I find his writing hilarious. The faces, the levels of losing ,the ewing theory etc. all good stuff


This is from his latest mailbag

I'm watching the Bulls-Celts game -- can I nominate Vinny Del Negro for a new Pantheon Face? It's the Shooter from "Hoosiers," "I can't believe I haven't had a drink for 12 hours, and I'm a head coach" face.
-- Ryan, Weymouth, Mass.

SG: Done and done! I had been watching Vinny for two weeks, trying to figure out where I'd seen that glazed, slightly terrified, I-might-pee-my-pants look on the sidelines, and you're right -- it's Shooter in "Hoosiers" right after Gene Hackman gets ejected and hands him the clipboard for the first time. Bingo. I demand we call him Vinny "Shooter" Del Negro from now on. The real shame is Derrick Rose has exceeded all expectations and looks like a potential franchise guy ... and he's being coached by "Shooter" instead of Mike D'Antoni. I can't get over that.

The Sports Guy
Why is a classic a classic? Because it never gets old.
by Bill Simmons
My favorite You Tube clip runs 572 magical seconds. It celebrates an impossible-to-fathom era of political incorrectness, egotistical celebs, misguided testosterone and the purest unintentional comedy possible … only it finishes with a Hall of Fame sports moment. That's right—I'm referring to the match race between Robert Conrad and Gabe Kaplan on the 1976 debut of Battle of the Network Stars.

A quick explanation: Building on the success of its Superstars franchise, ABC mustered an athletic competition that pitted on-air talent from the three networks against each other. Howard Cosell was the emcee/announcer for what is best described as a trashy coed team decathlon. Many TV biggies showed up for the $20,000-per-member-of-the-winning-team prize, even Farrah Fawcett-Majors. Nowadays, of course, she'd tell the producers to screw off. But then? Thanks for inviting me! (You have to love the '70s.) The team captains were Telly Savalas, star of Kojak (CBS), Gabe Kaplan, boss of the Sweathogs in Welcome Back, Kotter (ABC), and Robert Conrad, Pappy Boyington in Baa Baa Black Sheep (NBC). Here's a running diary that won't possibly match the clip itself:

GABE KAPLAN IS THE MIKE ERUZIONE OF REALITY TV.

0:00 A furious Telly complains about an illegal NBC baton exchange during the sprint relay. This is personal for Telly. As he explains to Cosell, his people, the Greeks, started the Olympics, so he feels obligated to stand up for what's right. Wait, did the original Olympians smoke cigarettes between events or wear red jogging suits with gold chains and dark sunglasses?

1:15 After a 35-second we-haven't-quite-figured-out-how-this-slo-mo-works replay of NBC's chicanery, Conrad bitches to sideline reporter … wait for it … reigning Olympic decathlon champ Bruce Jenner! (This show practically created two things: sideline reporters and instant replay. In other words, it went one-for-two.) "If they're protesting the fact that we really outran them," he hisses, "that's their problem!"

Not to be outblowharded, Savalas throws around words like "vulgarly" and "flagrantly" to condemn NBC. That's when Conrad crosses every line: "[Telly] is Greek, and the Greeks are famous athletes. That's how this all started. [Kaplan] is Jewish, he wants to arbitrate. And I'm German, I vant to kill both of dem!" Everyone laughs. Why? It's the '70s, that's why!

Just when it can't get better, Pat Harrington Jr.—Schneider, the wisecracking janitor on One Day at a Time—quips, "And I'm Irish, and I'm looking for another mick to hit!" followed by Telly deciding, "And I'm from New York, and I want the bread, baby."

I think that was a joke. I'm almost positive.

2:25 NBC's made-for-TV-movie queen Joanna Pettet sums up: "What is the hullabaloo?" It's the last time the word is ever used.

3:12 Director of competition Howard Katz, who would parlay this gig into a job running ESPN and ABC Sports, assesses a two-second penalty to NBC and awards the race to ABC as future A-list directors Penny Marshall and Ron Howard celebrate a bit too exuberantly. How have Laverne and Opie not yet pooled 10 mil to destroy all copies of this telecast?

4:00 Kaplan, Howard and Robert Hegyes (Kotter's Epstein) discuss the verdict with Cosell as Wonder Woman Lynda Carter happily kisses Kaplan on the cheek. Telly strolls in after popping four more blowhard pills. "I'm still upset, Howard," he gripes.

