded with 13 first half minutes played, six points during Kansas’ fun-n-gun first half, and one rebound that Aldrich couldn’t help by smile about.

With 10 minutes left in the first half, and Kansas leading 31-10, Aldrich sprung from floor and ripped the ball away from a bewildered Hansbrough.

“Tyler usually outworks someone, but tonight, he got outworked,” Rush said.

Aldrich, along with help from Kaun, Jackson and Arthur held Hansbrough to 17 point and nine rebounds, a shade below his usual averages of 23.7 points and 11.5 rebounds per game.

“I don’t think he was quite used to four guys that can hold their own,” Aldrich said.

The Kansas frontcourt also controlled the glass, shouldering a 42-33 rebound advantage against their frontcourt foes from North Carolina.

“We knew we had to keep them off the glass to win the game,” Aldrich said.

Aldrich’s 6-foot-10 frame stood tall in Kansas’ victorious locker room, searching for words to describe his nation-wide coming-out party.

Aldrich finally settled on calling it,”…a blast.”

Kansas junior Matt Kleinnmann, sitting 35 feet to Aldrich’s left, had his own take on Aldrich’s first Final Four performance.

“He played like a man tonight,” Kleinnmann said.

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