Me too. I'm upset we once lived in a world in which Telly was a sex symbol. Telly isn't half as ticked as Conrad is. He's now threatening to pull NBC from the competition. "I'm the captain of this team!" he screams. "We ran a damn good race!"

Katz makes the mistake of saying NBC would have placed second if not for their infraction. "Like hell!" Conrad bellows four times. Seriously, LIKE HELL!! When ABC star Richard Hatch (Streets of San Francisco) tries to calm things, Conrad sucks disdainfully from a cigarette and pushes Hatch away. Why was everyone so terrified of him? The guy is barely taller than Darren Sproles.

"Tell Kaplan to get his team out there and run it with us," Conrad yells. "We'll determine who the best team is." He's in a frenzy.

And then it happens: To a bemused Kaplan standing behind him, Conrad turns and snarls, "You and I want to run a 100 to see who the fastest is?" Kaplan quickly agrees. "Lets go!" Conrad says as he whips down his towel.

Now, before I found this clip on YouTube, I hadn't seen this moment in 32 years. I'd always remembered it vividly, though. You don't forget a bully calling out one of your heroes. No one challenges Mr. Kotter like that! I also remember thinking Gabe was in deep doo-doo. He was a gawky teacher with a Groucho mustache. Conrad shot people in Black Sheep. How could Mr. Kotter pull this off?

What I didn't know: Kaplan ran track in high school. He'd actually made up 15 yards on Conrad in the previous relay. "I'm sure it looked like I couldn't possibly win," Kaplan told me recently. "I looked like a guy who should be hanging around a deli, and he was, like, the macho man of his generation."

Even Farrah (Gabe's teammate) complained about the mismatch to Cosell, causing him to respond, "Farrah, baby, I'm not in charge of the rules committee. But … [shifting into Dramatic Cosell Mode] clearly, CON-tro-VERSY has beset the Battle of the Network Stars."

DID THE ORIGINAL OLYMPIANS SMOKE AND WEAR JOGGING SUITS?

6:30 Back from a tense commercial break. Gabe's teammates try to talk him out of running. Nope. He has to do this.

8:00 They're off!

8:05 Things look bleak as Conrad rips off an early lead. But Gabe makes his move heading into the turn, catches up and—wait, this can't be happening—completely dusts Conrad down the stretch! It's Kaplan by a good 10 yards! ABC wins!

I can't emphasize this strongly enough: This was the happiest sports moment of my childhood—besides Carlton Fisk's home run and USA 4, USSR 3. My man ran 120 yards in under 14 seconds, while poor Conrad heaved his way to the end, handicapped by too many butts and a monstrous ego. It was too fantastic. All of it.

8:16 Gabe is mauled by his euphoric team. They do everything but pile on top of him like the 2008 Phillies. And then, a heartwarming moment: Conrad and Kaplan walk toward Cosell, arms around each other—and Conrad coughing up a lung.

"That's the way I like it," Conrad tells Cosell dramatically. "Best man wins … Best captain won."

Then he walks away, but not before giving Gabe two demeaning slaps on the face. Ladies and gentlemen, the biggest celebrity blowhard of all time … Mr. Robert Conrad!

9:01 The clip ends with a slo-mo replay of Gabe dusting Conrad as Epstein cheers like Lasorda after Gibson's homer. "Look at the smile etched in the visage as he breasts the tape," Cosell narrates. I was just thinking that. What the clip doesn't show is that ABC won the next event and later won the climactic tug-of-war. Gabe's race was Dave Roberts' steal, in a way.

Even now, Gabe remembers each detail. People have been bringing up the show to him for 32 years. He's the Mike Eruzione of reality TV. "I didn't realize at the time how big it would be," he admits. "Nobody could believe I won."

Or anything about those 572 seconds, for that matter.

He gets old fast. I used to love his writing. Now I can't make it through an article.

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Fire Phil Emery

Bill Simmons is the drizzlings. Chuck Klosterman's sports-pop-culture shtick is annoying enough without a Boston upbringing tacked on for extra obnoxiousness, and I say that as someone who likes the occasional Klosterman.

_________________

Del Negro also looks like Lloyd Braun from the Seinfeld episodes.

I don't like either, but Klosterman is worse, IMO. His whole column, and everything he's ever written, is an exploration of how cool he thinks he is.

_________________
Fire Phil Emery

Simmons is okay, the Boston shit can get a little tiring.

What is everyone's opinion of Gregg Easterbrook? I read TMQ every week, but I usually skip past all the non-football content. His musings on punting/kicking field goals is pretty funny, and he has completely changed the way I think most teams should handle 4th down situations.

_________________

He had an article comparing a Pro wrestling match to a trip to vegas. it was Excellent.

Come into the ring with flare, everyone fired up. Coming to vegas all, all fired up!

Match goes slow to start. Always have minimal betting to start, a few drinks.

Match gets heated up! Vegas starts getting good, drinks flow, bets bigger.

Favorite getting his ass kicked. Vegas starts kicking your ass, losing cash.

Favorite always has the comeback! In vegas, you will always have a hot streak!

The Close! Never know who wins! Vegas, always a winner and loser!

_________________
"That's what the internet is for. Slandering others anonymously." Banky
“Been that way since one monkey looked at the sun and told the other monkey ‘He said for you to give me your fuckin’ share.’”

Confronting my worst nightmare By Bill SimmonsPage 2
Archive | Contact


Ezra Shaw/Getty Images
Boston's 2004 title was a defining moment in the lives of many New Englanders.
Dateline: May 7, 2014



My son and I have flown from California to spend the week in Boston. He is a little more than 6½ at this point. He has never set foot in Fenway Park. The time is right. He likes baseball. He likes the Red Sox. He's a little sports encyclopedia. I have brainwashed him. He is just old enough to understand the significance of his first Fenway game and, more importantly, old enough that he'll be able to remember the experience decades later.




[+] EnlargeHarry How/Getty Images
Manny Ramirez was the best right-handed hitter of his generation. But now, we're not sure what that means.We bring my father with us. Three generations of the Simmons family taking in a Yankees-Red Sox game for the first time. This should be a wonderful moment. A signature moment, even.



We find our $1,500 seats in the lower boxes near third base. We are sitting in Best Buy's Section 61, which is right between Bob's Discount Furniture's Section 60 and Costco's Section 62. Every section has a sponsor now. The Green Monster is now called "The Pepsi Green Monster" and has a big Pepsi can painted on it. Ted Williams' special seat in right field is now sponsored by Muscle Milk. Even home plate is sponsored by Dunkin' Donuts. Has the logo on it and everything. That's just the way sports work now.



We settle into our seats. I point toward the championship banners over the first-base side. They go in order: 1903, 1904, 1912, 1915, 1916, 1918, 2004, 2007. Ever since Boston won the World Series 10 years ago, I always imagined pointing to that 2004 banner and telling my little boy, "That's the team that changed everything."



So that's what I do. I point at the banner and tell him, "That's the team that changed everything."



"Isn't that the team that cheated?" he asks.



My father and I glance at each other. A few beats pass.



"Well, technically, no," I stammer. "I mean ..."



"I thought they had a whole bunch of steroids guys on that team," he says.



"Well, there have been some accusations, and yeah, some of the power numbers were a little suspicious, but ..."



"I'd do it again!" my dad yells happily.



"Dad!"



I shake my head at him. He shrugs. The thing is, he WOULD do it again. He wanted to see the Red Sox win the World Series in his lifetime. He worried about it constantly. So did I. So did every Red Sox fan. We worried about living a full life, then dying, without ever seeing them win. All of us knew people who fit in that category. None of us wanted to end up in there.



All of us would have made a deal with the devil at the time. And maybe we did. We just didn't know it.



"Nothing was ever really proved," I tell my son, trying to keep up the good fight.



He ignores me and starts rattling through our 2004 lineup with creepy precision. He points out Nomar Garciaparra's remarkable 1999 and 2000 seasons, his subsequent tendon injuries and how his career played out so blandly afterward for reasons that remain unclear. My dad points out the Sox traded Nomar midway through the 2004 season. Technically, that debate shouldn't even matter. Score one for Dad.



"But what about Trot Nixon and Bill Mueller?" my son says. "They missed a bunch of games every year with injuries, put on weight when they were skinny guys, peaked quickly and were never seen again. Same for Mark Bellhorn, right? That's suspicious."



"Well," I say, "their names never came up in anything, so that's not really fair ..."



"And Kevin Millar, he had a few big homer years, then his power numbers went way down once the testing started."



"That's true, but it doesn't prove anything ..."



"And Johnny Damon, he got bigger and started hitting for more power even though he was a singles hitter, right?"



"Well ..."




[+] EnlargeEzra Shaw/Getty Images
The events of that magical fall of 2004 are now in question."And what about Big Papi?" he wonders. "Played for Minnesota, didn't hit for power, came to the Red Sox, turned into the best slugger in the league, and as soon as they cracked down on steroids, he stopped hitting homers again. And he was friends with all the other Dominican players who were linked to performance-enhancing drugs. What about him?"



Silence. Nobody says anything.



Finally, my dad steps in: "He had an inside-outside swing at Minnesota, when he came to Boston, we encouraged him to pull the ball, so ..."



"Come on, Gramps!" my son says. "That's dumb, and you know it."



We glance out to the field. Big Papi is one of Boston's coaches now. After he hit 54 homers in 2006, his career was over within four years. Now he's just a fat guy in his early 40s coaching first base. You would never guess this is the same guy who carried us in 2004, the guy who fueled the Greatest Comeback Ever, the guy who helped convince an entire fan base that, yes, we could believe.



"And what about Manny?" my son asks. "He tested positive for performance enhancers in 2009 with the Dodgers. How do you know he wasn't using that whole time?"



"Well, we don't," I say. "But that was kind of a fluke -- he had a doctor in Florida who prescribed him a banned substance, and ..."



"Come on, Dad, I read your Red Sox book. You said that at least you knew Manny couldn't have ever used steroids because he was too dumb to figure out how to stick to a cycle. Then he tested positive. You were, like, his biggest fan. You wrote a big piece after he got traded that was so long, it took me a week to read it."



"I told him not to write that column," my dad says. "Manny needed to go. He was a selfish jerk. Your father had blinders on ..."



"Come on, that's not fair," I say. "I loved the guy. He was on the team for more than eight years. He helped us end the curse. He made our lives as Red Sox fans more fun. He was like family. I wasn't gonna dump the guy from my life after everything he did just because his agent poisoned him against the team."



"But you defended him and said he was a good guy at heart," my son says. "And then he cheated, right? So how does that make him a good guy?"



I take a deep breath.



"It doesn't make him a good guy," I say. "You don't understand what it was like to follow baseball before you were born. There was a strike in 1994, and the World Series was canceled. Everyone hated baseball. Then Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa started hitting homers, and the balls started flying out of the park, and it was so much fun that everyone looked the other way. We didn't care that these guys were practically busting out of their skin or growing second foreheads. We really didn't. All the cheating made baseball more fun to watch. We were in denial. It was weird.



"Then, Barry Bonds hit 73 home runs in a season, and that was like the turning point. We realized that things had gone too far. We blamed him for cheating and looked the other way with dozens of other guys who might have been doing the same thing. Brady Anderson hit 50 homers in 1996; we didn't care. Bret Boone had 141 RBIs in a season; we didn't care. Big Papi went from 10 homers to 41 in four seasons; we didn't care. Roger Clemens was washed up, but suddenly he could throw 98 miles per hour and win Cy Youngs again; we didn't care. Eric Gagne saved 84 straight games and threw 120 miles an hour; we didn't care. Good players started blowing out tendons nobody had ever heard of; we didn't care. Pitchers blew out elbow tendons and shoulder ligaments routinely; we didn't care. This was the deal. They cheated; we pretended they didn't. It's really hard to explain unless you were there."



My son tries to soak everything in. That's lot to process for a 6-year-old.



Finally ...



"So when the Red Sox won in 2004, did you know some of the guys might have been cheating?" he asks.



"At the time?" I answer. "No. Either we were in total denial, or we just didn't care."



"I'd do it again!" my dad yells happily, getting another withering glare from me.



"You have to understand," I say. "EVERYONE cheated back then. You know how I drive 80 on the highway even though all the signs say to go 55? That's how everyone thought back then -- the signs said one thing, but everyone did the other. There were so many people cheating that, competitively, you almost had to cheat to keep up with everyone else."



"So why didn't the people in charge get everyone to stop cheating?" my son asks.



"I wish I knew. The players' union didn't care, the commissioner's office didn't care, nobody cared. Until it was too late."



"So you won the World Series twice because of Manny and Papi," my son says, "but they might have been cheating the whole time, and so were some of their teammates? Dad, your whole book was about how you could die in peace because they won in 2004. If they cheated to win, does that make what happened OK?"



The question hangs in the air. And hangs. And hangs.



"I don't know," I finally answer. "I still haven't figured that part out. Again, you don't understand what it was like. Everyone was cheating, so the playing field was kind of even, as weird as that sounds. You can't imagine how depressing it was to be a Red Sox fan at the time. Things always went wrong. We hadn't won in 86 years. We were the whipping boy of the Yankees. We always expected the worst to happen, mainly because the worst always did happen. That 2004 title made life easier for everyone. We could just follow the team without all the other negative crap. Does that make sense?"



"I guess," he says, nodding. "But Manny was your favorite hitter on that team. And he tested positive later. Is he still your favorite hitter?"



"Yes and no," I say. "No, because he cheated. Yes, because whether he was cheating or not, I can't forget watching him hit baseballs on a daily basis. I just can't. You should have seen him. Perfect swing, perfect balance, perfect everything. He was a hitting savant. That's the funny thing -- he didn't NEED to cheat. The guy was put on the earth to hit.



"But he did cheat," my son says.



"He did. Yes. He did."



"So he's not your favorite player from that team now?"



"He never was; Pedro Martinez was. Manny was my favorite hitter. I loved Pedro the most."



I am dreading the next question. I am dreading it. I do not want him to ask it. I know it's coming.



"Did Pedro cheat?"



Silence.



I take a deep breath. So does my father. You can't describe in a few tidy sentences, off the cuff, what it was like to watch Pedro Martinez pitch in 1999 and 2000. To paraphrase Joe Mantegna in "Searching for Bobby Fischer," Pedro was better at pitching than you or I will ever be at anything. He had swagger. He had four A-plus pitches. He had everything. He spurred me to buy tickets from scalpers when I was broke. I would do it again. I watched Pedro Martinez pitch at his apex at Fenway Park. I get to brag about this when I'm old. He's the one guy who didn't cheat. He definitely didn't cheat. I bet anything, the man did not cheat.



Do I say this to my son? No. He wouldn't believe me.



"I looked at Pedro's numbers," my son says. "He peaked for like three years right as the steroids era was going, then he battled injuries and never did as well. Fits the profile, right?"



"Nah, I don't see it," my father says. "He was skinnier than you are. Steroids make you bulk up. Pedro was like a buck-sixty soaking wet."



"I don't see it, either," I say. "I don't think he did."



"But you don't know?" my son asks me.



"Honestly? I don't know anything anymore."



We look at the 2004 banner again. I always thought that, for the rest of my life, I would look at that banner and think only good thoughts. Now, there's a mental asterisk that won't go away. I wish I could take a pill to shake it from my brain. I see 2004 and 2007, and think of Manny and Papi first and foremost. The modern-day Ruth and Gehrig. One of the great one-two punches in sports history. Were they cheating the whole time? Was Pedro cheating, too? That 2004 banner makes me think of these things now. I wish it didn't, but it does. This makes me sad. This makes me profoundly sad.



My son can read it in my face. I am sad. He can see it.



"That's OK, Dad," he says, rubbing my shoulder. "Everyone cheated back then."

Simmons is the best, that Battle of the Network Stars was hilarious, watch
the Youtube, it's funnier than his description. Anyone who's had a dog, read
his article on putting his dog to sleep, I'll be shocked if you have a dry eye afterward.

Simmons :"Just think, somewhere out there, is an 8 year old boy wondering if his Yankees if his Yankees will ever win the World Series in his lifetime."

_________________
Blackhawk goal, scored by number 20, Al Secord.

Sarge, thanks for the tip on the dog article. It was very touching. I have an 8 year
old boxer who is starting to lose a little bit off his fast ball, he is great but it will be
tough to watch the inevitable decline around the corner. He is still in great shape but
has a tough time on walks with us at night now even though he used to run 2-3 miles
with me just a little over a year ago. Anyway, thanks for the article.

_________________
Flew too close to the sun on wings of pastrami

Simmons is great. If he's writing about something you care about...youll like it.

His old articles are awesome...the levels of losing...the rocky aritcle...the pacino v deniro...